I have a friend who is, then isn’t, who is there, then not, there, gone. I wasn’t sure if it was me or my “friend”. Then yesterday I went to see Last Christmas and found the answer. I cannot enlighten you further without revealing the plot. If it is an attempt to supersede Love Actually, it fails, but an element of the story is relevant to friendships and my particular quandary. Perhaps. It came to mind because I have just seen one of the stupidest things imaginable. In darkness, a thirty something male was riding a bike, without any lights, the wrong way down a main thoroughfare in Eastbourne, looking at his phone and texting. Any friends he might have can expect to attend his funeral very shortly. All this might make sense to you if you go to Last Christmas. This, however, is not a recommendation and I take no responsibility for your enjoyment therefore, or not.
At the risk of boring myself, let alone my long-suffering reader(s), I shall return to our Capital Adventures. On Day Two of our stay in London, we had a major battle to persuade Daughter, in particular, that the Churchill War Rooms would be an interesting morning prelude to Goldilocks and the Three Bears in the afternoon. After both children had dragged their feet we made it with less time to spend there than would have been ideal, but nonetheless it did prove to be a fascinating glimpse into the deprivations and dramas of wartime London. Fascinating for three quarters of the party anyway. Twelve year old girls, it seems, need something to be “happening”. Things certainly happened at The London Palladium. With Julian Clary and Paul O’Grady starring you can imagine it was a trifle camp when they held centre stage. Clary was the Circus Ringmaster and O’Grady the “bad” owner of a rival circus. Constant references to The Ring and other such hilarious smuttiness did get somewhat tedious. I am really struggling to fathom why it is ok for grown men to make a lot of seedy homosexual references to a large audience of whom probably fifty per cent were children and why in an afternoon play on BBC Radio 4 it is acceptable for an actress to say “shit, shit shit” (as I heard yesterday) and yet if a sportsman swears in a live match on tv, we, as broadcasters, are obliged to apologise, lest it may have caused someone offence? I, along with many of my fellow commentators, nowadays struggle even more to know what we can and can’t say without causing somebody offence, somewhere. My recent American boss accused me of being “stupid” for saying “that a golfer just needed to caress a very quick downhill putt, like a sixteen year old in the back row of the cinema, on his first date”. I had to write letters of apology and it is probably the catalyst for why I am no longer working for The European Tour. All those who take offence at such things should go and visit The Tower of London and The Churchill War Rooms. Where on earth are we heading?!
Anyway, the Production, was genuinely spectacular. A distinctly thin story line allowed any number of varied and extremely talented acts to thrill and entertain, whilst still providing most of the traditional Panto tropes. It’s definitely worth a visit.
This was supposed to be published yesterday (Saturday) but a combination of internet failure, family demands and parties precluded completion. As I am now suffering from a monster hangover following a large gathering of drunks last night, the muse has somewhat deserted me. On which unsatisfactory note I shall leave you to contemplate the vanity of human wishes and whether your daughter’s lengthy Christmas wish list should be taken seriously or just confined to the bin?
As a postscript, why is it permissible for gay men to make a steady stream of lewd references to their sexual predilections when it would be considered outrageous for a heterosexual man to make similar comments about women? Consider David Walliams and his leering at beautiful, semi-naked men on Britain’s Got Talent. If Simon Cowell behaved in the same way towards gorgeous, scantily-attired women there would be universal opprobrium.
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