It is with great sadness that I have to report that last evening’s Russian party was, well, a bit pump.
Usually these events are debauched bacchanals, stuffed with indecipherable meat products and slightly too long performances by the featured act. But here we were dealt, as aforementioned by the Big F, tiny bits of gristle served on candle-lit platters by grumpy-looking men in dickie bows.
The lad himself was flouncing about, in that ‘I’m the star here’ manner of his, so we were expecting some gig-shaped business on his part – and he may well have done that very thing, delighting us with his collection of hits from past and now. But he came on stage, rolled his shoulders about in that way of his, looked a bit cocky, was cajoled into talking some English-shaped syllables at us, and then introduced a hefty opera bird doing a bit of Carmen. Now me and Mrs Hacksaw have been collecting performances of Carmen from round the globe, but this wouldn’t make the final draught – although it might rate high on the obscure locations list. And when another warbling crone tottered on stage in ill-advised heels and taffeta, we looked at each other in that “shall we go?” way and skedaddled.
And it wasn’t as if we were too early or owt, as we’d arrived halfway through (after Dustin’s superlative press conference do), only to find a smattering of folks cowering in the corner of the cavernous airline departure hall that is the Euroclub. It’ll be fab for the later big-time party fun, but it’s not ideal for the smaller delegation dos.
I’ll ask some folks how the Makadonskian party was and get back to you on that one. It’s almost as if yous was here with us, innit!
