The Curse of Debbie Harry

Ever since the time Cat fell down a flight of stairs whilst in the middle of a conversation about Debbie Harry, and sustained a badly sprained ankle, DH has been a bit of a watchword for disaster.

So when I leave the table in the Chinese restaurant to visit the facilities, down a flight of stairs, and Dean tosses the name at me, I respond that it doesn’t work on me. I get down the stairs safely, but coming back up, I catch the heel of my gold sandals* on the edge of a stair, and it comes off my foot. I think it’s just pulled the shoe off, a little like when you continue walking and leave your shoe behind because it’s stuck in a crack in the pavement. But no, the buckle is broken, and the strap is ripped apart in two places. It is now a broken shoe.

I hobble back to the table, clutching my shoe. I can still walk in them, but I’m going to the theatre. I may see actors. How can I see actors with a broken shoe?!

We have some time before the play starts, and not too far to walk, so we call in at the new M&Ms store in Leicester Square, where Cat offers me some fluffy slippers.

Dean points out that we can make it to Clarks on Regent Street. We do, but they have possibly the poorest selection of women’s shoes I’ve seen in a long time. We pop into Austin Reed. I ask for anything in a size 6 – only not pink! They only HAVE pink.

I have to give up. I can actually walk in my shoes. It’s just that it feels very noticeable. It doesn’t matter how many times I’m told no one is going to look at my feet.

We arrive at the theatre, and take our seats. The row in front of us is occupied by the cast of The Tempest, including Ralph Fiennes.

It’s a good job he can’t see my feet!

*I bought the shoes for the same event where Cat fell down the stairs and it was an effort to find the perfect pair. They’ve done good service, but it’s not going to be easy to replace them.

Much Ado about Tennant and Tate

It was January when we booked. A crazy day that I recorded on here, and which ended with a long rant as Corinne actually walked to the theatre to book our tickets in person, all web based efforts having failed. It was worth it, for we had fabulous seats. Definitely whites of the eyes (leading to the query ‘has he always had a wonky eye?’*)

Set in the early 1980’s, apparently in Gibraltar (though I don’t think you’d know without the programme), there were some lovely period touches, The play may refer to Messina, but these characters were thoroughly British. A hard drinking and smoking military community.

Initially, I had my doubts about Catherine Tate’s Beatrice, as she teetered on the edge of over-playing it at the start, but she settled into the play, and from the party scene onwards was excellent.

I had no doubts at all about David’s Benedick. He can speak Shakespeare as though it is entirely his everyday language. He brings a clarity and meaning to lines I’ve never really noticed before. He surprises me, and that is so difficult to do in Shakespeare. And he can deliver a line perfectly whilst reversing a golf buggy on stage. Now that’s skill.

His comic timing in the gulling scene was amazing. Unfair to spoil it here, but the scene is a gift to an actor, and he played it to the full.

As a production, it was ‘broad brush’ Shakespeare. Plenty there to hook in those who didn’t know the story (apparently the guy next to Corinne was genuinely surprised when Hero was alive!) But below the surface there were touches and nuances which made a Shakespeare geek grin. Crucially, they passed my ‘test’, which is the line ‘Kill Claudio’. A couple of sniggers, but that was all.

It has a very good looking cast, though I struggled to see beyond David (apart from Elliot Levey’s Don John). Claudio is a pig of a part, and even more difficult I feel if the play has a modern setting. You can only get away with it if he is played very young, which he was. The scene where he is tricked into believing Hero unfaithful the night before the wedding is played out during the stag and hen parties of the couple, all disco lights, music, drinking and disorienting revolve, which worked really well. The addition of his almost suicidal remorse helped, even if it did cut across the uncomfortable earlier scene where he and Don Pedro are cracking jokes until he is challenged by Benedick. There’s still a real issue about Hero forgiving him though.

The music, an 80’s pastiche which sounded authentic without using any actual songs, was excellent, and there were echoes of Wham in the final song and dance routine, which is always going to please me.

There was a real joy about the ending, and yet, we didn’t stand, though many of the audience did. It was great, but it wasn’t ‘Hamlet 1 November 2008’ great.

Afterwards, we did go round to the stage door. It wasn’t as busy as Hamlet. If I’d been determined, I could have got in there. However, I don’t need to push my way in. It’s the long game, and the time will come.

*The answer is ‘yes’, but it was more noticeable in this production. Possibly he’s tired.

Sometimes you just have to put a little extra effort in

The National Theatre production of Frankenstein was sold out before we’d even decided the dates for our visit, but there are always day seats, and the plan was to try for those.

