Monthly Archives: June 2011

Late Night Shenanigans

Posted on June 30, 2011 | 3 Comments

I may have spoken too soon about the dating thing.

So, a couple of nights ago, I took Dawson’s Creek out on the town – arty album launch, PRs and promoters, pub times, that sort of thing. She and her fellow Americans have only been in town a week, and aren’t too experienced at London style drinking (ie in excess) so I’m helping them adjust.

We hit up the George in London Bridge, and were ID’d on the way in – eh? I was strangely flattered, until the bouncer checked every one of their ID’s, and then stopped and laughed in my face just as I was about to produce mine.

Ah. Guess I’m old then.

After a few pints (Aspall. I shouldn’t be allowed near that magical cider juice) I got a text from the guy I appear to be dating.

DC and her mental mates were adamant that I should go and meet him.

“But he’s gone home!” I protested weakly. “He won’t come here, he has a show tomorrow.”

“Go and see him!” One small and clearly rebellious one advised.

Oh lord. Am I really in a place in my life where I’m taking advice from twenty one year old American girls?

A half hour later, getting off at his stop, I came to the conclusion that, yes. Yes I am.

I wish I could tell you I embarked upon a night of fire and passion to make you squeal with excitement, but it appears this one is a dud.

There is only so much that excessive amounts of ‘Dave’ can do to save a situation…

…Awkward!

In the end, the conversation was so lacking that I did what any self respecting woman would do in my place… and jumped him. Thanks to my apparently very effective dexterity, 30 seconds of friction and it was all over.

Frankly, I chose sleep instead of demanding my own turn. And I left the next morning before 10am.

We’re supposed to be going on a date tomorrow night. Let’s just see if he texts then, shall we?

Back to the drawing board Ritzi. Ah well.

RitziCx

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Dating. Weird.

Posted on June 29, 2011 | 1 Comment

I appear to be dating someone.

This is exceptionally weird.

The last person I actually dated was TVboy – and we all know how well that turned out.

However, recent flirtations lead to an impromptu dinner date – he paid – followed by frequent texting, a late night/early morning birthday phone call and plans for another rendezvous. What. The. Frack?

I can’t work out if I like this guy. I mean, he’s nice, but I don’t drop to my knees at the sight of him. He’s talented – very much so – but while the actor thing has done it for me in the past, I think we’re all aware by now that it’s a VERY BAD IDEA. He bought me dinner, it’s true, but the conversation was a bit forced on my part and I can’t work out if that’s because I am shit at dating, or if I’m just not that into him.

And that’s what it boils down to – is it worth it? Will there be magic? How long do you wait until there is?

I said a long time ago that I am looking for love. Real, gutwrenching, shakespearean sonnet worthy love. I put up with mediocre before (*cough* TVboy *splutter* Xfactor) and look where it got me. But then again, am I looking for someone who doesn’t exist?

Then again, Blondie will testify I did spent an hour staring at my phone on my own birthday waiting for him to call.

It is very possible I’ve just watched too many Gilmore Girls reruns and can’t accept the idea of anything other than a burly man in flannel with a knack for brewing coffee.

I’ll keep you posted.

RitziCx

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Blondie McFabulous is an Eight Out Of Ten.

Posted on June 28, 2011 | Leave a comment

SO much frivolity on my birthday this year. And frankly, more midweek mixed drinks than I would advise. Ever.

At around 10ish, we stumbled into Cafe Koha, which is an awesome and relatively affordable wine bar in theatre alley, conveniently opposite the Wyndhams Stage Door, so I managed to have a bit of a birthday ogle at David Tennant coming out all sweaty and post show. Lovely.

A few hours later, after plenty of deep philosophical conversations (you know the sort) and about 3 more bottles of wine, Blondie broke the seal and nipped off to the loo, prompting the weird waiter with a wandering eye to approach our table.

“Your friend, she is very beautiful,” he informs Flora and I, the only two who have not succumbed to the need to pee or smoke.

“You should tell her!” Flora announces, we a mischievous glint in her eye. “She would love that.”

“You see, we play this game in here,” the disillusioned doof continues, “when we see beautiful girls we rate them out of ten.”

He gives us a big grin – as though this is THE BEST story he’s ever told and he’s waiting for our reaction. Somehow, I don’t think our indignant expressions are what he had in mind.

I thought I’d misheard him. He repeated it. I hadn’t.

