Two stories

Whoops. It took a timely comment from Cyberpete to remind me that it's been nigh on two weeks since I've posted something other than a Youtube video of Captain Kirk making out with, and then slugging, a green-haired Debbie McGee lookalike. He's a talented chap that Kirk; the way things have been going for me recently I'd be quite happy to make out with the real Debbie McGee then let her punch me in the face.

*Mourns the fact that Valentines Day is just two short days away and I'll be spending it running 10k to wear off those surging manly hormones*

Aaaaaaanyway, in my sexy absence, I've gotten up to some mildly interesting awesome shenanigans. What's that Pete?

"We need more info on your Bikram hot nekkid yoga practice and the running."

Funny you should say that, dear boy, because I do have two stories for you, the first of which is a yoga story.

The yoga story

One thing I've learnt at yoga in the last week or so, aside from the fact that I can now lock out my legs in half moon pose (which is good), is that it's really not the wisest course of action to goad one teacher into taking the mickey out of another teacher who is practising in the same class as you, because while it's funny at the time it's not quite as funny when you take part in the other teacher's class a couple of days later and he announces to the entire room that he's going to take the opportunity to rip the living shit out of you for 90 minutes to see how you like it.

The answer: not very much, as it happens.

On the plus side, it did make me work harder in an attempt to give him less to complain about. On the downside, that didn't stop him, and I was subsequently left more of a knackered sweaty heap than I usually am. Often after class I'll stop in reception on my way out and have a quick chat with the teachers; on this occasion I could only summon enough energy to say "fuck you" "nightmare" before wobbling off to Starbucks to get a fruity drink.

My victimisation at the hands of yoga teachers did not end there, however. The Thursday night teacher, a wickedly awesome and funny lady I should add, has been trying to get me to move from my regular place at the back of the class up to the front row for the last couple of weeks. I've responded with a resolute NO and crossed my arms in defiance like a stroppy toddler, because the front row is where the hardcore people go, the people who the other rows look to in order to get the postures right. In contrast, the back row is safe and comfortable, and no one laughs if you fall over mid-eagle pose.

That all changed on Thursday, though. Ten minutes before class began, the teacher entered the studio with a newbie who couldn't find a place. The class was very full, and the only spare mat was - you guessed it - in the front row.

I think we can all guess what happened next, can't we?

"We need someone in the back row to move to the fr-" said wickedly awesome teacher lady, pausing mid-sentence. Then she turned towards me and beckoned me to move up to the front row. I shook my head no and defiantly crossed my arms.

"Pick up your Star Trek towel and move," she said.

Next thing I know I'm in the front row, sandwiched between two ladies. The rose between two thorns, you could say. I smiled at them both and flashed my guns.

So anyway, to cut a long story short, I'm actually rather loving the front row. The reason for this is that you get a clear, uninterrupted view of your sexy physique yourself in the mirrors, which you definitely don't get from the back, especially when it's busy. On the downside: being that close to the mirrors you really do see how genuinely wrecked you get in those 90 minutes. From the back, I look serene, calm, gently moistened with sweat like I've been strolling along a tropical beach. From the front row it's all throbbing forehead veins and quick exchanges of pain-stricken glances with your reflection. A bit like how John Travolta's hair looks perfectly natural from a distance, but up close it's an epic mess.

As I left class, though, I confessed to wickedly awesome teacher lady that one of the factors behind not wanting to go to the front row was that I didn't feel I was good enough to have other people follow me as we went into poses - sort of a confidence thing, if you will. I mean, I have only being doing it for seven months - there are people in that room who have been going years. "Why?" she asked, giving me the sort of look your parents give you when you confess to doing something stupid. "Your yoga is excellent."

Good times.

-----

The Joss story

Regular readers (*prays there's more than one of you*) might remember how I went to an event called True Stories Told Live back in January. Well, it was that time of the month again on Wednesday (not *that* time of the month), so Yazzle Dazzle and I toddled off to the wilds of North London once again to see, well, some true stories told live. An added bonus this time around was the fact that the lovely Marsha, who told me about TSTL in the first place, was herself telling a story.

Unfortunately, Yazzle Dazzle and I got there a smidgeon later than we'd anticipated, so we ended up seated on some rather uncomfortable stools (of the tall seat variety, not the, well, *other kind* of stool), with me in front and Yazzle Dazzle behind. While trying to get comfortable, I nudged the chair in front of me with my knee, causing the woman seated in it to turn around and, with a Catherine Tate-style chav voice that would cause birds to drop dead out of the sky, laughed and said "oi, ya ain't gonna be puttin' yer feet on me chair is ya?"

