Opening nights

I’ve discovered that my life, in spite of its happy, semi-nuclear family centre, is not a complete party write-off. Turns out I can still mix it at opening nights and get messy on free champagne just like the old days.

It might have been the weather turning that got me out of hibernation. Or maybe it was television turning 50. God knows that’s a milestone that’s had me cringing on the couch. Did anyone else see that bit of Channel 7’s night of nights when the balloons and confetti fell and an assembled collection of stars from yesteryear were supposed to dance around, happily, but didn’t? I only saw it on Sunrise, but shit.

The prospect of witnessing, even accidentally, the networks pat themselves over 50 years of television (of which about one year was good Australian content) is enough to get anyone out of the house.

And so I scrambled through the assembled mess on my desk, uncovering forgotten invitations.

First up was Eurobeat -“ Almost Eurovision, which was at least as gay as Mardi Gras. Behind me? Gays. In front of me? Gays. Next to me? A larger-than-life woman in real fur. Gay, gay, gay.

Show: 8/10 (that woman from Rockwiz is both gorgeous and funny. And the show got extra points for Greece’s entry, which saw a woman transform from Nana Mouskouri to Grecian-Beyonc?n the space of five seconds. Begone, glasses, wig and mumu. Enter, fierce booty dancing). After-party: 6/10 (the speeches were too long, and too heartfelt, and the toilets too hard to find. Bloody State Theatre).

Next was something a bit more highbrow: The Sydney Dance Company doing Underland. A little less gay, but not much.

Show: 9/10 (the dancing was awesome, the music fantastic). After-party: 7/10 (decent food, but I had to almost injure a dancer to get it. They’re small. And no-one laughed at my Underpants joke, which was, in hindsight, the product of too much champagne).

Anyway, I’m on an opening night roll and can’t wait for the next one’s after-party. Priscilla? Should be fabulous. Titanic, The Musical? How can it sink?

From now on, I’m saying yes to everything.

Though I did send someone else to Barry Kosky’s The Lost Echo. It goes for eight hours, you know. And that’s a long time between drinks.