Drama and performance can really help young minds build important life skills like confidence, comradeship, communication, cooperation and commitment – and loads of other vital ‘c’s too. But it takes guts and gumption to strut your stuff on the stage in front of a bunch of strangers. Back in my old school days, our annual theatrical offering usually consisted of a few spotty boys in need of deodorant mumbling a few lines from the Bard they didn’t really understand. Thankfully, things have come a long way since then.
Unlike the could-do-better days of my youth, this year’s Hobart High School’s production of Beauty and theBeast attained A+ in the talent and fun department. So much so, the show received an emotional standing ovation at the end, which I’m sure will linger long after the lights and makeup have faded. We know several members of the young cast – Benny, Eva, Jas and Rory. They were all amazing. And as for our very own budding starlet, Alice, in her directorial debut, is there anything this brilliant young lady can’t do?
For rural shires on the eastern edge of this green and pleasant land, East Anglia is rather blessed when it comes to live theatre. It seems everyone’s at it, from the have-a-go luvvies in drafty old village halls to well-seasoned thesps treading the boards at the rather magnificent Theatre Royal, Norwich. Unsurprisingly, it’s a mixed bag of riches – some good, some less so but all worth a few shillings. Always worth a punt are the song and dance showstoppers from the Norwich and Norfolk Operatic Society. And their latest, Betty Blue Eyes, was no exception.
Adapted from the 1984 film A Private Function, from the genius pen of Alan Bennett, Betty Blue Eyes is set in a small Yorkshire town just after the War, with food rationing still on the menu, resulting in unpalatable Soviet-style food queues and meagre plates. But to celebrate the 1947 royal wedding of Princess Elizabeth to Prince Phillip, the local bigwigs decide to throw a banquet fit for a queen with a main course of illegally reared, unlicensed pork. They call the pig ‘Betty’ in honour of the soon-to-be-wed princess. Of course, the feast is strictly for the top drawer with their overbearing sense of entitlement. The hoi polloi have to make do with Spam.
Quirky, eccentric, heart-warming and thoroughly British, the show was a funny, foot-tapping tale of small town, small minds and smug middle-class snobbery; the kind of ‘one rule for us, another rule for them’ mentality exposed by the recent Partygate scandal.
The cast was excellent, particularly those from our own small community hereabouts – you know who you are. For me, the stand out performances came from Will Mugford, the hen-pecked anti-hero Gilbert who saves the day, Joseph Betts as Henry, who develops a rather unconventional relationship with Betty (or perhaps not so unconventional given we’re in Norfolk) and Alex Green, the light-footed, campish Food Inspector in Gestapo leathers trying to catch out the rule-breakers.
No actual pigs were harmed in the performance.
Here they are in rehearsals…
Footnote:
According to Wikipedia , during the filming of A Private Function, Maggie Smith was hemmed in by an angry pig and had to vault over the back of it to escape. Dame Maggie then went on to win a Best Actress BAFTA for her trouble.She’s a real trouper.
We missed Big Dick and His Pussy, last year’s mucky offering from the Adult Panto team, so we were determined to see Sinderella, their very naughty-but-nice interpretation of the classic rags to royalty tale we all know so well. It was a strictly gays’ and girls’ night for our foursome at Norwich’s Maddermarket Theatre, with husbands left behind to look after the sprogs. Giving a whole new meaning to that well-trod panto phrase ‘he’s behind you’, it was a non-stop, X-rated, utterly unbridled, cross-dressed, nudge-nudge, wink-wink glitterfest of smut and filth which left no profanity unsaid or hole barred. We loved it.
Just one more show to go – Treasure Island from the Loddon Players, our much-loved local am dram company – and then it’s curtains for panto season for another year.
It’s Christmas so it must be pantomime time, and panto doesn’t get any more lavish and camp than the annual festive frolic at the London Palladium. Each year the show just gets bigger and better, brasher and trashier, cross-dressed in glitter, sequins and smut. Once again, all our senses were assaulted; the perfect antidote to the drizzle of a dull December and a darkening world.