I grimaced, said no, and then watched her as she turned around and stretched her legs out into the four feet of free space directly in front of her. I turned to look at Yazzle Dazzle and roll my eyes, but was disturbed as the woman pushed her chair back another couple of inches into my kneecaps.

Marsha was up first, so I tried my best to find a comfortable position on my decidedly uncomfortable perch; my arse was a lost cause thanks to the hard wood of the seat, and within seconds I no longer had any sensation in it. My knees fared a little better, mainly because I did that typical blokey thing of spreading my legs wide, effectively straddling the head of the annoying woman in front, who had by this time pushed her chair back even further, perhaps in the misguided belief that I had the remarkable ability of simply removing my legs and putting them somewhere more out of the way.

With that done, I turned once more to exchange wry looks with Yazzle Dazzle, and-

Whataminute!

Is that…?

No…

It can't be…

It can, and it was. No less then two feet away from me, leaning against the bar in mid-conversation with someone, was Joss Whedon, the guy who created Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I dispensed with my anticipated wry look and instead flashed my 'OMG! Look to your left!' look.

"JOSS. WHEDON!" I mouthed.

Even Yazzle Dazzle, who once *extremely* nonchalently nodded 'whassup' at Christian Slater, looked a little bit amazed.

Our looks and gesticulations, which could've been mistaken for some sort of uncanny dual aneurysm, were stopped by the compare taking - I'd like to say 'to the stage,' but there wasn't one - the mic and introducing Marsha.

Stories about death on the whole generally veer towards the more melancholy side of things, but Marsha, bless 'er, told a wonderfully heartwarming and funny tale about how her granny passed away. I laughed and felt rather emotional all at the same time; the way she told it sent shivers down my spine (in a good way) as she relived this intensely personal experience for all of us gathered together in that room.

It was a really rather wonderful and uplifting beginning to the evening.

Unfortunately, the rather vacuous woman in front of me decided that it was OK to talk to her boyfriend throughout the course of both Marsha's story and those told by the other storytellers (or anecdotalists as they're sometimes referred to at TSTL); not loudly, just enough to be noticeable.

I briefly thought about crushing her head with my kneecaps.

At the halfway point Yazzle Dazzle and I stepped outside to stretch our legs.

"THAT'S JOSS WHEDON IN THERE!" I said.

"I thought I recognised him," she replied, before adding a superfluous "OMG!"

"I have to say something," I said, giddy with nerdgasmic excitement. "I HAVE TO TELL HIM HOW MUCH I LIKED DOLLHOUSE FIREFLY!"

"AH MAH GAWD, IT'S FAKKIN FREEZIN' AUHT 'ERE!"

We both turned to see the annoying woman from in front of me, shivering in her strappy top, muffin-topping over her low-cut jeans.

"Time to go inside?" Yazzle Dazzle asked.

"Time to go inside," I concurred.

Curiously, the annoying woman and her boyfriend had not returned by the time the second half began, so I took the opportunity to nudge her chair forward a couple of feet, assume a more comfortable position, and glance over at Joss like a he was God. Unfortunately, annoying woman and her boyfriend, by this time clearly drunker than the resident hobos on Shepherds Bush Green, did return in time for the final storyteller, who she proceeded to heckle before slamming her chair back towards my legs again. I was prepared this time, however, and had wedged one foot against a leg of the chair, and a knee against the opposing corner of the backrest; thus, her actions only caused her to pivot a little so she ended up facing the door.

After the final story, I decided that the time was right to make my move and crush annoying woman's head go say hello to Joss. He was chatting with a couple of people, though, so, not wanting to be a rude, gushing fanboy I decided to hang around and bide my time.

Unfortunately, I had not reckoned on annoying woman. Annoying woman, who I'm pretty sure hadn't understood any of the big words that had been used by any of the storytellers, suddenly lunged forward and grabbed Joss.

"OHMYGAAAWD!" She squawked. "I LUV YORE…"

She was a fangirl!?

"…SCARF! WHERE THE FAKKIN' 'ELL DID YOU GIT IT?"

JESUS CHRIST WOMAN! I wanted to scream. DON'T YOU KNOW WHO HE IS!? HE CREATED BUFFY! AND ANGEL! AND FIREFLY! AND DR. HORRIB- DON'T TOUCH HIM YOU WENCH HE'S SACRED!!

Joss is obviously well practised at meeting fans who are, um, let's say *passionate* and thus knows quite well how to slip away from them in a very quick, efficient, and polite fashion. Within seconds he'd eased his scarf out of her hand, popped on his coat and was gone.

I'd missed my chance to tell him how much I loved his shows, but on the basis of annoying woman's interaction with him, probably the most useful thing I could've said to him would've been "RUN JOSS, RUN - SAVE YOURSELF!"

And then staked her through the heart proper Buffy Stylee.