The time was 23:10 on a Saturday night. It was the start of an epic tube journey home from the other side of town. Another passenger boarded the train and proceded to start eating a Magnum. I suddenly remember my friend Meagan and I had bought ice creams that afternoon but totally forgot about them before we left my house. Thinking about ice cream was a welcome distraction. On the other side of my periphery were three drunk fools loudly discussing their conquests, one of whom shared my name. The tall one kept repeating ‘Lizzy’s cool, no Lizzy’s cool’. Don’t I feel lucky. Disembarking I see another commuter wearing a Tom Waits T shirt, that made me smile again.
I too had a very cool t shirt, albeit in my bag, one just purchased from the show Meags and I went to: Force Majeur – Eddie Izzard. Big fat tick on my bucket list there! I am now the proud owner of a ‘cake or death’ shirt (purchased with my friend’s encouragement although not much was required). After buying the tickets last year I almost forgot the show was coming up and the anticipation in the week prior was immense. I kept saying when we arrived at Wembley that I couldn’t believe it was actually happening. (Insert squeal noise of choice).
Our seats were quite good, and they were in a short row so we didn’t have others trying to squeeze passed us. The jovial atmosphere was slightly spoiled however by the unforuneate odour of the man who sat next to Meagan. First he felt the need to reverse into his seat without looking for it so his rear practically grazed her cheek before making the descent into his allocated spot. He then decided to make sure he sat as wide as possible to use up every square millimeter of space around him. All this could be tolerated, but the smell of dusty cheesy feet that surrounded him could not. The hilarity began before the show for us with Meags leaning back in her seat and making head motions to me to lean over and smell her airspace. Trying to do this tactfully was not going to occur without immature giggling, of which by then we were almost paralysed by. Poor Meags spent the duration of the first act with her scarf wrapped around her face. Mr. Wiffy thankfully swapped places with his less smelly mate for the second act, allowing her some repreive.
Despite the assault on our nasal cavities, we had the most fabulous and entertaining evening. I had laughed and shrieked and clapped myself into a scratchy throated – droopy eyelid – passive smile state. The recollection of magnum minis was just the cherry on top! Even the reprobates that were my travel companions couldn’t spoil my mood. The smug look on my face probably allowed me to blend in with them more than I would have hoped.