Nixta Sinks

One would be tempted to remark upon what a difference a year makes. But does it? A year ago I was suffering insomnia in the stultifying (or slutifying as I freudianly wrote) Graton Hotel on Tottenham Court Road in the smallest room that that the home from home for so many philandering cockfocussed drones could afford. Come 11:55pm Masters Snooker finished to have its tails trodden upon by Snooker Extra, keeping me awake until at least 1:30am every night.

A year before that, I was unable again (or previously) to sleep thanks to the inadequacies of the American Immigration and Naturalisation Service (though they'd changed their name to something I still can't recall). You see, despite being British, despite marrying a born and bred American citizen, despite having paid taxes in the US for 8 years, I was denied permission to travel home to England to work on a project over here on account of the INS or BCIS or whatever having lost the photos accompanying my application for the offensively named "Advanced Parole". It was only 2 days before I headed over here (on Jan 26th) that intervension from my Congresswoman no less afforded me the right to travel home without voiding my Green Card application.

And here I am, a year after insomnia at the Grafton, watching Snooker Extra in a luxurious apartment (the most spacious in Marylebone that the rent allowance will afford), reminded in technicolour of the insomnia of a year ago. Back from the Ballet instead of The Instanbul. Reclining on the sofa instead of crying into the bleach-sodden duvet. Ah, what a difference a year makes. Only this year things are very different. By dint of a New Year's party of my own, my dearest friend appears to have sent me to Coventry (a shithole, I should point out). My job has turned from light-hearted maintenance of a product light-heartedly constructed through jocular budget and comedic scheduling employing embryonic technology from an egomaniacally patronising vendor into a full-time stressful juggling act that I can only hope I will one day look back upon with fondness.

But look back further, and I see that just as John Stewart has changed from Comedy Relief to Political Vivisector, despite what he said on Crossfire, I'm talking about myself. It's a shoddy subject that I need to give up. I promised when I started Nixta.com that I wouldn't write mindless drivel about myself, and look at the recent posts. What a prick.

And so, to review time.

Edward Scissorhands, the ballet, rocks. Mind blowing sets. Stunning costumes. And perhaps 2 of the 25 dancers were great. What the fuck happened to the others? I don't know. For 50 nicker a time I'd expect slightly better. For 5 nicker I'd expect the program to have some content. Perhaps I expect too much. Perhaps they were just hungover. It happens. They're human. But the costumes, music and sets win. The show as a whole was worth every penny. In short, I feel that some of the performers were hired from Camden High Street in a panic, but I don't need my money back.

Sleeping Beauty. Sublime.

Reviews over. Sharon still twitching. Bush moving unsubtly into Republican election mode. Brown declaring that the army is not recruiting enough. Welcome, my friends, to 2006. Fuck all y'all.