Talking Poofy Tour Blog - Day Two.

Friday November 18, 11.30am.

I don't think I really gave you a full report of the show on Wednesday night: we did the show munted on serapax, some lesbians flipped us the bird from the audience, we got a guy up onstage who was so young he was still studying for his birth certificate and then on the way home, as Scott told me, he "gambled on a fart and lost". So: that's preview night out of the way!

Human kind has never known misery like our sorry selves the next morning. Seriously, we were getting messages of condolence from Fukushima. It was very difficult preparing for the show in the evening, just because the alcohol poisoning lingering in our systems made the pre-show champagne quite a disagreeable experience.

In the end the show was great in my opinion, I really liked it although I think the audience were a bit cooler than last night, which is fucking ridiculous I cannot imagine so much as cracking a smile at the grizzled turd of entertainment we squeezed out on Wednesday, but so be it, you can argue with popularity but you'd be wrong. 

Afterwards we were sitting around the traffic island drinking and playing a post-show retrospective Audience Would Ya. I avowed that I definitely would with one tubby-bubbly chap in the front row and through the miracle of Grindr messaging, Adam had him sitting at our table inside about 3 minutes, just dialed him up like a science fiction show, amazing what they can do nowadays.

Now, this exact same scenario transpired in Hobart, and I fucked it up just the same there. Dear Talking Poofy, help me break this pattern: I spy someone I think is attractive, my fellow paftas contrive to put me in conversation with same, and then - I dry up, totally and immediately. I am a terrible flirt.

In life in general, I'm a pretty busy person. Seriosuly, you could cast me as a working mother in an aspirin commercial. I like to identify what needs to be done, do it, and go home. In short, I don't fiddle-arse around. And flirting is all about fiddle-arsing around! As most of you know I'm currently eleven years into a life sentence with Peter and we're not in one of those modern relationships where there are "rules" like "the other city rule" or the "don't ask don't tell rule" (which always strikes me as a strangely inappropriate term for these arrangements - "No parking" is a rule, "You can fuck what you want in Adelaide" is, after eleven years I promise you, a powerful incentive to think of reasons to go to Adelaide).

So what I'm getting at is, for me, flirting is ultimately pointless, I'm not gonna chop the guy, so why waste my time pretending to laugh at his stupid jokes or be interested in his job at Qantas marketing, which is what it almost always is. I can't enjoy the process at all; what I want to say is, look buster, take off your shirt and just give me a quick peck on the top of my neck, that's the kind of SFW liaison Pete won't crack it over, and should still have sufficient piquancy in two hours' time when I'm finish getting smashed and go home, angry-wank over it and fall asleep.