KAT CALLS

Blimey, that time again already? It only seems like, ooooh, a couple of weeks since we last had the “weekly” Kat Calls round up. Well, if you read that last one, you’ll realise I’m trying my damnedest to catch up with my own tail due to various ‘difficulties’.

So it’s me again *jazzhands*, going on a bit about what I’ve been up to and how completely frazzled I bloody well am and how I keep fainting in the heat because of my stupid low blood pressure. So on to, well, let’s call it Friday to keep it neat….

FRIDAY

After slating A Chorus Line in these here pages, the publicity guy turned round and said, kindly, “Would you like some tickets to LET IT BE?” I thought, “You’re skating on thin ice, mate. I hated one, so you offer me tickets to something else you and me just know I’m gonna loathe, but hey, they’re free, so gimme.”

Which was how I came to be seated in the SAVOY with son Sid. I had intended to have a poke around yer actual SAVOY HOTEL before the show, but for once we weren’t early and I didn’t have time. I’ve taken to poking around in hotels a lot these days as I’ve found their foyer sofas lovely and comfy and big to have a kip on when out and about in the smoke. I wondered if the SAVOY would actually let me and my scruffbag son in the front doors, but they’re not to know we’re not rich bastards who just hate dressing up. But it’ll have to wait till another day….

“I wondered if the SAVOY would actually let me and my scruffbag son in the front doors, but they’re not to know we’re not rich bastards who just hate dressing up”

LET IT BE is simply a pretend Beatles concert with actors who can also play and sing and who bear a slight resemblance to the Fab Four from a distance and if you’re not wearing your glasses. Sid likes the Beatles and knows Sergeant Pepper’s well enough, but even he was underwhelmed. It didn’t help that the volume was up a wee bit too much for these old ears. There was an unseemly fight over the earplugs and I won. Yay me!

In the end I gave up watching the band. The fact that George looked exactly like the new Barnaby from Midsomer Murders (Neil someone?) doing an impression of Basil Fawlty doing an impression of George Harrison unnerved me a bit – or was it my stupid mind, which always sees these convoluted ‘lookie-likies’, that had unnerved me? Well, let’s just say I was unsettled so settled on the audience to see if they were enjoying themselves.

The Brazilians down below us were! Four of them – two couples I presume – were giggling, squirming, drinking, talking, kissing, filming, getting up, sitting down, and dancing in the aisles. They were the only ones. Everyone else, like good theatre-goers, was sitting still, perhaps clapping or tapping their feet, and half tutting at and half admiring these carefree kiddies. The usher would ask them to sit down: they’d look bewildered, as if saying “this is a music concert you stupid British idiot”; they’d obey for five minutes; they’d get up and start gyrating again or go to the bar for more booze.

I was with the audience: half of me loved their attitude, half of me wanted to swat them like flies. As I wasn’t in any way bothered about seeing the concert, the first half won and I just stared at them and enjoyed their antics. One brilliant move that one of the boys perfected was holding his camera up to video the girl he was so obviously in lust with, and rather than asking her to turn around (it was too loud even for him), he did a swirling motion with his finger like he was stirring a blancmange. “Dance, my lover. Dance, my puppet. Later I will jump your bones,” that finger seemed to say.

 “”Dance, my lover. Dance, my puppet. Later I will jump your bones,” that finger seemed to say”

Me and Sid nudged each other, smiled, and copied the stirring motion. But then Sid went all meta on me and began videoing the bloke videoing the girl and I loved him just a little less.

Clapping. What’s that all about, excuse me? Clapping is strictly for the end of the first half (a smattering), and then the end of the show (full-blown). That’s it. Two clapping bouts and you’re done. Yet clapping diarrhoea is running rampant across this land. The first note of a song and someone claps – out of time. The first high note sung and someone claps – out of time. Always. And it’s always *cough* middle aged women who should know better. Tsk.

What enjoyment do people get to clapping along to a tune anyway? It a) makes it harder to hear the tune and b) it makes a right old racket. I may as well have stumps for hands when it comes to the subject of applause. I do my bit I suppose, in the right places (i.e. the end of the first half and the end of the show, AS I SAID), but I’m even a reluctant clapper then, as I sit there self-consciously thinking “I’m putting my hands together to make an arbitrary noise to show that I liked this show” and it all goes a bit wobbly in my head.

