December 31st - January 6th 2002
Sunday -
Saturday Fame
Friday -
Thursday Poshlust
Wednesday Carl Hiaasen
Tuesday Animal triste
Monday Churlish
Saturday 5th January 2002
Thanks to an extraordinary act of generosity by Andy, 25 of us went to the theatre last night.
I say 'went to the theatre' but, in fact, that which happened within the proscenium arch was the least of our concerns: it was the before, during and after that made it such a top night out.
Before: given my burgeoning reputation for bad time-keeping, I would like it on record, please, that I arrived at The Box long before anyone else. I'll also take half a point for finding the one space in the busy bar that could accommodate up two dozen people, if you're feeling generous.
Strong drink was taken, and we moved across the road to the theatre, the Cambridge, and the show: Fame where we arranged ourselves in the best seats in the house, slap bang in the first two rows of the Royal Circle.
Now, I admit I didn't have particularly high hopes for the show. What with the movie, and the tv series, I expected to be able to hum along with a few of the songs. Probably laugh at a joke or two. And, doubtless, marvel at some spectacular dancing - almost certainly involving gym-slimmed young men with their shirts off, hurrah.
After only a couple of numbers, it became clear that these pre-conceptions were approximately 180 degrees wrong.
You'll be familiar, I guess, with the Ye Olde Mediaeval Banquet variety of night out: lots of 'ale', lots of 'wenches', lots of 'bawdy'. I don't imagine they number many professors of history amongst their audience. The middle-ages schtick is there purely as an excuse, a hook on which to hang a fun night out. Not history but "History". Similarly with Fame. This is certainly not drama, and barely a musical. Not a show, but "A Show".
Sure it has songs, or rather, 'numbers': a big number, another big number, a duet or two, another big number, arranged in a running order that looked as if it had been pulled from a hat.It has dancers too, a dozen or so perfectly-likeable constantly-clothed youngsters who didn't fall over once and, who knows, probably welcomed the chance to be appearing on stage rather than working behind a bar.
There may even have been a plot, once, though all that remains by now is the freeze-dried remnants: a group of kids, right? At some kind of school? And one of them can't read? And another one dies, from drugs, off-stage? Well, I guess you had to see the movie.
In fact, the show's relationship to the movie proved to be one of the more interesting aspects of the evening. To this amateur's eye it looked very much as if the producers had approached the copyright owners with a shopping list, only to find that, after the asking price for the logo, all they could afford was one song from the film. (Guess which song?) Even the names of the characters had been changed.
One musn't forget the set. A 'show' needs a 'set', right? Something more than a collection of iron balconies and staircases, ideally, but hey: I spy two revolves... so if all else fails, maybe we'll get to come out at the end of the evening whistling the set.
During: Andy, the perfect host, had arranged for several buckets of champagne to be waiting on ice for us in the interval bar.
Stupid old man that I am, I'd forgoten to bring my glasses with me, thus theoretically putting me in danger of missing some of the finer nuance on offer. As we glugged down the fizz and exchanged notes, the reason for some of the muffled giggles from the row behind me became clearer.
Curtain up, and - whoops - yes indeed, one of the male leads appears to be wearing a built-up shoe. And the female lead, the one that dies of, gasp, drugs (the only time we really laughed) has a hairline that runs across the top of her head.
Alopecia? And a club foot? The kids from Fame are all disabled? Now that might be a plot. But no time to worry about that now because here's the finale, applause. And, yes, here's the encore, with the cast encouraging the audience to rise in their seats and clap along with the theme song and here comes, gasp, a big yellow taxi!
When I said we might leave whistling the set, I wasn't thinking Joni Mitchell.
After: Only slightly shame-faced, we made a bee-line for Bar Code. Having to pay three quid to get in whittled our numbers down a bit and eventually only seven of us made it to Comptons Cafe for coffee. Two of them I'd hardly known at the beginning of the evening, but now we were bonded by a shared experience.
Which was, after all, the point.
The "show" was never in any danger of being even half-way good - but it never threatened to be bad, either. No threat at all, in fact. Just a thoroughly neutral, sanitised "evening out", an ersatz imitation of theatre that guarantees not to cause any squabbles on the long coach ride home.
Just the ticket.
Thursday 3rd January 2002
Proof that there is indeed a place for everything: for some time now, I've been carrying a Russian word around in my head, a word that is said to be untranslatable but which roughly equates to "the falsely important, the falsely beautiful; cheap, vulgar, and shopworn."
I don't know the Egyptian equivalent, sadly, or I would brandish it whilst pointing you to this account of Leslie Garrett and Victoria Beckham opening the infamous Harrods Sale - shopworn, indeed.
"Ms Garrett was given an Escada 9.02 carat necklace to wear, usual price £50,640, sale price a snip at £40,500, while Posh was shown the biggest mark-down in the store, a Kojis sapphire and diamond necklace, ring and ear-rings, reduced from £380,000 to just £300,000. Both women appeared loath to leave behind the trinkets as the second leg of the walk began."
That Russian word? Poshlust.
Wednesday 2nd January 2002
"Stranaham had purchased his house dirt-cheap at a government auction. The previous owner was a Venezuelan cocaine courier who had been shot thirteen times in a serious business dispute, then indicted posthumously.
"No sooner had the corpse been air-freighted back to Caracas than Customs agents seized the stilt house, along with three condos, two Porsches, a one-eyed scarlet macaw, and a yacht with a hot tub. The hot tub was where the Venezuelan had met his spectacular death so bidding was feverish.
"Likewise the macaw - a material witness to its owner's murder - fetched top dollar; before the auction, mischievous Customs agents had taught the bird to say, 'Duck, you shithead!'
- from 'Skin Tight' one of the dark, comic crime novels by Carl Hiaasen included in the paperback trilogy I bought second-hand for £2.50 just before Christmas, and which kept me going throughout it. Highly recommended.
Tuesday 1st January 2002
You know it's going to happen. You know when it's going to happen. The interesting bit is watching it gathering momentum.
It starts slowly, like a fingertip brushed across your wrist: twelve shopping days till Christmas, festive decorations in retail malls, "Shall we sing a carol?"
Then it becomes something you can talk about, something you can plan. "What are you doing for Christmas?" "RVT on Boxing day?" "Any plans for New Year?"
Almost before you know it, you're there, you're doing it, you're actually doing it, getting in a cab to take you to the other side of town, pulling crackers, stripping wrapping paper from intriguing packages.
You take a break, draw a breath, return to it: getting drunk, getting more drunk, getting so drunk you're almost sober, it's a whirlwind, a fairground ride, you're not even enjoying it that much but you can't stop now.
On and on it goes, up and down, giddy, nauseous. Is this the climax? No, this is the climax. No, this.
And then it's over.
It's like sex. Bad sex.
Monday 31st December 2001
"He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating
the felicity of his fellow beings, and sit down darkling and
repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his
moments of strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he
wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm
of a merry Christmas."
- Washington Irving, Christmas
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