Last night I was taken to the theatre by Maw, Paw and No1 Auntie to see a play. The whole evening had the air of a surreal anxiety induced dream. It wasn't unpleasant. It was just odd. It is very hard to explain so I think it best to simply describe what happened and allow the reader to draw their own conclusions.
We went to a boring Italian restaurant for a pre-theatre. The food was acceptable but tended towards the dull. I had a Penne Arrabbiata. Apparently Arrabbiata translates as angry or enraged, mine just seemed a bit grumpy. The pasta was nice and firm. There was a sinister waiter who called me darling and asked me why I didn't like Parmesan and at one point where I was going when I tried to escape. I really didn't see what business it was of his and found his tone altogether too rapey for my liking. I'm not suggesting he was entranced by my lumpy exterior (no one with better things to do has wanted a shot of me since 1990) but he struck me as a man who would fuck a hole in a barber's shop floor. I went all stiff and pretended to be a conifer until he went away.
Post-meal we toddled up Hope St for a pre-theatre drink in Cafe Hula which passed without incident. Then we rose from our slightly dirty table and strutted on to the theatre and that is where the evening took on a surreal air. As I was invited as an afterthought I was seated at the end of the row away from my family. We were in the very front row so had an abundance of leg room. This also gave my mother room to start darting about. I was dreamily staring into space when all of a sudden my mother appeared in front of me and roared "DO YOU WANT SOME WERTHERS ORGINAL?" before I had the chance to say "obviously not" a handful of Werthers were thrust into my lap. I thought the woman sitting next to was going to pass out laughing. I should stress this was before curtain up. No show was harmed during this startling episode. I gathered the Werthers and placed them in my handbag because I am not a litterbug and resumed staring into space. After about a minute my mother appeared in front of me with "A BOTTLE OF TAP WATER IN CASE YOU GET THIRSTY". I turned to the near hysterical woman next to me and said "I only just met her in the foyer".
It was at this point the woman sitting immediately behind me came to my attention. She was most aggrieved that the show was a whole three minutes late starting. I expect they were waiting for my mother to sit down and stop zipping about the stalls with boiled sweets. I shall refer to the woman immediately behind me as "Backbird" as she will feature a lot and typing WIBM in full is tiresome.
At last the curtain rose and things took place on the stage. I should probably mention at this point that the show starred TV's Shane Richie. This seemed to blow Backbird's mind. She stage whispered to the poor chap next to her who I suppose I should call Backchap "It's Alfie Moon". Backchap seized his chance to look like a boffin and replied "I think it's Shane Richie". This sailed over Backbird's head so she replied "I wonder if Kat is going to come on". On and on it went Backbird spent the whole of the first act tutting, puffing and muttering "that isn't my Roy Grace, I've read the books that's Alfie Moon -where's Kat, Alfie, where is Nana Moon?".
I thought Shane Richie did a competent job depicting a fairly standard issue, harassed, middle aged detective. This wouldn't be a problem for me until the end of the play. Backbird on the other hand was enraged. I too, find the world's habit of failing to measure up to the things I imagine somewhat tiresome and I expect it has caused me to act the goat at times but I've never disrupted a play with my witterings.* I am better than Backbird.
Any hope I had that Backbird might break with convention and remain silent during half time was misplaced. She spent the entire interval muttering "I've read all the books" before going on to insist that Backchap's friend had taken part in initiation rituals in order to join a motorcycle gang, specifically gang raping a woman with the rest of the gang. Backchap was unconvinced by her startling assertion and stuck to the line that his friend wasn't in a gang but just went out to "Loch Lomond and stuff" with "a couple of mates who are into bikes". Backbird was not to be deterred, it turns out she had "done a lot and I mean A LOT of reading about biker gangs". Well there's an open and shut case Backchap's Leader of the Pack is a rapist who ought be drowned.
I will pause for reflection here. I have often sneered at people who don't read and snarked that dumbos ought to read a book but should they? What if Lady Bracknell was right when she said "I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone"? Maybe by shaming stupid folk, we're causing them to read and become overexcited. Perhaps we should celebrate thickos and allow them to live untroubled by knowledge. I don't claim to have all the answers but I am prepared to support anything that makes thickos quiet and isn't murderous. Let them live quietly and happily in their community.
Anyway the curtain shot back up and the play rattled along. I don't want to give anything away so I shall avoid details. For me trying to work out whodunnit was a bit like one of those annoying fox,chicken, bag of corn, farmer over the river problems in that I was certain I could work out the answer if I had to but I can't see the point in working it out because someone is going to tell me the answer. For anyone interested my answer to the fox,chicken, bag of corn, farmer over the river problem is as follows. The fox and chicken form a union, toss the farmer into the river, split the corn 50/50, take the boat and have adventures. The real answer is tedious and involves too much back and forth. I don't like things like that.
It was the last few scenes that startled me. Naturally we established whodunnit. Then it all got a bit camp and overacted to the point of being quite the hoot. Shane Richie appeared oblivious to wild acting going on around him and continued to play it straight. The thing is I honestly don't know who I should praise or snort at here. If it was meant to be a big, camp hoot then I shall snort at the Richie, if it was meant to be straight drama then I shall snort at everyone else. Either way it was an ephemeral goggler and I rather liked it in the same way I enjoy a good Jackie Collins.
I did mean to write a proper restaurant and theatre review but then I typed all these other words. Should we teach Secretarial Studies to compulsive ramblers? Join me here on PONTEFRACT next week for the answers.
* Well there was the 1979 nativity play in Penilee Nursery but it deserved it, I was hopelessly miscast, the costumes were a joke anyone in my position would have spent the entire morning sobbing and staring at their feet.