Never take me to a panto. I actually love, nay, adore a good old panto, but all that audience participation is like torture. “Put your hands in the air like you just don’t care!” Well, excuse me, but I do care and I don’t like to be ordered about by a man in a dress held together with clothes pegs thank you very much. I shall clap and wave my arms when I see fit, not before (so that’ll be never then).

That’s what I didn’t understand when I sat watching (mostly) middle aged women clapping like their lives depended on it. There was ‘dad clapping’ too, so it’s not the women I’m singling out totally. It just always seems to be some middle aged bint who’s had one gin too many who starts the whole thing off.

“It just always seems to be some middle aged bint who’s had one gin too many who starts the whole thing off”

And isn’t hearing clapping petering out one of the worst sounds in the universe, to the audience as well as the performer? It just sounds like everyone’s already lost interest in the thing they’re watching which sounds a lot ruder than if they’d just sat on their hands in the first place. Enough already.

To read my review of LET IT BE CLICK HERE:  http://gscene.com/let-it-be-the-savoy-theatre-review/

SATURDAY

A marathon day in London where I again had to catch up with my sleep in a foyer chair. I’ve now taken to carrying a blow-up travel pillow with me at all times which is handy, but does look a little odd. Blowing it up makes me feel self-conscious but by that time I’m usually too pooped to care much.

We started off having a sort of ‘behind the scenes’ look at WAR HORSE at the NEW LONDON THEATRE in Drury Lane. Sid and I had seen it when it was at the National years ago, but got some free tix through Twitter for this explanation of how Joey, the puppet horse, worked and I’d forgotten just how effective the horse was when he trotted on to the stage. Well, three men and a wicker frame.

Then it was off to Shoreditch to SUMMER RITES and we were actually on time while SUMMER RITES was late. Opening, that is. So we sat on a bench and when it did open we were just about the only ones in there as everyone was still off on the big march through town.

We’d gone on the march once, or rather, we’d gone in the crip bus on the march. Three hours cooped up on a stifling hot minibus wasn’t my idea of fun. As we passed, people seemed to think that because we were enclosed in a bus that we were famous and I got a lot of good stares and a few hopeful waves, but I wouldn’t want to repeat the experience. I’d never want to be famous. Your whole day must consist of catching people’s eyes as you walk past them and their faces either looking puzzled (‘Do I know you?’), excited (‘I do know you, don’t I!?’) or, worst of all, nonchalant (‘Yes, I know exactly who you are but I’d rather slit my throat than admit it, boyo’).

So there we were on a deserted common full of large tents blaring out loud music, with nowt happening. We couldn’t even console ourselves with food as there seemed to only be a couple of burger places in the whole joint. It was, to be frank, my idea of bloody hell. The earplugs came out. It was still unbearable. So we left, after all of 20 minutes. I’d like to say we just didn’t give it much of a chance, but it was more that it just wasn’t us. Not everyone likes music that makes your ears bleed.

But what to do until the opera in the evening? We ended up on a hot, sticky bus for an hour which made me think that that Pride march wasn’t looking so bad now. Off to our bolthole, the National, for a nice kip, and then to HOLLAND PARK for MADAMA BUTTERFLY.

We’ve been going to see OPERA HOLLAND PARK for quite a few years now as we get free tickets through their splendid Get Kids into Opera scheme. Unfortunately, it hasn’t succeeded in getting Sid into opera – he dreads going every year – but it got me into it and I’m nothing if not a big kid so I consider it a success.

Tis a posh affair – not quite as posh as Covent Garden, but posher than the Coliseum – full of people in evening dress with plummy accents paying a ridic amounts for champers. I like it though as we slum about amongst the crowd, eating our bread and cheese, swigging our squash. And the opera’s not bad either. Unfortunately, I got a German bloke next to me who played with his phone throughout. He was slowly reading his texts and then deleting them. When he wasn’t doing that he was looking at his watch. Then his wife, sitting next door, decided to join him in this little game. I sat and fumed, as you do, then let the low-paid door operative (or ‘usher’) do the dirty, awkward work of telling the Germans off. At that moment I fitted in with the opera crowd perfectly.

To read my review of MADAMA BUTTERFLY, CLICK HERE: 

SUNDAY

Sod all. The Land of Nod called.

