‘If we’re the only ones there, we’re getting right out. OK?’
Rachel was worried. We’d decided, a few weeks ago, that we needed some ‘culture’. So, having had a successful night at the village ‘cinema’ watching Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (rather charming) we thought we’d up the ante and go for a bit of theatre.
‘Are we stuck right at the back?’
‘No. That’s what’s worrying. We’re right in the middle. Prime seats.’
I took her point. When you book last minute and get the best seats in the house, it does rather point to a stinker.
Our doubts were confirmed when we got to the theatre and were greeted by, not the usual polite hum, tinkle of laughter and the clank of long beads, but a raucous wall of noise. The theatre bar had turned into a student union with hoards of sixteen year olds shrieking and squawking.
‘School outing?’ Rachel said hopefully.
‘Nah. Dressing the house. It’s desperate.’
Sure enough, when we walked in, the audience was, shall we say, sparse. Every new entrance was greeted by a collective spinning of heads, along with a frequent checking of watches (in the dim hope maybe that we’d all got the time wrong and everybody was suddenly going to pile in, laughing and waving programmes). Indeed, the cavalry did appear – fifty or so of the aforementioned students, clearly not a ticket amongst them, wooshed in and at least gave the appearance of a half-full house.
‘What’s it about?’ I asked.
Rachel had the grace to look abashed.
‘Er, well. It’s about a woman who falls in love with a swan.’
‘Ooh. Greek myth type thing?’ My hopes rose.
‘Hmm. Not really. There are puppets.’
‘Puppets could be good.’
‘You’re so bloody optimistic. Puppets are never good.’ Rachel looked glum.’
The actors came on and were deeply thespy. My heart sank. There was a lot of gesturing towards what looked like a white piñata but was, apparently, an egg. ‘It’s a bloody balloon with papier mache,’ hissed Rachel and started to giggle.
The ‘egg’ was then taken down and whooshed around the stage while two other people added wings and a long neck. Rachel stuffed her head in her handbag and made muffled snorting noises. I bit my cheek so hard I nearly yelped but still my shoulders were shaking with helpless laughter.
It got worse and worse. There was a girl whose mother had died (and came back to visit her in dreams) who liked swans. There was a rather unpleasant man from the library who fancied her (the girl, not the dead mother). There was another girl who tossed her father’s ashes into the river, only to have them eaten by the swan. The swan then started to talk to the first girl. The swan was the second girl’s father (presumably ashes hold the ‘spirit’ of the person which can be transferred to anything passing by – makes you think twice about where you scatter really – you don’t really want your parents cropping up as talking fish, or ducks, or slugs, do you?). Are you still with me? Ten to one you wish you weren’t.
The canny bastards didn’t chance an interval – they must have known darn well that we’d have collectively made a run for the doors.
So we endured.
The girl fell in love with the swan, even though the swan crapped on her floors. They made plans to buy a house-boat ‘to lead a normal life’. Which begs the question, what kind of normal life are you going to live with a swan? The other girl never found out that her father had turned into a swan (which was a blessing as she was feeling guilty enough about dumping his ashes in the river without telling her mother). Then some drunken oik tried to rape the other girl and the swan, being her father, intervened and got himself bashed in. Girl cries. Swan dies. Lights go down. Sigh of relief all round and rapturous applause to the players’ evident bemusement. We’re grateful, you nutters. Grateful as puck that the darn thing is over and that it only lasted 90 minutes or so.
We limped home in Rachel’s on-its-last-legs car (cracked windscreen, two bald tyres, smashed headlight and a tendency to stall on slowing down) and decided we were both too tired and depressed to go for a drink.
‘Next one might be better,’ I said hopefully.
Rachel just gave me a look and drove off, bald tyres spinning into the night.
Rachel was worried. We’d decided, a few weeks ago, that we needed some ‘culture’. So, having had a successful night at the village ‘cinema’ watching Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (rather charming) we thought we’d up the ante and go for a bit of theatre.
‘Are we stuck right at the back?’
