Tea and Tits with Dulcie Demure

On Saturday 27 October, WESTWAY CINEMA welcomes the return of LUX DE VILLE. In true Variety style, the show includes beautiful girls, fabulous music, singing, dancing, a little risqué comedy and – Poetry? Yes, Compere for the evening is Frome’s home-grown Poetrix Muriel Lavender, she of the naughty costumes and the even naughtier verse. 

We met with Dulcie Demure, founder of and principal performer at Dulcie Demure's School of Burlesque, to find out more. Over a sophisticated cup and saucer. With our pinkies sticking out.

Dulcie, this is the first Burlesque show at the Westway in over a year. What’s been happening?

‘We’ve been super busy performing at lots of local events, including Lolita Noir’s wonderful Crimson Cabaret event for PAC at Rook Lane last month. We’ve also been shooting a film with a talented Trowbridge artist, plus our usual modelling shoots and promo work for our next show, Lux de Ville!’

I heard about Crimson Cabaret - it was a sell-out show! Is Lux de Ville anything like that?

‘Yes – if you loved Crimson, you’ll love Lux-De-Ville: the same decadent styling and cabaret format. But each Burlesque show has a different feel to it. We like to keep the audience on the edge of their seats! And this time, we’re having fun with the Hallowe’en theme, so expect beauty and laughter with a dark-and-naughty twist!’

A dark twist! Sounds intriguing! How dark can you get with glitter and a feather boa, though?

‘Not every Burlesque artiste uses a feather boa!  We have quite a few tricks up our sleeves… but I couldn't possibly give away any secrets – you’ll have to come along to the show to find out just what we have in store for you!’

Tell me about Burlesque - isn't it just girls taking their clothes off?

‘Many people do think Burlesque is just stripping. It’s not. True, classic Burlesque is all about Variety: comedy, dancing and singing, and of course the seductive art of striptease. Because it conjures up the obvious images, it’s often forgotten that a Burlesque show is a highly sophisticated entertainment, carefully woven together in the old-fashioned cabaret style. The performers themselves take great pride and a lot of time and effort designing their routines and beautiful costumes.’

 

There's more to it than I thought. It's been around a long time, hasn't it?

‘Burlesque as an art form has been around for centuries, making many transitions since the 1400's when it originally meant ‘to make light of a serious subject’. The style we’re familiar with today has its roots in early 20^th-century America, We still try to maintain the comic art of Burlesque, which adds to the pleasure of classic striptease.’

And why the Westway? It's a Cinema...

‘The Westway is an independent Cinema which means it has a lovely welcoming atmosphere. The interior fits perfectly with Lux-de-Ville – although the Westway was rebuilt in the 1970s, it somehow has a slightly Art-Deco feel which adds to the Vaudevillean entertainment! The Cinema deserves the support of local people, so as part of the fun we’ll be holding a raffle with gorgeous prizes to raise money for the Go-Digital scheme. For Lux-de-Ville though, it’ll be transformed into a theatre with proper stage and comfy seating! You’ll love it. And it has a fully-licensed bar and snacks available – perfect!’

How did you get into the business then, Miss D?

‘I’ve been a dancer for over 20 years. I started Burlesque back in the early 90's when I lived in London, but gave up when I had my daughter.  I then went into Podium dancing and ran a dance school, but my love for vintage clothing and the art of Burlesque just dragged me back!  I set up Dulcie Demure’s School of Burlesque in 2009 and it’s gone from strength to strength: I’ve trained many ladies who are now performing on stage. Not only do I teach and perform myself, I also produce shows like Lux-de-Ville across the southwest and Wales. I meet amazing performers all the time, so as well as my own troupe I get some spectacular headline acts. Wait until you see Constance Peach…’

Gosh. See you on the 27^th!

Lux-de-Ville is at Westway Cinema on Saturday 27 October and Saturday 15 December. Headline performers will be different for each show, so check in online to find out more, and save by booking tickets in advance. Visit www.westwaycinema.com or call 01373 467088. Facebook users can look up the Westway Cinema, Dulcie Demure or Muriel Lavender for photos and sneak previews.

