‘Gad. My monocle is well and truly popped out of its comfy socket this week. First from rage, then from triumph, then from arousal and finally just from habit.
First of all let’s have the rage, for I have a sad and bitter story to tell you, dear readers. I was censored last week. I know! If you want a stiff drink, I’ll wait. … Better? Good.
Apparently a subeditor took umbrage with my description of Measure For Measure. You see, if you recall, I apparently described it as “dark and edgy new Shakespeare.” That was a misprint. What it should have read was “furious masturbation.”
I get very annoyed when anyone takes away my furious masturbation. So I shall be super foul this column and I don’t give two demi-shits (which equates to one whole shit) for anyone who tries to stop me.
Anyway, jokes on Matty M, as it seems that he has been well and thoroughly out-debauched. Antigone has come from out of nowhere to claim the title, being not only rated adults only, but sponsored by a sex shop. 20% off? Yes please!
My whip broke sometime back and my dungeon’s looking worryingly bare. If Measure For Measure is furious masturbation, Antigone is being held upside-down by the ankles and rubbed raw by coked-up carnies, while Misses Carpenter and Edwards work the nipple clamps.
And while I might call that Tuesday, for everyone else it makes for a pretty cool show.
And it doesn’t get any cleaner from there, with Closet Land having its own breed of perversion inserted into it. Apparently it’ll be shocking.
Slightly less scandalous are the auditions for next term’s big Playhouse shows, with Streetcar bringing all the Marlon Brando impressions out of the woodwork, as well as, bizarrely, one or two John Waynes.
Meanwhile Royal Hunt of the Sun is in the running for the drug that keeps Emily Precious running (Heidi, of course, just needs to be plugged in for a couple of hours).
Well, that’s it for now, I’m off for a long shower and an extremely non-vulgar sandwich. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m going for a [CENSORED].