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Free flowing flutes with bubbly billowing out of the huge white doors of the Stables Theatre. No smashing of glasses and a house facing front toward the Theatre crashes out with its arm hanging in the gutter, the belt is still clean and tight around the upper arm.
Cabanossi cubes chat with the crackers on one plate as severed lamington fingers get the cold shoulder from the biscuits on another. Odd tasting beetroot dip goes head-to-head against the curry flavour and its the latter that wins with a drool slick coming off the edges. Wetness and a sinking feeling for the bright red loser in this competition.
Rest of the review of Griffin Award - The Stables Theatre - 03/08/06
Ten minutes before the thrusting rush of people, the box office of the Stables Theatre tends to one man looking rather out of stride. Calmly and cooly the situation resolves itself in those dead minutes before the throng. Situation taking care of itself like the self serving asexual star fish.
Questions on burlesque theatre kill a few seconds and make for tentative and wary glances. Lesbians are on the loose and the people are reading about the adventures with a barcode and price tag in the corner. Yet, there remains no one behind any sort of counter collecting the toll. Onward and upward with vague suggestions.
Rest of the review of Speedy Mustard - by Marty Murphy - SBW Stables Theatre - 27/04/06
Free alcohol blocks the entrance of the Stables Theatre. Chattering drunks move, mill and mull like horses ready to stud and make expensively cheap glue. Women, men, all the same. Plastic cups in hand, they watch each other's eyes turn pink and flush their systems with copious amounts of ghostless spirits.
People collecting tickets best watch out for the women with overbearing breasts and men with cock-forth crotches; eager to rise concern, slow in allowing passage to the box office. Anything that comes between them, the liquor and the floor are bound for stares of contempt.
With a self-inflicted map in the back pocket of a sweaty palm, locating the Stables Theatre on Nimrod Street might prove to be a challenge. The neon lights of Kings Cross blind the eyes and ears in every direction. Street signs pointing here and there momentarily match up with the scrawls to line a clear trail up behind a steep incline. Up the hill and around a side street, converted stables and a window right into the bedroom of someone's home. They would already be asleep if only the person standing outside would just move along.
Red wood lines the nostrils of the box office foyer. A lone man with meticulous facial stylings handles the ticket sales. Tickets which are nothing more than simple raffle stubs stamped with the date—valid only on the night of performance. Take two, ever in the light of everybody disappearing for family gatherings on a day between a strike of public holidays thanks in large part to the undead. All without notice. Strange.
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