Review – The Phantom of the Opera, Milton Keynes Theatre, 30th October 2012

Posted on October 31, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

Picture the scene. The date: Friday, 17th October 1986. The location: London’s glitzy West End. Her Majesty’s Theatre is the place to be, as Phantom of the Opera had opened a couple of days earlier to sensational reviews. In Stalls seats B9 & B10 (costing a stupendous £18.50 each) were a young Mr and Mrs Chrisparkle (actually she wasn’t Mrs C then, still the demure Miss D). Behind us, in inferior seats, the comedian Dave Allen (very short, accompanied by a very glamorous lady); a couple of rows back, to the side, Australian ex-Prime Minister Gough Whitlam. On stage: Steve Barton – a heroic Raoul; Sarah Brightman – a stunning Christine; Michael Crawford – a gobsmackingly brilliant Phantom. Such nights are the stuff of life-long memories.

And we’ve never seen Phantom since, until this week when the current touring production has come to haunt the Milton Keynes theatre until 24th November. The original, of course, is still on in London, but this touring production has a different director – Laurence Connor; a different choreographer – Scott Ambler (one of our dance heroes); a different set designer – Paul Brown; and wisely keeps Maria Björnson’s original costume design. The overall impression of this combination of creatives is that the production is overwhelmingly beautiful; it looks and sounds luxuriously sumptuous throughout.

The set in particular is just superb. From my memory, I think it’s scaled down only a tiny bit from the original production but looks just as opulent/mysterious/bleak delete as appropriate, depending on the scene. As in 1986, we were sat directly underneath the notorious chandelier. In the original production the Phantom famously sends the chandelier hurtling down towards the stalls, or, if I remember rightly, what actually happened was that it floated gently like a glittery blancmange and we didn’t feel remotely threatened by it. In this production, it shakes violently and little shards of broken chandelier drops land on your head – very clever and effective. I also loved the way it came to life in the opening auction scene, a brilliant bit of design magic.

The scenes depicting the staged operas are lavish; the scene where they descend the side of the building to reach the Phantom’s boat is still extraordinarily atmospheric; the owners’ office is plush and comfortable; the rooftop is chilling and threatening. Whilst outstanding in itself, the set never dwarfs the action, rather it becomes an extension of the action, complementing it superbly. Similarly, Scott Ambler’s choreography for the ballet scenes convincingly suggests a highly skilful production of Hannibal or Il Muto, whilst not actually drawing our attention too much from the plot of Phantom. And the orchestra under the direction of Craig Edwards is officially fabulous. Romantic one minute, scary the next, it’s a brilliant score and they give it everything – you’d have thought there was a full symphony orchestra out there.

So what of the performances? And how do they compare with the originals, or is that a really cruel thing to do? For me, there was one absolutely standout performance that was at least as good as back in 1986, and that was Katie Hall as Christine. She looks perfect for the part, in that she is beautiful in a fragile sort of way, and she has a superb, clear, powerful and emotional voice. Her love for both the Phantom and Raoul felt absolutely genuine and gave the love triangle a real bite.

I’m uncertain as to how Raoul ought to be played really. Should he be very keen but a bit wet behind the ears, or should he be dashing and brave and heroic from the off? Simon Bailey’s performance edges towards the heroic by the end but, as Mrs C observed in the interval, despite his reassuring words promising protection to Christine in “All I Ask of You”, Mrs C says she would have had more faith in George Osborne. Nevertheless, he looks right, he’s a very good singer and he got a very warm reception from the audience.

Actually, this was one of the most genuinely enthusiastic rounds of applause at curtain call we’ve ever heard. Mr Bailey had quite a few cheers, Miss Hall had loads of cheers, and as for Earl Carpenter, playing the Phantom, well, I thought some of the ladies in the audience were going to need St John’s Ambulance assistance. At least I would expect a run on Ventalin from the local pharmacies. For my part, Mr Carpenter has a great voice and can belt out a great tune, but I thought he enunciated some of the lines almost oversensitively; in attempting to convey the Phantom’s heartbreak and internal agonies his voice pussy-footed through some of the lyrics making them a little bit hard to hear. Additionally, there were a couple of times when the Phantom’s disembodied voice is making demands on the other characters, when I felt that he sounded too soft and insufficiently threatening in comparison with the other onstage noises – doubtless a sound engineering/mixing problem. Mrs C said she remembered being totally moved by Michael Crawford’s performance but that this didn’t move her at all. I have to agree, I didn’t quite get the emotion from Mr Carpenter either – but judging from the reception, we were in the minority.

The other roles were all performed very well – I particularly liked Elizabeth Marsh as Madame Giry, an excellent mix of the charitable and the domineering, and Angela M Caesar as Carlotta, giving us some superb coloratura and also bringing out the comic elements of the role in a credible, non-pantomime way.

A pet hate: all three of the main performers, particularly Mr Bailey, in moments of high emotion, changed “all I ask of you” into “all I ask of yew”. A simple mispronunciation; yew is a type of tree. I may have to set up a campaign for the re-introduction of “yoo”.

Another pet hate: the front stalls seats in the Milton Keynes Theatre were again a disappointment. We were in Row D this time, with no rake over the two rows in front of us, and not much space to put our knees. We had to inconvenience about fourteen people in order to get to our central seats, and even when people stand up, there’s hardly any room to squeeze past. I hate to think what would happen if you were in desperate need of the loo during a performance; trying to get out would cause row-rage. I’m reasonably tall, and Mrs C is a bit shorter, but neither of us could see what was going on at Stage Left floor level. I understand the Phantom was having a right woeful time of anguish at the prospect of Christine going off with Raoul but frankly from our viewpoint it was just hearsay.

