Will my first time be my last?

I was so pleased to have found it, but now, a few months later it seems The Byre Theatre in St Andrews is to be no more.

In a way it’s not at all surprising. Everything is going under, except the government. And I blame them. Times are bad, and we can’t have everything in life, but we could do with some more encouragement and money spent on sensible things.

The Olympics are gone, but we are still here, and we could go to the theatre. If it can stay open. We have money for wars, but need to close our hospitals. There are Bibles (or was it Shakespeare?) for school children who can’t afford to eat.

My first visit to the Byre was a good one. It was for the St Andrews literature festival in October. As litfests go, it was small. But St Andrews is no metropolis, and a big festival is not necessarily better than a small one. I was quite satisfied, and I thought the theatre was fantastic, and set in the most beautiful surroundings.

You go through an old passageway, and then there are several small courtyards, and eventually you come to a brand new glass and wood (and stone) theatre.

As someone said when discussing this; the building will remain. Something needs to be done with it. Usually they seem to make obsolete structures into luxury flats. Maybe they will build more student halls?

Or, thinking university and theatre; I suppose it could be a new lecture hall. But really, it’s the wastefulness of having perfectly good venues just being cast aside that gets to me.

It was too good to be true.

Rolf Harris at the Lowry

Rolf Harris sauntered onto the Lyric Theatre stage at the Lowry last night, dressed in a white shirt and sun hat, looking for all the world as though he was in Provence. He wasn’t far out. It was a glorious day, even in Salford, and so much better for Rolf being there. Maybe he’d got the wrong postcode, maybe not.

That’s the thing with Rolf Harris. You don’t know how much is an act and what actually happened. Maybe they really did drive round looking for the Lowry. (It’s an apt name. One painter to another.)

He started with Tie Me Kangaroo Down Sport, sticking to the same script he’s used for a while. We got emotional, we stopped clapping, we did everything Rolf told us to do. We sang. (Is there a discount when you become part of the act?)

Then he rambled a bit. Sang the intro to Kangaroo in Dutch. Spanish. Claimed he didn’t know the Japanese translation, although that didn’t stop him. Sang Kangaroo in Russian, which somehow turned into Kalinka. And Rolf finished with the Nashville version.

This all took a while, as you can understand.

A Japanese joke swiftly (no, pretty slowly in a roundabout way, actually) took us to Christmas and Six White Boomers. Then he moved via Aborigine art to Uluru and Raining on the Rock. He tried on his accordion for size. Several times. Then he finally played it, for tongue-twister Court of King Caractacus. The audience followed, still singing along. Was it an act, or was it for real? Rolf ‘completely lost it.’ Doesn’t matter.

You Are My Sunshine, with another slight hiccough. Who cares? We were all smiling in the sunshine. We sang Waltzing Matilda, and Rolf reminisced about singing it at Glastonbury with 130,000 index fingers counting ‘one, two, three.’ We found it hard to match this, having fewer fingers at our disposal.

We got a didgeridoo lesson, with Rolf doing unspeakable things with his glass of water and one belonging to a member of the orchestra. Basically, you blow raspberries while avoiding drowning yourself with the water. Don’t try it at home. This lead to Sun Arise, the most boring song the original musicians had ever played. Even George Martin felt it needed something a bit extra to counteract its mesmerising drone, and after three months on Radio Luxembourg it would have made it to number one had it not been for that upstart Elvis.

A short five-minute break for ten to fifteen minutes, meant we were back in 20-25. I’ll round that up to half an hour.

Rolf needed the time. He had a third leg to grow and clothe (orange trousers?) and a green tartan coat to put on. Yes, it was Jake the Peg, who had not only an extra leg, but sang the same bit a second time. Or tried to.

Once rid of the outfit and the spare leg, Rolf wore his cerise shirt, which he immediately covered up with a blue one so he could splash paint around. It was time for the painting. Fairly small canvas, for Rolf, but a great piece of work, nevertheless. Someone in the audience shouted out ‘can you tell what it is yet?’ I suppose it was worth checking he had some idea of what he was splashing the paint on. (Uluru, in case you wondered. With rain.)

