Nic Narrates

I’ve been to a Nelly Furtado concert. The Boy and I went last night. Precious thing responded to my whiny email request last month for tickets to Michael Bublé with a shrieking phone call in kind. I did something bad! I fucked up! I just got Nelly Furtado tickets! FUCK! And thus, we returned from London to the likes of The Furtado and her posse of ho.

(Note: As I am still convincing myself that of course London froze in time when I left it last Friday—I mean, how can it seriously continue to exist without me there?—I am apparently not yet able to write The London Post at present. When there will be less sighing and chance of tears, I will happily regale you with our journeys.)

So, The Furtado. Yes, sweet Nelly was an accident. But we went. And arm in arm we sauntered into the swarm of screaming, texting 14 and 15 year olds and were carried along by the abundant folds of skin fighting their way free of many a sequined halter top and denim skirt. It would appear that we had unwittingly signed on for not only a Festival of Skank but a coincidentally scheduled PWT convention. Why is it that people don’t make the slightest effort to dress for theatre anymore, but they’ll ho it up for a concert? What the hell is that? Scenes from my hometown flashed before me and it was all I could do to stifle a scream. The horror!

We found our seats. Well, not our seats—we were directed to someone else’s fine aisle locale. Thanks for that, Estelle. But upon rectifying the situation, we settled in to people watch and survey the “high-school auditorium” that lay before us.

Thanks to the mad skilz of “Saukrates” and “Kenna,” we were *entertained* until Fugtado graced us with her 80’s Glam, be-spandexed thighs. With similarly clad Jazzercized interpretive dancers in tow (one of whom I could swear was “Blake” from MTV’s Dance Life—you know you watched it too!), she took the stage and proceeded to defy my every effort to will her out of her fuggery. We’re talking Day-glo here, people. And black opaque tights with 3 inch heels. Costume after costume, I was confounded (and breathing through my mouth thanks to the World Headquarters of BO sitting to my left—I wonder how many sweat particles deposited themselves amid my molars? ew…).

Highlights of the concert included The Boy “translating” a song sung in Portuguese (something tells me she wasn’t singing the politically incorrect epitaph that brought me to tears of laughter whilst everyone around us swayed back and forth on the verge of very different tears), my realization that I couldn’t stop staring at her unruly ass in fear that it was somehow going to start a mutiny and jiggle off the stage- spandex and all, and being asked where her “single, independent, educational women be at” (I used to teach. Does that mean that I am educational?).

Alas, I am sorry to report there was no bird costume à la Fug. However, what was seen was quite enough. After a rousing bout of Promiscuous and Maneater, during which the poor tweens in front of us tried desperately to get their dance on, it was time for us to go.

I’m certain Michael Bublé wouldn’t have sent us home after so much fun, nor with half as much to laugh about. And we didn’t even drink!

Filed under: Fug, Just Another Day in Crazy by Nic