However on the good side, they seem to have opened up that members’ only club area in the foyer that always looked virtually empty anyway, and used the space to create a piano bar. It gave the foyer so much more atmosphere and warmth, the charming piano playing lent an air of refinement, and by creating another bar counter where people could order drinks, it made the queues for the other bars much shorter, which is eminently practical when a big theatre like the MK is sold out. I do hope it’s going to be a permanent fixture, as it has transformed the vibe of the place completely – well done!

Malta – last day in St Julian’s

Posted on October 26, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

Last days on holidays are always a sad occasion. They come round far too soon, when you feel you’ve hardly got your legs under the destination’s table, so to speak. And then you get sent back to where you came from, to the gloom of that 9 to 5 existence that you couldn’t wait to escape barely a week earlier. Unless you were having a rotten time, of course, in which case you can’t wait to get home.

But we had adored our little week in Malta; and so we resolved at Friday breakfast to make the most of the relaxation options and just stay around St Julian’s for the last day. So, alas, there would be no HOHO bus trip round the south of the island; there would be no trip back to Valletta to see the Grand Master’s Palace; but as the poet once said, it gives you a reason to come back.

My pre-holiday planning had revealed there were some classy looking restaurants with good gluten-free options at the Portomaso marina complex in St Julian’s. We still hadn’t actually found it – I could work out from the map whereabouts it should be, but in all our wanderings we hadn’t stumbled across it. So we determined to find it, and maybe identify a nice place for lunch, or dinner, or both.

It’s just off the Hilton hotel complex. You go through an arch, and then you have a wide descending staircase with restaurants off to the left and right, before you reach the water at the bottom and can then walk around either side and admire the yachts and motorboats. It’s beautifully clean, feels approachably exclusive, and makes for a nice leisurely walk.

There’s a small promontory you can walk around and end up on the sea side (as opposed to marina side), with lots of fascinating little rockpools. But what took our attention the most, were the little patches of salt in the rocks, a residue of the seawater, and, as Mrs Chrisparkle pointed out, nature’s own exfoliator. Off came the trainers and we rubbed fresh salt all over our tootsies, like a pair of podiatric pixies. Incredibly effective, and left your feet feeling really soft and energised. You could pay a fortune for a pot of that stuff at home.

We retraced our steps back through the marina and checked out the restaurants. By now it was already an acceptable time for early lunch, but they were almost all closed. We did however note a couple of possibilities, primarily Spoon, a Chinese restaurant with a gluten-free menu. Unheard of! Mrs C’s tastebuds started to quiver. The only Chinese food she’s had since she was diagnosed about ten years ago has been eggy rice. They were closed, so we couldn’t book, but we hoped there would be some tables available for the evening.

But that didn’t solve the problem of lunch. We headed back towards Paceville and thought we’d check out the Bay Street Complex again. It didn’t inspire us lunchwise, but we did get a nice bit of shopping done. Mrs C got a red shirt in a nice little boutique – not cheap but very trendy and excellent quality – and we both did well in the Terranova sale. I regret, gentle reader, that I am unable to bring to mind exactly what we eventually ended up eating. Or where. Or when. I know – I have let you down. It must have been something local, and by the same token, totally unremarkable and unmemorable. I do however remember staying out after lunch and popping into Peppi’s again, the bar/restaurant on the way into Sliema that we had visited earlier in the week, not for food but for that wonderful holiday institution, the “afternoon drink purely for the sake of it”. When we had visited before we loved the views on the outside terrace and also the wine was nice enough. We just wanted to enjoy the sit down, and to while away the sunshine of our last afternoon with a glass of wine. We’d had the La Vallette before, and it was nice but unchallenging; so, feeling bold, and trusting in the integrity of the establishment, I ordered a Half Carafe of the House White. Everything we had drunk before in Malta had been completely acceptable.

Until now. It was like warm radiator fluid. Not that I am a connoisseur of radiator fluids, at any temperature; but Mrs C and I agreed pretty rapidly that it was totally undrinkable. Actually on reflection, I’m sorry to say, it was probably more like urine than radiator fluid. It certainly had that colour; that early morning urine that’s been building up inside you overnight and strengthening as it develops. Too much information? You should have tried the wine. I called the waitress over and said it was disgusting and could we have a half bottle of the La Vallette instead, as I knew that would at least be generally acceptable. She took the carafe away, brought the bottle and two fresh glasses and offered it to me to taste. Me: “That’s much better, thank you”. Waitress (with added tetchiness): “So, you knew you would like La Vallette, and yet you did not order it at first. Why?” Me: “Because I wanted to try something else”. She stomped off.

We drank the wine; we lingered over the view; we rested and relaxed and watched the world go by. It was lovely. Then started the nagging internal question: would they charge for both wines, or just the nice one? No doubt they will have just tipped the rest of our carafe of urine into their simmering cauldron of bodily fluids out the back, so they would barely be out of pocket. The bottle was emptied; the bill requested; the waitress brought it over. They charged for both. €6,50 for the urine and €6,00 for the wine. I did a quick mental calculation: €6,50 + €6,00 + impertinent waitress = no tip. And no recommendation from me, either. Avoid them like the plague!

The last afternoon nap of the holiday is a bit of a damp squib as it gets overtaken by that thing called “packing”. All those fine bits of clobber you’d painstakingly prepared, folded and placed just-so in the outward suitcases now get screwed up and bundled back in any old how. Well that’s what I do; I think Mrs C comes along behind me and unscrews things and folds them out a bit more neatly. Not quite sure why – they’re destined for the washing machine, after all. One good thing – at least we weren’t flying Ryanair, so we didn’t have to dread unpacking everything in the airport concourse to satisfy their need to humiliate their passengers.