The time spent painting, Rolf asked for permission to tell non-pc jokes. It was something about two Albanians, one of whom was called Patrick… He does do accents very well. You tend to forget this, in-between concerts.

Delilah and Stairway to Heaven raised the roof somewhat (we did sing very well, even if I say so myself). I now have a mental picture of Miss Given, for future use. Pavlova, on request, followed by Two Little Boys. I wondered how you can follow that with anything else, but Rolf did a rude version of it, which ‘lowered the tone’ sufficiently.

A lot of background information on Leadbelly, who wrote lots of songs, but not Sixteen Tons, which is why Rolf didn’t sing it. He forgot stuff. He dropped his money. And Leadbelly wrote Goodnight Irene, which will be why Rolf sang it.

Avoiding encores, we were firmly informed Rolf would finish with the British version of Kangaroo. We sat up straight and legs were uncrossed, and what we got was Kangaroo Elgar style. Or perhaps Land of Hope and Glory with dying stockmen. Seeing as it was the Last Night of the Proms, we felt we hadn’t missed out. And not a single varicose vein exploded.

We trooped out to the foyer where Rolf was going to sign. (They never said what, though. No merchandise, only programmes. And with no photography allowed inside, I have taken to photographing the programme to illustrate things. Sorry.)

It was a long wait, and a long queue. They had time to replace the pot of tea for a fresh one as we waited. I took a few photos and scarpered, so have no idea when the last ones left. This morning, I imagine.

I got to the tram stop as Rule Britannia was belted out on the façade of the BBC. Very nice.

It was all very nice. And if someone had suggested forty years ago that I would ever attend the concert of an 82-year-old, I’d have said they were crazy. But crazy would be not to go. This is feelgood stuff at its best.

I’d say come back soon, but I am a nice and generous person, so will say that it would be great to see you again, Rolf, but there are other deserving parts of the country, too. Probably.

The 2012 Simon Callow

Unlike authors who like to hide behind their laptops, actors are used to the limelight. Some of them might even like it. Or not mind too much. I get the impression Simon Callow doesn’t mind dreadfully.

It was nice to catch him on the blue carpet. We’ve had enough green carpet for a while.

A Midsummer Night’s Superhero

Holidays are horrible things. They prevent you from going to see Shakespeare at the Royal Exchange Theatre. I had to send a replacement to check it out…

“Somehow, I get the feeling that when Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream he didn’t plan on a man dressed as a superhero, a food fight or the need to quickly recruit a member of the audience to play Bottom. But 400 years later, that’s precisely what happened. A fabulous team, directed by Sean Holmes, showed just how insane this play can become.

The Lyric Hammersmith and Filter Theatre production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream opened with Ed Gaughan’s Quince walking into the Royal Exchange Theatre, chatting with the audience. He thanked us for coming, rather than staying at home to watch the Olympic Men’s Gymnastics.

Jonathan Broadbent was an excellent Theseus and a hilarious Oberon, sporting a bright blue leotard and silver cape. The equally talented Poppy Miller gave a high standard performance as Hippolyta and Titania, complete with astounding vocals for the scene where Titania and Bottom first meet.

Similarly the four lovers; John Lightbody, Gemma Saunders, Rhys Rusbatch and Rebecca Scroggs, were fantastic. Designer Hyemi Shin and director Sean Holmes have gone to town with both costumes and demeanor, using a lot more humour than usual. And we mustn’t forget The Mechanicals, who suddenly were one short when Sir Ian McKellen got stuck in the lift. (Yeah, right!) But no matter, a helpful member of the audience stepped forward, Sainsbury’s shopping and all, to fill the space (after signing a waiver in case he tripped and broke his leg or something).

