Panic, lads, it's a red alert

Impromptu pic: a shaft of mid-afternoon autumnal sunlight falling on one of Richard DeDomenici's red balloons, from Saturday's Duckie. The hydrangeas are two weeks old now, their blue increasingly flecked with brown crispiness. They've lasted well, though.



Here's a blurry-but-cute pic of DeDomenici avec balloons:



His was, I think, my favourite of Saturday's acts. It combined fun audience participation (and it's not often I'll type that oxymoron) with just the right amount of nostalgia. When he took his bow at the end, the audience chanted "off! off! off!" (well, we are Gayerz, and like a bit of cock in our cabaret) and Dedomenici obliged, letting the central double-zipped panel of his Hazmat suit fall open to reveal a rather nice pleasure trail leading to a pair of red tartan boxer shorts. Levels of squee were dangerously high.

'Twas in the gently ravaged post-Duckie dénouement at home with Mel that I blew up my own luft ballon. I must've been drunk, because I'm mildly balloon-phobic and Wouldn't Normally Do This Kind Of Thing. I'm not sure where my aversion stems from but I have faintly traumatic memories of a childrens' party where a treasure hunt had been arranged, complete with clues. Some of the clues were inside balloons, and we had to blow them up until they burst. I absolutely hated having to keep blowing something I knew would explode in my face (insert innuendo here) and I think I started crying and had to be taken aside and consoled with cake (good strategy).

Anyway, yes, I get a bit antsy around balloons, especially when people are rubbing and squeaking them. Brrr. I like this one, though.