I HAVEN’T had claustrophobia since my brother and his friend stuffed me upside down into a sleeping bag and sealed off the entrance.
(See also: emptying a waste bin over my head, farting in my face, bursting into my bedroom mid-CATS-dance-routine, breaking my bike… I have a fully itemised account somewhere that’s still awaiting a fair jury.)
Upon being herded into a wedge-shaped table at Dracula’s Cabaret Restaurant, though, by a gaggle of perky drama students in white makeup and Twansylvaaaanian accents, I have an overwhelming urge to struggle and flee.
It’s partly that overtly ‘naughty’ tone of voice everyone’s using – the one that curdled my guts at the SEXPO – and partly the exhausting feeling that you should try and make the corseted waitstaff feel better on their ceaseless rounds of your table, as they’ve obviously been asked to make naughty-voiced small talk. It’s like the strip club all over again.
Still, it’s definitely not “the worst night of my life,” as one web review put it. The show’s made up of risqué musical numbers (as one performer notes, he gets to put “giant sperm” on his resumé), and bawdy stand-up routines, quite frequently with that flaming homosexual delivery that’s no doubt had people rolling in the aisles since Biblical times. Tell you what, though – the food’s good. I’d sit through the Marquis de Sade-as-flaming-homosexual skit and the “I’m horny, horny, horny, horny” song three times for just five minutes with another of those chocolate mousse coffins.
Keeper? One of our number is actually desperate to go again, and is even scheduling in Dracula’s on the Gold Coast. But for me? Now, THIS is dinner theatre.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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