Flora, ever one to tempt fate, asked the fateful question…

“So, what’s Blondie then?”

The guy looks relieved to be back in there (idiot).

“Ah, she is an eight!” He declares.

……….

“An eight?!?”

“But, Angelina Jolie – she is a ten!” The guy protests, but we are having none of it.

“You’re rating Skeletor above Blondie?”

“You’d best not mention that part to her”

“Not the best way to get your end away my friend.”

“How about we rate you this time?”

This is when Blondie returns, none the wiser until I tell her the whole story which may have seemed a bit harsh to some of the others but she’s gonna read it on here anyway!

The weird eyed waiter clearly is embarrassed yet still fancies himself in with a chance, and makes up by bringing us free (gross) shooters all night. Just as we’re about to leave, he puts his card on the table in front of Blondie!

While she attempts (and fails) to pronounce his name, he minces off all victorious. A few moments later, we exit stage right.

I wish I’d stayed to see the look on his face when he picked up his own card and read;

’3.5′

RitziCx

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It’s A Vocal Warm Up – I Swear!

Posted on June 24, 2011 | Leave a comment

Those of you who’ve paid any attention to twitterland this week might have noticed that I had a birthday. Hurrah! The BEST reason for mid week drinking.

True to form, hilarity was delivered from each and every one of my favourite girls who came along bearing gifts and buying cocktails, and after less than half a long island ice tea, Irish came out with this little gem.

She declared it was a story worthy of the blog – and my god she was right! So, a few days before, after a long day of stressful auditiony things and between jobs jobbing, Irish came home to an empty house.

Ahhhhh.

She headed straight to the bathroom for a much deserved shower, and a good half an hour later in a state of steamy showery bliss, she got out the shower and headed to her room for some self inflicted stress relief.

We all do it ladies, don’t be a prude now!

Being alone in the house, Irish saw no need to be restrained about it. It’s more fun when your vocal, yes? As most of my sexual partners are assured anyway. So she’s having a lovely time of it, and letting the whole world know, and when she’s done she heads out into the real world again she notices something strange…

Hang on… that door wasn’t closed before…

Lo and behold, the Art Fairy has returned home! When did she get back? Was it just now? What it during the shower? Did she hear -

Oh good lord.

And at that moment, Irish noted how the Art Fairy very clearly looked past her and up the stairs, as though searching for a sign of another person.

MORTIFICATION!!!

After that, Irish told how she avoided the subject and wandered the house singing scales, in the hope that the Art Fairy would conclude that all she heard was a vocal warm up…

No. I’m not buying it either.

RitziCx

Next time on the birthday blogs: Blondie McFab is an 8 out of 10…

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Zumba-holics Anonymous

Posted on June 23, 2011 | 3 Comments

My name is Ritzi Cortez and I am a Zumba-holic.

‘Serious body sculpting for party animals’

Now that is a tagline I can get my head around.

A couple of weeks back, I had a date all planned and whatnot (those of you who follow me on twitter may recall this) who then cancelled on the day of, which royally pissed me off as not only do you just not cancel on Ritzi Cortez, but  I’d also worn heels, a very foolish thing to do in my office.

Anyhoo, long story short, the Aussie totally got in on the man hating and declared that she was going to Zumba for the first time that evening and that I should join her.

“It burns 600 calories in one class,” she informed me. “That’s more than sex honey.”

It burns more calories than sex? I. Was. Sold.

So that evening I joined the Aussie and her mate Disney Princess at Zumba at Clapham’s Clear Wellness centre, a place which also does Yoga and HULA HOOP CLASSES (I know, right?) and we shook our fabulous asses to the beat.

Oh. My. God.

Zumba is frickin awesome. Coming from a Musical Theatre world as I do, I’m no stranger to shaking it on the dance floor, but any one who knows me will tell you that while I’ll do it if I have to, I’m not a fan of the dancing aspect of my former career. However, stick me in a gym studio and pump up the latin inspired beat, and all of a sudden all those years of tedious dance classes finally pay off and I was LOVING it.

I love it so much that I signed up straight away and now make it my business to go three times a week.

Esther, the Saturday morning teacher at Clear Wellness, is an absolute demon. Seriously, the woman kills me. Especially this last weekend after I managed to imbibe a bottle and a half of red wine on Friday night and somehow managed to get my ass to Zumba the next morning by 11am. I swear to god I was sweating wine, but afterwards I felt amazing. 

