First, a little derivation of one of the most recognisable phrases in modern English. ‘Till death us do part’ is one of a few phrases from the Book of Common Prayer. Along with the works of Shakespeare and the King James bible, these three works form the basis of English as we know it today.

I just looked up the full title, it’s one hell of a mouthful: The Book of Common Prayer and Administration of the Sacraments and other Rites and Ceremonies of the Church according to the use of the Church of England together with the Psalter or Psalms of David pointed as they are to be sung or said in churches and the form and manner of making, ordaining, and consecrating of bishops, priests, and deacons. I guess that didn’t fit on the front cover (it must’ve been horrible to copy out in full, back before printing presses were invented), so it’s known simply as ‘The Book of Common Prayer’ today.

It seems that the book was written and revised a few times around the 1500s and then majorly in 1662. The point is, I’m not sure who actually penned the famous phrases. I guess, much like the Bible, no one really knows who wrote it. It just kind of… appeared on paper. A great example of divine will at work, I guess…

Much like the works of Shakespeare and passages from King James Bible, phrases from the Common Prayer Book have actually become part of our language. Today, many people use phrases such as ‘Speak now or forever hold your peace’, or ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ without really knowing where they came from; we heard them as children, or more commonly nowadays in popular media. They are very religious phrases indeed; they stem from some of the oldest Christian rites!

Anyway, using a line from the marriage liturgy was perhaps a little disingenuous, as I actually want to write about the complete opposite of marriage: death. Perhaps the ‘Earth to earth’ phrase would’ve been a better choice… Oh well!

For those of you that are following me on Twitter you might be aware that a few days ago my great uncle died. Now, being the lucky kind of guy that I am, this is actually the first death I’ve had in my immediate family, discounting my grandmother that died when I was quite young (and I wasn’t very close to). Tomorrow I will attend his memorial service, and on Thursday I will attend my very first funeral.

‘What will the mood be?’ I asked the world in general, when I found out I would be attending a funeral. ‘Bittersweet’ came the reply from my friends. Instantly, being a connoisseur of dark chocolate, my mind hopped, skipped and jumped back to the sensations I experienced while eating my very first piece of 99% cocoa Lindt chocolate. Now, I have to tell you that my first piece was enjoyed in the presence of The American, so my senses were perhaps just a little skewed, but the experience was… unique. But what I do remember clearly, once I strip out the fuzzy, love-fuelled memories, was a moment — a brief, fleeting explosion — of dark and powerful intensity. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it was intense.

That’s what I imagine the funeral will be like: dark and intense, but swiftly followed by clarity and the brightness of things to come. Once our farewells have been said and our prayers delivered I hope the sadness and loss that hangs over the ceremony like a cloud will simply waft away. He’s gone and the darkness of his death will be quickly be replaced by the sparkling possibilities of tomorrow.

If anything does in fact remain after death, it will certainly be his wise, gently-nagging Jewish rasping voice whispering time-tested advice into our ears!

Looking forward though, even if the day itself is veiled with sadness, I know he will be happy knowing that he brought the entire family together again. People will come from all over the world — hundreds of people — to remember a great man, a man that was dearly loved by many and respected by all.

Discussing the funeral itself, I posed a rather silly question to my mother:

‘Mum, can I go to the funeral with my half-good-half-evil beard? I’ll be able to mourn with one side, and be happy with the other at the end!’

‘No, Seb, don’t be silly; there might be some nice girls there that you can marry!’

Jewish to the very end!

Despite my tirade against showers in specific and personal hygiene in general, I have to admit that a lot of incredibly wise and incendiary thoughts come to me in the bathroom. Those thoughts that strike you, out of the blue, and completely change the course of your day — or entire life, in the case of some famous Greek philosophers!

