Le Gateau Chocolat at the Christchurch Buskers Festival

So I was super lazy this Buskers Festival and only made it to one show! Lucky it was the best show I have seen in years!

Le Gateau Chocolat’s one man drag sensation is a show unlike any you have ever seen before. Part social commentary, part flashy extravaganza, this is a show that relishes in ambiguity and confusion. Those in the audience looking forward to straight forward escapism may have regretted not buying tickets to the Buskers Burlesque instead, but for me it was the clashing of genre, medium and mood that captivated me from beginning to end. Le Gateau Chocolat began his show the way he intended to carry it through; stripped bare, honest and refusing to stay within the confines of expectation.

The genius of this show is the sense of slowly building anticipation alien to high energy, give-it-your all philosophy of traditional drag queening. But do not despair; Le Gateau does not shy from sequins, drama and light hearted show tunes. But, refreshingly, this is constantly punctured by more serene moments that cause more thoughtful contemplation than dropped-jaw gaping. The lightest moment had Le Gateau roaming the audience while we danced on our chairs, looking for someone to zip him into his Zebra patterned lycra body suit. The lowest had our performer sitting on a lonely chair in a dimly lit stage belting “Old Man River” in one of the most exquisite baritone voices I have ever had the pleasure of hearing. Never knowing whether to laugh or cry kept you feeling alive and on edge for the entire show; Le Gateau clasps you in his intriguing weave of story-telling, song and poetry and doesn’t let go until the climactic end. Whether it is in extreme sadness or collective ecstasy, we as the audience feel inextricably intertwined in the emotional journey of our star.

The highs and lows of life are a constant source of human inspiration, and Le Gateau Chocolat is no exception. Mimicking the roller coaster that is our journey into the world, and into ourselves, this show leaves you feeling simultaneously ecstatic and as wrung as Le Gateau’s post show make-up towel. But most of all this show makes you question, not the things you don’t understand, but our own reactions to these things. Not satisfied in merely entertaining, Le Gateau Chocolat revels in revealing to us the beauty of acceptance, tolerance and the glorious possibilities of the new. 

How's the Missus?

There are very few things that I loath more than being referred to as 'such-and-such's missus'. Luckily my hairy pits and pendulous, bra-less boobies give off pretty clear 'caution: angry feminist ahead' signals, and not many people use this kind of terminology to refer to me (while I'm around, that is).

But what about when I am not?

"Hey bro, how's the missus?" I know for a fact that my partner is asked this question regularly by acquaintances  work colleagues and even some friends.But the thing is, if a person gave even two of the tiniest shits about my state of well-being, they would bother to learn my name.

What's it going to be after 'missus' runs it course?
"How's Ofmichael"???

Dear Construction Workers of Christchurch

I got my first letter to the editor published in The Press this weekend, exciting! Then I forgot to scan it, and can't find the hard copy. So I am just going to re-print the original here, it is slightly different because The Press scaled mine down a little (I really need to work on colouring within the lines, so to speak). 

And just for you, my fine blog followers, some background: over the summer I have been staying in my home town of Christchurch, which is just month shy of its two year anniversary of the rather devastating February quake which reduced it from a flat, spread out, boring city to an empty shakey shit hole. We are now in the throws of the much anticipated rebuild, which fills this shakey shit hole with large teams of local and outsourced manual laborers  the majority of whom I can only imagine are nice and respectful people. They are all but drowned out by the vocal and disrespectful builders and construction workers who seem to feel entitled to stare, whistle, cat call and abuse every woman who walks past them. And this is why I wrote them this:

Dear construction workers of Christchurch.

Please allow me to begin this letter on a sincere word of thanks. Your skill and hard work fills the emptiness of my most beloved city with the foundations of hope, and for this I am truly grateful.

I do, however, have a few concerns regarding your level of attentativeness whilst on the job. Never in my life have I seen a group of men so fascinated with the female form, with such enamour do you stare at mine as I pass by. Considering that many owners of breasts continue to occupy the city, the time that your gaze is away from the task at is a great cause for concern.

Furthermore, the whistles that follow me down the foot path indicate that you have mistaken me for a canine. The fact that the foundations of our new city rest in the hands of men who cannot distinguish between human and animal does little to reassure me of your competence. I respectfully request that you keep your eyes and cat calls to yourself while the females of the species happen your way.

Yours sincerely,

Rachael Lundy

Speights: The delicious taste of piss water and misogony

How to be a Southern man, aka a "good ol' fashion kiwi bloke," according to Speight Ale House.

1. Be completely incapable of understanding gender outside of limiting binary and hetero normative definitions.
2. Think of women only as passive, obedient breasts.
3. Have no knowledge of your native English language. Come on boys, I know you have an apostrophe on that manly key board of yours (note: the correct use of "your" as opposed to "you're"), because you used one when you said "for all you jaffa's and aussie's". Good try kids.

 P.S:  Ask my bloke's (see, are you picking up this apostrophe business now?) permission?

Ask...my bloke's...PERMISSION!?!?

Go fuck yourself, Speights. Your beer tastes like urine and misogyny.