MONDAY

I’m a sucker for a church, and one in COVENT GARDEN supposedly designed by Inigo Jones (they’re not quite sure) sure gets my juices going. Stick a Shakespeare play in and around it and I’m salivating like a pit bull that’s just seen a chihuahua wearing a bacon bonnet.

So it was with great joy and happiness that I dragged Sid to see Iris Theatre’s JULIUS CAESAR at ST PAUL’S COVENT GARDEN. St Paul’s is known as ‘the actors’ church’ and I’m pretty sure you’ll have passed by it’s back end at least once in your life, as its the bit of Covent Garden were all the buskers do their turn. There are steps going into the surrounding garden which are now a landscaped haven of peace in a madly touristy area. This, of course, used to be the graveyard, but now no one’s allowed to be buried there.

In 1839, in a book called GATHERINGS FROM GRAVEYARDS, a London surgeon wrote about the graveyard thus: “On a recent occasion, the grave digger had to make several trials before he could find room for a new tenant, and he assured me that on several occasions he had been driven from the attempt at digging a grave, and compelled to throw back the earth, owing to the dangerous effluvia he experienced from the soil.” Yuk! And what a great job!

I did once come across a gravedigger digging in a village church and asked him if he’d ever found any bones when digging and he looked at me as if I’d said something that had never crossed his mind before. “No!” Any coffin handles, or teeth? “No!” I left it at that as I think I’d actually managed to put the willies up someone who dug graves for a living. He was either spectacularly unimaginative or was lying and had found loads and loads of skulls and they were all lined up on his mantelpiece so he could play at being Hamlet every minute of every day (when he wasn’t grave digging of course).

My old pottery teacher had a human skull on her mantelpiece. Two of her pupils had brought it in to her one day, knowing she had odd tastes, claiming they’d found it on a bus. I’ve always thought that was a mighty fishy story, but have never been sure if the fishiness came from my pottery teacher or the two boys….

But I digress (again). Oh no, I can feel another one coming on…..

ST PAUL’S, being the actors church, pays host to many a memorial service for actors. I suppose they may have lived in and been buried in other parts of the country, so a service to remember them is most handy in the middle of London. Do you remember JAMES who I mentioned in my last missive? The autograph guy? Well, his autograph mates crash these services. They put on nice clothes and turn up and mingle with the congregation so they can sneak a signing or two out of them and enjoy the sandwiches and champers provided afterwards. Even I, a certified autistic idiot of the first order who’ll hang around most places for a vol-au-vent and a comfy seat, find this odd.

“Even I, a certified autistic idiot of the first order who’ll hang around most places for a vol-au-vent and a comfy seat, find this odd”

So, back to JULIUS CAESAR (at last). As we sat waiting for the play to begin, I bored Sid rigid with the history of the place so he switched his brain off. I couldn’t tempt him to edge his finger near the ‘on’ button even with the ‘effluvia’ story. What did wake him up was the bang bang bang of riot shields being bashed, as an army of masked men dressed in tattered leather and armour walked in.

So began a couple of the best hours of theatre I’ve seen in a long time. Atmospheric, powerful, and moving – and I don’t often say that about anything these days, having developed the dreaded Reviewer’s Jade. But I found temporary respite from it in that church on that evening as Iris took us on a walk round the gardens, playing a scene here, a scene there, ending up on the church steps and eventually into the smoke-filled church itself. There was enough blood to put a rosy glow into Robert Pattinson’s cheeks, most of it spilling on the chancel tiles. It was electrifying, and I will be snapping up a ticket to their ALICE IN WONDERLAND at the same venue which begins it’s run on July 30 (p.s. if you’re quick, you can still see Julius Caesar too).

“There was enough blood to put a rosy glow into Robert Pattinson’s cheeks, most of it spilling on the chancel tiles”

TUESDAY

BOEING BOEING at the DEVONSHIRE PARK THEATRE in Eastbourne wasn’t quite the trolley dolly style play I’d been expecting. I was thinking….ooooh…….sort of James Dreyfus in Gimme Gimme Gimme, but it turned out to be a 1960s French bedroom farce. I’d missed the film of the play totally. 1965 with Tony Curtis and Jerry Lewis in case you have too.

