That’s a title that grabs the attention of a certain type of man!
Apparently the Google ads that run the adverts on this site have decided that my last post about Radio 1 means that adverts for ‘noise and vibration experts’ are obviously all to do with what I was talking about. Actually I’ve been watching the adverts change over the last week or so with some degree of amusement. Many of my early posts were about my writing; that was the idea behind the blog as part of the website originally.
So obviously the adverts talked about books and publishing – how predictable. But the blog started to branch out a little into other everyday aspects of my life, because I decided that no-one really wants to read about an Author blowing their own trumpet at every opportunity. It just makes them sound like a smug arsehole (and let’s see what the software picking the adverts makes of that term. ‘Smug arsehole’. There. typed it again).
Now I seem to talk about alsorts, and the adverts have been reflecting this, er, in some way. I talked about radio, and adverts for radio stations came up. I talked about underwear and suddenly it seemed that M&S larger sized knickers and skimpy Anne Summers’ tat was all the rage.
And that brings me neatly round to what I actually planned to be typing when I was about to start this post. I was out last night to a hen night. It is the first time I have ever been to one of these things, and I must admit that I was more than a little curious beforehand as to what they involved. I had visions in my mind of drunken women cavorting on tables in their underwear and hunky strippers grinding their way through the crows. Obviously not my cup of tea.
Actuall, the invitation did shed light on the matter: a minibus to Manchester for a meal at the Olive Press restaurant and a night out at the Birdcage club. Of course, the Birdcage was billed as a club with caberet act consisting of drag performers. Oh. Again, not my cup of tea. I had visions of ‘Priscilla Queen of the desert’ and it wasn’t pretty.
The truth, in fact, turned out to be somewhat better, though the drinks were extortionate and the club was very crowded to the point that it became uncomfortably hot and sweaty. Note to self: vinyl fake leather seating sucks in a a strappy short frock when you get a little hot. I should have remembered the childhood memory of sticking to the back seat of an Austin Princess (aka ‘the wedge of cheese’) on hot days.
The performances were well choreographed though the tendency of the lead performer to constantly adjust themselves in the naughty bits area was a little odd. Maybe it got laughs? I didn’t notice them. Some of the background performers were very cute though; there were two men and four women who seemed to be the sort of background chorus girls and boys in each act.
In between the acts there was time for dancing on the stage, and I must admit that I got down and strutted my funky stuff more than a couple of times. The place was teeming with women on hen nights and birthdays. It was like being in a cloud of drunken Oestrogen. At first it seemed like it was a women’s only club, but then I started spotting little groups of seedy men. I got the impression they had only come because it was a club largely filled with girls and they were desperate to get laid. How can you lose, after all, in a sea of Oestrogen? Quite easily, seems to be the answer. I got hit on by two, and despite me cuddling up to my partner at the time, they thought they were in. How they reached that conclusion I do not know. They decided to try and sit at our reserved table (we were in the VIP area) and we only got rid of their sad jangling hormones by blanking them completely. Oh the British way! Any other nationality of girl would have told them to “F**k off!” without the stars. Sometimes I’m just too poilte.
The sound system in the club was deafoning, and it gave Zoë a bad headache. By the time we got home we were ready for bed. It’s this point in the night where the highlight of my wearing a basque and stockings under my posh frock comes. No, you dirty minded pervert not that! For the best thing about wearing a basque is the taking it off at the end of the night. It is such a liberating feeling! As much as a basque may give you a figure to die for, they are at their heart an uncomfortable garment to wear for more than thirty minutes.
And that leads us back nicely to the very first point I talked of in this entry. What do we think the software will make of that to ‘tailor’ the adverts to the relevence of the content? My money is on ‘basque’ being the word picked up, but wrongly. Spanish tapas anyone?