Sad Short Story V Lamborghini

Today in the cafe... when it comes to closing time, I now realise that I am locked in a battle of strategy between myself and some higher entity. There are some things I can't do until there are no customers, some things I can only do when there are some customers, and some things I can't do when some of them choose to sit in certain places. I am basically playing a really weird game of chess with The Cosmos. It can be a very frustrating game of chess.

It used to be that I was hopeless at telling old people we are closed or closing. I caved to them all the time. Then it was St Vinnies nurses and doctors. One guy used to always turn up at 3:50pm, 10 minutes before closing. Used to shit me until I realised that he was a nurse starting his night shift and just wanted a coffee and a sugar hit before beginning a night's work totally alien to me. Having once been saved by such people, least I can do etc.

Today I realised my List Of People Lee Can't Turn Away Even Though He Is Closing The Cafe And Wants To Go Home includes Very Very Very Pregnant Women, Odd People Who Just Want To Read Their Book For A Bit, and Travellers With Beads And Stuff Who Just Want A Pot Of Herbal Tea.

Just when I think I have a break, Higher Entity deploys one of the above and my plans are fucked.

This last one, the traveller with the beads. By the time she came in I had given up. I had lost my weird chess game. People were just wandering in and sitting down willy nilly and I just thought fuck it, whatever, you all just make yourself at home because whatever. When you give in to the fact that you have lost the thing, it's easy. And anyway, I was still winning - customers in the cafe is a good thing.

But this traveller with the beads. She started reading my stuff, some of my funny stuff. She approached me at the counter to ask for the wifi password, then laughed as she told me she liked my writing because it was so lovely. Another connection through the writing. I gave her the password. She went back and sat down and continued to read, her attention shared between her phone and my writing at the back of the menus.

Soon I could see that she was totally engrossed in the writing. She was frowning, not laughing. She was reading what was turning out to be my literary chick-magnet - Remembering Argos.

All the nurses and the doctors and the odd people who just wanted to read their book and all the really really really pregnant women left. But I wanted to let Travelling Beadwoman finish the story, so I found other things to do. And when I had finished everything there was to finish, I told her, You are welcome to stay because after I close the doors I'll still be here for a while, but I do have to bring the outdoor furniture in now.

She smiled and said, Thank you, and went back to reading.

And later, when at last she had finished this story that I wrote so long ago, Beadwoman came over to tell me, That story, the one with the man and the woman and the dog... so beautiful it brought me to tears, please, keep writing. And she left.

I don't know what it is about that sad short story, but it's the best shiny sports car I've ever owned.

Nothing Worth Writing About Happened Today. Nothing.

Today in the cafe... there were no poignant human interactions and not a single funny thing happened. It was basically just an infuriating day of totally normal and nice. People smiled and enjoyed their food and coffee, and there was pleasant small-talk with the regulars and all of our co-workers got a long really well... days like these, they shit me to tears. Come on Universe - give me some Goddamn material!

Juliette Burton's Look At Me, Adelaide Fringe 2016

Juliette Burton – Look At Me

By Lee Bemrose

Arts festivals anywhere in the world are competitive beasts. It can be tough to get a gig and even tougher to get an audience, let alone rave reviews. To achieve a sold-out season and a chorus of rave reviews at the big daddy of all festivals – The Edinburgh Fringe – you have to be doing something right. One person who has just done all of the above is UK actor, writer and performer Juliette Burton with her latest show Look At Me. Other capitals like Sydney and Melbourne are missing out big time, but heads up Adelaide – Juliette is returning for another appearance at The Adelaide Fringe. If you like world class comedy with a big heart, read on.


So, Juliette, how has life been treating you lately?Life has been treating me like a pet; sometimes it gives me juicy bones, takes me for walks and my little tail is wagging, and other times life leaves me at home scratching on the door howling and making a mess of the cushions. Ups and downs but mainly juicy bones of ups!

How happy were you with how the show was received at the Edinburgh Fringe?Ecstatic! That's an underused word isn't it: "ecstatic"? Great word. Anyway, Look At Me premiered at Edinburgh Fringe 2014, getting 5 star reviews in national press, having sold out shows and at Edinburgh 2015 it had a total sold out run - every ticket that could be sold was. It was incredible. A big juicy bone two years in a row.

What's it like performing at that particular festival compared to others you've appeared at? 
Performing at different festivals is like gathering a collection of friends all from the same family; you have Edinburgh Fringe which is the biggest arts festival in the world and why I even began in this career. It's the BOSS of all festivals, so boss I actually moved to the city because I loved it so much. Edinburgh's my best mate, in a way; that mate who challenges you and helps you realise the best of yourself. Brighton Fringe is like Edinburgh's kid sister; fun, arty, lovely but much smaller. Melbourne International Comedy Festival was like the cool hipster cousin who I loved being around and fancied a little bit. And then there's Adelaide who's the second largest arts festival in the world - the festival who's chilled, laid back and SO much fun! Adelaide just wants to have a good time and I'm ready to be a part of that again!

Have the audiences at the different festivals been noticeably different in any ways?People the world over can be amazing. I think it's one of my favourite things, realising that an audience in one part of the world can be just as fun, vocal and up for it as an audience in a totally different part of the world - similar characters pop up in different corners of a country or the globe. I’ve made good friends in Edinburgh who are so similar to those in York. I’ve made good friends in Adelaide who were so similar to those in London. And friends in Melbourne who remind me of those in Cambridge. We’re all connected, we’re all the same really, if you focus on the similarities and not the differences.

Tell us a little about Look At Me. What's it all about? How did it come about?

I first had the idea back in 2007 – what would happen if I swapped my body for other bodies, having been the same girl in so many different bodies naturally. I’ve been a size 4 (US size 0) due to anorexia, a size 20 (US size 16) due to compulsive overeating disorder, I’ve been a “healthy” size but ill with bulimia and I’ve been a “normal” size and struggled with hidden illnesses like depression and anxiety. It got me thinking – is what we appear to be who we really are? I started chatting with friends about the idea and everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, I spoke to had a story about how they relate to their bodies and the outside world. And judgement too. So when the Arts Council in the UK gave me some money to change my looks in lots of dramatic ways I leapt at the chance to become, for a day, a 90 year old lady, a man, I wore the hijab, dressed “provocatively” and revisited my obese self – to find out how much appearances affect who we are on the inside. 
  
What were those experiences like? Any surprises there? 
A LOT of surprises! I don’t want to give away any spoilers but being a man unleashed some hidden sides of myself! Let’s just say perhaps confidence verged into arrogance… Revisiting my obese body surprised quite a few of my friends in fact…one of my friends didn’t even recognise me and other friends who have seen the show fancied me MORE in that disguise… And I wanted to reclaim my experience of that body on that day. And being a 90 year old lady revealed some truths; I felt rather liberated in some ways! To see just how liberated you will need to join me at the show!

