Monthly Archives: February 2011

I’m at home on a Friday night. Sober.

I am AT HOME. On a FRIDAY NIGHT!

And I’m (almost) SOBER!

What the hell is wrong with the world?

I am in the most almighty funk at the moment. It’s mainly to do with the fact that February is apparently the most evil month ever invented. Not only does it contain Valentine’s Day, my least favourite day of the year, but it also contains a MONDAY payday.

That’s right. I am about £100 away from my absolute overdraft limit (the safety figure I always keep in there in case some unexpected direct debit shows up to fuck me over) and there won’t be any more in there until Monday.

***

BREAKING NEWS – Irish just called, literally as I was in the middle of the word Monday – she’s supposed to be going on her second date with the Donkey (aptly named).

She was supposed to go out with him a few weeks ago, but he was stuck in a tech rehearsal until midnight and she ended up drinking far too much wine with a couple of her fellow actors in the Soho Theatre Bar until it was so late that she didn’t give a crap when he finally called.

The time before that, they ended up in bed together and she discovered that bigger is not always better.

She’s at the tube in Brixton. He just called and told her two of his friends had unexpectedly showed up to watch the play and were taking him out for dinner, and could he meet her for a drink a bit later?

I’m sorry? Did the Donkey seriously expect her to be waiting around for his call all night when it’s already 11 o’clock at night?

We got cut off, so I don’t know what the conclusion she came to was, but my advice was quite plainly; ‘Fuck him. If you meet him for a drink at midnight, all you’re going to get is a shag that splits you in two and ruins your weekend’. Instead, I suggested she come to join me on the sofa for vodka martinis and Mr Big.

Stay tuned.

And now we return to our original broadcast.

***

So where was I?

Oh, that’s right. Friday night. Penniless. In a funk.

You know, the funk has started since I started seeing The Ex again. We’re not dating exactly, just hanging out on a regular basis and occasionally exchanging mildly flirtatious texts (wait – isn’t that dating?). Most importantly, I’m definitely not shagging him. At the moment.

I’m not entirely sure what to do to get out of the funk. Save cutting him off and never seeing him again, which is just not possible as his theatre is over the road from my office and we have the same friends. And besides, I don’t want to.

But I don’t want to mope about alone on a Friday night either.

I’ll reassess the situation when I have some funds in the bank again on Monday.

In the meantime; *reaches for the cocktail shaker* bottom’s up!

RitziCx

I just (yes, just) got back from the What’s On Stage awards. WHAT an evening. I’m casually ignoring the fact that my alarm goes off in 3 hours to begin my craaaaazy week.

So after coming in my pants listening to Alfie Boe sing (jeeeeeeez I want to marry that man’s voice) and ogling at Ramin Karimloo (there is an unwritten rule that every Enjolras be HOT HOT HOT), I cheered for Legally Blonde who seemed to win EVERYTHING in the second half, and then headed to the after party.

But what you should be interested in, was the after AFTER party.

It was midnight. I got bored and left. I was on my way home when I get a text from the Jockey.

‘You after after partying?’

The Jockey is going away on tour this weekend. I am cursing mother nature for the fact that I can’t fuck him before he goes. Not to mention the fact that he (very honestly) just dropped this bombshell while I was tucked away in the corner of Freedom with him.

‘I should tell you… I got back with my girlfriend’

Before going on a 15 month tour? Rookie mistake Jockey. It doesn’t help matters that it was followed by…

‘But I still can’t stop thinking about fucking you’

Well of course you can’t, Jockey. I’ve been in hair and makeup for three hours and am in the tightest dress ever invented. It’s not the poor boy’s fault!

So anyhoo, long story short, I bought a cosmo and chilled with the Jockey for a while, munched on some cold fries (not a euphemism) and called him out on the fact that he wasn’t going to fuck me, so he could at least give me a goodbye kiss.

He did.

And it was very nice.

Strobe lights were flashing. Bass was pumping. And in the midst of it all, the Jockey grabbed me and accosted my mouth so well that I may have just shagged him right there if I hadn’t been grabbed mere seconds later by a gaggle of my OLD drama school buddies.

And that, I do believe, is the end of my ride with the Jockey.

Unless I go and visit him on his world tour (his suggestion).

Hell, a girl need’s a vacation, right?

Night!

RitziCx

Ps, up in 3 hours. Oh FUCK.

THANK GOD. The Irishman just left the building.

Now call me old fashioned, but when one gets very very drunk and accidentally fucks a guy senseless in the midst of a drunken haze, one expects him to either leave nice and early the next day – after coffee if he’s really into you – or actually be gone by the time you wake up.

The Irishman – guest of Twinkle’s boyfriend – stuck around for a whole other twenty four hours until SUNDAY MORNING.

