The obligatory wedding post

The wedding was not as traumatic as I thought it might be. It was, as anticipated, an excellent excuse to start drinking at 9:00am and consume vast quantities of barbecued goodness, all in the name of patriotism. Most of our viewing involved bitching about the outfits of some of the guests, and having a bit of a perve on some of the others, which, to be fair, is what we do most of the time anyway. I even got excited enough to have to run downstairs from the bathroom to see the Queen arrive (looking resplendently like an ageing sherbet lemon), and to purchase a commemorative novelty condom, emblazoned with the toothy faces of our royal couple. This will remain on display forever, not because I treasure it, but because I will never use such an example of a product in which effectiveness should definitely be more worthy of consideration than novelty.

Sexual Nature

Last night L and I went to the Sexual Nature exhibition at the Natural History Museum. Here we learned many interesting facts about animal courtship and *snigger* mating. We also learned that it is necessary to physically move away from stuffed angora rabbits if one is to obey the 'do not touch' sign (and if one didn't that would lead to anarchy, no?), and that Isabella Rossellini is a complete loon. The exhibition was dotted with video screens showing short films of said loon simulating graphic sex while dressed up as various different animals. Attempts to find an example on youtube have just led to extreme excitement, as it turns out there are lots more than were shown at the exhibition. Be warned. These are genuinely weird and may scar you for life.

I would definitely recommend the exhibition if you're one of those people (like me) who likes to dot a conversation with fascinating facts about echidnas, much to the bemusement of the decidedly uninterested people who unsuspectingly set you off. I enjoyed it anyway, even if it has left me with the vague impression that men ought to be building me bowers, presenting me with pebbles and inflating their neck wattle to extraordinary proportions in order to earn my affection.

White Mischief

White Mischief are known for their extraordinary themed parties, and Saturday's Great Exhibition event  lived up to the hype. Not only lived up to it in fact, but exceeded every expectation.Performances ranged from The Great Voltini's spectacular electric display, to some of the most beautifully artistic Japanese rope bondage I've ever seen, with quirky touches such as Miss Chameleon's hilarious flea circus thrown in for good measure. And frankly I don't think you've lived until you've been part of a vast crowd singing Bohemian Rhapsody to the accompaniment of a lederhosen-wearing Bavarian oom-pah band.

The aesthetic at White Mischief events is always amazing, with the costumes being a particular feature. Some party-goers are hardcore steampunkers, who make a lifestyle out of neo-Victoriana, while others just take any excuse to get gussied up. I count myself among the latter group. Having spent a mere ten minutes on Saturday morning rummaging through my wardrobe for anything vaguely appropriate, in hopes of being able to cobble together an outfit during quiet moments at work, I confess to feeling decidedly underdressed upon entering the venue. I was instantly immersed in a world of shining clockwork, luxe velvet and imagination. These steampunk guys don't do things by halves.

Pardon?

Oh, you want to know what steampunk is?

Well, imagine a parallel world where the microchip was never invented. In fact that whole electricity thing never really took off. Clockwork mechanics and the steam engine rule, and the cast includes vast thinking machines, frock coat clad cyber-pirates, and pith-helmeted explorers bound for outer-space or the depths of the ocean. Basically it's Victoriana brought up to date. Think Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials for grown-ups, or Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, but with better acting.

Next time I go to a White Mischief event I'll remember to bring cash for the amazing stalls run by various steampunk artists, writers and craftspeople. I'll also take a gag for the friend who insisted on walking around them declaring loudly that she could make this stuff for half the price. Maybe she could, but I certainly can't. I'd also remember to take my walking boots and crampons. The maze-like Scala may be a stunning venue for this kind of affair, but if you venture down to the foothills of the smoking terrace then you're going to require a stronger constitution than mine to get back up to the peak. Or an oxygen tank.