Category: Arts & Theatre

Shop ‘Til You Drop

Shop ‘Til You Drop

With the weather finally on the up and blossom dripping from the trees, the citizens of Norwich were out in their droves doing what the Brits do best – shop and sup. Purses and plastic were loosened in a brave attempt to drag the economy out of the abyss. Technically, the economy is as flat as a witch’s tit, rather than triple dipping and the patient needs all the TLC it can get. Market stalls toppled out onto the pavement, till queues weaved round Primark, the M&S food hall heaved with Norfolk broads and we couldn’t find a table in Pret a Manger when we bagged a baguette.

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We escaped the madding crowd by browsing the floor show in the Forum. Modern art isn’t everyone’s cup of char but Liam loved it.  I left him to peruse the exhibits and ordered a couple of drinks at the bar. Cheers!

Google Before You Go

Google Before You Go

BoudiccaA bright spring sky and a benign forecast enticed us out for a countryside foray. We fancied a look around a reconstructed Iceni village near the hamlet of Cockley Cley (there’s a joke in there somewhere but I’m damned if I can find it). Cast your minds back to the history books of your early school days and the chapter on Queen Boudicca (Boadicea). As the story goes, the Iceni were a Celtic tribe who lived in what is now the county of Norfolk. Following the Claudian conquest of 43 AD, King Prasutagus of the Iceni (Boudicca’s other half) kept his crown by taking the Emperor’s shilling and becoming a client of the Romans. When he died, he left his lush forests and clearings in equal share to his two daughters and fiddling Nero. The perfidious Romans ignored his Will, flogged Boudicca, raped her daughters and took the lot for themselves. Dowager Boudicca was seriously pissed off. Bent on revenge, she joined up with other revolting tribes and went on the rampage. The startled Romans got quite a kicking and the rebellion nearly succeeded in booting the double-crossing conquerors out on their toga’d arses. The insurrection failed in the end but not before the rebels torched London (the first great fire), Colchester and St Albans, slaughtering the inhabitants. Folklore has it that the old Norfolk broad is buried under platform 9 or 10 of Kings Cross Station in London.

We stopped for tea in nearby Swaffham, a pretty market town with kerb appeal and a sprinkling of charm. Sadly, it was closed for the winter (apart for the odd charity shop and the ubiquitous and over-priced Costa Coffee). We climbed back into the car and headed south, passing open fields populated with freakish scarecrows dressed like the Ku Klux Klan. Liam muttered something about Jerry Springer the Opera and sped on towards the Iceni village. Contrary to the forecast, it started to rain. More by luck than judgement, we found the faux settlement hidden along a nondescript country lane. The gates were firmly locked, like Swaffham, closed for winter.

Memo to self – next time you fancy dipping your fat toe into the history of the Ancient Brits, Google before you go.

Lady Haha

Lady Haha

Lady Haha Playhouse Theatre

To honour International Women’s Day (8th March), we plopped through the puddles on a blustery night to watch a quintet of female comics. The gals with gags strutted their stuff for the ‘Lady Haha’ show at the Playhouse, Norwich (a fab bar with a theatre attached). Generally, I’m not keen on stand up – a bit too hit and miss or too clever by half in my experience. I needn’t have worried. The acts – Grainne Maguire, Amy Howerska, Vikki Stone, Diane Spencer and headliner, Tiffany Stevenson – tickled my ribs with their bawdy take on feminism, racism, gingaphobia, relationships, dating, men, oversized willies and orgasms (or lack thereof). These funny ladies of the night are going places.

PS: I was a tad disappointed not to see Aisling Bea who was originally billed to appear, mainly because she sounds like a sickly insect. 

PPS: Vikki Stone is a younger, filthier version of the superlative Victoria Wood and is quite a hit on You Tube. This is one of her lewd tunes. Best not watch if you’re easily offended.