Coza says that the word is that the queue for day seats has been forming from 6.30am on weekdays, and 5am at weekends.

‘Ah’, I think, ‘now that’s a bit early’.

There’s a moment, as we consider.

‘I’d do it’, Cat says, ‘after all, we’ve done more, for less’. She’s right, and that settles it.

So on Friday morning, we’re awake at 6am and Cat is outside the NT by 6.30am. We get a text to say that she’s 14th in the queue, and some look like they’ve been there for some time. Given that we expect there to be 30 day seats, we’re on the cusp. I arrive just after 7, having failed to find anywhere en route where I can pick up coffee. The people ahead of us in the line have come prepared, with chairs, blankets, and flasks. I’m wearing my mac, and have a pashmina.

I take over Cat’s place in the queue, and she goes in search of coffee. I suggest towards Waterloo Station may be a good bet. I later get a text to say she’s had to go across the river to Charing Cross.

An elderly chap walks along the queue, checking what everyone is queuing for. It turns out he’s here for Season’s Greetings, ‘I told my sister no one would be here this early for Alan Ayckbourn’ he mutters.

Coza joins us, and the time passes quite quickly. The queue goes back a long way now, but there are seats for all shows (though I doubt if anyone is queuing for Greenland), and standing tickets too. Some time later Coza leaves to go to work, and we watch a chap in the foyer doing some very theatrical, but not very effective, hoovering.

Pretty much on the dot of 9.30am they open the doors. Once inside, there’s a bit of a fracas ahead of us, for it seems that a woman has pushed in at the last minute and bagged a front row seat. There are complaints to the box office staff, and to security, but there’s nothing that can be done about it.

When we reach the desk, all front row have gone, but we secure 3 seats at the back of the circle. For £12 they’re a bargain. Success, and the queuing feels worth it.

Tickets safely stashed, we head for a hearty, and warming, breakfast. Those pancakes sure taste good!

Theatre at last

For a while, I've felt like a Theatre Snob who doesn't actually see any theatre, as, until a week ago, I haven't been to see anything since early November. Yes, December was theatre-less. Shocking, I know, and not acceptable. I must do better. It was therefore a relief to finally go to see The Misanthrope in London last weekend.

‘She’s too thin, it’s distracting’, is the verdict of half of our party on Keira Knightley, who is the principal reason that we had to pay full price for our seats. And she really is as skinny as they say. Her costumes emphasise this, to then extent that you want to tell her to go and have a plate of chips. She isn’t our principal reason for going, however. That would be Dominic Rowan, and Damian Lewis.

Of course, I’m interested to see what she makes of her first stage appearance, and she is fine. Not startling, not great, but fine, in the role of a Hollywood actress embroiled in the celebrity circuit, which is a good choice for her. Martin Crimp’s modern adaptation is in verse, and the rhythm of the lines occasionally catches her out. She’s in the midst of experienced stage actors who, in the main, handle it much better, though initially I’m a bit worried about Damian Lewis’s diction.

Most of the characters in the play are manipulative and cynical. Whilst I can see why it seems a good idea to update it, I’m thinking it would probably have worked better in its original 17th Century setting. In the second act, I’m proved right, as an excuse is found for a 17th Century costume party, and in the last scene the play fizzes with a life it didn’t have before. The costumes are fabulous. Keira actually looks better in period costume, as the dress disguises something of her extreme skinniness. She does lack a 17th Century bosom though*.

I like the performances of Dominic Rowan as Alceste's best friend (and the most sympathetic character), and Tara Fitzgerald as an acting coach. I find I can't blame Alceste when he storms out on the lot of them. The cast is a strong one, but occasionally I feel they're having to work really hard to cover some of the cracks in the play.

*No amount of ‘hoicking your boobs up’, which used to be my instruction to customers in costume hire, would work here.

'The great Globe itself'

We’ve been sitting drinking wine in the Anchor* pub on Bankside, complaining about the misleading information on their menus, which proclaim the pub to be on the site of the ‘original’ Globe Theatre.

‘Hmmm, only of the Globe was really huge’
‘Maybe it had a very big yard’
‘Actually, sitting here, we’d probably be in a brothel, or a bear pit’

There’s a further issue about the plays proclaimed to be ‘first performed’ at the Globe. Henry V, Richard II, ok.
‘Romeo and Juliet?! I don’t think so!’

Coza decides she needs to take me past the real site of the Globe on the way back to the station. It is a couple of streets back from the river, and adjacent to the Rose Theatre.

