It’s great to be involved in something like this. There’s a rich vein in English fiction of home-spun shows, from Just William through Jane Austen, PG Wodehouse etc., etc. and Lanky Night is bang in the middle of that tradition. I remember an American friend once saying, in a bemused sort of way, looking at the State Opening of Parliament, that the English never seem happier when dressing up (particularly, if you’re a bloke, there’s tights involved!) and there’s more than a grain of truth in that.
Almost everyone’s heard of the ENSA entertainments of the Second World War, where some very starry stars travelled to entertain the troops in various foreign parts, but in the First World War, all the entertainment was entirely home-grown. I think it’s not at all obvious which is the most enjoyable. On the one hand, you’ve got trained professionals, doing their thing; on the other, you’ve got people you know, giving it a go, with various in-jokes and things that go wrong. The stage bar fell over last night, and the audience were in stitches.
The audience, that beloved section of the population, number around the 100 mark for three nights, by the way – not too dusty!
Anyway, once again tonight, I don my dressing-gown and shower cap, pick up a zimmer frame and sing songs about being an O.A.P. Then, one quick change later, I’m in a bikini pretending to be a synchronized swimmer at the local baths. (Does anyone else remember how hilarious the real synchronised swimmers at the Olympics looked? Terry Wogan summed it up by saying it was a medal for formation drowning!) In the meantime, all about me, whirl a collection of old bags fighting over dresses, hats and drawers at the jumble sale, (“I’ll buy these drawers for the old lady next door. She’s incontinent, poor old soul.” “What d’you mean, poor old soul? I’ve always wanted to go abroad.”) Two German parachutists invade the bar of the British Protection (that’s the real pub round the corner) where Ruby, the barmaid discusses her contribution to the war effort with Hank The Yank is discussed to the tune of Chatanooga Choo-Choo (“I was underneath the pylons, when I got my nylons”) before the Jermans call time. Ruby attempts to phone the police. “Nein, Nein, Nein, Fraulein!” calls the German. “I know the number,” says Ruby. “There’s no need to shout.”
And, perhaps best of all from my point of view, I get to be a Cow again. I’m the front end. Moo!
Moo to you too! I've always known there were some very peculiar folk in Lancashire! Actually it sounds a lot of fun, and there's nothing quite like the feeling of making an audience laugh. I used to belong to an old-fashioned type concert party when we lived in the Dales - singers, musicians singly or in groups, actors doing monologues. I did comic songs, some mine, some other people's. The MC, who was a delight, a good comedian fast and ad-libber, used to introduce me by saying "Here comes Jane to lower the tone," followed usually by some insult which I knew I could safely return with interest. I wish there was something similar over here.
ReplyDeleteIt's really great to be a part of a "proper" live show. You must do some of your songs at a writer's gathering sometime, Jane. Perhaps I could break out the old guitar and strum along!
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