Home of the (oh, forget it, I can't think of any more variations on "Hairdresser On Fire" lyrics)

[Can't put it off any longer. Finally, it was time to go. While seeing these girls was NOT the reason went to London, the fact that the show was happening that day was the reason we went at that time. Clear? I just wanted to make that perfectly clear...]

[Pictures of the show at the above website, and here (including way-big pix of me and John, and me apparently not sure whether I was more interested in taking another sip of what was probably my fourth Grolsch of the evening, or trying to puzzle out what the Chilean with the hair next to me was saying.) (My sister's comment upon seeing those photos: "Wow, I'm surprised the fire marshal didn't shut the place down, what with all the hair-care products." Haw haw.) After it was over, one of the queens with whom we'd attended sighed deliriously, "That was better than SEX!" Well, I dunno...it was better than some sex...]

[Best part, perhaps: as the group of us were walking over to the club, a black Mercedes pulled up and a female voice called out the back window, "Oi, Pascale!" The French head of our contingent whipped around, and there were Keren and Sara themselves, being whisked to the venue. John was right there at the curb, and added another celebrity "hi" to his long list. You could've tapped him with your little finger and he would've floated away.]

[Other best parts: Graham Norton introducing the duo, and then coming out to introduce the encore, in that charming, queeny Midlands burr, "Oh, my God, the precum is leaking down my leg...for the first time since 1988, and for the last time ever, the original line-up...Keren, Sara, and Siobhan..." and the opening notes to "Venus."]

[The worst part: after decompressing in the balcony above, John and I just wanted to get home, and we got lost. Next time you're in London, you don't want to be wandering thru postal code EC1 at 5AM, just in case you had a mind. No cabs in sight. We didn't fight, we were too damned tired; we finally got up the nerve to ask a bloodshot-eyed bloke in dreadlocks, "Um, how do get back to Bloomsbury?" We got the nicest, clearest Cockney directions. Stupid American gits.]

[The next day (our last full one) we managed to catch a guided bus tour on (what else?) a red double-decker bus. It was exactly the same kind of tour that we mock in San Francisco, the ones given here on those fake, motorized cable cars. We didn't care, we just took note of all the touristy stuff we want to see next time, when we're not in London simply to overdose on has-been pop acts from the early 80's. (Just kidding.) We got off at the Tower of London, saw the ravens, saw the the crown jewels, and climbed a few narrow spiral stone staircases. After our one decent dinner (people kept telling us to stick to Indian), we crashed again. And the next day, we came home, catching nasty flus on the plane.]

[London. Belisha beacons. Finding The City and the Pillar at our friendly neighborhood gay bookstore and reading it on the plane. Very steep, long Tube escalators. Princess Superstar's and Sophie Ellis Bextor's new singles in every record shop. Fine weather (except the day we chose to go sightseeing) and food just as shitty as you've heard. John getting his best haircut ever at cheap little salon in Marchmont Street. Constantly getting lost, even though we barely left a two-square-mile area. Giving in to American fast food in Oxford Street, near Harrod's AND at the Tower. The Starbucks concession at the Tower (closed). Forming a cordon with John and a cute mohawked Dutch boy to protect our group of concertgoers in front of the stage. Chatting with a bookshop cashier about The Vicar of Dibley. Was good. Is over.

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