On Wednesday night Malvern’s ConFab Cabaret celebrated its first year. Named partly for its original venue, ReCon (RIP) it’s been peripatetic since that venue closed. Last night’s party was hosted in the fiery red of Oliver’s Bar, Belle Vue Terrace. If unfamiliar performance surroundings might be stressful ConFab’s for organisers, Amy Rainbow and Catherine Crosswell, they gave no hint of it during the show.
The open mic – “Prepare to Share” – two minute slots were a good mixture, as always, kicked off by a party visit from Spoz at his ranty-filthy-est best. The main acts were Birmingham’s quartet of superb Decadent Divas (a diva down but performing extra decadence to make up) and then finished with the wickedly funny five-piece acapella group Men In General.
I’ve been lucky enough to have been to all the ConFabs Cabarets, and to have been doing Fox Pops – “some kind of audience involvement” – since the second. Since I am also naturally lazy, these days I just hand out paper and get the audience to write a poem – well, a line or two each that can be sticky-taped to together. I start as I mean to go on, by making the audience decide its subject for the night. “Parties” came out tops last night for some reason. Though someone in the Brum contingent was apparently yelling “Benedict Cumberbatch’s arse” and I missed it. Consequently, there were a few rebel couplets on that subject. I can only apologise in advance to Mr Cumberbatch should he come upon them here.
Roll up! Roll up!
it’s party time:
Energising atmosphere in the red room
as the party swings into full bloom.
Various poppers and balloons;
pop, pop as banners festoon;
young and old imbibe the tunes
while neighbours decry their intruded rooms.
Cars parked across my drive.
lots of noise as people arrive.
Laughing, chatting, full and hearty:
they all are off to someone’s party.
Gate-crashing the party
with my friend Marty.
Party party party woop woop!
My daughter said a party MUST be good,
I wish that I could square that with the BNP
Labour, whig – couldn’t give a fig.
And Jasper says you’re wearing no knickers.
Chips, dips and chicks with whips;
pills, thrills and players with grillz;
all paid for with dollar bills.
Cameron’s a twat
George Osbourne is a pillock.
The Tory party’s fucked
and Labour are not much better.
And I’ll cry if I want to…
Party me hard and draw me out
make me roar with a full throat shout.
Birthday, present, tense…
all tomorrow’s parties, spent.
Vicars and Tarts for a hearty party.
I don’t want to get there too late
but I don’t want to peak too soon;
I’m making no apologies for
the wrong choice of pants
but I can blame them if I swoon.
Dance on the table
with Aunty mabel.
It’s an Elgar Party Knicker:
it makes you go real quicker.
Sitting on the toilet with
my boobs out
Something wobbles on the laundry
bags and bundles.
Crooked floors, smiles and wobbly walls.
Cake up the wall, bodies in the lo;
what will it be like when they’re two?!
I like cake far too much.
Wine and cheese?
Oh yes please!
I’m such a tarty-farty
when at an arty-party.
if I was a chicken,
all my eggs you would hatch;
I am the cottage, you are the thatch,
Benedict, Benedict Cumberbatch.
Oh beautiful Benedict Cumberbatch
you could tempt me away from “snatch”;
some men are fit but you are fitter –
I’d gladly take you up my [at this point
Fox Pops was overcome with emotion;
a brief pause while the audience calmed]
Is a party to do with parting?
Because I gotta!
One for the road with this party.
On my way to Castlemorton Common – a road
– I took a wrong-un … and ended up in Bath
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