WELCOME BACK, ARTHUR

If you read my last blog entry,you will know why this is important. Look:

Arthur, Found: safe in the arm of his best friend

I was at the Bod Quad, Oxford, watching Hamlet when I received the text message. It read, "Son has found Squirrel Monkey in his blue suitcase". What wild and whirling words are these? - This is the blue suitcase in which the dressing-up clothes are kept, and in which I never thought to look. Son is clearly growing up, moving beyond dressing up; but not, happily, beyond his little mate Arthur the Squirrel Monkey.  

I would like to thank everyone who tweeted and retweeted my blog entry, particularly Scumblebee and Demotivatrix, both of whom made kind suggestions for possible replacements.  

I asked Son if he would like to take Arthur to Grandma's when he visited her this week.  "No," he said straightaway, "I wouldn't want to risk it."

Saimiri sciureus: he's not common at all

This blog entry has nothing to do with Poetry.  Or Shoes. Or anything glittery.  Or Shakespeare.  Or even Cake. 

(but watch me squeeze Douglas Adams in later)

This is about Squirrel Monkeys. Or one particular squirrel monkey, which is not merely endangered but would appear to be beyond extinct. It is so rare that no photograph of it exists... within the realms of Google, anyway.

Arthur was a Zoological Society of London-branded mini plush squirrel monkey. Arthur belonged to my son, and they were best mates for half a lifetime - that's four years.

The Google search yielded only second-rate Arthurs

Here are some squirrel monkeys. Arthur doesn't look like any of these - not quite. They're all wrong. I cannot show you what Arthur actually looks like, because Arthur has been missing for nearly a year.  I wouldn't bother you with a story which must seem so footling, but tonight my son found this (below) on his bookshelf.  Arthur wasn't lost, back then: it's a birthday invitation from two years ago, featuring another squirrel monkey - which isn't Arthur either - but it makes us think of him.    

This makes us sad

So, tonight, he held the invitation in his hand for a while; then turned it over and, laying it aside, said, "I'm not ready to look at that yet."  

I bought him another squirrel monkey a few months ago.  It wasn't the same.  The ears are wrong.  And the paws.  He's fond of it; but, but, but. Arthur is his Douglas Adams, I conclude: my son is still mourning the loss of someone he wasn't ready to lose. Admittedly, Douglas Adams didn't sit on my pillow or ride in my shopping trolley, but it's the same thing. I'd barely begun to appreciate him, then he'd gone.  And the Zoological Society of London doesn't provide a replacement service. 

That's a spider monkey. Not the same thing

These are what Arthur should look like.  The style, anyway.  That is a spider monkey, which is just wrong.  I can buy one of these, or any of about nine other creatures instead, from the gift shop at London Zoo. No: no good.

I'm blogging this because I have looked at no fewer than 2,087 pictures of plush simians tonight, looking for a new Arthur. I should learn to let go, I suppose.  After all, this will not be my boy's last hurt that Mummy cannot make better. 

Have you seen Arthur? He has a crumpled little face and fits in the palm of your hand. Let us know. We miss him.

Poetrix Regina – All Three Verses

© Captain Purky

Save me from celery

Diets are not for me

Cake must be served

God bless Victoria’s

Secret corselettes and bras:

Long to remain hourglass -

I Love My Curves!

God save my Prada shoes

Long Live my Jimmy Choos

God, I love Shoes

Send me a loyalty

Card for Manolo B

Those Louboutins, O.M.G.,

I Must Have Those Shoes!

Thy choicest gifts in store

On me be pleased to pour

Da, da, dee, dee...

Don’t know the words, la la…

This has now gone too far

Oh look, chaps, there’s the bar

Champagne… for… Me! 

© Muriel Lavender

2 June 2012

I WAS POST-COITAL. FIVE STARS*****

A bit of Globe

I have been meaning to write this for a while… but then, I’ve been meaning to do the ironing and redecorate the bathroom for a while, and I haven’t done either of those.  

But, but, but.

I’ve been to the Theatre.  Yes, I have.  Twice.  And I don’t get out much.  Here are my thoughts about Globe productions, because when one doesn't get out much, one likes to get one's pennyworth for one's penny.