‘No. That’s what’s worrying. We’re right in the middle. Prime seats.’
I took her point. When you book last minute and get the best seats in the house, it does rather point to a stinker.
Our doubts were confirmed when we got to the theatre and were greeted by, not the usual polite hum, tinkle of laughter and the clank of long beads, but a raucous wall of noise. The theatre bar had turned into a student union with hoards of sixteen year olds shrieking and squawking.
‘School outing?’ Rachel said hopefully.
‘Nah. Dressing the house. It’s desperate.’
Sure enough, when we walked in, the audience was, shall we say, sparse. Every new entrance was greeted by a collective spinning of heads, along with a frequent checking of watches (in the dim hope maybe that we’d all got the time wrong and everybody was suddenly going to pile in, laughing and waving programmes). Indeed, the cavalry did appear – fifty or so of the aforementioned students, clearly not a ticket amongst them, wooshed in and at least gave the appearance of a half-full house.
‘What’s it about?’ I asked.
Rachel had the grace to look abashed.
‘Er, well. It’s about a woman who falls in love with a swan.’
‘Ooh. Greek myth type thing?’ My hopes rose.
‘Hmm. Not really. There are puppets.’
‘Puppets could be good.’
‘You’re so bloody optimistic. Puppets are never good.’ Rachel looked glum.’
The actors came on and were deeply thespy. My heart sank. There was a lot of gesturing towards what looked like a white piñata but was, apparently, an egg. ‘It’s a bloody balloon with papier mache,’ hissed Rachel and started to giggle.
The ‘egg’ was then taken down and whooshed around the stage while two other people added wings and a long neck. Rachel stuffed her head in her handbag and made muffled snorting noises. I bit my cheek so hard I nearly yelped but still my shoulders were shaking with helpless laughter.
It got worse and worse. There was a girl whose mother had died (and came back to visit her in dreams) who liked swans. There was a rather unpleasant man from the library who fancied her (the girl, not the dead mother). There was another girl who tossed her father’s ashes into the river, only to have them eaten by the swan. The swan then started to talk to the first girl. The swan was the second girl’s father (presumably ashes hold the ‘spirit’ of the person which can be transferred to anything passing by – makes you think twice about where you scatter really – you don’t really want your parents cropping up as talking fish, or ducks, or slugs, do you?). Are you still with me? Ten to one you wish you weren’t.
The canny bastards didn’t chance an interval – they must have known darn well that we’d have collectively made a run for the doors.
So we endured.
The girl fell in love with the swan, even though the swan crapped on her floors. They made plans to buy a house-boat ‘to lead a normal life’. Which begs the question, what kind of normal life are you going to live with a swan? The other girl never found out that her father had turned into a swan (which was a blessing as she was feeling guilty enough about dumping his ashes in the river without telling her mother). Then some drunken oik tried to rape the other girl and the swan, being her father, intervened and got himself bashed in. Girl cries. Swan dies. Lights go down. Sigh of relief all round and rapturous applause to the players’ evident bemusement. We’re grateful, you nutters. Grateful as puck that the darn thing is over and that it only lasted 90 minutes or so.
We limped home in Rachel’s on-its-last-legs car (cracked windscreen, two bald tyres, smashed headlight and a tendency to stall on slowing down) and decided we were both too tired and depressed to go for a drink.
‘Next one might be better,’ I said hopefully.
Rachel just gave me a look and drove off, bald tyres spinning into the night.
What was the play? Sorry. Cobbo by Theatre Alibi at the Brewhouse Theatre.....
Sometimes this whole recession thing seems a bit unreal. I say recession but the language changes all the time, as we venture deeper into debt like Dante plodding down further and further into Hades. For a long while it was an itty-bitty credit crunch (sounding like a new variety of chocolate bar). Now it’s a recession (hissy and spitty like a snake) tottering towards a depression (heavy and hopeless). Way down the bottom, in Satan’s pit, the spectre of bankruptcy is rattling its chains.