So it was the last evening; and we wandered back up towards Portomaso in the hope that the Spoon would have a table for us. But first, pre-dinner drinkies at the bar just outside the Hilton Complex. Lovely setting; the service was a bit slow, but we didn’t mind that; and we entertained ourselves by eavesdropping into the conversations of some of our posher co-drinkers. It was about 9.30pm now so our tummies were more than ready for a spot of Chinese. Spoon was very busy but they found us a table. And sure enough, there was a gluten-free menu! Part of the fun of a Chinese is to order lots of different meals and then all share them, so I ordered from both the g-f and the ordinary menus. The only thing I had that wasn’t gluten-free were the barbecued spare ribs, so I slavered over them completely by myself and I have to say they were gorgeous. We had seaweed and soup, crispy duck and beef with cumin. It was all a very plucky attempt to create a g-f Chinese banquet, and much of it was very tasty, if a little dry – especially the beef with cumin. It lacked that aromatic gloopy sauce that would have made it taste sensational, but which would almost certainly have enough gluten in to flatten your cilia at fifty paces. We still enjoyed the meal though; it was relaxed and elegant, and with a lovely view over the marina; and once again it made Mrs C feel a bit more mainstream in her restaurantability.

And that was it! Dinner over, we slunk back to the hotel miserably; well not really, we’d had a wonderful holiday and relished every minute. We didn’t have to get up too early the next day; the hotel arranged for a taxi to take us to the airport; transfers, flights and so on all took place smoothly; we were back home by 6pm. Verdict: Malta is a great place for a holiday. We could have done and seen much more, but we wanted it to be relaxing and it absolutely filled the bill. Now it’s your turn to visit!

Review – God of Carnage, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 24th October 2012

Posted on October 25, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

Yasmina Reza’s characters enjoy a good argument, don’t they? In Art (admittedly the only other Reza play I’ve seen) friendships get destroyed over the purchase of a painting. In God of Carnage two couples meet to discuss a fight their sons had, that resulted in one of them losing a couple of teeth. Unlike in the first play, these people have never met before so don’t have established friendships at risk; however, by the end of the play any pretence at middle-class politeness and structured problem solving has gone right out of the window.

Alan and Annette are at a disadvantage though; not only is it their son, Ferdinand, who has committed the alleged attack, they are at the “away ground” that is Bruno’s parents’ (Veronica and Michael) living room. Veronica is in charge of negotiations – Michael is obviously just there for back-up – and Alan (a pharmaceutical company lawyer) is playing a subtle defensive bat looking to disallow inappropriate words and assumptions. Annette is the soul of politeness and impeccable behaviour until she has an unfortunate attack of nausea – with explosive results. It’s the kind of nightmare event that, unless you were with good friends, would be absolutely impossible to overcome and your relationship – whatever it was – could never be the same again. While Veronica and Michael are clearing up the mess, Alan overhears them laughing at their guests’ awfulness – and that’s the cue for the arguments really to begin.

If you’ve read some of my other theatre reviews, gentle reader, you will know that I tend to question productions that don’t have an interval. I love an interval. It’s a chance to reflect over what you’ve seen in the first half and consider what might happen in the second half; on a practical level it’s the opportunity to stretch your legs, nip to the loo, have a drink or an ice-cream and indeed wake yourself up if the first half has been dull. It’s also an opportunity for the theatre to make some money from bar sales – don’t knock it, they need to raise revenue for the good of us all. So if there’s no interval – as in this case – I ask myself why. If it’s a good reason artistically – as in the recent Bully Boy – then so be it. If there’s no particular reason apart from wanting to go home fifteen minutes earlier – as in the Menier’s revival of Educating Rita – then it’s very annoying. There’s no doubt in my mind that God of Carnage could not sustain an interval – but that’s because at 90 minutes duration it is, in my mind, about 30 minutes too long and would be much better off as a classic one act play, ideally to be shown together with another one act play either side of an interval.

I felt that once the initial scenario is played out – polite discussions of children’s delinquency which gets overtaken by the parents’ falling out over it – there really wasn’t very much further that the play could go. Yes, the characters are revealed as more selfish, bigoted and generally unpleasant than you might have thought them at the beginning, but I didn’t feel they were sufficiently developed so as to give you a greater insight into the human condition. There is a sense of a sex war going on, as the men find a certain understanding between them over a glass of excellent rum, whilst the women, descending into drunkenness and abandon, commit acts of violence and destruction on the men. As Mrs Chrisparkle pointed out, these sequences are funny in themselves but would not have been so had the acts been committed by the men on the women. As a study of a polite group of people turning against themselves because of underlying bigotry, this is no Clybourne Park; and as a study of hosts turning on their guests to mask their own unhappy relationship this is no Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf. Don’t get me wrong – I enjoyed the play; it was fine; I just wasn’t challenged by it in the way I’d hoped.

Technically it’s a very good production. We both admired the set’s back wall of individual tulips, like a vertical garden, cleverly lit so that it looks as though they are either leaning inwards either in support of each other or sparring with each other. The change to red lighting gave an eerie sense of blood, which was quite alarming. Otherwise it’s a simple, narrow set, with a floor sloping down towards the audience, giving you a slightly uncomfortable sense of imbalance, visually underlining the claustrophobia and the inevitability of things (handbag contents, vomit, for example) toppling down towards you. There’s also no doubt that the play’s coup-de-theatre, the nausea attack, was achieved brilliantly believably and with delightful messiness.