Once, for example, I was reaching down to soap that bit of my legs that I don’t see all that often (at a guess, it was my calf  — when you’re tall like me, there are outlying parts of your body that you might only see every other year), when inspiration hit, like a beam of holy light lancing down upon my up-turned visage: I should design a site that allows people to freely stream the contents of their computer screen! Sadly, I was beaten to that one by a week or two when UStream launched (and they do it really well!)

But the point I was trying to make is: some of our greatest inspirations come to us while we’re just sitting/standing/laying there and being.

And thus I found myself this evening,  standing up from my gleaming white throne and looking down at the silvery knobs that controlled the fate of my stodgy deposit. In that brief moment, looking from knobs to deposit, and deposit to knobs, I reflected on the sheer quantity of the food I ate earlier today.

Opting for the larger, more powerful flush, I stumbled back to the living room and collapsed flatulently on to the sofa.

I had intended to rant today about monotheistic religion and its poor suitability and applicability to modern civilisation, but I thought it could wait until tomorrow, after the food has settled and the massive amount of insulin has left my system before I try to write sensibly on such a sensitive topic.

So, saving the topic of religion for tomorrow, I’ll simply leave you with the list of food that I ate today, in audio format (so that you can hear the pain that I’m still suffering in my voice).

I suffered, so that ye can enjoy! Just like Jesus. Oops, it slipped in…

(If you can’t see the player, you’ll have to view it on my blog!)

(The days of the week are merely a consideration of time. There’s no real reason why today can’t be Monday. In fact, considering we’ve probably lost days and weeks, or even years, back during the Dark Ages, today might actually be Monday. Who knows, and who cares — today is Musical Monday, whether you like it or not.)

It’s been a long time coming, but hopefully worth the wait. I’ve finally made it to the last stage of this little lesson in musical theatre history: contemporary West End and Broadway shows!

We had the golden years in the 40s, 50s and early 60s. I’ve discussed the birth of rock musicals in the 60s, and their eventual maturity with masterpieces such as Rent. The 70s and 80s were full of Sondheim masterpieces and Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s ‘power’ and ‘pop’ musicals. And now, we have the new millennium. The musical composers that kept the stages and audiences around the world buzzing for the last 50 years have proverbially taken their last bow and left the stage. It’s been a long time indeed since Les Miserables or Phantom of the Opera debuted. That’s not to say we’re without good, contemporary musical writers — there are a few, and I certainly remain hopeful to see a second smash hit from Wicked’s creator Stephen Schwartz — but there has certainly been a bit of a creative slump in recent years. The same stagnation that’s plagued the popular film industry has seeped into musical theatre.

Today, it’s all about brand re-use. It’s all about value-added productions. Why bother to spend time and money on something that might fail? Today more than ever, commercial success is vital — gone are the days when musicals might only run for a week or two. Experimentation is not something that goes down well with investors! Couple this with the world’s  ‘need’ for bigger productions, shinier productions — moving stages, sinking ships — and it’s no wonder we’re seeing consolidation in the musical industry. With the recession, it’s almost a certainty that we won’t see any new, refreshing and big productions. In fact, Wicked was probably THE last great, original musical — at least until the end of this decade, I would’ve thought.

Now, this ‘consolidation’ (vertical integration) is nothing new, and it’s borrowed directly from the multimedia industry. When you make a blockbuster film it makes sense (for the publisher at least) to piggyback video games and merchandise on the film’s marketing strategy. The number of video games sold on the back of the Harry Potter and Spider-Man films is huge! It was only inevitable that musical theatre would go the same way, which is why we’ve laboured through such 3 1/2 hour epics as Lord of the Rings: The Musical and Titanic: The Musical. It’s why we’ll soon have to struggle through Spider-Man: The Musical.

This isn’t to say that screen-to-stage adaptations don’t work! Look at My Fair Lady, The Lion King or Beauty and the Beast — all huge hits on the screen, and then the stage. Though, there’s one major difference: they were already musicals with fantastic scores! Sunset Boulevard is one of the only non-musical-film-to-stage adaptations that’s been a large success and funnily, Lloyd-Webber’s musical version is  scheduled to become a film again. That’s not new though: The Producers did it too with fantastic results: Film, musical, and finally becoming a musical film.

