[My Weekender] with Chinatown Charlie

Chinatown Charlie aka Charles Mayer is the show MC at Chinatown. Every night's a party down there, but this Saturday they're Misssssbehavin'.

We kept his spelling proudly British.

Here goes. My world's corrupted, so I'll put it all here:

I've woken up. It's Friday. It's the weekend. Let's go to work.
Johnny Sideways aka Brandon's girlfriend's family was in Chinatown last night, checking him out for his work, asking themselves THE questions about him.

What a guy. Brandon dines the mother and father and aunts and mother's friends, and their children, and just as he's about to nip off for the nightshift at Norman & Amelia's, his stunning and delightful girlfriend suggests they could all come to watch the show.

Before he can say, 'Err, umm,' they're in taxis and Brandon's backstage. As Johnny Sideways he has a willion different costumes, but as the schedule stands he has to start stepping onto the stage of the Hongkou hotspot dancing in frilly underwear, make-up and heels as a showgirl. It was scarier than the Cultural Bureau visit, but he knocked them over with his Frank Sinatra in Chinese, fluent comedy skitting with Miss Shanghai Lil, and they realised they had a star in the family.

I wonder what they'd make of MISSBEHAVE, the Nico-Mattia lovechild that's at Chinatown on Saturday. Although it's not strictly themed, there's a shape beginning to emerge from the mists of the mine seam: something like Schoolgirls in Wonderland. I'm off to the Railway Station in a moment to pick up my cosmetic contact lenses. I bet Depp didn't have to schelp to North Shanghai to get his. We'll be rehearsing all of tomorrow for the things that go on stage tomorrow night, so there's no Mao nor Dragon for me tonight, nor any other extinct Chinese phenomenon. Is there a bar called Opium? Google?

I have a meeting later with the Britcham for their annual charity ball entertainment. I thought it was short for British Champagne and was getting pretty uncomfortable, until they said who they were and that they were looking to celebrate Britain's greatest export. Eh? Oh! Shakespeare! So it's A Midsummer Night's Dream and I can't wait, but also feel that they're perhaps overlooking our other great export - football violence. So I might ask Ned and Phil to contribute by getting up in Burberry and Stone Island to kick a few tables over while Puck goes roofie-spiking.

Then it's on with tonight's show at Chinatown after a couple of hours' rehearsal. It's a full show for a full crowd, and it's pretty intimidating having to deal with the Friday night audience; there's always a couple of Australians who think Brandon's actually a girl have to be beaten back with a crocodile spear.

On Sunday morning after no sleep and still in MissBehave make-up there's the Shanghai Repertory Theater Spring Festival contributing producers meeting at the Ke Center, its venue. The meeting itself will be priceless and should sell tickets. There are several different productions going on in the space over the last ten days of May, with different get-in times, aspect requirements, sound, stage management darling, lighting luvvie, contemporary dance, dance theater, youth, fusion and classic Noel Coward.

I'll be in even more heaven at the shit fight between twelve zealous queens of the theater for who wins the audience seating shape, lighting boom configuration etc that works best for everyone, than during the actual performances. All this during the get-in for SRT's first French play, Ionesco's La Cantantrice Chauve, which opens this week. ENFIN! TEATRE FRANCAIS! ALLEZ!

I shall then sashay my show-shellshocked ass out into the burning Sunday sunlight of the instant Shanghai Summer, and taxi to my girlfriend at last and spend the evening with her, beginning with eating good food. I don't know anything about food; I'm English. Good food is what my girlfriend eats while I gaze in pinch-me adoration at her across the table. Being an actor I have never been able to afford good food, and they didn't used to give us menus in the army, so I am very pleased to see Laris's Downstairs at Urbn describing the food so simply. All talk of food is back to basics. Mashed potato is mashed potato again! When the food's this good, why not? In fact, he's called it Mash Potato, no need for grammar! Just EAT ME! No need for adjectives or build-up or descriptions of origin! If Chinatown adopted this policy for its show I'd be on the street. The Argentinian Septima Reserva is the heaviest 75cl bottle of wine I've ever picked up, I'm serious. It just says DRINK ME! I don't know how to say NO! How am I on F&B? BITE ME! Food-talk is gay; Plant Food only died out because people started talking about it.

Fusion used to be a type of music, right? Then it became a type of food, right? Western and Asian? I don't understand that. Now there's this newish concept called Fasian, the mixing up of Oriental food types. Please don't confuse me any more. Fasian as a word should be protected. And used only to describe the Fashion-Asian phenomenon peculiar to Shanghai, of permed Chinese women in the wet market hobbling on high heels wearing end-of-the-line Juicy Couture jeans and a Trinidad & Tobago trackie-top.

Like all Shanghai louche-bags, my weekend actually starts on Monday.