The four characters are all very well acted by the highly talented cast. Sian Reeves as Veronica is perfect as the super-polite hostess with the hidden agenda of coercing her guests into accepting full responsibility for the “disfigurement” to her child. She does a very nice line in smugness about her writing achievements and goes scarily maniacal as she is let down by her husband later on. It’s a very funny performance.

As her more down to earth husband Michael, James Doherty has an excellent set piece early on when he talks about hamstergate, and his inability to understand why no one agrees with him on this is very funny. He absolutely gets that sense of rivalry with his more educated foe Alan, and when he becomes simply angry at all the shenanigans his portrayal of that anger is very clear, straightforward and believable.

Simon Wilson’s Alan, enthralled to his Blackberry, is a very credible ruthless lawyer who requires that the world bow down to his requirements. He has a superb inscrutable look and you can just imagine that he has workplace bullying down to a fine art. When Annette takes his communication lifeline away he is completely lost and powerless – all that’s left is his husk. You’d feel sorry for him if the arrogant wretch didn’t deserve it so much.

And Melanie Gutteridge as Annette lives and breathes every moment of the play – her social dilemmas of when and what to say whilst they’re all being polite; suffering the embarrassment of vomiting everywhere; beginning to stand up to her hosts as they accuse her son unfairly; taking revenge on her husband; and finally trying to find a way forward out of the mess. She’s superb. On the night we went, she was still brushing away real tears during curtain call.

All in all some very good elements make up an entertaining evening, but for me the play was a bit disappointing; too long for a one-acter and lacking a decent denouement, but with four very committed performances.

Malta – Gozo

Posted on October 24, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

You will recall, gentle reader, that having got ourselves thoroughly lost in and around Bugibba on the Monday we ended up having to get an ordinary bus back to St Julian’s, rather than ending our Hop-on, Hop-off experience in the usual hopping back on again way. We bought 7-day passes, so we thought there was absolutely no point getting around the island any other way apart from Arriva-style. However, those sneaky so-and-so’s in the bus department have decreed it that the all-over Malta tickets are not acceptable in Gozo, and vice versa. That’s a bit off, isn’t it? They are the same country after all. It would be like your London Midland train ticket not being valid on Virgin Trains. Oh hang on…

Well, anyway, that decided us. We wanted to revisit Gozo, so we chose to combine our options and take an Arriva bus to Cirkewwa for the ferry, and then once we were on Gozitan territory, to take the first Hop-on hop-off bus we saw. It’s a long bus journey to Cirkewwa, about an hour or so from St Julian’s, and it got pretty packed pretty early. By the time we reached the ferry terminus we had all been very tightly squeezed in together, and as the doors opened we basically fell out of the bus with the pressure. I had found myself pinned up near the doors so got splatted out of the bus first; whereas Mrs Chrisparkle, in her usual polite British way, had allowed everyone else to barge in front of her. Now, just as at the Sliema ferry terminus, you don’t get anywhere near your intended destination before being descended upon by hordes of HOHO bus salespeople. I ignored the first two. The third was more pestersome. I had barely caught my breath before he asked “would you like to buy tourist bus tickets for Gozo?” “No,” I replied, “at this stage I just want to be reunited with my wife”. I intended that to be a rather sarcastic and petulant comment. He, however, found it hilarious. Indeed, he didn’t stop laughing until Mrs C and I had been reunited. Maybe that was his ploy. “Now you buy tourist bus tickets?” I didn’t see the point of holding out as that was always our intention anyway. He told me all the benefits of purchasing his particular tickets, over anyone else’s, which included a discount on the ferry crossing. So we were suckered. At least we had the tickets, and at least we should get a discount. Wrong! When we asked for the discount the ticket booth lady looked at me as though I had asked to fondle her grandmother. Funnily enough, the young salesman lad was nowhere to be seen by then.

Never mind. It was a very easy and comfortable crossing. I remember it taking a long time back in 1993, but this was only 25 minutes and you get picturesque views of the islands as you cruise along. You arrive at Mġarr, where your HOHO bus is waiting for you. This time we were on one of the red ones. I got the sense it was in a little better condition than the blue ones we had used on Monday. Once everyone was on board (not particularly full to be fair) we were off and away to our first port of call.

The first destination of any real interest is Xewkija. Its main claim to fame is its Rotunda church – not old, built between 1951 and 1971, but an attempt to rival the grandeur of Mosta, which it achieves in height, if not diameter. We had a lot to get through on the day, and it had actually taken us quite a lot longer to get started than we had intended, so we decided to enjoy the sights of Xewkija from the comfort of the bus and not hop off. It’s actually a very attractive little place.

The bus trundled on into Victoria – as Queen Victoria liked Rabat to be called – but Rabat as the locals prefer. We remembered that last time we spent a goodly time here but felt there wasn’t a lot to see – so again we thought we’d stay on board and if time permitted later, get out for half an hour’s nose around.

Onwards through the countryside, with distant views of Ta’ Pinu church which we also saw in 1993, and on to the first place that we definitely wanted to visit – Dwejra. First impressions aren’t that promising – the sea looks inviting but it appears that all you’re going to experience there is a rather dull car park. Fortunately Mrs C spotted the tiny sign that pointed to where you can take a boat ride out to the Azure Window. So we were beckoned by an enthusiastic young chap – Malta seems to be full of them – who plonked us down in as safe position as possible in his little motorised rowing boat, ready for the trip. “Open that box and put on the life jackets” he insisted. We got them out, put them over our heads and started faffing around with the securing cords. “No need to tie them up, just have them over your head”. Oh; I’m not entirely sure that’s up to EC Health and Safety standards. However, we didn’t want to appear namby-pamby tourists so we did what we were told.