There’s not much to see. The ground has been marked out, but the majority of the theatre site is buried beneath a listed Georgian building. I look at it. It’s not an impressive building. You’d think they could have sacrificed it for the history beneath the stones.

‘Just think what could be down there’
‘Cardenio…, or perhaps Love’s Labour’s Won!’

Just for a moment, my mind drifts. The sense of history as I stand here is almost overwhelming. This was the centre of Elizabethan Theatre, and I’m in the footsteps of Will perhaps more than I ever am in Stratford. Never mind that who knows what I’d be standing in! THIS is where it happened.

*A pub with an orderly queue at the bar. Tourists!

Crazy days

I’ve been a bit busy lately! So I’ve not really had time to update on the rest of my visit to London, or seeing the lovely John Barrowman in concert, or my subsequent two trips to London, or my walking, or any thing else. There will be updates on some, but not all of these in due course, but sometimes it seems the moment to write has passed.

Basically, it’s all been a bit crazy, and isn’t shaping up to be any less hectic over the next few weeks, as I have a couple of major pieces of work coming up before I go on holiday. So, this weekend, I’m taking a moment to breathe.

A Night at the Opera (House)

It’s long been an ambition of mine to attend a performance at the Royal Opera House. I guess there wasn’t anything stopping me, I just never got round to organising it. But finally, I decided it was time to go, and booked L* and I tickets for a triple bill of Les Sylphides, a new ballet, and The Firebird, last week.

It turned into a bit of a retro couple of days, as we stayed in a hotel we’d stayed at on our first trip to London together at 17. I think we’re better dressed now than we were then, though. I’d decided to wear my maxi dress, as if this wasn’t an occasion to dress for, I wasn’t sure what was. Even though this meant walking through London at 5pm on one of the sunniest days of the year so far, this didn’t bother me.

Following an early dinner, we arrived at the ROH, and into the fabulous Paul Hamlyn Hall, all airy space and glass. In my head, it’s something like the Crystal Palace must have been, only with better cocktails. The building is stunning. Whilst I’d had a look around previously when there wasn’t a performance on, there was an entirely different atmosphere. There were also some fabulous outfits (though not many maxis), on some beautiful people. It was also a very good shoe night.

I suppose I should be talking about the ballet, but for me, the greatest experience was the building. I loved Les Sylphides, which is beautiful and I adore the music, the new ballet was good, but I prefer traditional story ballets (or at least pretty ones), and it was good to see the Firebird for the first time, which seemed very typical of a Fokine/Ballet Russes ballet, very fairy tale.

With ballet, you tend to get long intervals, particularly with a triple bill, as they had to reset the stage. This gave us plenty of time to explore the rest of the building, going out onto the terrace which overlooks Covent Garden, and walking op the stairs which have been seen on TV so many times – and then doing it again just for effect and thinking that I was about to meet the Queen at a Royal Command Performance**.

We had fabulous seats, and I was pleased that the auditorium didn’t feel as huge as I thought it might. The whole experience was utterly fabulous.

Of course, I now want to go again – but I think next time will be for a three act story ballet. As for the opera, well, I’ll give that a miss, thanks.

*L and I go way back. All the way to school, in fact, when she used to eat the bits of school dinners that I didn’t like. Given that this meant she ate a great deal more than me, and stayed stick thin, it’s amazing we stayed friends.

**I know reality doesn’t enter into it, but then, why should it?

Words and pictures

As the cheapest train fare that I could get back from London on Friday meant not leaving till 9pm, I found myself with a few hours to kill.

I decided to go to the National Portrait Gallery. It’s just over the road from the Garrick, where I saw A Little Night Music, and I’m getting quite familiar with this part of London. It’s bizarre that it’s taken me this long to feel I actually know my way round the centre a little. It was open until 9pm on Friday, and had a restaurant and a café, so that was me sorted.

I have been before, as it ticks the boxes of both history and art, but it was lovely to browse at my own pace, in an almost empty galley – I guess it’s not everyone’s idea of a good Friday night out. The quiet adds an eerie quality as I look into these faces of people long dead, and many of the paintings have a resonance which is lost in photographic reproductions. The great and the good are grouped by period. I’m struck by how real many of them seem; they’ve been captured warts and all, quite literally in the case of Oliver Cromwell. A notable exception is the Prince Regent; the aging and hugely fat ‘Prinny’ is presented as dashing and heroic. The earliest portraits are from the 15th century. Richard III is there is all his glory, with added deformities visible. So is Henry Tudor, who looks mean and miserable.