Somehow I can’t see Spider-Man: The Musical being adapted for the big, silver screen though. Unless Toby Maguire can sing, then we might see it after Spider-Man 5. Maybe. Though, I get all excited, thinking about the harness work they’ll do on stage for Spider-Man. The acrobatics in Mary Poppins, though very simple, were incredibly effective. On a larger scale, it might be very impressive indeed. I do wonder if a singing Spider-Man could be taken seriously though. Crowd-pleasing, full-chorus numbers lamenting his inability to get the girl, or control his sticky web issues.

Anyway, the other popular musical production today is the ‘jukebox musical’. It’s a format that has existed for a while, but only really lifted off with Mamma Mia! in 1999 (which recently became a film, completing the circle of life!) In 2002, the genre was firmly cemented with the truly awesome production of We Will Rock You by Ben Elton and Queen. But what is a jukebox musical exactly? It’s when an enterprising person takes an existing body of pre-branded music and shoehorns it into a totally wacky, nonsensical story. And it works — just. If you’re an ABBA or Queen fan, you’ll love it; if you’re not, you’ll probably leave the theatre a little worse for wear, and very confused. Fortunately, the music industry is massive and there’ll always be enough fans to drive these jukebox musicals for years and years.

Though, saying that, there’s a depressingly large list of jukebox musicals that have been produced, or are in the works. Musicals based on the works of John Denver — OK, I can kind of envision something Calamity Jane‘ish. But really, would people go to see a Green Day musical? Or Boney M? Or even… Take That? (OK, the Take That musical is actually quite good; don’t hurt me, girls, please.)

The future looks pretty bleak for musical theatre. Recent years have only seen a handful of musicals that would make their ‘golden years’ brethren proud. We can pray that musical theatre doesn’t follow in the footsteps of the other media industries, but I think that would wishful thinking — everything in this world is becoming larger, globalised, monetised and capitalised upon. You can guarantee that if a studio spends 10 million on the marketing of a film and video game, they’re going to make a stage production too!

As always then, it comes down to a few enterprising composers, or an investor that see that little glimmer of potential that everyone else missed. Unless we want to be plagued with the third and forth revival productions of classic productions, something has to change. More risks need to be taken. It’s down to you Stephen Schwartz; make your Jewish musical masters proud.

I know I’ve painted a grim picture, but it’s worth noting that musical theatre is more popular than ever (which must be a good thing?) The problem – at least, in my eyes — is the quality of productions. Musicals have become  ‘a special, expensive trip to the cinema’ that a family might do once a year. Musicals should be more than that! They shouldn’t simply be part of our entertainment consumption regime; they should be part of our culture, and the future culture of our children.

In September 1939 Hitler invaded Poland. With thousands of tanks and planes, the invasion was short and victory was absolute. Two days later, Hitler’s steady advancement across European borders was finally curtailed by the Allied declaration of war. It would be the last, world-encompassing dying breath of an empire that once spanned a quarter of the world, an empire that had already sustained massive social and military erosion since the First World War.

“I felt as if I were walking with Destiny, and that all my past life had been but a preparation for this hour and for this trial.” Winston Churchill, Prime Minister

Winston Churchill was not Prime Minister when war was declared — Neville Chamberlain was — so most of his rousing, now-renowned speeches came later, after the fall of France. Ironically, it took Britain’s biggest failure in war to see Churchill become the prime minister. The Battle of Britain followed, as did the joining of the war by the Americans. Bridging both the Atlantic and the 250-year imperial divide created by the American Revolutionary War, Roosevelt effectively, excuse the Americanism, ’saved our asses’.