Therefore, I advise all folks of the world to get their Zumba on and pronto, and pretty soon you’ll be shakin (as opposed to wobbling) that ass all over the world.

Zumba zumba zumba.

RitziCx

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The Day They Let Ritzi Into A Film Premiere…

Posted on June 21, 2011 | Leave a comment

Honestly, I get everywhere.

Ritzi Cortez at Kung Fu Panda 2

The nice folk at Paramount recently had a crisis of sensibility and invited me to the UK premiere of Kung Fu Panda 2. Considering I had not (and still have not) seen Kung Fu Panda 1, I was off to a good start.

‘Help!’ I beseeched twitter. ‘What is the plot of Kung Fu Panda 1?’

The reply that popped into my inbox is a prime example of why my twitter followers are bloody brilliant.

‘There’s a panda. He does Kung Fu and eats a lot of chinese food. And he says awesome a lot. Then he saves the day.’

Right o, Kung Fu Panda 101… complete!

With Eton Boy as my date, I rocked up to Westfields (apparently they do film premieres in shopping malls these days – who knew?) in my topshop finery (it was a Sunday afternoon after all) and attempted to avoid the shops and head straight for the – and I quote – ‘Pandamonium’.

I failed miserably. I bought two bikinis and a maxi dress. Ah well.

Jack Black was there being all hilarious, and let me tell you he is teeny tiny. Yet wide of girth. But weirdly… I still would. Here he is demonstrating some key Kung Fu moves…

Jack Black doing some Kung Fu

Ritzi’s Review of Kung Fu Panda 2:

I thought I would be at a major disadvantage having not seen the first film, but it appears the general knowledge that the focal character is a giant panda who does Kung Fu is enough to keep you going. Cue some artsy animation of Chinese style cut outs for the expositional opening sequence, wherein one discovers that Peacocks, are in fact, evil raving psychopaths with a penchant for genocide.

Only Jack Black could endear the character of a big fat panda so well. Honestly, he’s completely lovable – particularly at the moment where he reveals to his fellow Kung Fu Furious Five mates that his dad might not actually be his dad. Quickly followed by deadpan Angelina Jolie’s best line;

‘Your dad… the goose?’

No kidding Panda face.

Gary Oldman genuinely terrifies me, much as I want to have rampant sex with his voice every single day and twice on Sundays. He plays a maniacal white peacock who is so deliciously evil it gave me goosebumps. Or peacock bumps. Or whatever. But he’s hilarious with it also.

The 3D is brilliant. I’m not usually a 3D kind of gal – it doesn’t generally do that much for me – but when you’re five rows from the front and a crazed peacock is pointing a razor sharp tail feather in your face, you shuffle back a lil bit.

So in short, I’m saying if you’re umming and ahhing at the cinema, go and have a giggle at Kung Fu Panda 2. It’s heartwarming and hilarious, and it has Gary Oldman as an evil peacock (did I mention that?).

Gary Oldman as an evil peacock

Skadoosh and all that.

RitziCx

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What The Bloody Hecking Feck?

Posted on June 19, 2011 | 3 Comments

I appear to have forgotten how to date.

Perhaps dating’s not the right word actually – because as well you know, my love life hasn’t exactly been barren for the past couple of years – but I think I’ve forgotten how to see further than the first date.

In recent weeks, flirtations have occurred with an actor (I know. I will never learn.) which has since evolved to Friday night pub times and facebook messaging to the extreme, finally resulting in a cheeky fb message a few days ago saying;

‘Here’s my number – if you were to use it, I’m sure it wouldn’t jeopardise our working relationship…’

Oh dear.

So of course (I was drunk) I instantly texted something equally cheeky (I was DRUNK) and since then… texting to the extreme.

My sources tell me this is the kind of behaviour that will soon be followed by a date, then dating, then…

Bloody hell!

Herein lies my problem. I spent all of last year essentially shagging around and swearing off meaningful relationships. My good buddy Blondie did the same (as did Nicole but she failed miserably so we’re going to glaze over that) and as a result we have turned ourselves into emotionally unavailable commitment-phobes.

It just happened again!!! Text from super keen actor man;

‘So… want to grab some dinner? Nice outfit today by the way’

Curse you West End Live. Curse you for giving me a reason to dress up all fabulous around actor types. And curse the sun for coming out. Sunglasses always make me appear more fabulous than usual. The bedraggled Ritzi of yesterday wouldn’t be getting so much attention.