The subject matter is, when you get down to it, pretty serious stuff. How difficult was it to work it into comedy?
 Not terribly difficult. Some of the experiences I went through were so bizarre that the only way to communicate them to audiences is with honesty and laughter. Looks will change all the time and youth will fade, it’s life’s great joke that we assign any real “value” in our appearances and yet we do and we’re encouraged to do so. Reflecting that judgement call through the show reveals the comedy in ourselves and also in the absurdity of my own experiences. We all have a day when someone judges us on appearance and the best we can do is laugh about it.

Some of the people you interview are dealing with some serious issues... how did they react when they found out your show was a comedy?
For the show I didn’t want it to be just my voice, so I interviewed a lot of people, which I do for all my shows, to make sure the questions I’m asking are universal as well as personal. For Look At Me I interviewed 80 year old men and women, physically disabled friends, thalidomide men, facially disfigured dudes, professional models, fellow weirdo performers, transgender people about how they relate to their bodies and how others relate to them.

When I told these people I was interviewing my show was a comedy, I told them well before I interviewed them, and they all unanimously loved the idea! I think we’ve all thought how ridiculous it is to judge on appearances; and as one of my interviewees said “Other people’s ignorance is not and never will be my problem. And if other people think that because of the way I look I can’t do certain things, well, watch me!”

Watch us! We are so much more than others and even we ourselves might think we are.
 
We know how the critics and audiences have responded to the show; what have been the responses of the interviewees? 
The interviewees have their own mailing list who I email first to let them know of future shows. I believe almost every interviewee featured in the show has now seen the show…bar one. And that one lives in Australia. So I hope they can come along!

All the interviewees who have seen it have loved it; it’s their show as well as mine in many ways. It’s everyone’s show who sees it and takes something from it. An audience affects a show far more than we realise. 

What are a couple of highlights for you in the interviews?
 Other than the incredible Adam Pearson, who I met thanks to the interviews for this show and I now count as one of my best friends… we once got so drunk that he ate a whole sharing sundae by himself. And we’ve shared some pretty dirty Cards Against Humanity games… other than him, there’s Geoff Adams-Spink who I met during my time working at the BBC, a wise, funny, irreverent man affected by the thalidomide drug. And there's Simon Minty who runs Abnormally Funny People. He says his condition (he’s 3 ft 11) is one thing but his disability is how people react to him. There’s also John Lyons, an 80-something year old poet, artist and author who says he thinks about life, not age – with ALL my interviewees I watch their interviews with the audience in the show and every single time I’m struck by the collective wisdom of my friends! It’s a treat to watch these pearls of wisdom back to remind me to listen to them and adopt their experience myself!  

Don't tell anyone this, but when I saw your wonderful show When I Grow Up at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival in 2014, I almost cried. It was heart-breaking to see what you had gone through, but ultimately one of the most uplifting (and funny) shows I had ever seen. How do your shows affect you during the performances? 
Wow. Thank you. That’s a wonderful thing to share and say aloud. Well, not aloud. This is written text. But you know, I heard it in my head so we’re totally connected like that. Anyway, what was the question? How do the shows affect me during the performance. Honestly, every single performance I get emotionally vulnerable and raw. But I count that as a victory because if I get to a point where I can be so honest and vulnerable with an audience then we must be really connecting, not as performer to audience but as human to human. I’m often asked how I perform if I’m struggling with my mental health problems and I always say because I know that as awful as I might feel before the show, I will feel amazing on the other side, because I’ve connected with a whole room of people who are with me on that journey… we’re in it together. 

 
How do you feel about humanity generally? Are we getting any better at being human or are we still a bit shit?
What a question! I don’t pretend to know the answer to that. I have to, for sanity’s sake, believe in the good in humanity. For every awful act that happens or hits us personally or hits the headlines there are so many people out there who will choose the path of kindness. There have been some shitty things happen in the world in the past couple of years since I last came to Australia and each time I have an increasingly greyer view of the world… and then a greater, stronger, brighter revision of that – when I see the power of loveliness rush through in the wake of shittiness.

A news story I was involved in in May 2015 is one of those weird news stories, It affected many and affected me personally. I relapsed badly because of it. But then the rush of humanity overwhelmed me. And it was immense. I talk about it in the show; we’re never really alone. It just takes bravery to be honest about how we’re really doing. Once I got on stage and started making jokes about the situation, hearing people laugh about what I’d been through I immediately knew it was going to be ok.
 
You are coming all the way to Australia but not taking the show to Melbourne or Sydney. This is a bummer for Melbourne and Sydney – any chance this could change?
 I would LOVE to return to Melbourne one day and visit Sydney for the first time… Let’s all keep our fingers crossed, and perhaps if this Adelaide fringe goes well I can venture a bit further in the future!

Cafe Stories - Plastic Bottles For The Psyche Ward

Today in the cafe... I'm bringing the outdoor furniture inside as I close up. A woman looks inside, sees that we are closed and starts to walk on just as I say hello. She stops walking and asks if we are closed. Yes, I say, but what were you after? Do you have something that I could take away? Some food? I tell her I can do a ham and cheese croissant or something, and she says yes, that would be good. She comes inside the cafe with most of the outside furniture packed in parts upside down.

Ovens get switched back on. She takes a Coke from the fridge and asks if we have plastic bottles "because this is for a psyche ward."

All flavours we have are in glass except for the vanilla Coke in plastic, so she settles for the plastic.

She is quiet and well spoken and has a quietly, strong calm about her. I make my assumptions and ask her, Is that where you work? In the psyche ward?

No, she tells me, I'm visiting someone there.

Ah.

Yes. It's my son.

Oh.

And then she tells me about his troubles. It's been a long battle. He's 33 years old now but the troubles started when he was 18 or 19... earlier than that when you consider his other habits and addictions, the compulsive collections of things before chemicals were part of his world. And then the chemicals replaced the objects and since then he's been in prison and he's been homeless and just recently he vanished from her world only for St Vincents to get in touch with her to tell her that her son was with them. Not well, but alive.

She tells me that her siblings are supportive, and she tells me that as hard as it is for her, it's harder for him. Her level of selflessness is impressive. We talk about the homeless and fortune and this guy she knows who lives in a tent in the sand dunes near where she lives and how he has some sort of community support, and how she thinks of him as houseless rather than homeless.

I tell her about a dear friend of mine who beat ice. She disappeared from my life for a year, kicked that arsehole habit, turned her life around big time. She tells me that my friend is lucky. Yes, I think, my friend is lucky that she is so strong.

I hand the now toasted ham and cheese croissant to her, and she turns to leave with her plastic Coke bottle, back to her son in the psyche ward.

Thanks for staying open for me, she tells me, and thanks for the chat.

On Disengaging

When I told you that I disengaged, it meant I disengaged. In the end you proved yourself to be superficial and a drama queen who wanted things to happen that were never going to happen. You wanted me to be jealous of your new lover without ever understanding that this was never going to happen. I was prepared to be your loyal friend, that's all, so your expectant jealousy baffled me. Consequently, you lost the most loyal friend you never quite had.