There’s a feature on Henry VIII which is fascinating. He’s there as a young man of 30, and as the fat and aging monarch. Even the artists fearing for their heads don’t flatter him. In the Elizabethan Gallery, a group are playing contemporary music, but it means I can’t get up close to the portraits, so I skip ahead to Shakespeare. Authentic or not, there’s something in his eyes which speaks to me. There’s laughter and intelligence in this face, along with some self mockery.

I love the Stuart portraits, Charles II, and his mistresses, Prince Rupert, dashing and handsome. Of the later periods, the Romantics fascinate. Byron is stylish and heroic, in costume, and many of the men look like they could have modelled for Mr Darcy. Jane herself is there, in a tiny miniature painted by her sister.

The Victorian portraits are different again. A celebration of British industry and achievement, these are self made men, soldiers and men of Empire. Gladstone and Disraeli seem to glare balefully at each other as they must have done over the despatch box, while Queen Victoria gazes adoringly at Prince Albert.

Once we get to the 20thC, the style becomes more abstract. Some are too ‘modern’ for me, but others seem to capture the spirit of the sitter. I particularly like one of Alan Bennett, who looks a little shambolic clutching a coffee mug.

It was a lovely little oasis, away from both work, and the hustle and bustle of a Friday evening in London. Just perfect.

A Little Night Music

Spoilers, and theatre snobbery alert

When I realised I had a free evening in London, it just was a matter of selecting which show I want to see. I was spoilt for choice. My shortlist was Three Days of Rain, Plague over England, A Little Night Music and Carousel, as I’d been very impressed by leading lady Alexandra Silber at a charity show the other week. What really swung it was the Trevor Nunn factor with A Little Night Music.

It’s had excellent reviews at the Menier Chocolate Factory, and has transferred to the Garrick Theatre in West End. As their last show was Zorro, I’m guessing the quality has gone up with this. It’s a lovely little theatre, even though the stalls are subterranean, and you can hear the Tube trains rumbling beneath your feet. It also has lovely staff, as, when I was told there was no cloakroom, a very cute usher offered to look after my suitcase until the end of the show.

It was only after I booked that I read of Maureen Lipman’s response to Charles Spencer’s review, and critical comments of her casting as Madame Armfeldt. I admire her reaction.

I’m not sure how I’ve never seen this before, as it's exactly my sort of show. When I think about it, my experience of Sondheim is pretty small. A rather fabulous production of Into the Woods by John Doyle at York, and that’s about it. The style of this reminded me a lot of it. Apart from ‘Send in the Clowns’ most of the songs don’t really work out of context, as they’re part of the narrative.

Collecting my ticket, I found I had centre of Row B in the Stalls. As someone who likes to see the whites of the eyes, it was a fabulous seat – who needs to see feet? Though the Americans on the front row commented that, if there was a lot of dancing in the show, they wouldn’t have a very good view. I’m not sure what they thought they’d booked for.

I thought there were some fabulous performances. A lot has been said about the casting of Hannah Waddingham as Desiree Armfeldt, who is much younger than usual. I thought it worked perfectly, and she was fantastic, utterly heartbreaking in 'Send in the Clowns'. Alexander Hanson also seemed perfect as ex-lover and new husband Frederik. As for Maureen Lipman, well, her grand dame dropped witticisms from centre stage with great comic timing.

The characters here are the type who will always be polite and correct about their marital infidelities, hence Kelly Price’s long suffering countess, stoically condoning her rat of a husband’s affairs. Frederik’s young wife Anne was played by Jessie Buckley from I’d Do Anything. Having never been a particular fan, she had the youth for the part, and her acting was better than I’d expected. Unfortunately her singing voice was rather shrill.

Sondheim uses a Greek chorus of singers as narrators/commentators, as a counterpoint to the action, whilst I felt that this technique was a little over used in the second act, they were all very strong singers. Slick scene changes of David Farr's elegant versatile set take us smoothly between interior and exterior, and into a Scandanavian summer night where the sun never quite sets

The production was romantic and beautiful, with some lovely pieces of staging, as all the characters waltzed around the stage in the half light. I guess it’s a very Chekovian musical (though a lot funnier). Once again, I’m happy I trusted in Trevor*.

After the show, Corinne was waiting for me. I came out of the theatre beaming, and a little lost for words, with that wonderful theatrical euphoria which tells you you’ve seen something just a bit special. We found a pub just round the corner – always something of a challenge in central London, we’ve discovered – and caught up on all the news, while I continued to rave on about the production.

