Tommy Lee kissed my helmet
Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee were back again watching the show for the 7 th time (Pamela was ‘dating' one of the members of the cast, an acrobat called, Jesus, thus the themed Pamela t-shirt, ‘Jesus is my homeboy'…inside information!) As usual at the end of the show we all had to go back stage and have the obligatory photo taken with botox babe and skinny off his face dude. I wore my rubber doll out fit and let Pamela admire my plastic jugs, which made hers look semi au natural. She squeezed mine and I tried, but hers didn't budge
I mounted my 50 cc moped come mini Harley Davidson and started my journey home. I noticed a big whitey van in front veering slightly from side to side. I suddenly saw Jesus appear at the window pointing and giggling at me. Then Pam, then Tommy. The van stopped at the red light and I pulled up coolly alongside them thinking ‘great, finally the clown girl is going to get invited to an ‘A' list party in Las Vegas and have the time of her life.' Sure enough Tommy jumped out of the van and swaggered towards me. He kissed me full on the lips and then on my shiny black helmet while the two others were laughing hysterically in the rear. He said ‘You rock my world' and I so wanted to believe him until he promptly got back into the van and sped off down the high way almost like they were trying to loose me or something!? All that was left was just a ball of glitter dust in the desert, two smeary slug marks on my helmet and a memory of my minute with Tommy Lee.
Arsehole
Written warning
My Dad arrived sometime in June at around 5ish at McCarran airport, Las Vegas. I had two free tickets to the Opening of ‘Ka' the $200 million dollar show at the MGM. Cirque's newest offering directed by Robert La Page. Then guest passes to the biggest fuck off party afterwards. My Dad who loves to party was very excited. He hadn't slept for nearly 14 hours, drunk a few too many scotches but was ready for anything.
The show was like watching a fighting video game live. There was no stage just an 80-meter gantry revolving with 100's of flipping acrobats, a boat, a beach and a mechanical flying bird. You had to be there. Dad snored around 40 minutes into the show.
I woke my Pops up and he completely denied he had missed probably the most spectacular show in the entire world.
With the rest of the 2,000 guests we meandered through the never-ending casino to the party destination. Dad and I were ready to rock and roll. He flirted with everyone and everything. My newfound super glamorous friends found him at first both charming and funny then as the evening wore a bit of a bore and bridging on pervert. I didn't care I was with my Dad. In Las Vegas. At the opening of a new Cirque multi million dollar show and going to a party that had chocolate fountains, prostitutes and a couple of ropey stilt walkers. We were out to have a funky good time. Big bands played, the champagne flowed, we danced and enough free food to end world starvation. All this with my 72-year-old Dad all night. We drank and we drank and we drank. My dad danced with Agnes from Paris a cross between Sophia Loren and J-Lo who salsa'd around his aging body. He thought he had died and gone to heaven. Meanwhile I decided to join the beautiful people on stage. There was Wassa from Senegal, the most erotic dancer I have ever laid my eyes on. She does things with here booty that make you wonder how she was put together. In total and sheer joy we started to dance together. I saw the thousands upon thousands of people watching us and decided to take my top off. Like you do when you are having fun. At that point from afar I could see a crocodile of people moving towards the stage swiftly. Headed by Guy La Liberte the Cirque owner. It looked remarkably like he was coming towards me. I waved and thought maybe he's coming for a dance too. So I danced more and gave everyone the finger. I don't know why I did that I guess I was having a good time in a kind of aggressive Essex way encouraged all the while by my father. Guy was now at the front of the stage pointing furiously at me, shouting and gesticulating. I don't think he was up for a samba after all.
Reluctantly I realized he didn't want me to flash my breasts and give people the finger on his stage at his party. I was told to dismount immediately and leave. I didn't I just found trouble elsewhere. I ended the party around 11am face down on the shiny white marble reception floor of the MGM Grand surrounded by tourists; my Dad was not far away on his own bit of floor. I think we were a big hit.