There is no turning back with these things.

When I told you I disengaged, I meant it: I disengaged.

A Cool Little Love Thing

When it's late at night
And it's late in life,
And you still want to be
In each others arms,
You probably have
A cool little love thing
A cool little love thing
A cool little love thing going on.

Meow Meow's Little Mermaid, Malthouse Theatre, 2016

My review of Meow Meow's Little Mermaid at Malthouse Theatre.Photo by Andrew Gough.

And Then They Were Gone

Today in our banged up little cafe... a family walks in. Light's kind of funny from my end and light sometimes plays with my eyes. I notice that the guy has dreadlocks or the beginnings of them. Dreadlocks in the cafe always make me feel happy. I know dreadlocks are not a guarantee of integrity, but in my circle I've been lucky, and dreads = good.

I said hello to the guy, probably kind of blankly because it was nearing the end of the day. He said hello back, equally as blankly. I looked past him and recognised his beautiful wife. Looked back at him and recognised his rough head too, now smiling.

It was our friends The Hepworths. Haven't seen them in years. And now they are here in our banged up little cafe.

Hugs. Of course there are hugs.

We talk as much as we can. We've always been in touch online, but seeing them in real life is a different experience. Voices. Seeing the changes in their faces. Their boys now, so much bigger - quite cool young human beings, the result of good parenting. Expected nothing less.

We talk as much as we can, which is not very much because we are working and even when the cafe is quiet at the end of a busy day, there is stuff to be done.

Seeing these people, these friends we met in the doof scene, I wish we could have them over to ours for a meal. A dinner would be nice. But you need to plan these things. And we are all so busy and everything is so transient and we are all so far away.

And there were hugs and a photo and goodbyes.

And then they were gone.

I Would I do, In Sagrada Familia

Conversation just went a little like this... I still never want to get married. I still never want to get married either. But if I did want to get married, and if it was to you, I'd want to get married on Santorini. Santorini? Pfft. If I'm getting married - not that I'm ever getting married but if I am - I'm getting married in Sagrada Familia. Do they let you do that? I don't fucking care. We'll just go to some secret part of this most beautiful building in the whole world with our secret group of friends, and we'll do a secret ceremony of matrimony in whispers and giggles, and in the ever-changing light of this wonderful cathedral of creativity, and with Gaudi resting in his crypt just over there, this will be the most perfect moment in my life.

Tell Them

Tell them
That you like their eyes,
Tell them
That you like their ideas,
Tell them
That you like their style,
Tell them
That their laugh is like music,
Tell them
That you can't wait to see them again,
Tell them
That old joke, it never gets old,
Tell them
That they are your favourite memory,
Tell them you are sorry
And tell them
They are forgiven.
Tell them you love them,
And tell them why you love them,
Tell them these things now,
While you still have the chance
To tell them.

Ripples

Me now. Cleanly shaved. Tired and quietly broken. But shh... don't tell anyone.

The humans lately have been wonderful. I am one lucky mofo. Thanks is given to whatever gave all of this to me. I wish the peace and good fortune I have been blessed with could just ripple out there throughout the world, and stop the hate and the violence and the ignorance. Sending out ripples of love and gratitude.

Grumpy's Facehack Fail

Facehack Fail

Goddamn my computer ineptitude. The Dreaded One left her laptop for a while and I wanted to do that stupid thing where you get on someone else's Facebook page and say nice things about yourself, like "I really like that Grumpy has shaved off his facial hair. It has taken years off his age. My God - who knew what a sexy beast was lurking under that facial hair all these years? He's kind of Thor-like... all youthful and strong and athletic but with way better dance moves than Thor would have."

I was cooking dinner and washing the dishes as I went when The Dreaded One left the computer game she had been playing to have a shower, and that's when I came up with my devious plan. I sat down at her laptop and stared blankly at the screen. I don't play computer games, not even these puzzle-solving ones The Dreaded One is so fond of, and as tranquil and mysterious as it looked, it was just totally unfamiliar to me. (Also, did you notice how I mentioned back there that I was cooking and washing up at the same time? This was not simply injected just to make you the reader think oh my God – he's Thor-like AND cooks and washes up, in case you were wondering. It's just what was going on at the time. I was just setting the domestic scene, that's all. Honestly.).

All I had to do was collapse the game and open Facebook, which was probably on in the background anyway. Oh God, this was going to be so funny. Why hadn't anyone ever thought of this before? It's comical genius.

The game seemed to be in resting mode, but things in the scenery were kind of pulsing, waiting. I moved the cursor around a bit. I'm not sure what I thought was going to happen when I did that, but nothing happened. I couldn't see the minimise icon that was usually in the top right corner. I moved the cursor around a bit more and a menu box appeared. I right clicked.

I expected a drop-box of options to appear. What happened was, I launched some kind of massive fireball that whizzed off into the distance and destroyed a part of the scenery.

I stared in silence for a very, very, very, very, very, very long time. I stroked the part of my chin that until very recently had hair on it. Then I had a conversation with myself...

Erm... what just happened? Like, what did you just do? Because it looked a LOT like you just fired a great big fireball at something and totally destroyed it. Why did you do that? I didn't meant to launch a big fireball – that was actually a bit astonishing. Last thing I expected to happen, actually. Fucking hell. What was that thing you just destroyed?
Fucked if I know what it was. What if it was something really important that wasn't meant to be destroyed? What if... what if it was something crucially important for The Dreaded One to advance to the next level? Maybe she won't notice that the thing isn't there any more. But then again, what if she finishes her shower, then sits back down to the game and says “Hey – where's that crucially important thing that I need to get to the next level? I'm sure it was there when I went to have a shower.” What if she's taken days or even weeks to get to this point and she was savouring the moment... maybe she planned to have a shower, pour a glass of wine, settle in and triumphantly win the game? What the fuck have you done? In the name of a stupid little joke. More importantly, what are you going to do about it? Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. Maybe if I left click it will reverse... DON'T CLICK ANYTHING! Okay okay, take it easy, calm down. What to do? What would Thor do in a situation like this? Thor wouldn't get himself into a situation like this. Thor wouldn't sneak over to his girlfriend's computer to get on her Facebook page and pretend that she thinks Thor looks as sexy as Grumpy but with better dance moves – you think he's some kind of idiot? Of course not. And agreed, Thor totally wouldn't do something like that, I'm just saying if he did accidentally launch a great big fireball thing and destroy a thing that is potentially crucial to his girlfriend moving up to the next level of the game, what do you think he would do about it? I dunno – use his hammer to destroy the evidence? You think I should smash the computer? Maybe something more subtle, like “accidentally” spill wine all over it, then she'll never suspect anything. That's a brilliant idea... no it's actually a little bit less than brilliant, isn't it. Oh God she's just turned the shower off. She's going to be back any minute now. Okay – stop running around in circles because that doesn't help. Let's just act natural and we'll see what happens. She's coming up the stairs. When she gets here, give her a glass of wine and strike up a conversation about, say, Donald Trump and the woeful state of American politics. Or better still, tell her that upon reflection, Tony Abbott really was the best Prime Minister Australia ever had. Just start an argument about something. Anything. Just make her so outrageously angry that she won't be in the mood for finding the crucial thing she needs to get to the next level of the game, and whatever you do, never let her know what you did or that we had this conversation, deal? Deal.