*Yes, I know the least said about Gone with the Wind, the Musical, the better, but then I would never have been silly enough to book for that one.

Where I realise again that a 'short walk' is rarely short.

My awareness of distances in London isn’t great, mainly because for years, I always travelled by Tube, and never really went out of the centre.

We’re having our first cocktail of the evening in Verve, and when I’m assured by Dean that the restaurant ‘isn’t far’, I foolishly believe him. I’ve already changed into the shoes that I cannot walk in*, to stand and pose in the bar, and decide that, if it’s not too far, I can walk in them, and not have to go through the hassle of changing them again.

‘Not far’ turns out to be about a mile. Halfway, having been assured that we were nearly there, and of course, because you just have to make an entrance, Coza also changes her shoes, which happen to be the same as mine, just a different colour. She’s soon wondering how I’ve managed to walk so far in them already.

By the time Piccadilly is in sight, I’ve slowed down a lot, and my feet are complaining, but, quite surprisingly, I’m not. I have discovered that walking in them is helped by having had some alcohol.

Meanwhile, Director Boy is some distance ahead, having realised that walking anywhere takes considerably longer with girls in heels. Finally we cross the road, and arrive at the restaurant (which is fabulous, and sadly doesn’t allow photography**, so I can only show you the link).

I have to admit that the seat, and the glass of champagne is extremely welcome!

*I walked across two roads, and into a theatre in them in January, and that was quite enough.

**which is why I'm posing with Beau Brummel

A Grand Day Out

A long time ago, it seems, we won the jackpot a few times at our Sunday quiz. Rather than fritter the money away, we decided to save it, and have a special treat. As we had the best part of a couple of hundred pounds, we could do something really nice. After lots of debate, we hit on the idea of doing afternoon tea at Claridges. Our winnings would pay for our train fares, and tea, and if we saved a little more each week, we would also have spending money.

Yesterday the day finally came, and snow, ice and National Express trains permitting, we were off. The train was actually on time leaving York, but there were some heavy blizzards through the midlands, so we were about 50 minutes late arriving at Kings Cross, which, given the weather we’ve have across the country this week, wasn’t too bad.

As soon as we arrived, I got stuck into my role as ‘official tour guide’ (ok, well, maybe not ‘official’ as no one asked me to do it), armed with my trusty pop-up map.

We’d also discussed what else we were going to do, and lots of ideas were floated:

‘What about the Tower? You’ve (me) never been?’
‘What about a gallery? What’s on?’ (we checked out the websites and the papers)
‘What about a trip on the river?’
‘Well, you’re the only people likely to go on the river with me’

Eventually we’d decided on the V&A, where V hadn’t been for quite a few years, and then a bit of shopping, probably around the Covent Garden area (well, at least I know where the shops are there), so we jumped on the Piccadilly line and were soon in South Ken.

We went round the Magnificence of the Tsars exhibition, but found it a little disappointing – I guess we should have read the small print, which said ‘men’s court dress’, but then also looked at the fashion, and the paintings, and most impressively, the jewellery section, where I spent time picking out which tiara I would have*. We then stopped for a light lunch, before heading up to Harrods for a quick look around.

Deciding that our winnings couldn’t quite run to any of Harrods prices, we caught the Tube up to Bond Street, and had a look in a couple of the department stores before heading for Claridges.
When we arrived, a little early, we were told that our table was ready for us, but adjourned to the ladies cloakroom to make ourselves look presentable.

When we were shown to our table, and it was time to order the sandwiches, the fun started. J was straightforward, she would have everything. As for me, well…

‘Ok, this is where it gets complicated. Can I have no butter, and can I have the smoked salmon without…, and the ham without ...’ V wanted her sandwiches without tomato. Our waiter was lovely, however.

We decided on the champagne afternoon tea, and were served a glass to start with – which was useful, particularly as we had to wait a while for our sandwiches.

When they arrived, they were delicious, and we were offered more, but decided that rather than continue to complicate matters, we would move on to the scones and cakes.

The scones were utterly fabulous. It might seem strange to rhapsodise about a scone, but I’ve never tasted anything like them! We had a second helping, and when I tell you that I ate 5, I’m also telling you that they were dinky little scones. There were also champagne jellies, which were delicious, and really cleansed the palate, and tiny little meringues and fruit tarts.

Of course, we were also taking a few photos of the occasion, but then so were lots of others. I think all in all we were there around two and a half hours, so it was pretty good value for money, and a very special way to celebrate our winnings.

