Diane Spencer is a lady. I verified this in the way that you usually do—through asking and being given a baffled look of incomprehension. On stage she was a little British hornet of darkness packed into a tight redheadedness that complemented her lovely grey jeans, recently acquired in a Wellingtonian store. If you’ve ever read Grant Buist’s Brunswick or Jitterati, you’d see much of Fitz Bunny in her. If you haven’t, well, learning city-specific pop-cultural references are an important part of being at Victoria University. Oh look! A fountain made of buckets! How refereshing!
I greatly enjoyed watching Diane as she orated through her mother, weddings, and other chick stuff like talking binge drinking tampons without it grating on my delicate sensibilities. She had a story that was about her becoming the red-headed yoghurt girl on the telly. This was quick, and many comic moments were had in the over-arching amusement which both vilified and agrandised Ms Spencer in that order. Why am I describing how this bit worked? No reason.
If you ever wished Sarah Silverman was smarter and from Somerset, go see Diane Spencer.
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