Vale David Bowie

This is not necessarily the best Bowie song ever. My God, he created so much awesome music. But I had just been doing an eighties retrospective as part of a Facebook thing and this song popped up in my head. It is a classic. It was the last in my selection of great eighties songs in eight days, and I posted the a-cappella version as well, and a day later David Bowie was dead.

And it is actually a great song. Hadn't heard it in years. Played and replayed it many times over on Sunday night. Can't believe both singers are dead now.

I've never been as sad about an artist dying as I am about David Bowie. Gaudi, maybe. Dora Maar. When I heard the news today, oh boy. He was always there. He was ever changing. He showed us that it was okay to do your own thing. He showed us how to push boundaries. He was 100% original.

This collaboration with Freddy is pretty perfect.

I would have enjoyed hanging out with both of these guys. Always kind of felt that it might happen with David Bowie. Alas...

Thanks for the music guys.

A Smile Doesn't Cost Anything

"Today in the cafe... It's busy. Really fucking busy. All is going well but you kind of have to focus on not fucking up. There is food prep and delivery and coffee and delivery and teamwork under duress and shit goes wrong and there are fuckwit customers like zombies with their phones when what is wrong with the real world? Gaze out a window sometimes. Look at the world going on around you. Make eye-contact or heaven forbid, conversation. Do you even remember how wonderful the clouds are since since your phone hijacked your mind? No, don't bother - put your head back into that fucking phone because all the wisdom of the world is in that phone, you dulloid, as I call out your takeaway order again, and again, and again.
And then I get this customer. I have taken their drinks to them, and I ask who has the skinny cap and who has the pot of Earl Grey? And they both stare at me for long seconds, blankly. This happens so often.

So who has the skinny cap?
Second round of blank stare.

Then finally, Oh I am the skinny cap. Thank you.

Later, Earl Grey Granny comes over to pay her bill. There is a silly gaff on my part, and I laugh it off.
"You know - that's the first time I've seen you smile."
"Yes, I get that quite often."
She leans in to share a secret. "It doesn't cost anything, you know," she whispers, like she's shared some great fucking wisdom.

It doesn't cost anything.

Like this pearl of enlightenment is going to help me through the rest of my life. Like she knows why I am not smiling at that moment in my life. Like she has a fucking clue about what is going on in my life. Like the fact that "It doesn't cost anything" means a person hasn't been born with severe facial features and for whom smiling doesn't come naturally. I'm really sorry I have an ugly, frowny head that displeases you so much... but please understand that the frowniness is just a result of me trying to do things to please other people. There is quite a lot going on besides your pot of Earl Grey.

I should have told her that my smiles are to be earned. I'm not a smiling idiot. And nothing in my exchange with you and your idiot cliches has given me reason to smile"

I posted this on Facebook and basically everyone who knows me has been supportive. My friends know I am not as severe as I appear to be. My friends know that I care.

The comment that has affected me most is this one, from my beautiful friend Annye (immediately to my right in the photo, and on her right my beautiful friend Nadia, and on her right my beautiful friend Ann, and in the foreground my friend Danny, us in Arles in Southern France circa 2010... or was it 2012?): 

"Funny, but the one person I shared one, if not THE best ever laugh with was YOU.... talking hedgehogs and tiny little street sweepers!"

I remember this moment so clearly, this laughter we both shared about hedgehogs and tiny street sweepers. Truly one of the best laughs I've had in my life.

So nice to be reminded that you - accused non-smiler -  share a beautiful memory of hysterical silliness with someone, even if it does make you wish they were not so far away.

Miss you, Annye.

Small And Unexpected Gifts To Strangers

In the cafe today... lady comes in with a head-damaged friend she is taking to the hospital for an MRI scan. He goes into the bathroom and is there for quite a long time. (Later, both The Dreaded One and I notice that someone has unwrapped several toilet paper rolls and put them on the handle of the toilet brush, probably because they think this is the way things should be. We think we know who it was).

But back outside in the cafe, this customer starts reading my writing in the back of the menu while she drinks her coffee. I am satisfied with the smile my words bring to her solitude. Eventually she looks up and asks me whose writing entries these are. I tell her they are mine. She tells me how much she is enjoying reading them. Tells me she is here with her brain damaged friend and that they just needed a walk and she needed a coffee, and that she likes the way I structure the writing. She comes across as a former English teacher or something, or maybe just a lifelong reader, someone who appreciates the rhythm and flow of a story.

And she thanks me for making this chance encounter such a delightful experience.

Small and unexpected gift to a stranger with troubles I can't comprehend... highlight of the day.

Love Shadow

Shadow and light, early morning in the cafe as the sun came up. Peaceful start to a crazy day.

When Strangers Become Friends

This person walked into the cafe one day, dropped off her resume. She has turned into the dream co-worker. Delightful small-talk. Much casually intelligent discussion of movies and music. There is no drama. There is frequent laughter. There is much of the adore. I enjoy her company and am grateful for the random serendipity of our paths crossing.

The Vibe... sometimes it gets it right.

Boris

My Christmas present 2015. I love it.

Almost as much as I love her Christmas card message to me, which was "Love you always, you still are my best friend after all these years."

Mine to her was "True love morphs, never dies. I love you."

Nick Cave At Grumpy & The Dreaded One's Little Cafe Of Awesome

In my banged up little cafe... this is Nick Cave. He has written some of the most hauntingly brilliant love songs I've ever heard. I'm quite the fan. His writing and his music can be exquisite and it can be raw and exhilarating.

I watched a few passersby stop and say things to him. I saw a fellow customer get up from her table to say something to him.

But I chose to leave him alone, as much as I'd like to have had a conversation with him. He's a human. He's probably back in Australia at Christmas to be with family, and he's lost a son quite recently. He looked like he just wanted some quiet time.

And that's how I blew my chance to say I spoke to Nick Cave.

When Was That Moment?

The saddest question
That he never asked her was
When did you stop loving me?
What was that thing that I said?
That thing that I did?
What was that mistake that I made?

Because I never stopped loving you.

Even though I knew that at last
Our love was broken.

We are memory now,
But what was that thing that I said?
That thing that I did?
That mistake that I made?
When was that moment

That you stopped loving me?

The Raging And The Healing In The Little Cafe Of Awesome

In my banged up little cafe
I see the regulars
And the not so regulars,
I see the the broken ones
Who need a favour or a smile,
Or someone who remembers their name.