The rest is history. Messy, corpse-riddled history. But this story isn’t about America, or even England; it’s about my visit to the Poland in 2008. A trip down a cobbled, dark lane littered with the shadows of my Jewish ancestors. I stood where Hitler had stood. Hitler commanded a vast audience that filled the streets of Danzig (Gdansk) as he delivered his first victory speech. While he spoke and the occupants of Danzig gawped at their new charismatic, self-deprecating emperor, Germany’s vastly superior army was busy destroying the scattered, fragmented remnants of the Polish military.

And do you know the scariest bit about his speech? Not his passion, or immensely self-righteous attitude, nor the propoganda or his fantastic oratory control.  It’s the last few words of his speech:

“We are determined to carry on and stand this war one way or another. We have only this one wish, that the Almighty, who now has blessed our arms, will now perhaps make other peoples understand and give them comprehension of how useless this war, this debacle of peoples, will be intrinsically, and that He may perhaps cause reflection on the blessings of peace which they are sacrificing because a handful of fanatic warmongers, persons who stand to gain by war, want to involve peoples in war.” Adolf Hitler, Chancellor of the Reich

Another war, another crusade. One more Earth-shaking tirade in the name of God! However, this won’t be about God or the atrocities committed for and in his name, I’ve already written more than enough on that topic… at least for now. No, this trip was simply to see Poland, to see a friend, to sample the food and the culture. This wasn’t the stereotypical trip to Auschwitz; the kind of trip that many Jews take in a fruitless attempt to absorb a tiny fraction of what war-time Poland must’ve been like for our ancestors. I can’t begin to conceive what the Holocaust was like, and I have no idea how many members of my family were mercilessly slaved and later executed.

(Old town Sopot, close to where Hitler delivered his victory speech, and one of my favourite photos!)

I couldn’t hope to experience the past, but I could certainly go and see what had become of the trading city of  Gdansk (Danzig), 60 years on. I had been lured by my Canadian friend Mike, enticed by sleazy, hedonistic promises: 

‘Just come for the weekend, Seb. You just have to pay for the flight, I’ll pay for everything else.’

‘Even the hot, Eastern European kurwas?’ Without missing a beat, I’d used one of the few words I’d learnt from my trip to Serbia (pretty photos and a fun story!)

‘If you want some certified-diseased prostitutes, Seb, we can do that… just bring your health insurance documents.’ Mike sounded awfully experienced in the ways of fleeting, paid-by-the-hour love.

‘I’ll see you on Friday.’

The next part will chronicle my long weekend in the Tricity of Gdansk, Gdynia and Sopot: the first of many cheap hookers; one of the few times I’ve had acute alcohol poisoning AND… of course there will be more, awful photos of me.

I took yet another wrong turn and looked around. It was 10am, but down here in the maze-like bowels of Venice it could’ve been 10pm. I’d been up since 4am and the caffeine from the cup of coffee on the plane was wearing thin. Breakfast would’ve been lovely and there was certainly the tantalising smell of food in the air, but following my usually-acute sense of smell had already led me into three dead ends.

A couple of geriatric Italians grinned at me toothlessly from a doorway. Even if I attempted to ask them for directions in Italian they would feign illiteracy.

I stared at them and grinned back, making the shape of a gun with my index finger and thumb. My over-sized canines had done most of the work, but I had to admit: the finger-gun was a nice touch. Pointing it at the pensioners I asked: ‘Dov’è Al Doge Beato?‘ They showed me, with a nervous succession of frail arm movements, where I might find my humble abode for the next two days: The Blessed Duke, the Happy Duke — something like that.  It sounded cheesy, but it was charming– everything in Venice is lovely.

Perhaps ‘lovely’ isn’t quite the right word; ‘quaint’ better describes the almost-complete dilapidation of the city. As I walked on, almost everything is in an awful state of repair. There’s something about floating in the middle of a warm and windy salt-water lagoon that really eats away at the paint and brickwork. A few bridges and labyrinthine turns later, I stood outside my hotel: a canal-side, turn-of-the-millennium building — and I’m not talking about a few years ago! My room looked out over a canal on one side, and had a floor-to-ceiling double-door leading out onto an ancient stone balcony on the other. It wasn’t cheap, but considering nothing in Venice is, I thought I’d splash out.

