March 8th, 2006, 05:12
The long awaited next chapter is there for the likes of Bucknaway, who was not there first, and all others naive or learned, even those who were there first... extract:
A tremendous whoosh of flame shot across the stage and all of the front of the audience shoved their heads back in alarm. A vague perfume of singed Oriental hair came from somewhere. I felt the blast of heat as if a bonfire had suddenly rushed up a burst of flame fit to scorch your eyeballs. And he was already bowing and was gone, the stage reoccupied by the stagehands who were now super thorough in what they were doing, cleaning everything of any possibility of a film of oil.
I became aware as they worked that from the ceiling there hung a series of gantries and from them there swung a whole range of gymnastic rings, together with chains and ropes. All of these were rapidly but carefully wiped clear of final vestiges of oil and wax and anything else that could cause a gripping hand to slip.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the big cock show!"
Oh yes.
The music roared and chests vibrated, eardrums protested and to the sound of the Eye of the Tiger:
"We present Mr Toon, Number 32!"
And onto the stage came a young man, handsome to distraction with a chest padded with power and nipples like spikes, in his hand a very erect and well hooded dick which no man would be ashamed ofтАж
It was like a catwalk. It was like a fashion show. They came on, one by one, each more wonderful that the previous one, or nearly so, each dressed differently. There was a pirate. A leather beast master came on. Then one in a silken dressing gown. And a sailor. A soldier came on with strutting boots and zip undone. Fifteen it was, maybe more. Each time the voice-over: "Mr Siptep, Number 67." Each one had a thunderous hardon. One was so magnificent the audience applauded his wide-brimmed hood, a magnificent jerking throbbing thing, almost scary. They walked on with that disdain on their face that models have on the catwalk, arrogance, certainty, a sensual sureness that they are the best.
They made the Real Monty a kidsтАЩ pantomime.
Many of them paid particular attention to the couple of ladies in the audience, prodding themselves out into the darkness towards them, as if to say, "Get round this!" They were nothing less than magnificent, and each one hopeful that someone in the audience had a memory or a notebook to take note of their number and off them for the night. Finally the whole mass of them came onto the stage тАУ which was not more than a couple of feet from the closest of the audience and displayed themselves. Later in the evening, I heard, those in the front row would be in mortal danger of a seminal discharge for there were three shows each night and the last one moved towards the frantic. An element of the frantic was about to begin.
A tremendous whoosh of flame shot across the stage and all of the front of the audience shoved their heads back in alarm. A vague perfume of singed Oriental hair came from somewhere. I felt the blast of heat as if a bonfire had suddenly rushed up a burst of flame fit to scorch your eyeballs. And he was already bowing and was gone, the stage reoccupied by the stagehands who were now super thorough in what they were doing, cleaning everything of any possibility of a film of oil.
I became aware as they worked that from the ceiling there hung a series of gantries and from them there swung a whole range of gymnastic rings, together with chains and ropes. All of these were rapidly but carefully wiped clear of final vestiges of oil and wax and anything else that could cause a gripping hand to slip.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the big cock show!"
Oh yes.
The music roared and chests vibrated, eardrums protested and to the sound of the Eye of the Tiger:
"We present Mr Toon, Number 32!"
And onto the stage came a young man, handsome to distraction with a chest padded with power and nipples like spikes, in his hand a very erect and well hooded dick which no man would be ashamed ofтАж
It was like a catwalk. It was like a fashion show. They came on, one by one, each more wonderful that the previous one, or nearly so, each dressed differently. There was a pirate. A leather beast master came on. Then one in a silken dressing gown. And a sailor. A soldier came on with strutting boots and zip undone. Fifteen it was, maybe more. Each time the voice-over: "Mr Siptep, Number 67." Each one had a thunderous hardon. One was so magnificent the audience applauded his wide-brimmed hood, a magnificent jerking throbbing thing, almost scary. They walked on with that disdain on their face that models have on the catwalk, arrogance, certainty, a sensual sureness that they are the best.
They made the Real Monty a kidsтАЩ pantomime.
Many of them paid particular attention to the couple of ladies in the audience, prodding themselves out into the darkness towards them, as if to say, "Get round this!" They were nothing less than magnificent, and each one hopeful that someone in the audience had a memory or a notebook to take note of their number and off them for the night. Finally the whole mass of them came onto the stage тАУ which was not more than a couple of feet from the closest of the audience and displayed themselves. Later in the evening, I heard, those in the front row would be in mortal danger of a seminal discharge for there were three shows each night and the last one moved towards the frantic. An element of the frantic was about to begin.