I see some of them in suits
When I loathe suits
But I overhear them doing good things
Genuinely helping others in their corporate way

I've seen garbed doctors
Give kindly to the raging wanderers,
raging at the world,
And I've seen healer and patient move on
And get on.
Raging.
Healing.

I've seen broken, good hearted people
Become well - life at its best,
And I've seen good people
Been given the unfair deal
By a god who wants to rage
Far more than he wants to heal.

Selfie At The Wilde

It's a selfie, Jim, but not as we know it.

Solitary Man by Crooked Fingers

Neil Diamond wrote a good song. Crooked Fingers made it better.  Sometimes it comes on in the cafe at the end of the day when we are packing down and closing, and I sing along to it as loudly and as in tune as I can in our empty cafe, and I feel a private happiness.

A Nice Story About Sausages

Just before I left the cafe for my walk home, The Dreaded One phoned and asked what I felt like for dinner. I said I feel like sausages and mash and pea crush and offered to pick up some nice sausages from the new gourmet meat shop on Smith Street. Sounds good, said The Dreaded One.

My walks home generally involve a lot of head la la la-ing. I just let my mind off the leash and it wafts about in the clouds and tells me all sorts of random things. I wasn't really thinking about the sausages until a woman walked by with two sausage dogs. Talk about a sign from the universe. The sausage dogs were sent as a reminder for me to not forget to pick up the sausages from the new gourmet sausage shop (which, you'll be interested to know, is owned by our cafe's neighbour, restaurateur Andrew McConnell, aka The Godfather Of Gertrude Street, aka Toasty Guy because he only ever buys our ham, cheese and tomato toasties).

I keep walking because the sausage shop is just up ahead. Just a little bit further along. Couple of doors up... I'm running out of this block and I'm certain the sausage shop is not on the next block...

I stop and scratch my head, the suspicion growing that I have walked completely past the sausage shop.

A car honks its horn. I turn around. It's The Dreaded One, sitting in bumper to bumper traffic.What are the chances? She waves to me. I step onto the road and open the door and ask her where in the hell is the new sausage shop. She tells me it's way back up the road and that I have walked completely past it. She laughs like this is the funniest thing that has happened all afternoon. Funny and totally typical all at once.

I walk back up the road and weirdly, the lady with the two sausage dogs is standing right outside the sausage shop.

And that's my story about sausages.

The Never

I looked for you
She said into the never
But I couldn't find you.
Were you there?

I was there
He said back into the never,
You just didn't see me
And I didn't know you were there.

Living Stories: Kafka Woman

The thing was that he didn't want to send out the wrong signals. There was no denying the facts: he was much older than her and she was, no question, beautiful. This random encounter – so far quite a lovely thing - could quite easily turn into the clumsiest of cliches.

Maybe it was best left alone. Left to fade to the faintest of sweet memories.

But what if he was – yet again – missing an opportunity? Hadn't he already missed his opportunity with her? Only for her to return, for the memory of her to return, for him to be given the chance to thank her and talk to her and get to know her a little.

She had been sitting in his cafe. Her beauty and serenity had caught his eye. He didn't feel love or lust, but he was entranced. That she was reading one of his stories intrigued him further. Which one was she reading? What was she thinking as she read? He kept glancing over, entranced and intrigued as she read.

Later, while he had been busy making coffee that he knew they would enjoy, he heard an accent ask his helper a question: Excuse me, can you tell me who is the author of the stories?

His helper had looked at him. He had looked at the customer and smiled: I am the author of the stories, he had said.

She had smiled like she knew, a smile of peace and knowing.

I loved your story - she had said in a way that made him forget what he was doing - It was so sad and so beautiful.

He had felt such gratitude hearing these words. Thank you, he had told her, for telling me this. It means so much to me that my stories reach people but I never know.

It moved me so much, I had tears as I read it.

Ah, he had replied, I had tears as I wrote it. A sad smile of gratitude, then he had remembered the mundane thing of work and had shifted his attention.

She lingered, seemed to want to say something, could see that he was busy and wished him a good day.

And was gone.

He watched her go.

I think, his helper had said, that she wanted to talk to you.

This was true. As true as the fact that she was gone. He said something about next time, knowing as he said it that she was a traveller, perhaps passing through, perhaps never coming back. Losing focus, he had heated the milk too much, tipped it out and started again.

But she came back. She was looking for work, would like to work in his cafe. She wanted to leave her contact details in case there was work for her. He didn't recognise her immediately. He wondered why there was such friendly warmth in this traveller's smile. Then the memory fell into place and this time there was no room for the mundane things. He was not going to miss this opportunity again. Fortunately it was the quiet time of the day. Perhaps she had planned it that way.

You were here a few weeks ago, weren't you.

Yes.

And you told me you enjoyed my story.

Yes.

Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts. It means a lot to me. And thank you so much for coming back. It felt like you had wanted to talk.

I did. Your story has stayed so much on my mind. It's so strong, the way life moves on... it is such beautiful writing.

Thank you. It's just a thing I do. Stories are all around us, happening all the time. Some of us have to write them down. Are you a writer?

Yes.

And they talked and talked the way only very old old or very new friends talk. She told him about her play that she had written and produced, and about the other things she had written but not yet shared. They both asked questions and gave answers. They told each other about the tricks needed to get the words flowing, about the pleasure found in writing the perfect piece. He made her a coffee that she said was perfect, and she stayed and they talked and when finally he had to get back to the mundane things of cleaning up and closing down, she sang a peaceful song to herself in his empty cafe, perhaps for herself, perhaps for him. Her voice was exquisite.

Eventually, it was time for her to go. They thanked each other for whatever it was they had given each other, and once again he watched her go.

And now, weeks later, he was worried about sending out the wrong signals. He thought that maybe he should just let it go because it could so easily become the clumsiest of cliches. And yet... what if it could be the perfect friendship? What if, like him, she was a solitary soul who rarely opens, but opens fully in the right company?

He had no work for her, but he had her contact details. He could write to her. He could tell her about a new story he had written. She could come back into the cafe to read the story and they could talk and...

And what? Could they really become friends? Could true friendship really come out of this random chance encounter with a stranger? Why not? Stranger things had happened.

And yet. Maybe it was best left to fade to the most perfect of memories. She had come into his cafe. She had read his story. They had talked. End of story.

You Tool

A partner in crime is currently visiting. We have a history of staying up all night talking and drinking, but the cafe and 6am rises mean school nights are pretty quiet these days. She is out seeing other friends. It is Thursday night, just after 10pm when she texts saying that she is on the tram on the way home and asks if we are in.

I reply: No, we are at My Aeon nightclub in Brunswick. It's going off. You should join us.

Partner In Crime: Cool. I'm on Smith Street. Where on Brunswick?

Me: Sorry - that was a stupid joke. Am at home. Have to be up at 6am again.

Partner In Crime: You tool.