I do recall stating on here, in writing, that I was only ever going to properly date again if I felt that kind of stomach clenching gooey thrill of real proper romance.

Well my stomach is pretty much fine, but I am liking the attentive attentions and whatnot. Who knows what it might turn into? Should I be writing this off so early? But then I surely can’t go against all my previously stated rules and date another actor, can I? Am I thinking about this too much??!?!?!

Frankly, I have a lot of work to do. I shouldn’t go for dinner with this guy. I definitely should be reading reviews and coordinating audition schedules and confirming networking dates for NYC and reading scripts and…

Oh bugger it I’m texting back.

RitziCx

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Welcome To Diagon Alley… I mean, Cecil Court…

Posted on June 16, 2011 | 1 Comment

Welcome Harry, to Diagon Alley Cecil Court.

This place is one of my favourite places in Londonia (you can tell because it’s up there in my menu bar picture). It’s a not far from my office and I have been known to take a detour on my way back from a meeting or en route to the theatre, and  fall off the face of the earth for hours, lost in a world of pretty books and eccentricities.

It can be found just off St Martins Lane, just next to Freed (the dance shoe shop) or from the other side on Charing Cross Road, right by the Wyndhams and theatre alley, but you can easily miss it if you don’t know it’s there.

While away the hours downstairs in one of the many many specialist book shops, hunting for the elusive first edition (I’ve never found a first edition but to be honest I wouldn’t know one if it flew up and hit me in the face, Mirrormask style), or marvel at the crinkly old maps in Storeys, get your fortune read in the window of Watkins, or pick up a one of a kind piece of jewellery in Christopher St James – they sell CROWNS people. I mean seriously.

Whenever I look in the window of Drummonds, I find myself searching for the elusive ‘Harlequin and the Enchanted Fish’ poster which I remember once spying in the royal room of a West End theatre (I forget which one) on the wall of the queen’s loo. I fucking love that poster. They don’t make play titles like that any more!

The other slightly more un-cool and arty reason I love this place is because it’s a magical alley in London filled with random artifacts and dusty old books, which frankly makes me feel like I’m in a Harry Potter book. Shut up. I’m a nerd, whatever.

It’s a great place to come after catching a matinee in Covent Garden, though I can also recommend it at 3am on a Sunday morning, as Nicole and I have done many a time with many a stumble, pretending to hoike up our non-existent Victorian skirts and tread the cobbles* of Covent Garden’s most magical alley ways.

Check it out! And please buy me a crown.

RitziCx

*please note, Cecil Court does not have cobbles. I just like alliteration.

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Have You Ever Heard Of A Film Called The Human Centipede?

Posted on June 14, 2011 | Leave a comment

Everyone has heard of this film now. Surely? It’s all in the news because they’ve banned the sequel (why in gods name would you make a sequel?!?) which is obviously the one and only way to make everyone in the world want to watch it.

Storyline in a nutshell… mad scientist kidnaps poor unsuspecting folks, drugs them and sews em together mouth to… well… google it (not you Mother). Grossness ensues.

Anyway, don’t worry – I’m not turning disturbing film critic on your ass. This tale does have a theatrical ending…

It first crossed my path last year, when Ms Tickle, my partner in crime from the work posse told me to search the phrase in google images when I pulled a confused face at the mention of it. One of her friends was working on promoting the film for some kind of horror festival gig and apparently, said posse member felt she didn’t deserve to be the only one with a violated mind.

Thankfully, I managed to squish the mental trauma nice and deep down in my brain, replacing it with jazz hands and sequins and other such pleasant things, until one fateful day a couple of weeks ago when I was flicking through the channels late at night, searching for wondrous things to add to my sky plus to while away future Sunday mornings, when my eyes spied the beginning of a familiar title…

‘The Human Ce-’ it said (relatively near the end, hence the cut off.) I swear to god it was followed by ‘Mega Shark vs Giant Octopus’. The sheer existence of this channel baffles me.

Like a complete douche bag, I only bloody clicked ‘select’ didn’t I? Cue a brutal introduction to a part of that movie I frankly will remember to the day I die (along with that moment in Jaws when the dead guy’s head pops out of the boat all eaten and whatnot, and the big purple monster thing in the Moomins that still haunts my dreams) and a swift change of the channel to Dave. Mock The Week will never traumatise me. Thank the powers for Hugh Dennis.

