is there anything more cringeworthy that watching otherwise sane members of the human race tripping around in fur and stroking their whiskers with their little paw-like hands in lycra and fluff. maybe not. especially if they’re also singing. having witnessed some inexplicably awful things masquerading as entertainment for which I paid good money for over the years, I’m not quite ready to make a final decision on feline embodiment as the last resort of theatrical production but by tomorrow I’ll be in the most unenviable position of being able to refer to a full blown west-end production of its making me twitch just thinking about it cats. that’s cats, as in, lloyd webber cats.
by all accounts it is a wonderfully fabulous rendition of said macavityness but the last time I was pleased with anything to do with macavity it was at madentist getting plaque scraped off with a sharp hook. I’m hoping this evening will prove to be at best slightly less painful although I suspect I might still need some horrible pink mouthwash to take the taste away afterwards. but you never know. I used to not like african music. and I saw that jesus christ superstar up theatre street a few years ago, which was alright.