This year’s extravaganza is a panto mainstay – the evergreen Peter Pan, but not quite as Disney, or indeed JM Barrie, imagined it. Starring Ab Fab’s Jennifer Saunders as Captain Hook and the matchless Julian Clary mincing on as Seaman Smee, the cast also includes Palladium regulars Paul Zerdin, Nigel Havers, Gary Wilmot, and the simply wonderful Rob Madge as Fairy Tink who made us laugh and cry in his autobiographic tale My Son’s a Queer (But What Can You Do?).
This year’s offering struck a more poignant note, dedicated as it was to the late Paul O’Grady, who sparred with Julian Clary on the Palladium stage a number of times as his alter-ego, Lily Savage.
Naturally, Julian steals every scene he’s in with one outrageous costume after another and all the best gags – a tsunami of filth. Absolutely fabulous.
We see a lot of am-dram these days – across town and county, in huts and halls, theatres big and small, all delivered by companies of dedicated luvvies giving it their all. We love the old razzle dazzle. It keeps us out of the pub, though not necessarily sober as there’s always a bar attached. Unsurprisingly, the gigs are a mixed bag – some good, some not so good. And sometimes they’re really, really good. We never know what to expect. It’s all part of the drama.
Right up there on the really, really good scale was the recent production of The Wizard of Oz at the Beccles Public Hall and Theatre, a charming little venue just across the county line in Suffolk. From the first scene to the last, the show was pure magic, slick and professional, with some cracking acts.
A special mention must go to Alice Peck, the daughter of our local tavern keeper, in her debut lead role as Dorothy. Well done, young Alice. It was a tornado of a performance. You’ll go far.
And who could forget Alice’s mother, Karen, reprising her role as the Wicked Witch of the West from her 2022 performance? She swapped her usual soft Dundonian tones for full-on, in-yer-face Glaswegian. Full of menace and mayhem, we were half-expecting a Glasgow kiss from a seriously pissed-off cackling witch. We definitely weren’t in Kansas.
Liam is away visiting an old friend from his wayward early years as a young gay about town. They worked and played together when Liam did a proper job with a pension attached. It’s the first time I’ve been home alone since we moved to the village over three years ago. Liam left to catch an early train and I fell out of my pit to an empty house, silent apart from the morning squawk of the horny birds outside. It felt odd and a little unsettling. But, as I went about my domestic chores, I kept finding post-it notes hidden here and there. Here’s a sample…
I did as I was instructed and jumped on the bus to our local garden centre. It was a warm and sunny day and the place was packed with people taking tea and talking shrubs. I cannot lie, I felt out of sorts. As I went to pay for my trolley-load of horticultural supplies, I opened my wallet to find this…
If you’d said a few years back that one day I’d be in a small provincial theatre watching a bunch of kids bounce about in a Lloyd Webber musical with a book by Julian Fellowes (he of Downton Abbey fame), I’d have laughed you off the stage. “Not my thang,” I would have said. “Give me Superstar and maybe Coat of Many Colours, but his other stuff? Nah, not for me.”
But there I was last night settling down to watch Echo Youth Theatre’s performance of School of Rock at the Maddermarket Theatre, along with rows of nervously proud friends and family, a buzz in the air. And I can report that Lloyd Webber’s eclectic, guitar-heavy score is a revelation. Andy’s back to his rock roots, and as the opening number blasted to the back of the auditorium, we all knew we were in for a foot thumping night.
And the talent on the stage last night was astounding. But then, that’s something I’ve come to expect from Echo Youth. It’s an ensemble piece and it would be unfair to single anyone out, apart from Chris Davidson in Jack Black mode. Oh, and Rory Peck, our favourite shake, rattle and roller. Suffice to say, the energetic and gifted cast produced a joyous and uplifting account of Lloyd Webber’s hit, and the standing ovation at the end was instant and richly deserved.
If you’re anywhere near Norwich, grab yourself a ticket for this rocking show and get yourself down to the Maddermarket (it runs until Sunday). And if you don’t come out humming Stick It to the Man, I’m the Queen of Sheba.
