What a difference a year makes.
I’m sure my Sassy Gay Friend will claim that the lameness of this year’s Dead Famous Halloween party was purely due to his absence, but I think the failure runs a bit deeper than that.
Last year was so wild that SGF got kicked out and had to go for a walk around Covent Garden before they’d let him back in. The party raged past three am and NO ONE was up at anything resembling a respectable hour the next day… even those who were supposed to be in the office at 9am… ahem.
This year, Blondie and I rocked up in our famous dead finest, ready for the obligatory Dead Famous Photowall moment, only to discover that as this year was happening in a pub (yes, a pub) there would be no photowall.
NO PHOTOWALL??? But I live for that thing! It makes me feel like a famous person. Albeit a rather bloodied one.
It was all downhill from there. Aside from Jesus here (whose sheer audacity cracked me up, and also made me want get him out of his loincloth and boxer shorts a little bit) there was very little amusement to be had. An awkward reunion with some front of house minions I’d worked with about 6 years ago… who still worked at the same theatre. About three ensemble members I actually knew. A bunch of indistinguishable techies. An immeasurable amount of musicians.
In short – I have come to a frankly heart breaking conclusion.
I have outgrown Dead Famous.
I’ve been coming to this Halloween party for years. It’s been the highlight of my yearly calendar for as long as I’ve been kicking around the West End. However, nowadays I seem to be a star shaped peg who just doesn’t quite fit in that round hole anymore.
I’m not implying that I’m above it or anything – I would have loved nothing more than to have that room filled with the crowd from even a year ago, but it’s not the same. I’m not ‘one of the gang’ anymore.
It’s like I’m… management… or something.
Bloody heck. I need to lie down.
Not to waste a good costume, Blondie and I decided instead to cut our losses and get outta there, heading (still covered head to toe in fake blood) deeper into theatreland just in time for last orders at Shutts (the Phoenix Club to you newbies). If you saw two drunken delinquents stumbling down Shaftesbury Avenue around 1am, looking about a week behind the times, that would be us. We were joined by the (not so) anonymous Monsieur Firmin for a late/early breakfast and a glass of prosecco in Balans, where the three of us lamented West End parties past and wondered where the good old days had gotten to.
So I think the time has come to wave bye bye to the West End Halloween party. It’s been a blast, and almost always ended in disasters and dramas of the most wonderful kind, but it’s time to put those memories in a box and move on.
Sometimes, a girl’s just got to find a bigger party.
RitziCx