‘You can’t miss Piazza San Marco, just head towards…’ I zoned out as he begun gesturing wildly with his hands. It was obviously an Italian thing, pointing and gesticulating; some kind of sign language that I wasn’t privy to. He noticed the blank look on my face. ‘I’ll get you a map.’ Armed with my map and camera and finger-gun I looked around and then at the map, trying to catch my bearings. Picking one of the three paths that headed south at random I felt like one of my other namesakes, Sebastian Cabot. He’d been a major player in Venice back in the day and he’d probably had less difficulty navigating Venice than me — he ended up exploring Brazil for the King of Spain! — but I gave it my best shot. I’d already decided ahead of time that ‘getting lost in Venice’ would be one of the primary objectives of my trip. Losing myself as I cut between two buildings that were no more than half a meter apart; disappearing amongst the endless serpentine alleys, lost to the world. Venice isn’t big, but you only need walk 50 meters off the beaten path, turn a few corners, and you’ll find yourself alone, standing beneath the imposing facade of a  Gothic church or Renaissance house.

First up was a trip to to the Piazza — the only real open space in central Venice and the home of most major landmarks in Venice. There’s also a huge clock tower in the middle which, as you’d expect, grants a spectacular view of the ancient core of Venice.

There are museums and churches aplenty in Venice, much like every major city in Italy, but they pale in comparison to the ones in Florence and Rome. I could easily spend hours writing about the 50 churches that I visited during my trip, but that’d be boring! (Unless you like churches a lot… like me!) Perhaps you can now understand where my recent interest in dissecting religion has come from — you can only spend so long basking in the shadow of such an ancient, powerful institution — Roman Catholicism — before something goes ‘pop’.

Venice was home to the very first Jewish Ghetto, a Venetian word that probably derives from ‘iron foundry’, or a corruption of ‘Judaca’, the name given to the streets in which the Jews were confined to in Venice. This is where Jewish segregation all began, though this ghetto didn’t enforce labour like later incarnations around the world — it was merely separation from the aggressive and violent Christians. Set up by the incumbent Duke to protect rather than enslave, the Jews probably sought refuge there — they definitely weren’t free to leave however! It was also around this time that Jews became, um, Jewish: Catholic law prevented money-lending, but Jewish law did not. Jews also became the best doctors because most medical texts at the time were in Arabic, a language that Italians and Venetians struggled to understand.

The Venetian Ghetto existed until Napoleon came along in 1797 and removed all of the gates that had penned them in for 250 years, though some early documents could put it over 700 years! All that remain are the hinges that held those gates, but the Jewish love of money lives on! (Remember, it’s not our fault though — blame the Pope!)

It was a little sad, walking around the dirty, tired streets of Venice, a city that had once been the most affluent city state the world has ever seen. The Queen of the Adriatic was one of its many names, a name that makes you wonder just how opulent and vibrant the city had been 600 years ago. For centuries, Venice was ruled by merchants – a republic, led by aristocratic merchants, their sole purpose being to make more money (something they did very well. What most people don’t know is that Venice actually held an empire — a small one, mainly consisting of the Aegean islands Crete and Cyprus, but an empire nonetheless. They had a sizable military force, and their navy of 3,000 ships were almost invulnerable in their stronghold of a lagoon. Most were merchant ships but often converted into warships when piracy flared up in the East, or when they played a large part in the Forth Crusade — the crusade often viewed as the final schism between Catholic and East Orthodox religions — a role in a war that would ultimately spell the end of the Byzantine empire. Not bad for an unnavigable flyspeck of an island!

And the scary bit? It was all made possible with money; a leader with almost unlimited resources and support from a loyal, trusting republic:  that’s capitalism.