Yes, it’s that time of year again when the technicolor travelling circus that is Eurovision rolls into town. After Ukraine’s win last year, the tele-moguls wisely decided against staging the glitterfest in Kyiv with the risk of Russian drones crashing the party – literally. So, the poisoned – or blesséd – chalice was passed to runners-up, le Royaume-Uni.
‘… the songfest has been given an extra political frisson this year by Tsar Putin’s annexation/ repatriation (delete according to taste) of the Crimea; continued unrest in eastern Ukraine might earn Kiev a few sympathy votes…’
Prophetic or what?
Reaching an audience of over 160 million, the Eurovision Song Contest is the biggest music show on the planet. These days, the competition is less about the actual songs – once heard, rarely remembered – and more about the glitzy spectacle, with performances ranging from the camply sublime to the utterly bizarre. It hardly matters. Votes will be cast along political and ethnic fault lines anyway. They always are.
The City of Liverpool won the bid to host the jamboree on behalf of Ukraine and good ol’ Auntie Beeb has chucked most of our licence fee at it with week-long sideshows online and on stage to accompany the main events. Excitement has built to fever pitch with superfans from across the realm and the continent descending on the city. There have even been special trains laid on…
Just like our Liverpudlian comrades, we’ve decided to embrace the entire silly shindig with a silly shindig of our own. Sadly, our gaff is a tad smaller than the Liverpool Arena so a kindly neighbour has stepped in to host the show at their mini-mansion. They’ll be silly hats, silly score cards and silly prizes. Good luck to the UK’s Mae Muller. It’s a crackin’ song with crackin’ lyrics.
But when the nil points roll in and the UK predictably plummets down the scoreboard, we’ll just crack open another bottle and drown our silly sorrows.
We had a little taste of Echo Youth Theatre’s Little Shop of Horrors at the Maddermarket’s recent charity gig and thought, yep, that’s right up our alley. The quirky musical comedy features Skid Row florist Seymour in a kinda horticultural ménage à trois with co-worker Audrey and Audrey 2, his pet pot plant with an insatiable appetite and bad attitude. What’s not to like?
Taking on a cult classic, particularly one as eccentric as Little Shop of Horrors, is either brave or foolhardy but Echo Youth Theatre have strong roots and always put on a colourful display. And they didn’t disappoint, delivering an outstanding show from the entire cast with particular stand out performances from the young leads – Korben White as Seymour, Carrigan Matthews as Audrey, George Bartlett-Archery as Mr Mushnik and Jack Rudd as Orin/Martin. We also just adored the Ronnettes, the girl group with a great sixties vibe and all the right moves.
And a special mention has to go to Lily Matthews as the voice of Audrey 2. Sensational vocals, Lily.
We pitched up at the first night so there’s still time to grab a seat this week before the curtain falls on Saturday 15th. Go on, there’s nothing to fear.
A big birthday deserves a big show and they don’t get much bigger than ABBA Voyage at the specially constructed ABBA Arena in London’s Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. Discretion prevents me from broadcasting the number of the big birthday. Let’s just say the lady turned 21 again. After a Champagne breakfast at the White Horse generously provided by our jolly landlord – the birthday girl’s other half – the fancily-dressed voyagers piled onto the charabanc to the Smoke. More generosity from the innkeeper saw some of us three sheets to the wind before we hit the M11.
London traffic, as always, was bumper to bumper, but we made the performance – just. And what a performance. It took my breath away. Truly the best light and sound show I’ve ever seen. ABBA split in 1982 and, unlike some ancient rockers who seem to be on perpetual tour, the quartet wisely decided they were way too long in the tooth to squeeze into those skin-tight costumes and hit the road again. So ABBA Voyage is the next best thing – or the first best thing depending on your point of view – a virtual concert featuring ‘ABBAtars’.
At first, it felt a bit weird clapping to a series of holograms, but the show is so technically brilliant, so convincing, that it’s easy to suspend belief and party hard to the fast-paced set of timeless ABBA classics. And who doesn’t like a bit of ABBA at a party? We all had a ball, particularly the birthday girl – because she’s amazing too.
Perking the Pansies 