I do indeed feel like a tool when I learn that she got off the tram to find the nightclub.

Grumpy Meets Kafka Woman

Cafe Stories: Kafka Woman

A few weeks ago a woman was in the cafe quietly reading my story, Remembering Argos. I wrote about her then. I think I described her then as seeming like a serene or peaceful soul. She had come over and asked who is Lee Bemrose. I said I am. She told me she loved the story, that it really moved her. I got the distinct impression that she wanted to talk, but I was busy with coffee, and she left. My helper said to me, I think she wanted to talk to you. I shrugged and said maybe next time, but felt like maybe I'd blown it because she had an accent and was probably a traveler stopping by as she moved on. There probably wasn't going to be a next time.

Weeks later there is another traveler looking for work. I walk into the service area as The Dreaded One is telling the traveler that we are fully staffed. The traveler smiles at me and says hello the way you say it to a friend. I don't recognise her immediately, but we start talking and I realise who it is. It is her, as beautiful and peaceful and serene as ever. We start talking. I tell her how happy I am that she came back because I got the impression that she might have wanted to talk. I also go the impression that she might be a writer. Right on both counts.

It screwed with my afternoon getaway timetable, but I wasn't going to miss the same opportunity twice. The talk was easy and jumped about all over the place. I think something about my short story intrigued; she wanted to know more about someone who would write such a story, a story that she said has stayed with her so strongly since she read it. I asked if she was a writer, and she told me about a play she wrote and produced just after her uni years, and said that someone had compared it to Kafka, and how proud that made her feel.

We told each other about ourselves. She seemed content to stay in the cafe, saying something about its vibe. Eventually I had to continue packing down. She said the coffee I made was the best she had had in a long time. She sang quietly as I cleared the day away. Her voice was exquisite. We thanked each other for whatever it was we had given each other and said we'd probably run into each other again.

I could be wrong, but I thought I felt the hint of the beginning of a friendship between Grumpy and Kafka Woman.

And So It Was Written: The Lament Of Saint Grumpy

And so it was to pass that all of the last customers of every day for all days to come would be the messiest customers of all the messy customers.

And it was to pass that all of these messiest of all the messiest customers to be the last customers of the day will order hedgehog slices with their lusciously loose toppings of desiccated coconut whose ultimate destination would be at the whim of the slightest of breezes.

And if these last and messiest of all the customers chose not to order the fucking annoyingly messy things called Hedgehog slices, it was depressingly inevitable that their second choice would be a toasted croissant, with its crispy and wonderfully flaky crispy flakiness.

And it would pass that now and forever more that there would forever be unrelenting storms of fucking coconut and fucking croissant flakes long after Saint Grumpy had swept the floor, weeping for the unrelenting eternity of his eternal punishment.

An Open Letter To Jihadis

Dear Jihadis everywhere,

Look, I know you're not very bright. I know “Thinking” is not as high on your Things To Do Today as shouting, raping and beheading. You'd really rather throw people off rooftops or crucify them than actually think about stuff (stuff like kindness and charity). I know you don't like it when people suggest that maybe you should go about things in a different way, but bear with me here. I'll speak as slowly as I can and keep my message to you as simple as I can, because I know what dumbfuck simple morons you are – and I say that in the nicest possible way because it's not your fault that you were born a dumbfuck simple moron; your god made you that way smiley face.

So here's the thing. Paradise. It's good, huh? What's the deal? 72 virgins all to yourself? That's fucking awesome, isn't it. It's way better than you have it here. I mean, you're not EVER going to pull that many chicks in your life in the here and now – let alone virgin ones, what with all the raping you barbaric fuckers are doing. So Paradise... this Paradise with all these virgins to deflower... because that's the best – the absolute best - your God could come up with... 72 virgins who aren't going to be virgins after you've had your way with them. He's, like, God... he created the entire fucking universe – which if you ever read any science stuff you'd realise is an amazingly big and complex and mysterious thing... a fantastically amazing thing that just does your head in when you think about it... he created dimensions and time and black holes planets the size of... okay, soz, said I was going to keep it simple for you. But seriously – orgasms? This immense god has promised you some orgasms with some virgins? And that's it? And you're buying that?

Point is, he's fucking hugely gifted and amazingly talented, this god of yours.

And you're settling for 72 virgins. I see. That's the ultimate reward your god has promised you. That's Paradise.

Has he promised you hot virgins? What if they're fat? What if they're fat with chin stubble? What if they're a virgin version of the mother from Everyone Loves Raymond? Or even better still – what if they're Marg Simpson's sisters? How funny would that be! You kill innocent, peace-loving people quietly going about their business in this wonderful, modern world we live in and then you kill yourself only to end up in paradise with 72 virgin cartoons! Sorry, but that would be fucking hilarious. Your god, the great creator, he gave us (not you so much, but the rest of us) humour too, so you know... Paradise could be a great big whoopy cushion of laughs for you knuckleheads.

Thing is, you really think this Paradise gig is real. You say things to your loved ones like “See you in Paradise” before you go off to murder the loved ones of others. But if Paradise is the ultimate goal for you... if life here on planet earth is just a stepping stone... fuck off to Paradise now and leave the rest of us alone.

Go. Now. Put a fucking bullet in your poisoned mind and go. Go to Paradise. Leave us alone. Go to this better place, this promised place. Leave us infidels to rot here on Earth in the here and now, and you wallow smugly in your promised place with your promised virgins. You consider your death your wedding because of the promised virgins? Get married right fucking now. Gun. Bullet. Load. Put it in your fucking brain and fuck off to your Paradise and leave us in the peace WE all want and deserve.

It's so simple that even you dumbfuck jihadis must be able to get it. Fast track your destiny.

Paradise is waiting for you – what are you waiting for?

Leave us alone.

Forgotten Memories

Forgotten memories
Dark shadows
In closed rooms.
The empty hallways,
And the shadows
Of memories
That seep into the light.

I loved you.
I miss you.
And I wished from time to time,
That you existed.

The Fear Of God, Flash Fiction

The Fear Of God

Lee Bemrose



God, look at them. What on earth are they doing?

Beats me. This is not what I had in mind. They're completely out of control. They're totally bonkers.

You going to do something about them?

I don't know if there is anything I can do about them. Not now. They've changed so much I barely recognise them.

Maybe you should have stepped in earlier. I think you should have definitely stepped earlier.

I think you're right. I think it might be a little too late now.

You're not going to do anything at all?

Hmm. I could send you in, I guess. Some of them have been expecting you for some time now.

Are you kidding me? I'm not going down there. They've gone completely batshit crazy.

You scared of them?

Damn straight I'm scared of them. They fucked me over last time, and look at them now. They've developed and regressed spectacularly at the same time. Imagine what they'd do to me now?

Yes, it's fascinating, isn't it. Like watching a car crash, as they would say.

I don't know why you don't just do something. Pull some Big Daddy stuff on them.

