Far From the Right Time.

Today, in the spirit of adventure I did something I have never done before. You'll think me mad but I went to the theatre in the afternoon. To be clear I have been in a theatre before and not just for pantos. I have have seen operas, ballets, comedians and the odd play. However I have always waited until the evening to indulge. I now realise that pure instinct kept me from experiencing the most frightful ordeal.

Oh it wasn't the show. The show was quite the hoot and along with the wine provided the only happiness I experienced during the hell of the matinee. It's hard to describe what I've been through but I shall do my best to set it out in my own words. It may well be needed in some ground breaking legal case in the very near future.

I have always loved the word matinee. It's redolent of lovely things, like Dirk Bogarde twinkling down from a cinema poster. The reality is far from lovely. We all know that strangers are just foul irritants we haven't met yet but when one is forced to encounter them, I now know it is less painful to do so at night. The evening theatre audience is rendered docile by a wee pre-theatre and a half bottle of wine. The matinee crowd want the back of their legs slapping.

I have spent four decades being herded around with you cattle but not once have I ever encountered such a relentlessly irritating bunch and believe me I've met some fiends on the way.

Naturally I took my seat early on. I was positioned on a fairly empty row Q only to find myself trapped between an awkward middle aged "date" and a family. I thought I might die. Row P was occupied by arthritic pensioners who shot up and massaged their lower backs and upper buttocks, quite without warning. Everyone in row P appeared to be called "Maggie". The one with the "tramp stamp" kept telling us to "keep smiling". I didn't. She was bossy and I was compelled to defy her.

I can only assume someone had starved this assortment of monsters before they entered the theatre. Other than the sort of eating disorder that ends in one being removed from ones digs in a crane, there is no explanation for the relentless rustling and chewing. On and on it went. Splatty chew, rustle, splatty chew, splatty chew, audible fart, rustle, chew. Right through both acts. That would never happen in the evening.

It was something of a relief when the curtain finally rose. Rather, it should have been a relief but the nasally child weasel next to me had memorised both script and songs. I thought about telling it I was best friends with Rose West or that I could get it sent to live with Karen Mathews but I kept quiet and tried to cause deafness in my right ear by sheer will power. After a time, I either deafened myself to the right or the creature ran out of puff and shut up.

Of course trouble flared up when the odd man to my left spotted the wine in my handbag and started loudly whispering to his partner that "other people" had "carry outs". He was a rotter and an ill informed rotter at that. I did not have a "carry out", I had a blue package ticket which comes with a small bottle. A small bottle that I required in order to deal with my surroundings.  I had cause to curse this gentleman again during the interval when he remarked to the red faced woman he was with that I was "having another one but not from a bottle".  I think he was jealous but it was medicinal and necessary. Like a wheelchair ramp.

Contributing to my sense of being hemmed in by cunts was Row R to my rear. This was all in the stalls. I dread to think what was taking place in the dress circle. Anyway Row R was occupied by hair tossing, up speaking, weak bladders. They barely got through ten minutes without clambering out their row, roaring sorry, like it's a question and vanishing. Only to return and do it all again. Repeatedly.

Show 3/5

Audience 0/5

I shall never enter a theatre in the daytime again.

A short play about God and the world of the humans.

I have written a short one act play in which our Lord God receives an update on the humans and their antics. It was inspired by a picture of a pink horse which clip clopped it's way on to my Twitter feed and made me have to go in to another room to be upset because people were being mean to a horse.

God: Hey Archangel Gabriel, what are the humans up to this weather?

Archangel Gabriel: Well they're planning to put Trump in charge of the USA and some guy has painted a horse pink.

God: I see.

Archangel Gabriel: Thunderbolts?

God: Fuck them. No warning call. Flood the fuckers. Drown them all.

Archangel Gabriel: Righto chief.

What kind of arse witted monster does this?

I came here to kick gum and chew minds and I'm all out of gum because of YOUR stupid Christmas.

The festive period is in many ways a rather trying one for me. I'm not a Christian so the religious element doesn't set off any internal fireworks. It strikes me, as I look around that there is plenty of food on offer throughout the year so the prospect of a large plate of things I don't especially want to eat leaves me quite unmoved and more often than not longing for a decent channa dahl. Pretty much everything else folk are compelled to do at Christmas is more enjoyable at other times of the year when it's done in the spirit of spontaneous giggles and not out of obligation. 