Variety is the spice of life. A phrase used all too often by parents and grandparents, normally when something doesn’t go quite right. ‘Ah well, you didn’t get the girl and you ended up with a bruised knee, eye and chin AND a rash on your ass BUT… you know, variety is the spice of life!!!’

(Old people always talk with multiple exclamations, especially in emails…)

What the phrase really means is that doing things differently is the key to keeping life interesting. Don’t always drive the same route to work. Don’t always buy the same food while shopping. Watch a new TV show, read a new genre of book — whatever, just mix things up. There is more than one way to skin a cat — a really damn morbid phrase from the 1800s (I guess when tanning was all the rage — but did people really wear cat fur?) — but it’s true!

And with that mention of furry animals, I have the perfect segue: my love of dressing up. Last month, The Pirate Special. This month: The Animal Special. ‘Animal’ is a loose classification. Let’s call it ‘non-human dress-up’. I should also warn you that in the following photos I am actually depicted as a furry, a race of dorks despised by every other kind of cosplayer and convention-goer out there.

Without further ado, to start off gently, we have my friend and I dressed up (ish) as mice in Cinderella:

It was a bit of a rush job, thus the white pieces of cloth being the only actual part of our costume. But we looked funny amongst the kids, trust me. And we were meant to have a very simple costume, it was part of the plot (don’t question amateur dramatics, really…) Later in the show I realistically transformed into a horse for Cinderella’s carriage — amazing what you can do with a quick fade-to-black, cardboard cut-out and glitter.

On the back of my fantastic mice acting I was asked if I’d like to be in the next show: Peter Pan. By this stage, I’d already been Nana the Dog so I asked if I could be Tinker Bell. There was an uncomfortable pause.

‘Um… sure… but we’ll have to butch you up a little. We’re not sure if a guy playing a lithe, ballet-dancing fairy is really… you know, part of the show. But for you, Seb, we’ll make an exception.‘

And thus, I became Tinker Bell, fluttering around the stage with my long, flowingly balletic arm movements. Perhaps the best part about having a big Tinker was my ability to carry Peter around, instead of fitting him with a harness…

Note how I used my two years of ballet training to almost get onto the tips of my toes. He’s not a small boy either! Magic performed before the audience’s very eyes, MAGIC!

I fully expect to be asked to play Cinderella next year; I’ll be horribly disappointed if they give it to some stereotypically pretty blonde bimbo instead.

Finally, the cosplay that started it all: Nana the Dog. I was 18 — seven years ago now, Jesus — and naive. Oh so ignorant of the wiles my mother possessed. I was somewhere on campus, probably reclining on a sofa (that’s a tie-in to yesterday’s entry) when my mother phoned me:

‘Sebby, there’s a pantomime in a few weeks and we need more men.’ ‘Needing more men’ is a very, very common problem for amateur dramatics — it’s not unusual for a show to have only 1 or 2 old, greying impotent men and 20 women.

‘Sure… but I’ve got a pretty busy schedule at university…’ At that exact moment I had my hand locked behind my girlfriend’s head, holding her down. A busy schedule indeed.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not a very big part. Just chorus stuff.’ Notice the crafty subterfuge. Jewish mothers are sneaky. I fully expect my mother to forge my signature on a marriage certificate one day if she finds a ‘good, sturdy girl with fine hips’.

‘When is it?’

‘The day after your semester ends.’

And so there I found myself, rushing back from university, completely unaware of the sticky, synthetic-fur fate that awaited me. I knew the show was Peter Pan but beyond that I hadn’t a clue. I thought I’d be a pirate or perhaps a very, very large and exceedingly hairy Lost Boy. Maybe I’d just be standing in the wings singing; whatever, a local amateur dramatics group needed my help damnit, no matter the role, I’d give it my all!

I pulled up at the house and opened the front door only to be greeted by my mother rushing past me towards her car.

‘Come on! The show starts in 30 minutes!’ I started to protest: I wanted to eat, shower… shave!