I just... I' don't know. I'm actually pretty confused by it all. None of this was supposed to happen. Not like this. Such killing. Such madness. Such destruction. I'm not sure exactly where I went wrong. Or how I can put it right.

You really think they are properly out of control?

Look at them. What do you think? So much potential squandered. And I thought I kept things pretty straightforward. Why did they make things so complicated.

Tell me something... are you scared of them?

Me? Don't be ridiculous.

No, you are, aren't you. You're scared of them too. Ha ha – that's friggin hilarious. They scare the shit out of you. Heee hee. You're shitting yourself!

Jesus, stop laughing. This is serious... stop it! Jesus Christ stop doing that! I hate being tickled!

Lol. Soz. Okay. Look, I just don't think it's right to sit back and not do anything. They're making a hell of a mess and making things pretty bad for everything else. And they're expanding.

What are you suggesting?

Smite them. For all their stupidity they are pretty bright. What if they figure it all out. Can you imagine them in here?

What a thought. Ergh. That would be really horrible.

Then I think you should either do something to save them. Change them somehow. Or smite them.

Maybe you're right. Although if we leave them to it it won't be long before they smite themselves. And it is weirdly entertaining. Maybe we'll watch for a little bit longer. See what happens.

Okay. You're the boss. You want some wine while we watch them?

Yeah, sure, some wine would be good. And maybe lock the gate on your way past. Just in case. These crazies... they scare me.

Pumpkin Beer In 13 Minutes!

When you know you are getting it right with your co-workers...

My new helper likes beer. I like beer. I mentioned something about a local place that has a weirdly nice pumpkin beer on tap. Vague talk was made about catching up after work for a weirdly nice pumpkin beer. My helper left for the day, and two hours later when I finished, I texted her to say that I'm walking home now and might stop off for one of those pumpkin beers and if you're about feel free to join me, cool if not.

Her reply was "I am coming! I will be there in 13 minutes!"

It was a lovely drink and conversation with a new friend.

And now she wants to share her comfort package that her mother sent from France with The Dreaded One and Me and her banjo teacher (a former member of band The Triffids) because she thinks we will get along.

Random human interaction. When it works, it's pretty special.

My Inner Demons

Following on from my previous post about being tired...

My Inner Woody Allen
Is tired of my Inner Chuck Norris,
Who in turn is fucked-upped to the eyeballs
With that insecure Woody Allen bitch.

My Inner Dalai Lama
Says Peace, Woody and Chuck
And Woody says but Chuck is so cranky
And angry as fuck,
And Chuck just basically mascaras everyone with, like, his eyebrows
Or his idle thoughts,
Or his little toe,
Or somefuckingthing.

And that's pretty well the end of the poem
And the journey
And the story
And everything.
Like, everything ended
With Chuck Norris'
Little Toe.

Epic, wasn't it?

Tired. So Tired.

It's kind of weird when you're at a happy celebration of some milestone, with friends and friends of friends who are doing well in life. And you're happy for these friends and their milestone and the happiness and success of those friends of friends.

But you just don't want to be there. You are not successful. You are not happy. You are tired of life and you don't have the energy to make conversation. You do make conversation, but its flat and not inventive and fun and it's not what people expect. It's not what you expect. You are better than this.

But not now. Not right now. All you've got right now is a weariness that others don't understand. You're just so tired of everything.

The Girl With The Killer Smile

The cafe is crowded with regulars and walk-ins. One catches my eye because she is attractive, but also because she has a kind of peacefulness about her. She looks like a serene spirit. I look at her from time to time as I go about my cafe stuff. I'm not trying to catch her attention or anything, she is just pleasant to look at.

Soon I realise that she has finished her meal and is reading some of my writing at the back of the menu. She reads for quite a while but there is no sign of amusement, which is a shame because I bet she has a killer smile. I think I know what she must be reading.

At one point I'm busy on coffee. I hear a voice rich with accent - possibly Eastern European - ask my helper, Beverley, a question: "Excuse me - can I ask a question? Do you know who is Lee Bemrose?"

Beverley turns to me. I stop making coffee. "I'm Lee Bemrose," I tell her. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh you are Lee... I was just reading your story, Remembering Argos."

"Ah. I hope you liked it."

"I loved it. It is so sad I was reading with tears in my eyes." She puts her hand over her heart. "It is so beautiful." She shakes her head slowly, as if in amazement.

My Grumpy heart has just officially melted all over the damn place. I thank her and tell her that I had tears in my eyes when I wrote the story. I have to finish these coffees. The girl lingers a few moments before walking away, wishing me an excellent day over her shoulder. Lingering eye contact, killer smile.

Beverley tells me quietly, "I think she wanted to talk to you."

"I couldn't stop. Maybe next time she comes in I'll be able to talk to her."

I realise, of course, that there may not be a next time. I've never seen her before, I may never see her again. Maybe I should have made the time to talk to her then.

Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre

Anyone looking for a book recommendation - Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre has just crashed into my top 10 list. So original, so funny, so politically incorrect with unexpected stabs of raw compassion and understanding. It reels you in with its humour, then about a hundred pages from the end it's like he rolls up his sleeves and says now I'm going to show them what I'm really capable of. The writing, the humour, the characters, the structure... all superb. I loved this book. One of those books that when you've finished it, you feel like you've said goodbye to a friend.



There is a longer review here that pretty well captures exactly how I felt about the book.

Jim: A Late Night Poem About A Girl Called Jim

Jim

I forgot about those green eyes,
I forgot about that musical laugh
I forgot about the attentiveness
When it was your turn to listen.
I forgot about your intelligence
And your appreciation of life,
And I forgot about how much
I enjoyed listening to you,
Your laughter and your thoughts.

I forget why we lost touch.
Why do we lose touch?

But in a humble cafe today
After almost 20 years
You were there
Just suddenly there
And you being there reminded me
Of how wonderful and amazing life can be
And what a lucky bastard I've been
For the company I've kept.

And sometimes lost.

Black Rainbow's Thoughts on Happiness

To succeed, have one passion.

To live, be passionate about many things.

Black Rainbow.

The Clipboard People

What we want is a peaceful cafe. We want to make food and coffee and get to know our customers. We're cool with an average income. We're cool with the hard work involved. We love the humanity of hospitality.

But the clipboard people
The permit people
The rules and regulations people
The obstruction people
The red tape people
The Fill-Out-This-Form People
The secure job on some fucking council people
The clueless people
The attitude people
The set for life
On the council people
With your see-through training
And your clumsy human interaction
And your limited thinking,
You blinkered idiot dolts.

I probably need a permit to post these thoughts.

A Sign For People Who Think It's Okay To Eat Their Own Food In Our Cafe

One day, Chef Gordon Ramsay came to our humble little banged up cafe. He said he liked the look of the place and just thought he'd swing by and hang out. We were pretty chuffed.

Then when he sat down, he pulled out his little Despicable Me lunch box and tucked right in. We were not pretty chuffed any more.