Afterwards, we walked through Mayfair, and through Berkley Square. Sadly, there wasn’t a nightingale in sight, and only one side retains its original Georgian splendour, but it gives an idea of what it must have been like. We then caught the Tube to Covent Garden and spent about an hour just browsing round the shops, before heading back to the train via a quick visit to St Pancras, as neither of the other two had seen the remodelled station. Sadly we didn’t have time to visit the champagne bar, so I picked up a small bottle of rose cava to drink on the train. I have to say it didn’t quite match up to the champagne!

I was home by 10.30pm, and it had been the most fabulous day out. Now, we just need to win some more money!

For the record, the Manchester tiara! It was the most sparkly.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince

The story which began in September 2007, when I received my RSC mailshot with the news that David Tennant would be playing Hamlet at Stratford, is over*.

It turns out that we were to be at what passed for David’s press night. Having reviewed understudy Ed Bennett’s performance on the official press night, it seems that a number of the nationals went back on Wednesday to see what they had missed. The reviews had been in many cases more favourable than I felt the production deserved back in Stratford. This time, they had gone to see the Prince – and what a performance he gave them.

For me, this was the best performance by the whole ensemble. Perhaps their performances had strengthened in David’s absence, but it once again showed the value of the revitalised ensemble ethos in the RSC. My favourite ‘David’ performance will remain November in Stratford, but mainly because we were much closer on that occasion. Other cast members were the best I’d seen them, with Penny Downie and Oliver Ford Davies standing out. I also loved Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who seemed bewildered by the machinations of the court and caught up in things they didn’t understand, which made their lack of an ending even sadder**. I thought Patrick Stewart was the best I’d seen him, but that he still lacked authority, and, from where we were sitting, he was almost inaudible at the start.

Originally directed for the thrust stage of the Courtyard Theatre, and now adapted to a proscenium arch theatre, and there were times when the staging was slightly at odds with the space it occupied. There was, however, more of a sense of spectacle about the big set pieces, the play within the play, the duel, and for the first time we could see the reflections in the mirrored doors at the back of the stage.

As for David as Hamlet, well, once again, he broke my heart. I do not understand how it is possible for someone to perform those speeches as though they are being said for the first time, but he did. He had always been brilliant at the start of the play, but now the performance was sustained. You would not have thought he’d recently had an operation, except that the duel was slightly less energetic than before.

This time, it was ‘Oh what a rogue and peasant slave’, and ‘How all occasions do inform against me’ which made me hold my breath, and, incredibly, his reading of ‘the readiness is all’. He’d found a way to do it, giving it a sense of acceptance and finality, which didn’t make me long for ‘let be’.

As a production, it still has its flaws. It remains clumsily cut; the curtailing of R&G’s story, and the loss of Fortinbras, being the worst excesses of this (seriously, if you don’t know, just who is this guy who comes in at the very end?), and it isn’t particularly innovative in its approach.

But on that night in London, I truly felt that the promise that was there in July was delivered. It will live in my memory for years to come, as many earlier productions still do, and every audience member will have their own, different, memories, and perhaps that is what theatre is all about. There is no ‘correct’ way of doing Hamlet, just, (to steal from Cleopatra), infinite varieties. And that’s as it should be.

For now, the rest is silence.

*At least, the Hamlet chapter is, unless we are lucky enough for them to make the DVD. The David story will continue.

**Yup, still bitter about the pirates!

A Tale of Two Gigs

(I’m a bit late with this one – what can I say, Christmas intervened)

Gig the first

It’s an awful long time since I’ve been to two Griffin gigs in a week (well, if you discount the Ivyrise gigs, which I do, as they weren’t actually about him)!

But the week before Christmas, I found myself travelling to London to the Cobden Club, which I’d arranged before it was announced that there would also be a band gig at the Ainsty pub (about two miles from where I live, and at the end of my friend’s road) later the same week.

The image that ‘private member’s club’ conjured up in my mind was somewhat different to the reality, which was a converted ‘Worker’s Institute’ in North London, but inside, it was a pretty nice venue, with a ‘proper’ stage, and a bar at the back – and bar prices that caused a sharp intake of breath!

The room seemed fairly empty when we arrived, though we did take what were almost the last seats, but filled up later – though as this was behind us, I didn’t actually realise it at the time. As well as Griffin, there were two other performers – I didn’t catch the name of either of them, and won’t be bothering to try and find out. Neither of them was exactly cheerful or Christmassy, and the second one in particular just made me replace the exceedingly expensive vodka with wine!

