(no subject)

[rebness]

Arrgh. Well, have just spent a most excellent couple of days in Manchester with sc1ssors1ster and nummster that was both bizarre and entertaining. The recap about the Big Brother railway station and the scary hotel will come later, but for now… here’s a summary of the Rufus Wainwright concert and stuff.

We arrived in Manchester early afternoon, ready to dump our bags and go shopping. The hotel was in a prime waterfront location on Salford Quays, except for the part where we, lost, rang the hotelier to be told that it was both next to the Arndale Centre (Manchester city centre) and Victoria Park (er…Stretford.) Took us over an hour to find the hotel, so we opted to leave the shopping till Friday and instead concentrate on watching Countdown. Managed to get “dog”, “car” and the frankly amazing “sister.” Were disturbed about a dozen times by the friendly but frankly annoying hotelier, but managed to escape.

We got to the Lowry for about seven. Hung around a bit, met a couple of Kel’s friends then OMG met Rufus Wainwright. Aha. See, we signed up for this Street Team thing, which is where fans are foxed into doing the job for the PR people. The 55 promotional posters we were then sent and what happened to them are another matter altogether.*

Oh, man. The guy is just lovely. He’s tall and handsome and doesn’t have that “eww-don’t-touch-me” vibe you get from other celebrities. He signed autographs, posed in his nifty suit for photographs and took pictures with me (glowing like a sausage), Kel (trembling) and Kay (ecstatic). I was right worried that he’d be standoffish and put me off for life, but au contraire, my friends. He’s left me with a lot of respect and glassy-eyed adoration for him.


Kelly and Rufus, yesterday. Or Thursday. Whichever.

The concert itself was brilliant. The Lowry is a gorgeous theatre—huge, by Northern English standards, anyway—and the No Photographs rule was broken in about five seconds flat. Er, by us as well. Rufus tried and failed to do a Mancunian accent, but we applauded his efforts anyway. His rendition of Hallelujah sent shivers down by spine. Was also driven into a near rage by Man With Fathead, who felt the need to move his head from side to side every five seconds, but it wasn’t as bad as Kel’s position—sat behind Biggest Man Ever with Man With Fathead blocking her angular view towards the stage. Ahahaa.

Afterwards, we went out to the stage entrance to stalk Rufus some more. Spent a very short amount of time waiting for his second signing, though the door did open once beforehand. It was at this point that—oh noes!!11— Kay was attacked by Ian Mckellen.

He burst out of the stage entrance to the theatre, foaming hounds of hell Sean from Corrie and Audrey from Corrie snapping at his side. Most bystanders managed to escape, Kel and I leaping to safety. However, our hapless chum Kay was caught in his path. “THOU SHALL NOT HAVE AUTOGRAPHS!” he thundered.

“Er…hi.” Ventured Kay.

Screaming, he ran at her, throwing her to the floor and shaking her like a rag doll while the rest of us gazed on, terrified. Sean pinched her whilst Audrey kicked her in the ribs. Kay begged him to stop, attempting throughout the assault to enthuse about the upcoming X-Men movie in an attempt to divert him, but that was when he began biting. Cain Dingle then appeared, throwing a rope from a hovering helicopter overhead.

“Damned fool of a Dingle!” roared Gandalf McKellen, shaking his fist at him. And that’s when the dragons came in…

Or, McKellen was annoyingly rude and abrupt, and Sean had a face like thunder. This was made all the more better by McKellen’s sarcastic “HeLLO” to Kay and Sean muttering under his breath at the “fans” who hadn’t even come to see them, so there. Nur. Also, saw Cain Dingle at the bar. He’s surprisingly quite handsome and tall, oh yes.

And, as in all the best times, we spent ten minutes making cheap wisecracks afterwards. It just seemed that everything was funny, and no, we weren’t drunk. The night had been excellent, and we headed back to The Outer Reaches of Mars (i.e. Stretford) to get a good night’s kip. Also, to attempt to stab Kelly in a fit of jealous rage for managing to kiss Rufus Wainwright.


Him off Queer as Folk and Corrie: bit of a twat

The hotelier then tried to convert us heathens to Christianity. On a completely unrelated note, the door wouldn’t lock properly so we had fitful sleep that night.

*This entry is an attempt to make up for possible lack of PR representation in other areas.

Comments

[avariecaita.livejournal.com]

Kelly is hot. Also, she kind of reminds me of Charlotte Church in that picture. It's the sleepy eyes. Love the hat. Much jealousy!

[mothergoddamn.livejournal.com]

I once went on bus trip to London with all these old dears. An entire day of cheek pincing and "Doesn't she look like Charlotte Church!"

I'm a firm supporter of euthanasia for the over sixty.

[saffronlie.livejournal.com]

She's got really sexy hair!

[mothergoddamn.livejournal.com]

You can see under hats!?

[saffronlie.livejournal.com]

Yes! But also, you have sexy hair in general.

[mothergoddamn.livejournal.com]

Why thank you, darling! I'd wax lyrical about your chest but shall leave for MSN messenger.

[scrr.livejournal.com]

I get the distinct impression that you Wenches form a sort of sexgroup. Can I be invited for your next bacchanal? Even if I only get to watch?...

[saffronlie.livejournal.com]

In a word? No.

[mothergoddamn.livejournal.com]

Learn to share, woman!

[rebness.livejournal.com]

YOU'RE ALL PERVS AND I'M CALLING THE COPS ON MY JOURNAL!

Hey, Rufus in a thong...brb.