Daniel Kitson incites breast gnashing, apparently.

Last night I was at @Newtown, the curiously renamed Newtown RSL. I've never thought that I'd spend much of my time at any venue that casually attempted to annexe the language of the e-volution with absolutely no thought as to its implications - much like the newly renovated Ancient Briton in Glebe which now amusingly sports huge Lenin murals and 16 different types of vodka in an homage to Communism, while pissing its older prole houso clientele out into the gutter with its boutique beer prices.

So saying, I continually find myself at both places, enjoying fun for all. @Newtown has over the past couple of years become the stub end of every night out, and recently has been the host of a bunch of Sydney comedy events and THE hangout for Jokie hotters* of a Saturday evening. Place was full of them last night attempting to annexe Daniel Kitson after his show. One woman I spoke to, whom I had known briefly about 4 years ago, proclaimed him as "a prophet - I want to follow him around forever". When I suggested that this might be a little too Women of Troy in its intensity, she appeared perplexed that I didn't share her bare-breasted, exhilerated response to Kitson's use of the word 'cunt'.

Sadly, he didn't come out to take her voluptuous bait, so it was a moot point.

I very much enjoyed Kitson's show, as did the people I went with. Much of my enjoyment stemmed from the fact that the audience did not feel the need to become an unnecessary part of the show via cringe-worthy heckling or dickhead behaviour. The sole exception was an audience member who worked at Zoo magazine, and as a point in his defense he was under sustained attack from Kitson as an ethical black-hole pandering to titty-fiddlers, so I can somewhat forgive his bold statement of presence of the "I'm here, I'm Zoo, Get Used To It" variety whose ill-effects were anyway ameliorated by the hilarity that ensued. I subscribe to the Anne of Green Gable school which holds that saying a person has a sense of humour is another way of saying they have a sense of the fitness of things.

I'd also recommend ending the night with Glogg and Pancakes at the Gourmet Viking restaurant across the road. Mulled wine with vodka-soaked raisins served with pictures of Princess Mary and entourage really hits the spot before the long walk home.

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*jokies (n) (fem) (pl) comedy groupies. Mostly amateur actresses/theatresports players with shit-boring lower echelon public service jobs who hang about attempting to pash reasonably well-known comedy types in hope of being taken away to another world where comedy It-Boys holiday together at Billy Connolly's castle and engage in witty banter about the size of elephant penises and cry after sex because, under it all, they're really sensitive and misunderstood and nothing like their 'all-mates' onstage persona.