Now that was a good use of my evening.
I cackled for so long that Lee glanced over in concern, thinking I’d broken myself. No doubt Sam and Emma would recall our trip to TVM, which left me laughing hysterically after one of the monologues ranted about thong underwear. While it was indeed the same monologue that left me in fits of giggles, it was not the thong underwear part – which is scripted – but instead, Jenny Eclair’s ad-libbing.
Roughly, it went something like this:
“Do something nice for vaginas! Let’s make a big pair of comfy cotton knickers – double gusset for extra support – and build in a nice vibrator! Women would be so happy … ‘Delays on the Northern line? I don’t give a fuck!'”
How I wish I’d had those comfy knickers when I lived in London!
A good portion of the evening had a distinctly Northern feel; many of the monologues were recited in a variety of Northern accents, including the elderly lady who in the American original was scripted as having a Jewish accent – and whose boyfriend Andy Lefkov became Andy Lewis, who drove a Morris Minor rather than a Chevy BelAir. It was a nice touch.
Of course, possibly one of the most amusing one-liners of the whole evening has to be the somewhat startling revalation that “we’re reliably informed that here in Sheffield, you call it a ‘spunk satchel’!” And I always thought Sheffield was such a polite place! This closely followed by another ad-lib, this time by Jennifer Ellison, who, in the middle of the ‘hair’ monologue (a tale of a cheating husband who liked women to shave) said indignantly, “I looked like a little girl… He loved it. Fucking perv!”
You know, the Vagina Monologues is so good, and so open to new interpretations, I could go and see it every evening for a week without getting bored. And if only I had all the money in the world, and if only it hadn’t been on for one night only, I probably would!
Valentine’s Day: raises money for Clinton Cards and jewellery companies.
Vagina Monologues: raises money for women’s organisations. Spawned the V-Day movement.
Which is why I’ve persuaded Lee that we needed to get tickets to see Jenny Eclair et al shouting “cunt”, having orgasms and generally pissing about. Yay for friends that you can go to the theatre with! Especially now that the Fems isn’t a weekly thing for him anymore.
I shall of course report in later, probably with a somewhat garbled account involving frequent mentions of the name “Bob”. This will be the second time I’ve seen it. And Sam, who was with me the first time, bought me the script for my birthday. One day, maybe I shall perform it, astounding my old drama teacher, who told me – harshly but fairly – that although I could possibly be a director in a group of my choosing, I was not a good actor. Of course, that was back in the days when a group of sixth-formers performed The Vagina Monologues, which students in our all-girls school were banned from going to if they were under sixteen. Now I’ve seen it, I understand that some of the monologues could be pretty unnerving for a sheltered middle-class thirteen year-old. But at the time, I remember being very indignant, on the grounds that I had a vagina, so why the hell couldn’t I see a play about it?!
Perhaps it is this kind of thing that makes me so enthusiastic about a) decent sex education and b) The Vagina Monologues!
So, I was on Shakesville, being silly, as is my way, and indulged in a little light troll-baiting. This was five days ago, and I regret to say that, unlike Pyre of the Monster “Chairman” Thread Of Doom, the troll did not return.
However, one of my comments (“I’m not Sarah, but damn right I have a super cunt!“) had somebody asking me what SuperCunt(s) might wear; in particular, would the SuperCunt(s) be likely to wear either capes or masks. So, because I felt like being silly again, I bring to you….
Seriously, I feel like I’ve just taken part in the Vagina Monologues – the bit where they ask women, “what would your vagina wear?”. Clearly, my answer is “loose clothing and a fuck-off death stare”!