My children (known hereafter as 'The Sprigs') have been to the Globe before.  Aged three months, Little Sprig had to be removed from Much Ado for excessive wriggling; eight-week-old Tiny Sprig slept through Titus in 2006.  Little went again in 2008 to see Romeo and Juliet, and I had to hold him up in my arms for the entire performance. He was riveted.  Here we go – Magic #1: the close connection between Globe audience and Globe actors. I can’t sit at the Globe: despite its generous cushioning, my derrière does not find the benches terribly comfortable.  One can hire padded things to satisfy one’s arse-demands, but I’d much rather stand in the groundlings’ yard: with my chin resting on the edge of the stage, and barely inches of airspace between us, I can see and feel the actors’ performance in a way that I never experience anywhere else.  Here’s Globe actor Geraldine Alexander (pictured), pretty much agreeing: “I think the biggest thing you learn from the Globe… is that there’s no such a thing as a generic “crowd”. The audience is made up of individuals… when I go into another space to work, I pretend I can see faces.”**  

photo: Geraint Lewis

By comparison, my own performance experience is minuscule – but I do truly understand how important it is to be able to see the audience when I’m performing poetry. I need reaction; eye-contact; it’s as though I am showing them a picture, and I want to know they’re seeing it the way it’s meant to be seen.  Stage lights, blinding the actors to the watching audience’s faces!  It now seems ludicrous.  Why pretend they’re not there?

Which leads me on to Magic #2: The Globe is How It Should Be Done.  I don’t have any formal stage training. I don’t know how many critics actually do, but as it doesn’t stop them freely giving their opinions, it needn’t stop me either.  But it’s not difficult to see and hear what works, what works on stage, and the level of dedication necessary to achieve it.  Globe actors enunciate every word perfectly.  It’s such a joy to hear. I don’t mean RP; I ent sayin’ they talk posh or nuffin’.  They simply speak, opening their mouths and letting the sounds out. The Sounds Out.  Big, and Round, Let the Sounds Out.  

King Henry should sound like King Henry - not Prince Harry. That’s what I’m trying to say.  

Groundling Gates

Here’s Geraldine Alexander again: “…be as precise in your relationship with [the audience] as you are with your objectives in the scene.”* I am not surprised at her use of the word, since ‘precise’ is the very one I would use to describe her style.  Having played numerous roles at the Globe, including Ariel (The Tempest) and Tamora, Queen of the Goths (Titus Andronicus), her portrayal of the latter has become my benchmark for good performance. Whenever I see a round-shouldered Lady Macbeth thumping across a stage; a Queen Elizabeth I gobbling her own consonants before they can issue from her mouth; a former soap actress fluffing her line yet again (Yes, Lucy Benjamin, I’m talking to you); a popular TV panel game comedian cocking up the end of his show after his fifth large vodka during it; whenever I see that, I wish for Geraldine and the Globe.  I remember watching her in Titus, when her every movement was sharp, and measured – precise, even – and in character.  She gave more in one tiny flick of her wrist than – than what? Than a whole bucket of tired-out well-known actors, their performances made flabby by a surfeit of television dramas which must, always, be called ‘gritty’. 

THAT poster. Thanks, everyone. XXXX

Let’s go back to MND:  In this production, Puck was played by Fergal McElherron, who also played Balthazar/Potpan in Romeo & Juliet (2008). We have it on DVD, so both Sprigs have probably watched it once a week for a year.  They really do love it (reassuring), and they’re big fans of Fergal’s, so I was desperate to get them along to see him play Puck.  Unfortunately, the (free, standing) tickets were snapped up within minutes of the box office opening… so we mounted a campaign.  A poster went up on Facebook (left). It also went up at the Globe.  Puck himself must have worked some magic because somehow we ended up with enough tickets for me, the two Sprigs, and Grandmama and Grandpapa L too!  My huge and sincere thanks to those involved – you know who you are. 

Small People eat sandwiches

And here are the Sprigs, eating lunch before the performance. As it was a schools’ event, the young cast members came onto the stage to say hello, singing songs and handing out flags to the children (‘T & H’ – for Theseus and Hippolyta’s marriage).  I had a quick chat with strikingly beautiful Emma Pallant (Hippolyta/Titania). She told me how warm her magnificent costume was, a blessing in the cold weather, and how much she enjoyed the uniqueness of playing the Globe. 

And the performance?  MND is a complicated plot, so I didn’t know how successful the outing would be, or whether I would just end up removing a wiggly five-year-old and a bored seven-year-old from the Groundlings’ Yard and sloping off to Pizza Express. I had prepared them a little: we read the storybook together, and watched the film version with Rupert (mental block! had to Google him) Everett and Kevin Kline.