Griffin did two sets - a few songs from the Ivyrise gigs, a couple of new ones, and a couple of old favourites. Thankfully he performed first in the second half, so we didn’t have to sit through the most miserable guy again, and headed for the last tube. Crossing London late at night on a Sunday is not easy, however, and we missed the last train from London Bridge, picking up a taxi instead. The bonus? When he dropped us off, we were able to get chips!

Gig the second

The Ainsty is a pub I haven’t been to in a very long time. When we entered, it was to find a spacious but busy pub, which seemed to have lost a few interior walls since the last time I’d been.

In the best sense of ‘it’s sooo 2004’, this one was a bit like going back to somewhere near the beginning. J and V had come along with Corinne and I. As neither of them had seen Griffin since the heady days of the Grand Opera House, I wondered what they’d think of it all. Somehow, we ended up right in front of the ‘stage’ (or rather, the elevated seating area), and were in prime position for dancing, which meant that for once he didn’t have to make more than one appeal for people to dance.

The whole set was covers, which worked for a Christmas gig, and was also good for those in the audience who just wanted to hear songs that they knew. J and V both really enjoyed it – more so than the Opera House, they said (!!!). As for me, well, I spilled my wine, danced my feet off, and waved my arms in the air, whilst Coza continued the 2004 tradition by getting the set list, pinching beer and a guitar*. It all felt a bit rock and roll in a way that it hasn’t for ages.

As we made our way home sometime after midnight, chips were mentioned, and I discovered the disadvantage of an out of town gig. We couldn’t find any!

*An inflatable one from the Pound Shop!

'Sometimes international theatre can make you see things differently'

That’s what PAF said when we were considering what to go and see in London. She’d sent me a link to ‘Nine Hills, One Valley’ which was playing at the Barbican Theatre, and I expressed concern that it looked ‘a bit weird’ and wasn’t in English. But I decided to give it a go, as it had the advantage of being all of two minutes from her door.

Now, I’ve been to the Barbican quite a few times, as it used to be the London home of the RSC. So I’m familiar with it’s stage door too. It’s 25 years old this year, and, like the rest of us, it’s showing it’s age. The first time I went there, it all seemed so ultra-modern and high tech (I loved then, and still do, the way that all the doors close simultaneously before the start of a show), now it’s looking a little faded, and stuck in a bit of a time warp.

As I settled in my seat, looking at a bare stage, I remembered other productions I’d seen there. A fantastic Merry Wives, The Dream, a fabulous Goldoni play, The Venetian Twins, when David Troughton almost ended up sitting on my knee. As the production began, I quickly realised that I was better off thinking back to the glories of the past.

What was it like? Well, there was a lot of wailing, and it must be a language with very long words, as they’d wail for about 5 minutes, and you’d get one short surtitle. I don’t think I’ll be going to Manipur for my holidays as they don’t seem a barrel of laughs I’m sure if you come from there, it was deep and meaningful, but I’m afraid it left me cold. It seemed to do the same to the rest of the audience, as, by 30 minutes in, they were leaving in droves. We stuck it out, mainly because I can’t do that to the performers, however bad it is. The audience were so baffled, no one realised when it had finished, so we ended up applauding an empty stage! The Guardian seemed to quite like it, but they make the point that you need to read the programme beforehand to have any clue what it's all about. Unfortunately we didn't have time.

In hindsight, it was quite funny. I’d totally missed the point of one key section (or at least I was told so – I think my thoughts were in a wood somewhere outside Athens by that point). As we left (thankfully it was only 90 minutes), I headed straight for the bar, and the vodka cocktail special. I needed it.

'So if you care to find me, look to the western sky...'

I may have mentioned that at the moment I’m a little obsessed with ‘Wicked’. Well, in a mad moment a few weeks ago, when I was feeling ill and fed up, I found myself on line, and booking a ticket for the only matinee performance that I could get to before the end of December, in the hope that, this time, I would get to see Idina Menzel as Elphaba. And that day came last Wednesday, and I was on a morning train down to London.

I didn’t just head for the theatre, oh no, I also went shopping, and round the National Portrait Gallery* where it was amazing to see all the portraits that I’d only seen in books. All the great and the good (and not so good) were there, including my historical hero, Richard III (situated worryingly close to Henry Tudor, I thought).

