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My latest marketing venture has not been the most orthodox.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been spreading positive vibes about the latest and greatest event to hit London: ‘Porn – The Musical.’

It’s no easy feat targeting an audience that loves musicals but also happens to have a penchant for pornography – but I have tried my very best. The efforts obviously paid off, for when I finally saw the show at the tiny ‘Theatre 503‘ (situated above a grimy pub in Battersea), I had to fight for my seat.

The story starts on the island of Malta, where a heartbroken Stefan emigrates to LA, with hopes of making it big “like Harrison Ford or Jesus”. Mugged on arrival, Stefan is rescued by a porn princess who, looking and sounding like Dolly Parton, announces: “My name is Sanddy with a double D.”

The seemingly wholesome Sanddy initiates Stefan into the adult-movie business, where, under the direction of one Martin Scoresleazy he proves an unexpected  success.

The depiction of the sordid world of pornography is perhaps a little predictable, but with appearances from the likes of Dr Johnny Long, with his PHD (Particularly Huge Dick) it’s hard to complain.

After such a promising start for the young lothario, events take a turn for the worse. Sanddy and Stefan’s blossoming romance is put on hold as Martin’s studio faces bankruptcy and a potent STD spreads amongst the actors…

Prudes need not be scared, this performance is warm rather than racing hot.

Offensive? No. Faintly ridiculous? Yes. Belly achingly funny? Definitely! Whatever the critics say, this is a musical not to be missed.

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One of my office’s accounts is with the Arts Theatre in Leicester Square. This small, musty venue has none of the sparkling glamour of other West End theatres, but in my humble opinion, it’s a hidden gem.

For the past few months, the Arts Theatre has been running a wildly successful ‘Late Night’ programme. When the innocent performances finish at ten, the raunchier acts hit the stage. In the second week of my internship I naively agreed to see one of these late night shows. Nothing could have prepared me for the evening that lay ahead.

I suppose the show’s title should have given it all away. “Naked Boys Singing” does not need much explanation. The musical takes the form of 16 songs performed by a troupe of jobless actors auditiong for the ‘naked’ event we’re about to see. The lyrics are crude, the language is blue, and the nakedness leaves little to the imagination. The (very) gay humour never lets up with songs entitled “The bliss of a Bris” and “Perky Little Porn Star.”

The audience was a bizarre combination of aging gays, Japanese tourists and glamorous Russians. The night was quite literally hysterical. It may be outrageous, but if the spectator cares to look beyond the blatant nakedness, then they are sure to enjoy a handful of catchy songs and some genuine acting talent.

In direct contradiction to the self-deprecating, opening song title, this really isn’t all about ‘Gratuitous Nudity’.

My stint as a PA was over. Marley Matthews had moved to Zurich and no longer needed my ‘spirited’ services. So there I was again, back to square one. It was a Monday morning and I was faced with a jobless week ahead. I called up all the recruitment agencies in London but to no avail. There was just no work. Unable to sit moping at my desk any longer, I packed up my stuff and headed out.

There is nothing weirder than roaming the streets on a Monday morning with nothing to do and no money to spend. Whilst most people labour away in the corporate world, London becomes an altogether different place – a place heaving with tourists, school trips and yummy mummy’s.

If a satellite camera had tracked my progress throughout the day, I’m convinced NASA would think I was a madwoman! With no specific route in mind, I just followed my senses and went where the wind took me. For one-day only I was a professional ‘flaneur.’ I was guided by the smallest curiosities: a glamorous group of Italians, an alluring new cafe or an undiscovered street.

During my travels, I redirected two lost Romanians to Hyde Park, I took a photo-shoot of some rowdy Americans and I even went as far as discussing Obama’s health reforms with a complete stranger. There were no limits to my bizarre, yet brief encounters.

Image credit: Flikr

I saw laughter, tears and frowns on the faces of people that whizzed by. I watched couples kissing, dogs fighting and children playing. And as I walked through Leicester Square, I discovered, not without a touch of disgust, just how ugly pigeon’s feet really are!

I don’t plan to make a habit of mooching around London with nothing to do, but I couldn’t help being touched by my unusual day.

Luckily enough, a new job was waiting for me the very next day.

The worst question anyone could ask me at the moment is:

“So what do you do?”

Because in all brutal honest truth, I don’t have a job.

What I’ve gathered over these past jobless months is that people really do judge you by your occupation. A job can reveal whether you’re intelligent, creative, interesting or successful. And if you don’t have one, then quite frankly you’re considered dull.

I may not have had a steady flow of income dripping into my bank account, but I don’t think I can say that my unemployed life has been dull.

Before Christmas, my life was a whirlwind of the most curious situations imaginable.

My time was split doing three totally different tasks.

1. Interning for the SRK – helping him set up his elitist social networking site.

2. Earning money as a waitress

3. Applying, applying applying

Have these three tasks got me anywhere?…hmmm, I’m not sure, but they’ve certainly given me a panoramic view of London life!