Chris Branch, Alan Pagan and not least Ed Gaughan were great, and Chris’s impersonation of Sharon Stone is a joy. Puck has always been one of my favourite characters and Ferdy Roberts, with his brash and humorous Puck,  did not let me down.

I applaud the whole team; they took a timeless story and added some glitter, some 1950s music and a couple of Capri-suns, bringing back a play that was originally written as a comedy, making it funnier still. I spent most of the 1 hour 45 minutes laughing. It’s unmissable.”

(Review by Helen Giles)

Happy Birthdays, Toms!

I am fascinated by the pattern of birthdays. Do I believe there is anything in this idea that being born at a certain time means you share traits with others born around then? Yes, I do. Very unscientific, but better than flying saucers. Which – of course – I also believe in.

So that is why I have to read the birthdays in my paper, and if I’m lucky I’m not reading yesterday’s paper. Couldn’t help noticing the two Toms who each have a significant birthday to celebrate today. (Somehow it would have been less pleasing to my mind if they’d been uneven birthdays or unevenly spaced.)

Although, is Tom Cruise enjoying is 5oth right now? Maybe. Perhaps he is relieved. Or sad. I don’t know. I’m not a fan.

I am a fan of Tom Stoppard’s however, so happy 75th to you! I used to read every play he wrote back in the olden days. Less time for that now, but I wouldn’t mind revisiting some of them, preferably on the stage.

And what could it be that unites you, other than the name Tom? Fame, I suppose.

That’s disturbing

Let’s talk about bladders and other disturbing stuff! Are you sitting comfortably? Might be best to visit the toilet now, before we begin.

I was struck by the discussion about Bianca Jagger and whether or not she used flash to take photos at the opera. It doesn’t matter whether she’s famous. It’s neither more or less right for the famous to behave badly. And the way people use phone cameras or other digital cameras it’s often hard to tell if the bright light you see is flash, or simply the camera going about its business.

At the recent Joan Baez concert I went to, it said flash photography was not permitted, which I took to mean that photos without were fine, so I got my camera out. But after a while I felt the light visible when I used it was not acceptable to people sitting opposite me, so I put it away, and only got it out again at the end when absolutely everyone was taking pictures, with flash and everything.

Daughter has been known to agonise over the legality of taking pictures at concerts. It often says you mustn’t. But people still do. I don’t feel there should be any ‘rights’ to images of someone singing on a stage. (Different for theatre productions.) What I do feel is that people shouldn’t disturb others.

The Guardian’s theatre critic Lyn Gardner reckons ‘people’s bladders have quite clearly got weaker over the last 20 years,’ and I know what she means, but suspect the answer is that they haven’t. What has changed is people’s habit of drinking indiscriminately at all times, regardless of what they are about to do, like go to the theatre. And also that they have got neither the instinct to try and ‘hold it in’ nor the inclination not to keep leaving their seats from – usually – the middle of the row.

If I have to ‘go out’ mid performance I tend to wait for a suitable moment both for leaving and for returning. I was a bit disconcerted at the National Theatre to find that the usher hovered anxiously outside the Ladies until I emerged again, and checked I was all right. Very caring and sensible, but I’m glad I didn’t know until then.

Went to the MEN arena for an S Club concert many years ago. Was startled by how the audience kept popping out for food and drink in the middle of the show. I suppose it’s the sports arena mentality, coupled with the sheer noise level at these events.

The understanding of what disturbs others varies from country to country. During Roger Whittaker’s concert in Cologne I waited for a song to finish before returning to my seat, only to have the usher urging me to just go in. She clearly thought I was stark raving mad for thinking of others.

And speaking of Roger; I once sat next to a woman, who was happily singing along to every single song. Having exchanged pleasantries on arrival, I felt it would be rude to complain, even though she was ruining ‘my’ concert. I thought if I asked her to shut up, I would ruin her evening instead. I gritted my teeth, almost cheered when Roger got to a song she didn’t know, and after the interval I asked the Resident IT Consultant to swap seats with me.