The next day, the work posse and I had to trek all the way out to the regions (I forget where it was… Woking maybe? Or perhaps Bromley? I don’t know. It was an ATG theatre anyway, which doesn’t exactly narrow it down.) Anyhoo, we were out there to watch a show (big surprise) which had been all hyped up and promised a West End transfer (haven’t they all) and at the interval we all crowded into a teeny tiny vip bar to sip some potent red wine, along with an unapproachable creative team and a few semi-famous faces clearly ready and raring to swipe the roles of the poor touring cast. Awkward conversation is not my strong suit, so Ms Tickle and I  stuck together at the bar drinking wine and avoided the eyes of scary producers.

“Oh my god, I watched The Human Centipede last night!” I exclaimed, for lack of anything else to say.

The Human Centipede DVD cover

“You did? WHY?” she asked, already cracking up at the horror that clearly had not yet left my eyes (and possibly never will).

“It was on TV and I flicked over – Scarred. For. Life.” Which then prompted a slightly hysterical conversation about the grossness of it all, and then onto the sequel which no one really knew much about at the time, but with her all in the know she took great pleasure in telling me all about the inappropriate sandpaper masturbation sequence and barbed wire rape. Lovely.

OF COURSE this is the moment that a terrifying West End producer decides to extract himself from a semi-well known actress’s cleavage and approach the giggling women at the bar.

“What’s got you two so amused?” he asked, perhaps wondering if we’ve been ripping it out of his show for the past twenty minutes. Oops. We glanced at each other weighing up truth versus speculation and before I could stop her, Ms Tickle made the decision without me;

“Well, have you ever heard of a film called The Human Centipede?”

Oh lord.

RitziCx

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I Survived Slut Walk 2011…

Posted on June 11, 2011 | 1 Comment

Slut walk slogan placard June 11 2011

I should get that on a T-Shirt or something.

My good friend Annie the Scot is a bit of a feminist. She has a slight tendency for bra burning and going on marches, and this weekend she was determined to get her ass down to my neighbourhood for the Slut Walk which (if you have been living under a rock) happened today in central London.

I’ll admit, I was sceptical. I don’t generally go in for these protest type things, as I don’t think they actually do that much good very often, and usually end in violence and graffiti (bloody student fee protests anyone? That was a fun journey home from work wasn’t it?), but since she is rather persuasive and kind of scary, I let her drag me along.

I’m not a rape victim, and as you know I generally have a pretty crass attitude towards sex and debauchery, but I am a woman living in a big scary city and I do walk home at 2am by myself and I have got a pretty impressive amount of cleavage that earns me more than my share of sleazey comments. For anyone (such as that policeman dude in Canada) to imply that a woman should dress like a dowdy frumpster to avoid getting violated by some creep in a dark alley or for politians  (*cough* Ken Clarke *splutter* dickhead) to try to define the specifics of rape as ‘classic’ or ‘serious’ as opposed to, you know un-serious, it would make any woman throw on some fishnets and take to the streets.

“However I dress, wherever I go, yes means yes and no means no”

Pretty fucking straight forward, rapists of the world. One syllable. No.

Marching the slut walk June 2011

This was my first protest – I’m not exactly gonna make a habit of it (cos, you know, I have a job) but it was oddly liberating to march from Hyde Park Corner all the way down to Piccadilly, down Haymarket and into Trafalgar Square, belting out the odd chant and spotting the best slogans with Annie the Scot and her MENTAL mates.

Is it wrong to have a #whatimwearing moment right now? Because I rocked the Slut Walk in double denim and a hot pink bikini, and let me tell you, wedges were not exactly designed for protest marches…

Mind you, when it got to Trafalgar Square, things got a tad… preachy. Amid all the man-hating and occasional mild racism (weird but true) the absolute HIGHLIGHT for me was an amazing poem read (and possibly written?) by Caitlyn (Hayward – I think?) who I believe also blogs and whatnot here. Passionate and clearly a frickin genius for playing what looked like a pretty huge part in the event organisation, she’s the kind of woman who speaks with a voice for all women. Well done lady.

All in all, an electric atmosphere with more than 3000 people (not just women) in varying states of undress marching their fabulous way through London and demanding to be paid some attention. Let’s hope it actually does something. I lasted until about 4pm, but then the glamorous West End called me into action and I had to run away to work. Annie the Scot is still there I believe, determined to start some kind of hippie style sit in. I may stop by later with starbucks…

 Sluts of London – we rocked it. I salute you.

RitziCx

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