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Nine to Five

Nine to FiveDespite a head cold that had me supping on the gin and Lemsip, Liam managed to get me to Dolly Parton’s  ‘9 to 5’ at the Theatre Royal, Norwich. Adapted from the 1980 movie comedy starring Dolly, Lily Tomlin and Jane Fonda, ‘9 to 5’ is a high-energy musical farce about three overworked and overlooked female office workers exacting delicious revenge on their lazy, lecherous, sexist, misogynistic boss. We had terrific seats for a terrific show with some terrific tunes and terrific lines (“You’re just a typewriter with tits.”). Amy Lennox* was uncanny in the Dolly role. If you closed your eyes, you’d think it was the chesty chanteuse on stage. Natalie Casey as Jane Fonda was superb with sharp comic timing and a tremendous voice. Slightly more disappointing was Jackie Clune in the Lily Tomlin part; a few more dance lessons might help. Veteran trouper, Bonnie Langford, almost stole the show in her supporting role as the boss’s fawning assistant.  Bonnie can throw her legs higher and wider than anyone I’ve ever seen on stage, screen or porn flick. The gorgeous Dolly has quite a following among the gay fraternity and the audience was liberally sprinkled with fairy dust, including the man next to me whose shocking hair don’t would have him run out of Soho. Dolly herself appeared as narrator on a large clock-faced screen above the stage. Saying “thank you” to Norwich was a nice touch and Dolly brought the house down when she launched into the familiar ‘9 to 5’ theme at the end.

*We saw the talented Amy Lennox in ‘Soho Cinders’ last summer and she was superb in that too.

Young at Heart

Young at Heart

To celebrate John Hurt’s appointment as the first Chancellor of the newly elevated Norwich University of the Arts, we sank a bottle at the nearby Playhouse Theatre Bar (like we need an excuse). The bar is the boozer of choice for the trendy young things loading up their student debts in wild abandon. Sitting like a couple of old codgers in the corner, we love to imbibe the ambience that overflows with youthful exuberance and optimism. It’s a welcome antidote to the cynicism of older age. The banter and gossip can be delicious and we are dedicated eavesdroppers.

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    Speech marks

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An Intimate Evening with Ruthie Henshall

ruthie-goldRuthie Henshall, star of the West End, Broadway and Celebrity Family Fortunes, was in town performing her one woman gig at the Norwich Playhouse. Liam was first in the queue for tickets. Olivier award-winning Ruthie went down like mulled wine on a chilly night and belted out the old show tunes to an appreciative audience of old queens and old codgers. Ruthie’s tender rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” from “Les Mis” (Ruthie played the role of tragic Fantine on stage in 1992) made for an interesting comparison with Anne Hathaway’s epic interpretation in the film version of the Glums currently doing the rounds. Ruthie didn’t disappoint.

The likeable Ms Henshaw punctuated the show with intimate tales and titbits from her chequered past. The slightly nervous repartee contrasted with a confident despatch of her back catalogue and the overall effect was rather endearing. I left the auditorium thinking that this was a girl I could have a drink with. Liam left the auditorium in love with yet another chanteuse.

I have my own romantic association with “I Dream a Dream.” Many moons ago in a gay bar on the Fulham Road, it was sung to me by a fat drag queen called ‘Dockyard Doris.’ Dearly departed Doris had a huge voice and carried off the key change with music hall assurance. The song was requested by a gas fitter (I was cleaning out his pipes at the time). He thought I was the one. I had other ideas. 

Matilda

Matilda

Matilda2We ventured down to the Smoke during the big freeze for a night at the theatre. Surprisingly, our train ride both to and from London was untroubled by the threat of snow drifts wafting across the frozen flatlands. Our West End treat was Matilda, the RSC musical adapted from Roald Dahl’s dark parable of good and evil. The gong-drenched pantomime was a slick, visually stunning, superbly staged, brilliantly choreographed, foot-tapping extravaganza that left a warm glow like a vintage brandy on a chilly night. The performance was only slightly marred by the quartet of ladies sitting immediately behind us who provided a running commentary while rustling their way through a hundredweight of Maltesers. Every appearance of a cute child on stage was greeted with an “aah” and, since much of the cast is made up of cute kiddies, there were a lot of aahs to sit through. A word of caution, the deafening crescendo of pre-pubescent sopranos singing in perfect harmony might crack your glasses and make your ears bleed.