The little boat gets into speed gear and chugs its way through a huge rock formation arch and out into the open sea. The two most extraordinary things about this area are the amazingly dramatic coastline, with its steep cliffs, little caves, and breathtaking arches; and the stunning blue colour of the sea itself. It’s absolutely the same colour as that cobalt solution you used to play with in your chemistry set. The enthusiastic young skipper pointed out all the interesting formations, such as the Elton John-inspired Crocodile Rock, and was keen to check that we were enjoying ourselves. We were – it was great.

Halfway out to sea there was a serious change in his tone as he said: “Right, you’ve got two choices.” I was expecting the worst. Sink or swim? Give him all our money or get shot? Not quite that dramatic, as it turned out. We could either just do a 15 minute trip at the Dwejra end of the coast, or we could pay him double and do a 30 minute trip to see Fungus Rock as well. Relieved as much as anything else, we opted for the 30 minute trip; and his voice reverted to the happy-to-be-on-a-boat-at-sea tone he’d adopted previously. I think he just got anxious worrying about cashflow. It’s definitely worth staying on for Fungus Rock because it’s a fascinating place, and the little boat ride gives you a real exhilaration buzz. When we got back to Dwejra I didn’t actually want it to end – I could have gone around again.

Back on the HOHO bus, the route now takes you to Ta’ Pinu church – glimpsed earlier – and now is your opportunity to get off and have a look round. If we’d started earlier in the day, we probably would have checked it out – I remember it being quite impressive from our 1990s visit – but time was against us, so we decided simply to pose for photos and move on to the next destination; which is another opportunity to get off at Victoria, which was another opportunity we didn’t bother with. Carrying on, the bus makes a ten minute stop at Fontana. This is so you can pop into the lace making place and spend a few Euros, but primarily so that the driver can have a ten minute rest. We had a little look at the ancient springs that give the village its name. Whilst doing so, angry sounds of vehicles honking horns drew us back out of our medieval reverie. Our bus had parked at a jaunty angle on a bend. Approaching from the other direction, another coach. Behind it, several cars. Behind our bus, more cars. I’m sure you can guess the outcome. Despite remonstrations from many of the drivers, our busman refused to move the vehicle until he’d finished his statutory ten minutes coffee. Tempers got a bit heated. Our driver was rabbiting on in Maltese the equivalent of “oh go on, you could get a bus through there” (which he plainly couldn’t). Once the ten minutes were up – and not a moment before – he smacked his lips to get the final coffee dregs and then leisurely sauntered back to the bus and edged it backwards, so that traffic could flow freely again. I don’t think he was very popular with his fellow Maltese drivers. But then again, I don’t think he cared.

On again to Xlendi. We remembered visiting here before and our recollections were that it has a beautiful small bay. As we got off the bus, the driver asked “are you having lunch here?” We said yes. He gave us a business card of a restaurant on the sea front that would give us a discount if we showed them the card and mentioned the bus. We mumbled thanks and headed off in the general direction. Now, I know it’s daft, but whenever anything like that happens my natural inclination is to steer clear of it. He’s going to get a cut of the profits; they’re generally overcharging; the quality is only going to be good enough for tourists; they’re desperate for trade; any combination or all of these is enough to put me off. We had a look at the place – it was the Boat House. It looked very nice. With the benefit of hindsight I see it is Number 3 of 21 restaurants in Xlendi according to tripadvisor. However, instead we ate at the St Patrick’s Hotel, further along the seafront. Feeling bold, we thought we’d try the fish “Catch of the Day”. Not an excuse for Gary Lineker to indulge in piscatorial punditry, but instead Mine Host brought out a choice of four fresh – if dead – fish for us to choose from. I wouldn’t be able to tell one from another, or what identifies a fine healthy specimen fish from one with emphysema. Anyway we went for the Sea Bream and the Lampuki, half a specimen each. I tell you – they were bloody gorgeous. So tasty; perfectly cooked, and with some yummy chips and a Pulitzer Prize-winning salad – all washed down with some Gozo wine, can’t remember which I’m afraid, but it was super.

Doing justice to that meal took a while – including the time spent wandering inside the hotel trying to find a place where the credit card machine can connect to the internet – so we missed a few hop-on opportunities, but it was worth it. It gave us time to have a little look around Xlendi – it’s pretty small so it doesn’t take long. It is still very attractive – one of those places that you feel it’s a privilege to experience. In one of the tourist shops, Mrs C bought a pair of rustic looking sandals that looked very nice, and for only 15 euros, but a few days later they ripped her feet to shreds, so beware.

Definitely deciding there would not be enough time to visit Victoria, we had two more ports of call to negotiate. The Gġantija Temples are 5,500 years old and sounded fascinating so we had to get off there and have a look round. The bus driver looked a bit surprised. “You’ll have to run, they close shortly”, he advised. Why do they offer HOHOs at places beyond their opening hours? It doesn’t make sense! Anyway we hoofed it up the hill and they were still open. An old man, easily 70 years old, possibly 80, was hovering around the entrance wanting to sell a guidebook. It looked interesting and Mrs C was tempted. However, in our haste to get inside the complex I simply couldn’t get the right cash out of my pocket; tissues, maps, English money, but no euros. “Don’t worry”, he said, “take the book and pay me on the way out”. We took it off him and ran in.