This morning, I woke to a knock on my bedroom door (he slept on the sofa bed last night thank goodness) as he came in to track down his jeans from Friday night. He sat on the edge of my bed (DANGER!) and chatted for a while, which was really considerate considering I’d gone to bed 12 hours before, had hair sticking out at all angles and sleep mask covering the eyes in the back of my head, and was still in somewhat of a coma. He left, I snoozed for an hour, then he knocked again announcing that he was leaving.

And then he stood there in the doorway… waiting for me to do… something.

Oh dear.

Eventually, I kicked him out because my robe lives on the back of my door and there’s just not enough room in my tiny yet fabulous boudoir for someone to hang around in there while I get dressed, and after a moment of making myself look human, I emerged to say goodbye to Twinkle’s Boyf and the Irishman.

Most uncomfortable moment ever.

By this point, the Irishman had twigged that I probably wouldn’t have shagged him if I hadn’t been so hammered. Well, unless he’d cooked me dinner first. If he was offended I have no idea why, because let’s face it – he got some.

Quick hug, cheek kiss, and they were gone. It was so weird – it was almost as though he was just on the verge of giving me his number or asking for mine, but I’m just being realistic. Why bother? One; he’s in the army and stationed in Germany. Two; we shared about ten words with each other sober – not a good basis for a relationship.

And so, I let the Irishman go with no hope of a sequel or even a bad spin off series.

Off to the What’s On Stage awards with the rest of theatreland tonight. Maybe I’ll meet a nice man… or just another room full of gays.

Better luck next time.

RitziCx

Quite unexpectedly, I got well and truly fucked by an Irishman last night.

You may recall the very alcoholic, detox defying New Years celebration that I hosted a while back (around New Years weekend to be precise)where Irish and I (no relation) decided we needed more excuses to party. From that moment on, the idea of the Full Moon party was born.

Yesterday was the first of these such parties; the house was decorated with fairy lights, pearlescent moon balloons and silver confetti, an enormous chilli was cooked and a constant supply of cosmopolitans and margaritas kept us going from when the moon when up to when it came back down again.

WHAT A LOT OF ALCOHOL WE HAD.

Good lord, it was epic. I don’t think my liver is talking to me at the moment as a result.

So anyhoo, along with a veritable treasure trove of the who’s who of the West End, including myself, Twinkle, Blondie, Polkadots, BAB, The Agent, and many more, came Twinkle’s Army Boy boyfriend and his very VERY attractive IRISH friend.

He’s Irish. AND in the army. You so know where this is going.

It got to 3am and everyone had either passed out or called an Addison Lee, and I was about to retire to my own bed when I realised… there was already somebody in it.

Well hellooooooo Irishman!

Now, I was ridiculously hammered. I think that’s the only way I was able to have so much sex for so long. Seriously, we’re talking HOURS of the stuff. In every position.

Weird thing – the Irishman is completely unaffected by blow jobs. I’d be insulted by this if I wasn’t utterly and completely aware of the fact that I am fecking brilliant at giving head. This guy is just weeeeirdly immune. Instead, he was much more keen to stick his winky anywhere else he could. As a result, I am walking rather gingerly this morning.

They don’t half make them well in Ireland.

Now I’m off for breakfast (Twinkle is cooking and there are scrambled eggs involved – hurrah!) and the Irishman has not left yet. In fact, he’s due to be here til Monday.

Can you say awkward?

Good job I’ve got a shed load of reviews to get out today, a days worth of emails to catch up on from my day off yesterday, dinner party tonight and What’s On Stage Awards tomorrow, so I can avoid him quite well. I don’t really fancy shagging him again – not sure if my lady parts could take it, and his cock was pretty darn huge – but I wouldn’t mind oggling at him a bit more now that I’m not seeing double.

Am I going to date him? Am I bollocks. He’s stationed in Germany… shame!

And so, we move on.

In other news, The Ex made his excuses over text last night, and as a result I drunkenly phoned him. I don’t remember what I said but I’m sure I was cool and breezy.

Ahem.

Happy Saturday everybody!

RitziCx

Message just received from Forbidden:

‘Hey there chuckles, how’s ur valentines day panning out for u? As exciting as mine?! I should think at least so!’

Ehm? A man, texting me, on valentines day?!? This is unprecedented and entirely annoying since it’s Forbidden and I don’t really want to date him.

Damn you!

Rant over. Back to QI and Ben and Jerry’s.

RitziCx

Did I, or did I not, spend all of last year shagging around so I could finally get over my obsession with West End leading men?

(If you’ve been living under a rock and not reading… yes, I did)

Imagine my surprise then, when an ex of mine drops me a text along the lines of ‘hi babe, how’s it going? i start rehearsals on monday for *insert show here* are you about? be great to see you xx’ and so on and so forth.

