So I've spent approximately ten hours on a stage over the last week or so. Most of the time it was sitting and observing, doing little bits of "business" - as they would have it in the industry. This does not mean shitting on the stage, as I found out the hard way. It's to do with doing minor things, not usually in the script. The purpose of our "business" was to show the audience we were still there, hopefully without detracting from the main action on stage.
As we were playing three street urchins, we had a whole load of women's magazines to flick through whilst the main action was happening. The detail was great - they were given 50s' front covers... but inside it was Cosmo, Elle, Glamour - the usual suspects. I gave up reading women's magazines years and years ago because of the revolting hypocrisy: it doesn't matter what you look like, he should love you anyway vs. buy this hideously expensive wrinkle cream - he won't love you if you look old. Why women don't need men vs. how to get your man to propose. It made me barf. Plus those pages and pages and pages of fashion that a) no-one I know could afford and b) no-one I know would be seen dead in.
But, faced with a stack of magazines and action going on behind us that we weren't supposed to watch (and which we'd seen about seven million times), read the magazines I did. And Jesus, they're awful. I particularly hated the agony aunt page where unfortunate women's neuroses were displayed and dissected for the world to see. Women having boyfriend troubles were usually given a brilliant piece of advice like, "Until you love yourself, how can you expect others to love you? Take up a hobby - how about swimming or a cookery class?"
Fuck that. Toddle off to Ann Summers, buy a rabbit. Bloke problem solved, spare time issue solved.
There was always an article about how anorexia had ruined some model's life... then they talk about how this 5'11" woman is now a "healthy" eight stones. No. No, no, no. Yes, I'm underweight, and at seven stones, I shouldn't be throwing rocks around my greenhouse. But I'm 5'3". I'm no nutritionist, but I'm guessing eight stones is not a healthy weight for someone nearly six foot tall. The article will talk about a balanced diet and the importance of loving yourself. (Perhaps get a hobby - how about swimming or a cookery class?)
Turn the page and there are bony waifs wearing ridiculous unaffordable, ugly clothes.
To quote the great Steven Moffat in Coupling: "Magazines! A hundred pages of 'men are useless bastards,' and an article about why you should wake him up with a blowjob."
Rant over. You may now go back to your day job. Today's title is an inside joke. I apologise for the cliqueyness. Cliqueism. Fuck it, you know what I mean.