However I accept that I am outnumbered and am happy enough to quietly go along with things. In a saner world than the one we inhabit, people would regard me as a fine example of tolerance. People would say "look at Jennifer, she secretly thinks this is a bit dull but she's letting us get on with the festivities instead of organising death squads to kill us all. We could all learn so much from her". As the world is not sane, people say "bah humbug". It may be they are excited at being able to quote a small fragment of classic literature or it may be they heard someone else equally irritating saying it and decided to join in. Like a parrot. A big dull parrot that can't even be bothered to grow fine plumage for us all to admire but has the effrontery to lecture other folk about jollity. That sort of parrot. 

Many years ago I witnessed a particularly stunning "bah humbug". It's the sort of "bah humbug" that I think about whenever I'm being verbally abused by a spunk box for not being a Christian and laugh like a drain. That in itself is somewhat surprising because the bah humbugger on this occasion was the most humourless person I have ever had the misfortune to meet. I used to call her "No Laughs Cath" behind her back, so remarkable was her complete lack of any discernible sense of humour. 

Allow me to set the scene. There are three women in an office, I am one of them, the other has just returned from work after the death of her mother from pancreatic cancer and the final but most astonishing one is the bah humbugger extraordinaire, Ol' No Laughs Cath herself. 

All is peaceful in the office when the 'bah humbugger' appears in a Santa hat and a ton of tinsel, hell bent on sucking every last drop of joy from the room. She immediately demands to know what we're all doing for Christmas I mumble something about visiting my mother whilst arranging my features in to something that I hope will deter any follow up questions. The other woman says she doesn't feel much like doing anything on account of the recent, agonising death of her mother from a terrible illness. 

I must confess I don't always know what to say to the recently bereaved but I'm pretty sure "bah humbug" isn't the most appropriate thing to say. In the unlikely event I did say something as catastrophically insensitive I wouldn't then smirk at my victim with a big toddler on the pot face like I was waiting on a round of applause. Reader, No Laughs did it. She dropped the big "bah humbug" on a recently bereaved orphan. 

I was immediately at war with myself, a storm of conflicting emotions. The urge to shriek with laughter, fought the urge to shriek out of total shock with a twinge of rage and disbelief sneaking up on the rear. The poor, recently bereaved orphan appeared too numb to feel very much and just said "oh I know". Having secured the silence of the room No Laughs then held court about how amazing her Christmas going to be as all her family would be there. I didn't comment but it sounded like a hellish gathering of terrible tools.

Until that astonishing "bah humbug" I used to be quite hurt by that jibe. I don't imagine anyone enjoys being likened to the repellent, mean spirited and stingy character of Scrooge and on that score I am no different but I realise that was because I hadn't thought it through. For a start it's highly unlikely the "bah humbuggers" have actually read 'A Christmas Carol' and have just latched on to a cliche large enough to match their out sized acrylic BHS  jumpers because they are actually too stupid to say anything else. I should be feeding them Trill and calling them Cheeky Boy, rather than paying any mind to their ridiculous banter. 

It is also worth noting that when one observes their behaviour throughout the year they're quite Scrooge like themselves. The person who sits next to you at work and says "at they end of the day, they weans were put on the boat by their parents" is a "Bah Humbugger" and no mistake. The twit in popcorn knit who says "at the end of the day, charity begins at home" is a whopping great "Bah Humbugger" The fat one with strange ankle swellings who says "at the end of the day, this is a Christian country and they should fit in with our ways" is not only a throbbing bell end but a "Bah Humbugger". What I'm trying to say here is that I can use graphs to show that I'm essentially harmless.Yet stupid, angry zoo animals in slacks without the grace to be cute, torment innocent bystanders everyday, unmolested by the jollity police.  

Let us imagine we lived in a better world. Let's imagine that when you said you couldn't be arsed dancing at the minute people said "hurrah, mind our drinks while we do The Slosh" and one could sit on their arse, giving the odd wee wave. Let's imagine some spunkbracket brings out the karaoke gear and instead of demanding others join in, they just invite folk to join in only if it would make them happy or a bit pleased. You'll think I'm BONKERS but let's imagine a world in which everyone simply minded their own business and did their own thing.  

Failing that, just know that when you harass me to JOIN IN WITH YOUR FORCED JOLLITY I am calling you a weaselflange and a rabbitspoon in my mind. Also know that I'm rather enjoying myself staring in to the stars until the moment you ruin my life, my evening, my hour by cranking out out a great big "bah humbug" in my face. If your reindeer games fail to bring all the boys to the yard, either you are the boys are in the wrong and that is hardly my fault. Let me smirk quietly from the banquettes.