Photo: Ellie Kurtz

Magic #3: Special effects are not required.  Children don’t need over-stimulating.  They get it.  The four beautiful young lovers (Helena, Hermia, Lysander and Demetrius) also played Titania’s Fairies; the Mechanicals (Quince, Flute, Starveling, Snout and Snug) changed dramatically into psychedelic-steampunk fairies with mad-scientist goggles.  The Sprigs seemed to have no problem following the story – which, it must be said, was staged and choreographed so expressively that the tale could almost have been told without words. As soon as Act 1 opened, saucer-eyed Tiny Sprig whispered in my ear: Is that Hermima? Where’s the nother girl? I don’t like the shouty Daddy.  She was hooked.  Little Sprig had a more sophisticated grasp of technique – Oberon’s declaration of “I am invisible” was perfectly sufficient for him.  So much so that when Puck returned to the stage for the final jig, Little asked, Can the others see him now?

Globe, your work here is done.

Star-struck Tiny meets Fergal McElherron

Here is Tiny Sprig with Fergal (Puck), who is sporting a wound to his nose.  We attended Talking Theatre after the performance, where the audience may put questions to some of the cast members and hear what it’s like to put on Shakespeare’s plays in an authentic space.  It’s such a lovely experience: the actors are quite as interested to hear the audience’s responses, as they can be to hear the actors’.  Little wanted to know how Puck managed to climb into an ordinary suitcase and vanish – because it looked like magic from where we were standing. Puck himself explained about the secret trap door underneath – and the bump he’d got on the nose this time when he dived through it!  Fergal had clearly acted as a mentor for some of the younger cast members, and their respect and appreciation was evident in the way they spoke of their experiences in rehearsals.  I wanted to know a secret: Oberon’s costume was trimmed with luxuriant green-black plumage, and by the end a few feathers had drifted around the stage.  When the cast began to return for the final jig, I saw Puck give Hermia’s hand a tiny squeeze as he slipped the string of a balloon to her.  Caught in the string was one of Oberon’s feathers.  I was caught by the sweetly touching gesture, which seemed far too small to be a stage direction.  How came it there?  Again, Puck explained. ‘Did you spot that? I saw one of the feathers lying backstage, so I picked it up and tucked it into the string. I just added that myself, it was a little touch for anyone who noticed.’

The Globe in Cake. Not mine - my one was a bit rubbish

SHAKESPEARE'S GLOBE – 

The Wooden ‘O’.  M.G.

The Globe Theatre

Playing Shakespeare

A Midsummer Night's Dream

The Complete Works

*****My opinion of 'Anne Boleyn', Globe Touring production, May 3, Theatre Royal Bath. The other play I went to see.  This is not the only reason they don’t let me into the Guardian’s Review section

 

*Dr Jaq Bessell, ‘Shakespeare’s Globe Research Bulletin 18, March 2001: Actor Interviews 2000’. You can download it here. Do – fascinating reading.

Poetry for Beginners

On Wednesday I popped along to the Garden Cafe, here in Frome, for another fabulous Crysse Morrison-hosted open-mic poetry evening.  Mr L was out motorcycling so I had to take Little Sprig and Tiny Sprig along too - but I like them to come: they know Mummy writes poetry; they know she performs it in her frilly knickers; rather sweetly they tell their teachers they like Mummy's poems the best.  Lovely, but clearly very important to expose them to the works of lots of other poets too.  

The theme for the evening was 'On the Road Again', and so we listened to the headlining guest poets Mo Robinson and Paul Tobin (please follow the links to find out more about them, they were each an absolute joy in very different ways).  Crysse will blog far more eloquently than I can so I will limit my remarks on the evening; partly because I retired with the Sprigs to the back room in order that the listeners should not be disturbed by small people, so I had to strain to hear the wonderful contributions from Liv Torc; Rosie Eliot; Rose Flint and Dawn Gorman amongst others.  By arriving prepared with dot-to-dot books and crayons, I didn't realise I would only be making it worse - who knew colouring in was such a noisy affair?  

At interval time, we made our excuses and left. The Sprigs were pooped. They'd had an exhausting day being really nice to each other (delightful; almost unprecedented).  I was prepared to agree to anything by then, so we had pyjamas, milk and cookies at ten-thirty p.m. 