One of the advantages of being a reviewer and not having to pay for tickets is that I can go into things blind. It’s the equivalent of sticking a pin in a map and stating “I’m going THERE!” with no idea where ‘there’ is or whether it’s a mosquito-infested swamp or a palm tree-lined paradise.

I try to not find out about a production beforehand as I like the element of surprise, and also, Google can come up with some really nasty spoilers if you’re not careful.

Anyway, I took my MUM to see this one which had Sid whooping with joy at his escape. He is an ungrateful sod really, as he gets to see so many things that he’s blasé now. Just wait till he grows up and I’m dead. He’ll look back and think me the most excellent mother who ever lived. Harumph.

The play was OK and Mum behaved OK so the evening was OK. Enough said really. Oh, and she bought me an ice cream in the interval. Result!!!

To read my review of Boeing Boeing, CLICK HERE: 

WEDNESDAY 

….was supposed to be a day of rest, but turned out to be a day of Mum again as I was offered tickets to see MERRILY WE ROLL ALONG which is on its last legs at the HAROLD PINTER in Panton Street (which sounds very like a musical hall song).

I couldn’t resist as this production had ‘received more five stars than any other musical in West End history.’ Well, I enjoyed it but five stars across the board? I could see Mum was miffed. I’d dragged her old crumbling bones up to London again with the promise of something spectacular and she got Sondheim (which I secretly knew wouldn’t be her cup of tea but I figured it’d give her enough to moan about for the rest of the week to keep her happy – and I was right).

THURSDAY 

PUDDING NIGHT!! Yay!! Even Sid had been looking forward to this one. It was a chilly walk on WORTHING PIER but I do like a pier. Not Brighton Pier. Oh no. I lived near there for too long for a visit to be considered a treat. It’s not the vulgarity that I can’t stomach: I love that. I love the Carry On feel to it and liked nothing better than popping in to the old Victoria Bar when I used to drink like a fish, whilst wearing a Kiss Me Quick hat and pretending to be CHARLES HAWTREY in Carry On At Your Convenience. No, it’s just that it’s in Brighton and therefore not exotic enough, whereas Worthing is all of 10 miles away! And Worthing smells of the sea (unlike Brighton which smells of people).

“……whilst wearing a Kiss Me Quick hat and pretending to be CHARLES HAWTREY in Carry On At Your Convenience”

We had a lovely PUDDING NIGHT, celebrating the 4^th of July and all that and I put on half a stone which unfortunately my bracing pier walk didn’t make a dent in.

TO read read my review, CLICK HERE: 

FRIDAY

I’d missed out on MISS NIGHTINGALE when it came down to the south coast, but managed to catch up with it at the LEICESTER SQUARE THEATRE view: http://missnightingale.co.uk/

With just 20 people in the place I felt sorry for the cast. A bit hit and miss, it kept my attention and the queer love story between the Jewish refugee composer and the posh club owner was the highlight of the piece. Definitely worth catching if it comes around again.

The evening was spent with both my theatre and history lover hats on at the same time so it was a good job it wasn’t too hot.

I’m not sure how I’d missed a visit to the ROSE THEATRE site before, being both a history and a Shakespeare nut, but I was making up for it now by meeting the head honcho volunteer PEPE, a guy whose specialist Mastermind subject would never be in any doubt. I came away feeling that I’d just scratched the surface of what there is to learn about the site and a return visit is definitely on the agenda – probably with Sid in tow just to make him suffer.

My dad used to be a history of London nut and would go round places with me trailing behind him whining “Enough of the past already” (as I loved pretending I was Jewish when I was a child). Now he’s gone, I’ve caught him up and all that early grounding has paid off as now I can’t get enough of the subject myself. I work on the same principle with Sid. He hates me with a passion now for taking him to all these ‘boring’ places and ‘boring’ things but, as I said before, when I’m dead he’ll bloody thank me.

To read my review of Macbeth at the Rose, CLICK HERE:   

Next time, my lovelies, I shall drone on about going on a bear hunt with a Spice Girl (and Les Dennis), meeting Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, seeing The Lone Ranger before everyone else (with my earplugs in natch), and experiencing the log flume of circus boredom that is Timber! at Southbank.

How do I know this? Because once again I’m a bloody week behind in my ramblings and I’ve already done it all. Just gotta get it down on paper. Oh for a spare five minutes….