What the hey? Free meal, decent conversation, West End gossip… I decide I have nothing to lose. So on Monday I met up with The Ex and allowed him to take me to a fabulous restaurant so he could show off just how much money he’s making with his new shiny part. I met him outside Covent Garden tube, a place that holds many annoyingly poignant memories that I only recollect while waiting for him to get his ass off the tube. Day-mn.

I feel the need to dive in here and explain a bit of back story. The Ex and I have a complex history(though I glazed over it a while back) You see, we never actually dated, but we got together a couple of years ago when I was (un) dressing on a show he was in, just after he’d broken up with his girlfriend. I was equally screwed up on account of the first being a total cock, and soon enough I was head over heels. Only The Ex, being fresh out of a relationship and, well, an actor, wasn’t all that into the commitment thing. Soon after we started sleeping together, I discovered he was sleeping with about 5 other girls – who worked IN THE SAME STREET in theatreland – and I promptly got rather emotional and girlish. This resulted me swearing off West End boys and I ended up with TV boy instead… and we all know how well that turned out.

Anyhoo, that was years ago and we’ve both grown up a fair amount, so I figured it was finally time to get on with our lives. So we went to dinner and had a very nice time. Damnit. Over dinner he said he quite fancied seeing some shows before he settled back into the lack of social life that comes with eight shows a week, and I offered to do a bit of digging and see what tickets I could wangle in the next few days.

Which is how we ended up at Legally Blonde on Thursday night.

Hilarity, much wine, and some more wine later, we were in a pub on the Strand that we used to haunt back in the day, when a skanky gypsie tramp man shows up trying to fob off some half dead roses on us. Finally, we get him to bugger off, and The Ex realises the dude has stolen his very fancy new iPhone.

To cut a long story short, there was a dramatic chase, followed by some iPad GPS tracking through London, until at last I convinced him to give up and go to the police station. Drama drama drama. At half past 2 in the morning, we got into an Addison Lee and started the journey home to South West Londinium, during which journey I promptly fell asleep on him.

I woke to The Ex jumping out the cab at his stop and paying the cabbie, and then giving me one of those cheek kisses that’s just annoyingly close to the mouth but not close enough.

Oh fuck.

Two years. TWO YEARS. And I’m not over this fellow. I have seriously GOT to play this cool or a whole year of risking STDs will have been completely pointless.

I hate men.

So why the fuck can’t I hate this one?!?!?!

The First was a total dick, and I knew it. TVboy was a waste of space and altogether a convenience. But The Ex… he was damn near perfect. Except for all the shagging around of course. But I can’t help but look back with a slightly more objective eye and remember things a bit more clearly. He always said, from the very beginning, that he wasn’t looking for a relationship, and I just went with it.

I can’t help but wonder what he’s looking for these days…

RitziCx

So… I made it. One month. 31 days of no coffee, no booze, no meeting room biscuits, no mid morning toast and minimal amounts of anything other than lettuce or vegetables.

Suffice to say, the first of February was one MESSY EVENING.

See Tickets – that pillar of the West End community – decided it might be a good idea to have a bit of a gathering in Planet Hollywood (ew) and I found myself bounding through those cheap, plastic double doors around 7.30 on that fateful day.

I bounded, you understand, because I’d had around five cups of coffee. I was back on it in a big way. Ritzi doesn’t do things by halves.

I do declare, I must have had around two bottles of red to myself. Then I schmoozed a bit. Then BAB – wize old soul – dragged me away from la bar and off into Soho, where me, BAB, his hubby and another faceless poof staggered into Cafe Boheme for some overpriced food and yet more vino.

Many hours later, mere moments before I passed out on BAB’s conveniently placed sofa bed (which had never been used, and still had the plastic covering on the mattress, oo-er), I happened to think to myself;

‘Bloody hell, I’ve missed this feeling’

and the next morning, when I awoke regretting not downing a pint of water before bed, I thought to myself;

‘Bloody hell, my brain is filled with cotton wool and my mouth with sawdust, and this is the hangover from hell… but I’ve missed this feeling’

and then, many hours later when I had made the most of being in a fancy flat in Covent Garden by rolling out of bed at 9am and strolling into the office before 9.30, and I had my third cup of coffee in hand, I thought to myself;

‘Urrrrrgggghhhh.’

Of course, I got over it. How? With a cocktail of course.

Food diary for day one of non-detox: toasted bagel, full fat cream cheese, six cups of coffee including the morning pint mug, three meeting room biscuits, many bottles of Rioja, questionable late night dinner that somehow cost £75.

And that, is the way it should be.

Night!

RitziCx