The point is this: we sat with our milk and cookies, feeling very naughty because all 5-7 year olds should have been in bed hours ago, and I asked them if hearing all those poems had inspired them.

The responses say it all. The first is by Little, aged 7, and he says 'Mucky Puppy' represents his little sister, and 'Tidy Teddy' represents himself.  The second is by Tiny, aged 5, and I am grateful for both the frog and the plum.

Poem 

The mucky puppy eats ice cream

The tidy teddy eats vegetables

They mesh together

To make vegetably ice cream

And they both share

© Little Sprig, April 2012

Poem

A princess had a princess toy

She said to her King

She will get married in her castle

She will play with her dolly

And she will have her Prince and her King and Queen

This was her King and Queen and her toy frog

Her frog was in a pond and it had a plum

And it was a smiley face frog

The End

© Tiny Sprig, April 2012

The Chest That Launched A Thousand Bricks

On a recent flight to New York, I was delighted when the Captain announced: ‘This is your Captain speaking. In the event of a forced landing on water, all passengers should make their way to the woman in seat 36F, whose magnificent chest-mounted flotation devices will be your best chance of survival.’ He added, cheekily, ‘Phwoarrrr!’

You’re probably thinking ‘what a lovely surprise’. But while it was lovely, it wasn’t a surprise. At least, not for me.

‘Whopping Jugs’: But Muriel says that her floating funbags have been a mixed blessing, with many of her own sex becoming resentful, and have closed as many doors as they have opened

Throughout my adult life, I’ve regularly had men I don’t know leering at me in restaurants. Once, a well-dressed chap bought my train ticket when I was pressing my enormous assets into his back in the queue, while there was another occasion when a charming gentleman fondled my norks as I stepped out of a cab in Paris.

Another time, as I was walking through London’s Portobello Road market, I was tapped on the shoulder and invited to sell ‘the one of those puppies with the pink nose’.  Even bartenders frequently don their horizontal blinkers when I try to settle my bill.

And whenever I’ve asked what I’ve done to deserve such treatment, the gents have always said the same thing: Gor Blimey Missus, You Don’t Get Many Of Them To The Pound, Eh? Eh? Woo-Hoo-Hah-hah!

While I’m no Pamela Anderson, I’m tall, slim, usually pink-haired and so, I’m often asked whether I am definitely a woman. I know how lucky I am. But there are downsides to having massive mammaries — the main one being that other women hate me for no other reason than my lovely jubblies.

If you’re a woman reading this, I’d hazard that you’ve already formed your own opinion about me — and it won’t be very flattering. For while many doors have been opened (literally) as a result of my looks, just as many have been metaphorically slammed in my face — not literally, obviously, on account of my ginormonus gazungas.

I’m not smug and I’m no flirt, yet over the years I’ve been dropped by countless friends who felt threatened if I was merely in the presence of their other halves. If their partners dared to actually look at my baps, a sudden chill would descend on the room.

And most poignantly of all, not one girlfriend has ever asked me to be her bridesmaid.

You’d think we women would applaud each other for taking pride in our appearances.

Unfortunately women find nothing more annoying than someone else having the biggest bazoombas in a room.

Take last week, out ‘walking the dogs’, a neighbour passed by in her car. I waved — she blatantly blanked me. It seems the only crime I’ve committed is not leaving the house wearing a robust hessian undergarment. Incidentally, she has knockers like two aspirins on an ironing board.

Hello Dolly: Muriel laments that not one of her girlfriends has ever asked her to be a bridesmaid - perhaps from fear of being overshadowed by her impressive melons

 Large-breasted women don’t have it easy. If you are well-upholstered, other women think you lead a perfect life — which simply isn’t true.

 They don’t realise you are just as vulnerable as they are. It’s hard when everyone resents you for your hooters. Men think “what’s the point, she’s out of my league” and don’t ask you out. And women don’t want to hang out with someone with bigger charlies than they have.

Take last summer and a birthday party I attended with my husband. At one point the host, who was celebrating his 50th, decided he wanted a photo with all the women guests. Positioning us, the photographer suggested I stand immediately to his right for the shot.

Another woman I barely knew pushed me out of the way, shouting it wasn’t fair on all the other women if my considerable assets were dominating the snap.

Perhaps one day the sisterhood will finally stop judging me so harshly on my unparalleled shirt potatoes, and instead accept me for who I am. Because I’m lovely. Obviously.