Matilda1

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Norwich, City of Literature

Saraswati ParkNorwich is the heart of arty-farty judging by the colourful assortment of scholarly fashionistas mingling around the College of Art. Norwich is also a treasure trove of wordy worthiness that rather puts my own inconsequential ramblings in the shade. The rich and centuries-old tradition of proper writing was recognised this year when UNESCO awarded Norwich City of Literature status. My inadequacies were further confirmed when I discovered that our downstairs neighbour is a serious novelist of award-winning, global stature. Her name is Anjali Joseph and, as we chatted about the darkened skies and wheelie bins, she modestly revealed that she’d written a book or two. I did a bit of Googling. It didn’t take long. Anjali is all over the wonderweb. A book or two? Crikey, this pretty young thing has written two internationally acclaimed novels published by HarperCollins, is working on her PhD in Creative Writing during her coffee breaks and is stalked by the national press. I might as well just slash my wrists and be done with it.

Plonk and Gossip

Jenny EclairWe played hosts at the weekend. Well, I say hosts. Apart from a short stroll to the Playhouse Theatre to enjoy the lavatorial humour of Jenny Eclair, the only hosting we did was to pop the celebratory corks. Our house guests, my old mucky mucker, Ian, and his young Celtic tiger, Matt, were grabbing a few days away from the Smoke and the Christmas scrum. Matt’s generosity at the bar meant that I can’t remember much of Ms Eclair’s high-velocity act though I can confirm it was deliciously funny, full-on, filthy and packed with an abundance of menopausal references to female plumbing. An arctic snap swept across the flatlands and the big skies dribbled with sleet so we decided to cancel the city tour. Instead, we settled down to a warm summit of plonk and gossip with a boozy interval of Strictly Come Dancing on Auntie. Our guests steadfastly refused to let us put our hands in our pockets which was naughty and typically stubborn but gratefully received by these poor old provincial poofs. We sent them packing with a couple of Tesco’s bags (to transport their livers in).

Blood Brothers, the Farewell Tour

The flatlands of Norfolk were draped in thick wet fog when Liam dragged me out to see ‘Blood Brothers’ at the Theatre Royal. The show is on its farewell tour after a 24 year run in the West End. The damp opaque night was a fitting overture to the brother’s grim tale of twins separated at birth. Loosely based on an Alexandre Dumas novella, Willy Russell’s gritty kitchen sink drama is acted out on the mean streets of Sixties, Seventies and Eighties Liverpool. Apart from “Tell Me It’s Not True,” there are very few memorable melodies in the show; Blood Brothers is more of a play with music than a musical play. The annoying pop-star placement trend continues to afflict the UK stage. Niki Evans, an ex-X Factor contestant, was cast as the hapless mother and ex-Wet Wet Wet pretty boy front man, Marti Pellow was the narrator. In fact, Ms Evans was indisposed for our night at the theatre and Tracey Spencer (who usually plays a supporting role) slipped into her shoes. Like Cinderella, it was a perfect fit. Ms Spencer has one of those rare seductive voices with a goose bump touch. It was she and Sean Jones (who played the doomed twin, Mickey) who stole the show. Interestingly, the two actors are married in real life. Less interesting was Marti Pellow’s performance. He delivered his lines with misplaced melodrama (think Shakespeare with a laboured Scouse accent) and he was very pedestrian (literally and metaphorically). Despite this, the show got an enthusiastic standing ovation. My verdict? I was on my feet too.

Cue the video. This is Barbara Dixon who played the original mother way back in 1983.

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