It’s well worth the visit. There are two temples, and you can walk inside and all around them. There’s some graffiti on one of the walls, dated 1840 – seems quite old but I guess that’s relatively recent in comparison with the age of the temples. Cooking areas, altars, receptacles for offerings, etc are all clearly distinguishable. We spent about half an hour soaking in the ancient atmosphere. Perhaps unsurprisingly, we were the last people to leave. The old man was still waiting outside. We thanked him for waiting and told him his book was very useful – which actually it was. We paid him and then he told us that he wrote the book, and gets it published himself, and stands outside the temples every day hoping to sell a few copies. Oh, and he also lets some holiday apartments. Living proof that age is no impediment to the entrepreneurial spirit.

One more stop on our HOHO bus – Ramla Bay. We thought we might as well – time allowed it, and it looks nice in the pictures. What makes it special is the beautiful rich colour of the sand – you could almost be in Devon. If you were a beachy person, you could spend the whole day here in a state of paralysed relaxation. We aren’t beachy people, so just half an hour’s walking along the water’s edge was a perfect way to wind up our Gozitan experience.

We got the last HOHO back to Mġarr, and on to our ferry with ease. The 25 minute crossing was fine, but that hour or more bus journey from Cirkewwa to St Julian’s was utterly knackering. We got off at our hotel totally exhausted. Trouble was, we were also quite peckish. So the afternoon nap got demoted to a fifteen minute sit-down on the balcony and then we were off again, foraging for food. We ended up at Café 516, where Mrs C sampled their gluten-free pasta in the form of a Spaghetti Carbonara. I had a Capricciosa Pizza. It was all very nice. To accompany, a bottle of very acceptable La Torre Chardonnay, and we finished off with gluten-free Snickers cake too. Mrs C was in coeliac heaven.

Review – Seventh Annual Malcolm Arnold Festival – A Night at the Ballet Gala Concert, Worthing Symphony Orchestra, Julian Lloyd Webber, Derngate, Northampton, 21st October 2012

Posted on October 23, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

Last weekend was the seventh annual Malcolm Arnold Festival at the Royal and Derngate in Northampton, celebrating one of the town’s most famous sons. If you’re into the works of Arnold, this weekend is definitely for you. Concerts and talks abound, and this year they mounted a concert performance of Malcolm Arnold’s opera The Dancing Master, its first ever public performance because way back in 1952 it was considered too bawdy for the TV screen for which it was originally written. And all this entertainment for a ridiculous knock-down price too.

We usually just go to the final concert of the weekend, which this year was A Night at the Ballet with the Worthing Symphony Orchestra under the baton of John Gibbons. Mr Gibbons is an enthusiastic supporter of the festival, and conducted Arnold’s 9th Symphony last year. I didn’t think that as many people attended the concert this year as last – possibly a sign of the recessionary times in which we live. If it’s because the Northamptonians are insisting on only the best – we are used to the Royal Philharmonic after all – then let me assure you, in no way are the Worthing Symphony Orchestra inferior. They were all on fine form, and indeed we recognised the formidable presence of Mr Russell Gilbert amongst the violins, who also appears with the RPO.

At the beginning of the concert, Mr Gibbons’ arrival onstage started inauspiciously. As he walked down the stairs and the orchestra rose, like you did when the Headmaster walked in on a lesson, the musician playing the – is it the celeste? – for the first piece shifted his seat away with a flick from the back of his knees and thus his chair thereby obstructed the conductor’s path to the podium. Thwarted, Mr Gibbons had to double back and wend his way through the violins. We reckon Mr Celeste did it on purpose.

It was an evening of well-known pieces and (for us) a number of pieces we hadn’t heard before. We started with Arnold’s Homage to the Queen Suite. This is an absolutely charming, warm, lusciously tuneful piece, like a musical equivalent of comfort eating. I suppose you could call it the “greatest hits” version of the full ballet, which made it a little lop-sided structurally; quite long movements interspersed with some very short ones made it hard to tell when the piece had reached its natural conclusion. I cheated and watched till the musicians came to the last page of their sheet music so that I knew it had ended. Highly enjoyable though, and a recording of it will definitely go on my classical wishlist.

Next was the Adagio from Spartacus by Khachaturian. Old Khachaturian knew how to write a tune, didn’t he? John Gibbons said people aged 50+ will recognise it as the theme to the Onedin Line. Well, Mrs Chrisparkle, who certainly wouldn’t thank you for erroneously including her in that age bracket, was taken back to childhood reveries as she remembered watching the programme back on the old Cattle Station in the New South Wales bush of her youth. She was positively beaming throughout. The orchestra did play it stunningly beautifully. Never having liked the Onedin Line as a kid I was always a bit prejudiced against this piece of music; I may have to reappraise that unnecessarily deep-seated reaction.

On to Delius’ Cello Concerto, with soloist Julian Lloyd Webber. We saw Mr Lloyd Webber about the same time last year with the Royal Philharmonic playing Elgar’s Cello Concerto, and there’s no doubt that he’s a total star. The Delius Cello Concerto was new to me, and I thought it was stunning. Moody and tuneful, romantic but also quite violent at times I felt, you run the full gamut of emotions in less than half an hour. From a clothes point of view, which is perhaps not the best way to appraise Mr Lloyd Webber, he was in an oversized rustic white shirt, having borrowed Olivia Newton John’s headband from the “Let’s Get Physical” video. An incredibly expressive performance, and so generous to the input of the rest of the orchestra as well. For his encore, he fittingly played the first movement of Arnold’s Cello Fantasy, written for him in 1986. That sounded stunning too. During the interval, Mr Lloyd Webber signed CDs and photos in the foyer, just like he did last year. He is clearly the Tom Conti of the classical music world.

The second half was due to start with another Arnold piece, his Sweeney Todd Op.68, but Mr Gibbons announced, in the style of London Midland (his description), that owing to earlier delays the Sweeney Todd departure had been cancelled. It’s true, if they had played it as scheduled, the concert would have gone on long past 10.00. However, the sigh of disappointment from the audience was tangible. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen an item removed from a running order simply because of earlier delays.

