I have to admit, for all the sleazy and flowery adjectives I use wantonly in my prose, I am actually not at all cultured. Nor am I particularly intelligent. I’ve never thought of myself as being quintessentially “edgy” or “cool”. I haven’t been to many “swingin’ gigs”, or whatever you young uns’ call them these days. I also completely fail to own a pair of brogues and wearing high-rise jeans makes me feel like Steve Erkel.
“If you want to do the Steve Urkel dance,
All you have to do is hitch up your pants,
Bend your knees, and stick out your pelvis;
(I’m telling you, baby, it’s better than Elvis!)”.
I wear glasses because I’m vision impaired.
Not as a fashion statement.
I don’t know much about musicals or operas, or even much about Macbeth, other than that he was a mad fellow, suffering from an unusual attraction to hands with a penchant for offing people. I pronounce Shakespeare as Shakes-Spear. I eat sausage rolls without thinking about ground up mystery snouts and hooves. I eat them with my fingers while they’re wallowing licentiously in a gooey pool of tomato sauce.
I drink light beer straight out of the bottle neck.
I sometimes even chew with my mouth open.
Like a cow.
But there’s one thing that I do know about: Wicked, The Musical – and that is:
IT IS FRAKKING AWESOME.
For our slightly belated Excuse To Go Somewhere Nice To Eat Day (Valentine’s Day) celebrations, the boyo and I had decided to head out to the city and have a good munch on the tastiness that is the Continental Café – a delightful little café tucked in away off the main street in New Farm – famous for it’s “Late Lunches” and also, apparently, for their ability to make one feel like they’ve been stuffed to the gills with good (but heavy) food. But then again, what I ordered wasn’t exactly on the Heart Tick Approved list – ENTRÉE: Cauliflower and blue cheese soup with grilled Continental bread, MAIN: Continental beef sausages, potato mash, roast tomato, caramelised onion jus, TIPPLER: Stella Artois.
HELLUVA LOT MORE PICTURES UNDER THIS CUT! /WARNED.
My stupid face, looking at the yummy food. Well, because, why not? I’m a photowhore. I’m also Asian. It’s expected.
Nan, on the other hand, consumed much classier /coughgirly fare – ENTRÉE: Thai-style crab cake, lime aioli, chilli paste, flying fish roe, MAIN: Spaghetti, prawns, chilli, smoked bacon, baby spinach, lemon, TIPPLER: A glass of Coke.
Er, and I couldn’t seem to finish my bangers and mashwhat?!
The night was also filled with the boyo going on about things being “WICKED!” (Pronounced “WIKID!”) As in, “So this restaurant we’re going to is pretty WIKID!” and “I think work today was pretty WIKID!” and so on. Despite this seeming odd to the casual onlooker, unfortunately, this unusual attachment to the word “WIKID!” was not viewed by yours truly as a curious abnormality. He would often find a word he found particularly interesting and stick to using it through the night. Unbeknownst to me, he was laying down a framework of clues (okay, clue) for me to discover what great plans he had designed for us the following night.
In fact, my incredibly delightful Male Half had bought us tickets to Wicked, The Musical as a Valentine’s Day surprise – a show that was nearly completely sold out. Admittedly, the seats were not fantastic – we were high into the nose-bleed section and actually seated ABOVE the dragon that crowns the stage. On the upside, we were seated smack-bang centre-stage, so we could easily see out across the sea of heads and right athwart the stage. Also, it was awesome. Thirdly, it was awesome.
The dragon-stage – and as you can clearly see, we are seated, clearly, above it:
The ticket/s and an obligatory foot shot – because I didn’t want to hurt your eyes of pictures of our faces pretending to consume the tickets. Yes really, if you have me on Facebook, you can experience the full extent of our douchery for yourself. Isn’t that fantastic?
Even the QPAC was dressed up in green – so pretty much wherever you wandered you were bathed in a neon green glow – so, what I’m trying to get at is – we all looked like aliens. It was pretty cool.
I cried trice even before the intermission. By the end of it, I was a shambolic puddle of snot and balled up tissues. My mascara was not only running, but sprinting, leaping and galloping towards my chin, like starved office ladies stalking down cheesecake.
So, finally, I’ve seen a musical. I may not be able to tell the difference between a kielbasa and a kudzu, but at least I’ve seen a musical.