‘Don’t worry.’ A mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘You don’t need to shave.’

We arrive at the theatre with 15 minutes to spare and I’m pushed into the dressing room. I count all the pirates, Indians and Lost Boys; Peter, Hook, Tiger Lily and Tinker — they’re all accounted for — I glance around the room again, my gaze becoming frantic — all… but Nana. A large dog suit hangs from the wall. I stare at it, amazed by the success of my mother’s ruse. I notice a pretty girl smiling up at me with black face paint in one hand and some hair-ties in the other. Maybe it’s more of a smirk on her face. Yeah, definitely a smirk. I sigh,  accepting the imminent demise of my ‘cool kid’ reputation and begin to strip down, just 10 minutes away from curtain-up.

‘You’ll enter by crawling the length of the theatre auditorium with your cousin on your back. After that, just go with the flow.’ The director held me at arm’s length, assessing my get-up and make-up critically. Definitely the most minimal stage directions I’ve ever received before going on I thought to myself as stretched and limbered, preparing for my big entrance.

I guess when you’re a dog whose only lines are ‘woof’, ‘grrr’ and ‘purrr’ (it was pantomime after all) you can get away with just about anything. There’s something so incredibly unique about a 6′5″ beast zipped up in a fluffy dog suit with pigtails and one of his eyes painted black. I think the fact that I had my incredibly cute cousin on my back helped — sadly, only one photo exists of him riding on my back and I don’t have a copy of it. I must try to track it down!

The following image contains new and exclusive content of my head actually in the bowl. It’s a photo I’ve always wanted to share, but never found a suitable time to do so…

These are possibly two of the only photos with me actually smiling. That’s a bit sad.

Still, I can’t believe I didn’t score at the after-show party. Perhaps I should’ve taken the doggy suit off before flirting with Wendy and Tiger Lily.

‘You know, Sebby, you didn’t include the photos from after the Peter Pan show…’

That was my mother, rudely barging into my room. You know, the parental ‘Can I come in?’ manoeuvre, spoken as she opens the door.

Sometimes she takes a while to get to the point, but I already knew where she was going with this one.

‘But mum, I already embarrassed myself enough with the head-in-bowl photo.’

‘Those girls obviously loved you in that doggy outfit, Seb. You have to start thinking about getting a wife, and if that involves dressing up as a dog… I’m sure Moses would turn a blind eye if it meant you could find a nice wife. One that likes doggies.’

And so, through the undeniable power of motherly coercion, I bring you the photos from after the show. Out of the doggy suit and into the emo-kitchen-down-lights that you’re probably all used to by now.

Just remember, this Sunday, that no matter how bad a situation you’re in, how unfortunate circumstances might be, even when it seems like there’s no end to your suffering or sorrow — there’s a guy with pigtails, a blacked-out eye and beard pretending to look like a dog for your benefit.

And that’s Sebby’s Sunday Sermon. Have a nice day!

As I write this I’m tired. I’m just back from a family meet-up in London. I didn’t have enough sleep or coffee for the barrage of intimate and deeply-probing questions that septuagenarian Jewish females pitched at me over a four-hour period.

Not only is it the number of questions but the ferocity and varied intensity at which they are delivered. Think of them like baseball pitches: high, low; fast, slow; straight and curved — you need to be able to hit them all! Perhaps the key to surviving such a get-together is the ability to spot the same question but posed ever so slightly differently: Seb, what happened to that last girl, she was lovely is equivalent to What’s that girl’s name again? The one you dumped. Ah, yes, Alice? I hear she’s doing well now. Got her own business! which is the same as Seb, we’re all starting to wonder if you’re gay. You’re not gay are you? You better not be gay, you schmuck, I want grandchildren!

The following tips will help you with all kinds of family get-together, shindig or party. They may even help you with… a reunion; God have mercy on you! Don’t give up if you’re not a Jew — while Jewish relatives are undoubtedly the worst, that just means I’m able to give you even better tips. I’ve been torn to pieces so that you don’t have to!

