Don't touch me there

Now that the Brighton festival hoo hah has died down there's time to take a moment to reflect on what I thought was the very pinnacle, nay, the veritable nub, of the whole circus, a show called "Intimate Encounters". Nobody else seems to have reviewed it, which is strange (or a criminal omission actually) but perhaps not unexpected given that (a) most reviewing is undertaken by students who would have to pass too many pubs on the way to the New Venture Theatre to make it a physical possibility and (b) it sounds a bit scary because people you don't know are going to touch you and we're British dammit, we just shake hands and then only very firmly. The Fringe brochure is now lining someone else's cat litter tray so I don't have the exact blurb to hand, but they did promise a "personal" one on one experience, and though this turned out to sometimes be a two, three, or four on one experience, they were not really fibbing.

When I showed up at the venue I was given a form to complete, with such items as which genders of person you were happy getting their hands on you and whether you suffered from diarrhoea. Maybe not that last bit. I was led by an epauletted doorman into a small space in the auditorium that had been sectioned off with black cloth. A lady in therapist's white garb asked me to sit on a chair and remove my sandals, after which she sprayed my feet with something (DDT? Chanel No. 5?) and moved behind me to administer a shoulder and neck massage. There was some shoulder-related chat and then she tied a blindfold round my head.....

Part 2 in a few days time. What a tease I am.

Cheeky Tim