Instead we moved straight on to Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker suite and then Ponchielli’s Dance of the Hours. The Nutcracker is always such a crowd-pleaser. But for me I felt there was just something held back from the orchestra; I couldn’t put my finger on it, it just sounded a little safe, a little reserved somehow. One forgets how delightful the Dance of the Hours is, and that was another beautiful performance; and I promise that I did not sing to myself either “Everyone’s a fruit and nut case” or “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh” to either of these fine classical oeuvres.

We were promised some fireworks with Malcolm Arnold’s Electra, and we certainly got them. An extraordinary piece, wild and fiery, full of clashes and attack, making the orchestra work hard to do justice to Arnold’s demanding score. Short – stunning – breathtaking. Then to round the evening off in a more genteel way, we had Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty suite; utterly charming, totally elegant, returning us to serenity for the journey home. Fantastic work by Julia Thornton on the harp, by the way.

Mrs C felt the programme was like a dream version of Hooked on Classics, which I’m pretty sure she meant as a sign of appreciation. It was indeed a very enjoyable evening and the orchestra gave us a great performance. For those who didn’t come, in future get those bums on those seats – you missed a treat!

Review – Screaming Blue Murder, Underground, Derngate, Northampton, 19th October 2012

Posted on October 22, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

A full house at the Underground for this week’s Screaming Blue Murder – that’s what we like to see! There’s nothing like lots of people laughing to make the humour even more infectious. Dan Evans was once again our compere and he did his usual excellent job of comic meet and greet, including dealing with a rather frosty lady in the front row who would clearly not be trifled with. He’s still having a crise de conscience with the new material, which created a lively encounter with a guy at the back who pleaded with him not to do his old stuff again. I got a name check in that little contretemps – to think that I might have spurred Dan on to write some new stuff!

Dan promised three great acts and two marvellous intervals and he did not disappoint. Our first act was Andrew Watts, new to us, who has a rather entertaining persona of an older, slightly posher, very unladdish gentleman, and who bestows his advice to us all about dealing with women. Very funny material, with nice use of cricketing imagery for batting away difficult questions, and I loved his stuff about being asked to give his girlfriend a mediocre night in bed; definitely worth catching his act.

Next up was Carly Smallman, again an act we hadn’t seen before – a girl with a guitar, which is almost always a winning formula for Mrs Chrisparkle and me. She had some good near the knuckle songs, starting with her brotherly incest song that Mrs C and I thought was brilliant but Lady Duncansby, also in attendance, thought was the height of bad taste. It was an entertaining act about being both a slut and unsuccessful with boys, and she had some very good audience interaction with Carl at the back, to whom she directed her amorous attentions. Again, a very funny act.

Headline act was Nick Wilty, who we had seen about 18 months ago, whose material involves lots of fast-paced one-liners, many of which were very clever indeed. He bases a lot of the act on his observations during a considerable amount of world travel and is very funny in a sarf Lahndahn sort of way; in many respects he’s the antithesis to Andrew Watts. The whole programme was a very successful combination of comics; they were all sufficiently different to make each one stand out in their own way. Book early for the next show!

Review – Julian Clary, Position Vacant Apply Within, Derngate, Northampton, 18th October 2012

Posted on October 19, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

We booked this show a few months ago, and at odd moments during the interim period I would think to myself, “oh good, we’re going to see Julian Clary again soon”; and then I would instantly also think “oh God I do hope he doesn’t pick on me.” The premise of his new show is that he is scouring the country looking for a new boyfriend to be selected from the audience, and doubtless to be subjected to some extreme humiliation onstage for the benefit of the relieved guffawing onlookers.

That all comes in the second half. In the first half, we are treated to some Big Brother recollections; a Mastermind game with a lady from the audience; some advertising for Blue Nun, “sponsors of this tour” involving some extremely biting reflections on the quality of said product, and generally Julian Clary’s special brand of stand-up; punters, I thank you. The good news is that this show is a huge lot more rewarding than the last tour of his we saw – Lord of the Mince – which was funny enough but somewhat lacking in substance and material. This time Julian is back with lots of subjects to regale us with, and he was on very perky form. Only when he did a sequence reading from the local newspaper did I feel the energy sap a little.

But it is his search for his new husband that is the really funny element to this show. For one thing, the relief when you realise you’re safe is immense, and you can get on with enjoying the evening. I really thought I was going to be in trouble; sat in the centre of Row G, and the two spaces in front of us in Row F were empty, so when the house lights went up I must have been directly in his sights. Fortunately he obviously decided I wouldn’t be hilarious enough (good move Julian); and also that old ploy of not being on an aisle worked. If you want to avoid being one of his victims, don’t sit near the aisle. Sitting far away from the stage is no safety net though, as he brought back several hapless men – threatened with his stun gun – from the back of the theatre.

Eight suitors are chosen from the audience and herded into Julian’s mincing pen, and then each one is questioned and given a task to complete. I won’t spoil it for you with details, but some candidates have to show skills they might not normally practise. All eight of the guys were incredibly good sports, and it really was a very funny hour. Eight become four; then four become two; and finally one is chosen for the grand ceremony. Our lucky man was James, who certainly looked as though he enjoyed every minute of it. I was reminded strongly of TV’s old Generation Game; and indeed, as he gets older, I think Mr Clary is drawing on Larry Grayson’s influences more and more.

