Funny Habits

What is it about wearing a habit that makes normal, everyday actions suddenly hilarious? Anything from using a cellphone to eating sandwiches was sending people into fits of laughter on Saturday, as we all donned our wimples for the first time to film what essentially was a "nun pop video".

Hmmn... Less Rock the Casbah and more Rock the Cassock.

I noticed that the general rule seemed to be the more nuns, the funnier. The second a couple of nuns discovered the comedy potential of the habit, it was inevitable that the silly walks and showgirl dancing would kick off (literally), followed by headbanging and air-guitar as the entire group joined in.

Instant comedy. I prescribe it for any struggling stand-ups out there. Get yourself a habit. No, not a coke habit. I mean a full-length, heavy black cloth robe, complete with headdress, white collar and rosary belt. Although you'll have a job finding one. You can't buy a habit, apparently. Nuns make their own as part of their training.

Anyway, it was a lovely day, but more on that tomorrow, chickens - Witch has got to go home and ice the bits that hurt (I've hired the freezer department at Tesco to go sit in for a couple of hours) - but in the meantime, here are a couple of pics for you from Saturday's filming sesh at Hospital...













The first one is "Does this habit bring out the colour of my eyes?" - nun fashion tips. The second photo is less obvious, but there's clearly one nun who doesn't trust the cameramen and is intent on filming the action herself. Check her out in the corner. My personal fave...

Habit Forming

Got fitted for my habit yesterday. I didn't try the wimple thing on, but the dress was enough to bring me out in cold sweats.

I can't believe that women choose to wear these things. I suggested to the costume supervisor that mine could do with a few pearls and a lower neckline, but she wasn't having it.

"The idea of the habit is that it strips you of everything other than your bare self; leaving you free to devote your soul to serving God," she said, clearly amused at my panic.
"I know, but a few sequins wouldn't go amiss," I said. "God wouldn't mind that, would he?"

I cheered up a little when they added the collar. Better light reflection on the jawline. And I've got a rosary belt, so at least I can cinch it in a little bit on the sly.

I didn't realise how vain I was.

An Evening At Angel

We recorded some of Sister Act last night at Angel studios. Whoopi is coming over from the US to do the interview rounds and promo for the show (can't wait for that), and they needed something to use on Wossy and the like.

Angel's beautiful. All wood-panelling and polished floors, and the hugest organ I've ever seen in the corner of the room (pause for laughter). I would have got a picture for you, chickens, but time seems to be money of Ghetti proportions when you're running on the studio clock, and I didn't think Alan Menken would take too kindly to me flashing my iphone around the room when I'm supposed to be belting out top G's.

There was a lively buzz amongst the girls, although no one dared voice it in anything more than a whisper. Not like in rehearsals, where raucous rules supreme. The code of behaviour is different in the studio. Everyone seems to observe an unwritten law of silence - even when the red light's off and silence isn't necessary. There's an air of anticipation. I felt as if I was in some kind of magic library, knowing that something amazing was about to happen but having to contain my excitement (not that that would ever happen - bad analogy, I know).

And what is it about putting cans on my head that automatically turns me into Bono?

It was extraordinary. I started singing with my eyes closed, one hand on the ear with the can on it, earnest expression on my face. When I did eventually look around the studio I could see I was not alone. It took me a while to remember that we were singing Raise Your Voice and not Feed The World.

I tried to forget about Bono (wrong sound) and instead began to channel the likes of Aretha, Donna and Roberta. Ooh...love to love you baby...

It worked. I don't know if I sounded anything like them, but I felt like them. I lived them. When I finally opened my eyes (it seems that sort of behaviour is not strictly limited to Bono), I was almost surprised to find myself in a small studio in Islington and not in a seventies disco joint.

As always, there were a few hiccups - the best being Katie Rowley Jones singing "Ecstasy!" at a really inappropriate moment - but my God, we made some noise in that studio last night. Watch out, West End.

Makeup Break

This amused me today.... Four "nuns", all lined up, re-applying their makeup at lunch, blissfully unaware of how comical they looked. I took advantage of the moment to get a good action shot.


Of course, when they realised I was taking pictures, they all demanded a look. Cries of "Oh, I look disgusting!" and "Can you do another one?" ensued, and I was forced to retake the photo.


Not quite the natural shot I was hoping for...

Just about to get the update on Polly's internet dating adventure...

Online Dating

After a less than exciting day, I decided I needed a break from theatre (difficult in my line of work, I know.) So I went to meet Polly at... the Theatre Royal.