The next day I was called into the office. I had received possibly one of the only written warnings from Guy La Liberte himself for exposing my breasts and finger flicking at one of his parties. I was told I had to respond with an apology. I wrote a deeply sincere letter and made it clear that I would keep my breasts hidden and only expose my bits in the work place from now on. Unfortunately I did not keep my promise. Guy doesn't like me very much anymore. I don't think I am his type.
Everyday at Cirque Du Soleil
To describe everyday at Cirque Du Soleil you have to begin with the people we were working alongside. Alongside beauty. Alongside super sexy beauty. Alongside super sexy naked beauty. Everyday. Everyday. Everyday. The bodies attached to these erotic exotic creatures were not of the Spymonkey ilk. All we get is the fat hairy sweaty Spanish one, the half man half woman Essex bruiser, the weedy white whingey whiney British Boy and a deeply disturbed German. At least we were funny. Just not in a Cirque show!
Let me introduce you to some of the cast. There was Sophie. A ballet dancer from Paris. Dressed everyday in a pale blue tutu. And that totaled her full attire. Where ever Sophie went so did hundreds of pairs of eyes. Mainly attached to the Spymonkey faces. A total stunner. Think Audrey Hepburn with attitude and lots of hair. Then there was Gula, the 21-year-old Russian contortionist whose body was bursting forth practically bearing fruit. She was my best friend at the Cirque and had the whole free spirit thing finely tuned. We worked with ex Miss France, Lawrence, Flamenco star Marcella from Mexico, Bronze medalist Olga from Ukraine and just simply a bevy of hand picked unequivocal stunners from around the world
Then there were the men. The MEN. BIG Men. HUGE MEN. I know, I saw. I was in the mens dressing room. My choice. Being half man half woman I was slightly confused until the copious amounts of farting got out of hand. Usually whilst being pinned to the floor and boy bottoms in my face. Anyway the MEN, lead by the stripper from Cuba, Alex Castro. 6' 1", 230 pounds, 19 inch arms, and 28 inches, both his waist and quads plus the biggest penis I have ever seen in my entire life. He kept telling me ‘its sleepy, its sleepy' so I shudder to think when its wide awakey. Play time in the green room wearing but a g-string he used to swing me into the air with one arm to land on his mountain of a hip and pretend to do me. It was like dry fucking a pneumatic drill. I used to giggle with glee and then have motion sickness as it never seemed to end. How I loved Alex Castro. On the other end of the scale there was the poised and elegant Anton from Russia. At 16 he was already the lead dancer at the Bolshoi ballet. A sweet charming gentleman and he wasn't gay. I asked him once if he hadn't married his wife would he have ever considered me. He laughed a lot. I laughed too but inside and in a hurt kind of way. Then there was Ugo. Homeboy from Harlesden. Never smoked a cigarette, drunk booze or taken drugs in his life but partied like an animal every night. Night after night. We knew Ugo to be a ladies man except we didn't know to what extent until he was thrown out of the Cirque on his repeated warning for special entertainment services during the interval on the rafters shafting the lovely ladies upstairs. We later found out that he suffered from ADD and was an out and out sex addict. Oh quel surprise
me and alex pick up an award
Spymonkey first met these extraordinary artists at the head quarters in Montreal. Fresh off a 14 hour flight we found them all rehearsing the extravaganza. Basically a long catwalk from back to front of the stage. All the 50 cast were clad in tiny black leather shorts, whips, high heels the works. ‘Folks…' it was announced ‘here are the clowns.'
Like that wasn't obvious. Showing Dunkirk spirit we joined the catwalk and looked like fat old frumpy farts. And that's pretty much how we felt for the whole time we were there.
We worked 2 90 minute shows a day, 5 days a week. Clocking in at 6pm and leaving just after midnight. In two years we completed over 900 shows. I think the first three months were the toughest. My life became ‘Groundhog Day' counting the same stairs up and then counting them down. Saying the same lines, the same action and if I had to utter ‘Glory! Glory! Glory!' one more time there would be blood shed.
We all leaned very heavily on each other to keep us going and the cast and crew will remain life long and cherished compadres. The experience was worth its weight in gold and so was the money earnt! But I would never sign my life away for another two years to a corporate company again. At least I hope I don't!