1. Develop a benign smile

A good tip for almost every social encounter, a benign smile can see you through all but the worst and most embarrassing of situations. With a slight muscle twitch a benign smile can become an apologetic grin, or a toothy laugh as the old fogie delivers yet another awful anecdote from before the War. The reason this works is simple: when a relative isn’t asking you a deeply personal question, they don’t really expect you to talk. It’s your job to listen and look attentive. For bonus points: have a slice of the aforementioned ancestor’s cake at hand — occasionally eat a piece and make appreciative grunts as she talks to you, even if it tastes like crap.

2. Craft an air-tight cover story

Interrogation by persistent family members can be considerably worse than any and all forms employed both today and historically by international security agencies. You thought waterboarding was bad? Try being jabbed in the ribs with a 2-inch hard-lacquered fingernail. Repeatedly.

Thus, it’s important to have a cover story. Depending on your family or culture, you might want to flesh out particular aspects, but in general you must know the following two categories in great detail:

• Your job. You either have a job or you have very good prospects for a job. You are not sitting at home playing video games. You are not at university getting drunk and forgetting your own name every night.
• Your partner. Whether you have a boyfriend or girlfriend, for the sake of family get-togethers, you have a partner. Take a moment to flesh him or her out. Do they have a good job? Are they from a good (and Jewish, oy vey) family? The easiest solution here is to actually get a boyfriend or girlfriend. Never, ever admit to being single. For the sake of argument, a drunken kiss and fondle does count as a prospective relationship.

3. Appreciate the food, even if it tastes like refried week-old fish

Repeat after me: ‘Mmmm! That’s great! Did you put cinnamon in; or is that ginger? Either way it’s terrrrific!’

The only risk with such positive-reinforcement is that they might actually make it again. A fate worse than death. Hm, maybe you should just tell her that it tastes bad — cruel to be kind. But the point is: if you like the food, say so! When women get to a certain age, there isn’t much more to life than visiting the post office, writing letters or making food. Make your ancestor feel loved with a heart-felt ‘mmmm!’

4. Learn the ancestral language — Yiddish, Ebonics, German, whatever

At least in Jewish circles, a few choice phrases can propel you from ‘that runty kid with no chance of finding a nice wife’ all the way to ‘our favourite Sebby who is always given the first slice of cake’. A mazel tov here, a schnoz there and you’re well on your way to becoming the Favoured One. I can’t speak authoritatively for other backgrounds/cultures, but very few families are actually ‘old’ — go back a few generations and it’s almost guaranteed that some of your ancestors were immigrants — so the same trick is likely to work with most languages!

Of course, if you can trace both sides of your family back ten generations without leaving the country, then you’ve probably already gone to finishing school, learnt how to play polo and how to order man servants about — this guide probably isn’t of much use to you.

5. Ascertain your common ancestors and/or history

Nothing encourages love and camaraderie as quickly or firmly as locating a common ancestry! Perhaps you’re talking to a cute third-cousin-twice-removed (totally legal, at least here in the UK) and then you wow her by revealing that your parents and hers used to play naked in a sandpit together, back in 1965. You’ve as good as scored!

With younger relatives — the generation below — you can become good friends very quickly by warning them of what to expect when they get older. Tell a kid how to win the affections of his nasty, doddery grandmother and he’ll be eternally grateful.

With older relatives  it’s even easier as they’re so soppy and sentimental — trace their history back until you have a common ancestor, or ancestors that were siblings. Perhaps they were in Auschwitz together? Or worked at the same cotton farm? Finding such common ground is vital to forming strong familial bonds! And might even score you a sentence or two in their final will and testament!

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Any similarities to actual members of my family either living or deceased are purely coincidental. This list is entirely fictitious and does not represent my actual views of my family meet-ups which are, incidentally, pure joy. Please do not stop bringing your lovely smoked salmon lemon drizzle cake to parties, grandma.