It is not always the audience who has mishaps, either. I recall the tiny St Paul’s chorister who was sick on stage and had to be bundled out by an older ‘boy.’

To get back to the bladders, it all depends on how long you have to sit through something. Films are frequently dreadfully long these days, with the added pain of too many commercials and too many trailers. With no interval necessary as cinema equipment improves, we simply have to pop out mid-film. And seeing as they want us to buy buckets of fizzy drinks, how can they possibly mind the running in and out? Nor is popcorn terribly silent to eat, and not odour free, either.

At least films don’t talk back to the audience when they rustle their sweet wrappers a little too loudly. Perhaps they should.

That was no French dream, however

Before the lovely Wonderful Town we were allowing ourselves a family treat by having dinner in Salford Quays. At least, that was the idea. With Daughter feeling uncharacteristically adventurous we went to Café Rouge, rather than for the usual pizza or to Lime, where we went last time.

An hour after arriving I had to ask if the main course was likely to come any time soon, because we actually had to be at the theatre (2 minutes across the square) fairly promptly. Waitress looked blank and said it would be ‘maximum ten minutes.’ I didn’t dare ask what kind of ten minutes. Was it from the time of ordering, or after the starter or from when she said it?

It had taken an age to even order in the first place. The starters weren’t impossibly late, but only one of them was right. The other had to be returned and exchanged, which took longer than the original wait. It was pieces of bread, with butter. The white bread was fine. The sourdough seemed recently, and hurriedly, defrosted. The rye was stale. Generous portion, but if I want stale bread I’ll age it myself at home. Far cheaper.

Two of the three mains (day specials, which I optimistically had imagined to be quicker than average) arrived ten minutes after the waitress’s statement. Daughter’s came without its mayonnaise, but I thought I could ask for it when my meal arrived. I did, except it took longer than even I expected, meaning two out of three of us still couldn’t begin eating.

With barely fifteen minutes left, my soufflé turned up and I proceeded to eat as fast as I could. To be fair, there was sufficiently little on my plate to delay me much. I gobbled, and dashed. (The theatre’s press tickets had to be picked up by me. I left our purchased – student’s – ticket with the Resident IT Consultant who had to remain at Café Rogue in order to pay.) Daughter followed me within minutes, too distressed to be able to finish her meal.

It seems that with only one guest remaining, the waitress realised we weren’t totally satisfied. The restaurant is an obvious place to go before a show. We can’t have been the only guests there hoping to make it to the Lowry by half past seven.

Without the bread, I’d have been hungry the whole evening. The day specials are minute, considering the price. And I ended up leaving most of my drink, feeling too rushed to finish it.

No real harm was done, obviously. Apart from the large bill for what was a poor meal.  Needless to say, we won’t be returning to Café Rogue. The thing is, we might not return to eat out anywhere else much, either. Money is tight for many, and infrequent meals out need to be at least a little successful. Being able to hold a conversation would have been a bonus. The music was well past any acceptable volume, as witnessed by the couple who exited along with me. The man exclaimed with pure happiness at having escaped the noise.

We should have gone to Pizza Express. It’s not exciting (nor was this…) but you know what you get.

The American Dream

Isn’t it lucky that Sir Mark Elder went to New York? If he hadn’t, we might not have had Leonard Bernstein’s Wonderful Town to enjoy, here at the Lowry in another wonderful town.

I could see his left ear, but for the most part I forgot all about Sir Mark, except when I noticed a pair of arms flapping somewhere in front of me, and wondered about it before remembering this was actually a musical with the whole of the Hallé hiding down in the orchestra pit. (Although Daughter sneaked a look down and said it couldn’t be all of them and she didn’t see Roberto Carrillo-García anywhere.) I love it when the serious players play lighter stuff. They do it so well.