Okay, so it's hardly getting away from theatre, but at least it was a show I wasn't in. There's something quite lovely about being backstage and just knowing that you won't be called down to the stage for anything. At least, I hoped not. Great as my rendition of Food, Glorious Food would be, I might stick out somewhat. To say the least.

Polly and Dolly were apparently too busy even to come down and meet me at the stage door. They had left a note for me summoning me to their dressing room, so I climbed the hundred sterile stairs alone, wondering what could be so good they couldn't tear themselves away from it.

"What's going on?" I asked, pulling off my coat. They were huddled over a laptop in the corner of the room.
"Polly's joining a dating website," said Dolly excitedly, barely looking up.
"Actually, we might need some help," said Polly. "I've done the bit about me. I'm struggling on the section where I have to say what type of man I'm looking for."

"Certainly none of the cockmonkeys you've been after lately," I said, leaning over their shoulders to get a better look. "Pol, if you don't know what type of man you're after, there's not a lot we can do."

"Maybe I should say I want someone with a good sense of humour, honest, kind..."
" - doesn't screw around with nineteen-year-old chorus girls behind your back," added Dolly.

She had a point. It's so incredibly hard to meet anyone in this business. Polly is what you would easily describe as a "catch". Petite, auburn, fun-loving (sounds like I'm writing her dating biog now) - she's hot. And lately, all she seems to be attracting are tech-y sleezeball types with hidden agendas or fucked-up dancer boys with sexuality issues.

In the real world, she wouldn't even give them a second look. But the odds are stacked highly against women in showbiz. If you take all the men involved and divide them up you automatically lose:

About forty percent to homosexuality (that's a rough guess).

Then come the "players" - I'm underestimating, but it must be at least another thirty percent. Don't forget how many gorgeous women there are floating around. You can't blame the poor lads.

Another fifteen percent are insecure, needy, whingey actor-types. No good. Who wants a man who spends longer getting ready than you do?

Of the remaining candidates, ten percent are probably married or have girlfriends.

That leaves five percent. It's not looking good for us, ladies.

Five percent of the men Polly meets are even close to possible dating material. And then, she's actually got to fancy them. The stupid thing is, in the real world, she'd have them falling at her feet. The girl is gorgeous.

It annoys me, actually - that due to massively reduced competition, blokes who wouldn't ordinarily get a look in suddenly consider themselves Adonises. The good ones really are few and far between. It took me long enough to meet the Wanderer, and even then it wasn't free of complications or heartache (long story - another time, chickens).

It surprised me that Polly should want to try internet dating. But when I thought about it, I realised I knew lots of women in showbusiness who lately had done the same thing, and successfully. Working in the theatre is antisocial. Everything happens at the wrong end of the day. By the time we get out for a drink after a show, most people have gone home. We just don't meet anyone.

Polly should be with someone who adores her every move, hangs off her every word, takes tender care of her and makes her laugh. Not someone who doesn't call, leaves her feeling insecure and can't really be bothered. Isn't that what every woman deserves?

If online is the way to find a partner, then I'm all for it.

iphone

Witch had her first fracas with technology today...

To make things easier for online shopping, er... blogging, I decided to invest in an iphone. Apple have got this thing going where they market themselves as user-friendly. Simple. Easy to use. No fuss, no frills.

They're called Apple, for God's sake. What could be simpler, more wholesome than that? Even their playfully lower-case, sans seriff font is designed to draw you in. You trust that they're going to nurture you, simplify everything. In that font there's a promise that Apple will do all the hard stuff for you.

That in mind, I eagerly opened the package, expecting to breeze through the setup, carefree and easy like Sunday morning.

Not so.

There were no instructions, no manual, nothing. I had heard from a friend that itunes had something to do with it, so I dutifully plugged it into the computer and waited for something wonderful to happen.

Nothing did happen, apart from a warning that flashed up - something about the SIM card that I didn't understand. I panicked. What did it all mean? Eventually I managed to ascertain that I needed to insert one, so I undid the sellotape off my old phone (now totally frail and decrepit, as you can imagine), and set about putting it in the new one.

I searched for a gap, a hole, anywhere to put it, but to no avail. After about forty minutes and nearly getting the SIM card stuck in the charging socket, I was beginning to lose hope.

Eventually I found a video of how to do it on youtube. In my defence, the process requires a pin. An actual pin. How was I meant to know that? I felt stupid and cross.

There's something distinctly arrogant about a company that expects you to be a shithot IT consultant before you can even begin use its products.