Sure, Chef Ramsay is a legendary chef, and probably even a pretty good one, and his lunch box food might even be a little bit better than our food.

Still. Really. What was he thinking? Why did this otherwise intelligent person who surely had the inkling of a clue of what it's like to try to make a living selling food think it was okay to bring his own food into our cafe? And take up valuable seating during our very small window of opportunity (lunchtime)? What was he thinking? Was he on crack?

Minions were dispatched to inform Chef The Dreaded One. Needless to say, Chef The Dreaded One was displeased. Actually, saying she was displeased is an understatement on par with saying Donald Trump is “a bit of a nong.”

Cue the theme from The Good, The Bad & The Ugly...

“But I thought you were called The Dreaded One,” Chef Ramsay whimpered at the end of the hellish blast of tirade, “because of your lovely dreadlocks.”

Another hellish blast of tirade.

“Oh God no, you're absolutely right,” Chef Ramsay sobbed, tears streaming down his face like tropical rain, his chin wobbling like world peace. “What was I thinking? How could I have been so inconsiderate to think it was okay to bring my own food into your tiny little establishment? You'd have to be a complete nitwit to think that that was okay, and I doubt that any of your customers are nitwits. Oh nit me I'm a nitting good chef, but I'm nitting shit as a considerate human being.”

(Clearly, this was fiction. Although if Gordon did come into the cafe I'd like to see a head to head with him and The Dreaded One).

Peter Norman. Or, Who's On 2nd?

I have seen the photo this statue is based upon so many times during my life, but I have never known the real story behind it. Reading about it today, it has had a profound impact on me. The action, the photo, the statue... they are all almost as amazing as the back story. It's a beautiful and kind of heartbreaking story. If I were a movie maker, I'd make a movie of this story. It has all the right stuff for a great movie.

I have no idea why I have never known of this story before.

Limbo, Melbourne Festival 2015, Review

Limbo

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose

Photo by Tony Virgo



In the promo brlurb for Limbo is the cheeky line, 'The show so hot, Madonna came twice.' To whoever came up with that line, chapeau.

Limbo is indeed an exciting show, a mashup of circus, cabaret and live music with a little bit of magic thrown into the mix. That it all takes place inside an art deco Spiegeltent – on this occasion on a perfect Melbourne Spring night – makes for a memorable night out.

The overall vibe feels kind of French gypsy, but the troupe is actually a motley collection of insanely talented performers from around the world. There are stunning solo demonstrations of contortion, tap dance, hand balancing, acrobatics, aerial grace and sword swallowing, but they also work together in duets or with the whole cast as one team. The melding of such diverse talents and the morphing from one skill to another are as impressive as the feats of strength and balance themselves. The trust the performers have in each other is also something to be admired.

Highlights include the German contortionist Tigris, whose flexibility edges by degrees towards downright freaky whilst retaining a weird kind of grace; Australian dancer Hilton Dennis who taps solo before being joined by American sword swallower Heather Holliday (she tap dances here, sword swallows later) and French Canadian aerialist Evelyne Allard who adds to the dancing dynamics some unexpected and exciting percussion; and the hand balancing Russian-born (Australian?) Danik Abishev. The pole dancing, the fire breathing, the aerial work, all highlights. However the one act guaranteed to be everyone's absolute highlight of the night is the threesome on the tall bendy poles. This act is the essence of circus. It is thrilling, it is both physically demanding and physically elegant, and it is fun. Big fun for the performers and for us.

The live band is used as a filler between acts, but it is not mere filler; its very much part of the show. And as if the stage performers weren't multi talented enough, many appeared to also play music, sing and beatbox, with the band headed up by the dynamic ringmaster figure Elyas Khan.

Given the athletic nature of the show, there is plenty of eye candy. The dance scenes – often a combination of acrobatics and dance – are bawdy, flirty and playful, with the night perhaps a little top-heavy with shirtless guys with their perfectly sculpted bodies and sheen of sweat... seriously – who has bodies that perfect? But the girls have their moments with the tattooed Heather Holliday looking particularly exotic in that bygone era, sideshow kind of way. Yum.

I raved about the Fringe's Barbaroi a couple of weeks ago, and while not wanting to put that show down (I really enjoyed it), put simply, Limbo is next level.

At The Melbourne Festival Spiegeltent until November 1st.

Jeremiah's Tuesday, Butterfly Club, Review

Jeremiah's Tuesday

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



One hour. One actor. A whole lot of words and ideas. That's mono-drama, baby, and it has to be hard work making it look this easy.

Stefan Mrowinski provides the text and direction, actor Steven Kennedy brings the story to life, on this occasion in the downstairs theatre at the wonderfully quirky Butterfly Club. Set and sound design are minimal, so the focus really is on this one performer and his arsenal of words. He'd better be damned good if this is going to be any good.

It's raining. Lots of rain. Biblical rain, as the biblically named Jeremiah tells his story. The situation is not completely clear in the beginning. Who is Jeremiah? What is it with Tuesdays and rain and what is he looking for with those gold binoculars? Where is he? Is he hiding? Who from?

It's intriguing from the start as this strange, Catweazle-like character (but better looking and with a more impressive beard) tells us a story, his story, stories within stories. But Jeremiah ain't no Catweazle. He is something far darker, more of this world even though there is something more of-another-world feel to Jeremiah and his current situation.

Jeremiah's Tuesday is an observation of politics, humanity and power, and how dangerous and ultimately - perhaps inevitably - fragile the mix is. Apparently first written 25 years ago, it would appear to have been updated somewhat to include some current world affairs, whilst at the core of the thing... lets just say some things never change. There is plenty to recognise here from history old and recent.

The play is well paced and well structured with the text often poetic and playful, as well as slightly surreal. In fact there was a faintly surreal feel about the whole thing. Maybe not surreal, just otherworldly. Think Catweazle as a dethroned despot in hiding, finally accepting the fact that you and I and he together brought about his downfall.

I have it on good authority that the narrative during this performance might have been occasionally confusing due to opening night jitters and forgotten lines. I simply thought any minor plot obscurity was due to the nature of the thing, the kind of story that demands you pay attention. Overall the narrative came together and I certainly saw no sign From Mr Kennedy that he had fluffed anything. It was a seamless and thoroughly engaging performance.

So was it any good? Yeah, it was pretty damn good.

Black Stamp Productions has been invited to take Jeremiah's Tuesday to the United Solo Festival on Broadway, no less. It was a brief run here (last chance to see it tomorrow) but hopefully it will do well in New York and see another run here.

At The Butterfly Club, Carson Lane, Melbourne

Life & Love

And all too quickly it is over.
The loves,
The likes
The misunderstandings
And the disagreements,
Suddenly it's all over.

But She was there through it all.
With her love and acceptance
And her understanding,
And her disagreement
And the essence of her.

You realise,
As your world implodes
And you die and disappear,
That you wouldn't have had it
Any other way.