That’s why it was easy to forget they were there. Perfection is unobtrusive. And this was perfection. Speedy Valenti had a nerve instructing Sir Mark and his band from up there on the stage…

What happened on stage was also perfect, but because it happened right in front of me I didn’t miss it. And who would want to miss this? Simon Higlett’s set and costume design must count as one of the most pleasing I have ever seen. Possibly the best ever. New York never looked more New Yorkish, including a natty little elevated train.

And those clothes! The clothes were to die for, and that goes for everyone from leading lady Connie Fisher’s to every last one of the dancers’. It was an interesting – and oh so American – blend of 1930s to 1950s style. The kind we privately aspire to and usually fail to achieve. It was a clever move to have the dancers help Connie and her stage sister Lucy van Gasse dress on stage.

Those dancers are every bit as marvellous as director Braham Murray said they were. Choreographer Andrew Wright even had his dancers conga-ing down the aisles at the Lowry, and as for the Riverdance sequence in jail, well…

Jailors and sailors all fell for Lucy’s beautiful Eileen. Every single male (and I don’t necessarily mean ‘single’) in New York followed Eileen around and having witnessed Michael Xavier try to walk into the ladies toilet at the launch, I know only too well what hit her admirers.

Michael as Bob Baker was a singing Dan Stevens-lookalike. Somewhat dim when it came to what he really, really thought of Connie’s Ruth, but eventually the penny dropped. There isn’t a tremendous amount of plot here. Two sisters arrive in New York, looking for jobs and maybe fame and fortune. They meet people. At least, Eileen meets people. Men. They make friends. Ruth gets her Bob – and a press card – and Eileen gets a job with Valenti.

The finale with the sisters wearing the most gorgeous glittery dresses and happy endings for both major and minor characters is perfect.

We need a CD. Possibly even a DVD. (Are you listening at the Lowry, the Royal Exchange Theatre and the Hallé?)

Wonderful Mancunians who haven’t yet booked need to do so urgently. People in other wonderful towns must see to their ticket needs for the wonderful tour of Wonderful Town. Who knows when we get to see anything like it again?

I want to go again tomorrow, and maybe next week, too. And if all else fails, I will really need that CD.

It’s 45 candles on the cake for John Barrowman

Happy 45th birthday to John Barrowman!

Hardly surprising John is like he is with such crazily fantastic parents. Good thing they gave up on the idea of throwing him out for being a noisy baby. (Although he is still pretty noisy at 45.)

(Photo Helen Giles)

30 seconds of fame

15 minutes is really hoping for too much. In fact, I wouldn’t want that 15 minutes of fame. My seconds were more than enough.

I was reminded of this embarrassing event when author Lucy Coats told ‘all’ about her recent interview on Blue Peter. In a way it was a relief to hear how much time was spent on what turned out to be so brief. And it’s a lesson that you don’t need to go to too much effort. Just be yourself.

And whatever you do, don’t bother cleaning the house.

For me it was walking home from school with Offspring. Just an ordinary afternoon, with Daughter in the pushchair and Son walking next to me. We saw these weird types outside the local theatre, and I realised I was about to be used for something.

The short one told me they were from the BBC and the news was that the theatre was due for demolition and what did I think of that? I told him. (I was quite fluent and sensible, on the whole.)

Then he said, would I mind repeating that on camera, and I couldn’t very well refuse. Except I was barely able to recall what I said the first time, so sounded pretty incoherent. I went home and put the video recorder on for the local news. I had dinner to make and people to feed.

It was embarrassingly bad. I had no idea I sound like that. I wondered how anyone could possibly put up with me. Two more people were interviewed. My neighbour across the road, and another school-run mother.

Afterwards the local children stared at me, and my friend’s husband told her to ask for my autograph. Luckily for her she didn’t.

The theatre went some months after. In its place is the ‘magnificent’ entrance to the new car park for the public school which owned the building and had been waiting to get rid of it. At least the parents collecting their children by car have somewhere to park.

We no longer have the Roger Whittaker concerts or the pantos or any of the other entertainment in this former 1930s cinema.