And then onto Victoria, and lunch. The first time we’d been to the Apollo Victoria, we’d struggled to find somewhere to eat, so I decided a better scout around was required, in the interests of research. I soon found a variety of Italian, and other, restaurants, all pretty reasonably priced, so there is indeed food to be had in Victoria without going to Wetherspoons! I was also asked by some Australians if they were near Westminster Abbey, and directed them to Buckingham Palace instead.

Following lunch, it was over to the theatre, and to my front row, dress circle, seat. Yes, I’d gone for top price, but thankfully there were no signs up so all looked favourable.

For a midweek matinee, the theatre was pretty full, with only a few empty seats here and there. It was utterly magical once again. I thought Helen Dallimore gave a stronger performance as Glinda, with a greater range of emotions, and her singing voice was spot on. Then, Idina ran on, to cheers and applause** and she was, indeed, fabulous. The build up to the end of Act 1 was incredible, and ‘Defying Gravity’, well, I was stunned. This time the effects worked, and she ‘flew’, and that was just so amazing – it really did appear like she was floating in mid air. I know it’s all smoke and mirrors, but wow!

In Act 2, her more mature, and disillusioned Elphaba just broke your heart. This was a woman who had moved from believing that her future was ‘unlimited’ to the realisation that ‘I’m limited’ *sniff*

Two people sitting alongside me decided to leave during the big Act 2 number ‘No Good Deed’ (grrr, though I managed a very creditable execution of ‘how to get out of your seat and move to let them out without ever taking your eyes off the stage’), so I was able to move a few seats along for the last part of the show, and have a slightly more central view

The only principal cast member who didn’t appear was Adam Garcia, so we had an understudy Fiyero (Oliver Thompsett), apparently the first time he’d played it, but he was excellent.

It was a bit of a mad jaunt, but I don’t regret it one bit. It’s a fabulous show, but…I still haven’t worn the ruby slippers!

*I am gradually visiting all the galleries and museums that I was never taken to when I was young.

** as a Theatre Snob, I don’t believe in applauding people for just walking on stage, before they’ve actually done anything

The kindness of strangers*

Where was I? Oh, that's right...London**. I meant to continue my London Blog earlier, but as usual, Life took over, and I've spent the last few days working, driving, or sleeping.

But I had such a fab time I want to continue to talk about it. A brilliant couple of days, bookended by two random acts of kindness - from the woman came over and gave us two day passes for the tube as we stood in the long queue for tickets, to the girl in the lovely little french patisserie who gave us free croissants that we brought back for breakfast.

So many memories - going to the British Museum for the first time in my life and being amazed at the Egyptian and Assyrian statues and art. Seeing all those things I've heard about; the Rosetta Stone, the Elgin Marbles (or Partheonon Frieze, as it now seems to be called), the Portland Vase, the Sutton Hoo treasure. And finding it had a fabulous gift shop, where I could buy classy souvenirs, and a great little book on Shakespeare***, which even had a few quiz questions in it.

Wandering the backstreets of Theatreland and Covent Garden; stopping off for occasional food and cocktails, and to read the menu at The Ivy, and discovering that it isn't actually out of our price range. Browsing in fabulous shoe shops, and looking longingly at the theatres, and wishing that Sunday opening was already a reality.

*ok, which play?
**probably only Corinne will get this allusion
***It has to be good when a book on Shakespeare also quotes Dawson's Creek

The world's our lobster*

So, it’s Saturday night, we’re in the West End of London, in the middle of Theatreland, on the edges of Soho, and we’ve just emerged from the last night of a West End show. Of course, our thoughts fly to alcohol. There has to be lots of pubs with a late licence here, doesn’t there? – after all we know how actors like a drink. There must be half a dozen pubs within a few hundred yards.

The first one we try, a woman at the door tells us it’s closing (it’s 10 to 11, and no one has dipped any lights**). The next one, hmmm, not really our style. There’s Walkabout across the road, people are still going in, and there’s a bouncer on the door. ‘What time are you open until?’ ‘3am, £8 entry’. Well, if I was going to pay £8 before I even get a drink, it wouldn’t be to go into Walkabout. We see another bar/club - £10 entry on a Saturday night. No chance. By this point all the pubs that looked like they were open are starting to close and we start to wonder what a girl has to do to get a drink in this city! We give up, and head back to the hotel bar, which we know is open till 2am, and which will probably work out cheaper. As we head back we’re hailed from a stretch pickup (I kid you not!) with the enticing cry of ‘Oi! Birds!’ Strangely, we’re not tempted by this.

* Cat, I told you I’d call it that
**well known as the universal signal for closing time