This kind of audience involvement is a perfect vehicle for his skills. Where he once would have said some rather savage things about his punters to make his point, nowadays he gets better quality laughs from treating the audience more kindly. His humour has evolved over the years – and this is reflected in the wide demographic of people attending the show. He seems to appeal absolutely across the board – men, women, teenagers, elderly, and all the gaps in between. No doubt his recent Big Brother appearance has helped widen his fanbase; but also he’s been going for a number of years now. Those people (like us) who saw him as The Joan Collins Fan Club in the 80s and have stuck with him (bless you punters) are now 25 to 30 years older – gasp – which might account for the presence of so many older people in the audience.

He landed a serious punch at the end of the show too. After all the camp gaiety of his wedding ceremony to James, he finishes with a song – chanted in the best Clary tradition – that draws on continued prejudice and inequality for gay people around the world, which made an uncomfortable but valuable juxtaposition with the humour that had gone before. Not preachy or dogmatic, but it sure made you think.

A very entertaining evening with a national treasure; I’m sure Julian will continue to enjoy warm hands upon his entrance for the rest of the tour.

Malta – Harbour Cruise by day, Paceville by night

Posted on October 18, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

One of the benefits of doing a Hop-on, Hop-off bus tour is that, included in your 15 Euros ticket, you get a free Harbour Cruise too. This really does make it a very good bargain, although you need to choose your cruise time carefully; at peak hours I understand you can be packed like sardines. We were lucky though. When we arrived at the Sliema Ferries departure point, a cruise was to depart in fifteen minutes time and there were still plenty of good places to sit and enjoy the view. If it were a cruise liner, I guess you could say we sat starboard, aft. Rather than facing the direction of the boat, we were looking out at 90 degrees, directly to sea – or land, depending where we were.

But first, a little tale of warning for when you’re walking along the water’s edge at Sliema. We decided not to bother with the bus as it was (as always) a perfect day for a walk and it really isn’t far from St Julian’s. We were just amiably wandering along the main road near the ferries, when we were jumped upon by an enthusiastic young chap wanting to sell us all sorts of trips. They were nice trips, and they were a good price; and we were tempted; but we decided to walk on, saying we’d come back, but really with the intention of doing our best to forget about them. That worked fine; he knew he’d lost the sale; he would find plenty more fish walking alongside the sea for on which to pounce.

Then another bloke appeared; this time quite a lot older, a very cheery bluff northerner. Not the north of Malta – more Yorkshire. He attempted to engage us in so many ways – where you from, where you staying, which hotel, blah-di-blah, and I knew it wasn’t because he was a lonely soul looking for a friend. “Which travel company did you use?” he asked. “We didn’t – just booked it with the hotel and bought the flights online”. “Ah, you look the type” he said. I wonder what type that is? His remit was to get us to go into the hotel across the road and “have a look round”. The hotel apparently was going to build some new accommodation somewhere and they supposed that if you were to go in and look around, and taste a little of their hospitality, you might be more likely to use them next time you come to Malta. Errmm, no, I don’ t think so. “Look, I’ll be honest with you, if you go over there, I get 50 quid”, he pleaded. “It’s timeshare!” we squealed in horror. “No, no, not timeshare” he blathered unconvincingly. But 50 quid is 50 quid and he wasn’t a bad sort. He started to succeed in making us feel guilty. “How long will they keep us there? 10 minutes? 15 minutes?” Mrs Chrisparkle asked, almost relenting with her natural kindness. “No more than two hours” he replied. TWO HOURS??? We almost trampled over him in our haste to escape. “Awww, I’ll have to get my 50 quid from some other people then” he offered, sounding a bit hurt. Yes mate, you will.

The harbour cruise takes about an hour and a half. First of all it dips down towards Ta ‘Xbiex and back alongside Manoel Island; then it goes round the top of Valletta past Fort St Elmo, back down past the waterfront, and further down towards Marsa; then back up the other side, past the Three Cities, over and around back to Sliema. It’s a very enjoyable way of taking in the views and seeing different parts of the harbour area – both scenic and industrial.

The MSC Splendida ship was visiting Valletta that day, and you get a very interesting perspective of such a large ship when you are just a little boat chugging past. I bet this is superb inside – Mrs C and I have definitely got our eye on it for a future cruise.

If you look at the map, the Three Cities emerge as finger like promontories, protruding deep into the harbour. I caught this picture of a look-out at the end of Safe Haven Gardens at Senglea – notice the eye and the ear decorations which represent vigilance.

We saw some incredibly grand and expensive yachts on this little jaunt. Here’s the Martha Ann. Read about it and positively salivate at the prospect of hiring it for a week.

And this little beauty is called The Maltese Falcon. The narrator on our little boat said it cost 280 million Euros. It’s absolutely breathtaking. I think our skipper was a little nervous at getting too close to it – imagine the bill if you had an accident!

By comparison, the Areti is a bit of a minnow. Still, I wouldn’t mind it as a gift. Any offers?

I could show you more yachts, but it would only make you jealous. We navigated safely back to Sliema, very pleased with our free excursion. We stopped for lunch at one of the places opposite the Sliema ferries – very nice salad but they would only serve you wine by the glass. That’s one of my pet hates. In that roasting sunshine a glass of wine that started chilled (-ish) quickly becomes chambré if you’ve no ice bucket. Afterwards we plunged ourselves into the dark recesses of the shopping streets of Sliema to look for bargains. Mrs C thought the handbags and shoes looked promising. However, on closer inspection, they failed to come up to her exacting standards, ludicrously cheap though they may have been. We looked for jeans in the Levi shop and other groovy outlets, as we are nothing if not trendy. Everything was either way too expensive or way too small. There were a few UK-type shops – Marks & Spencer, BHS, etc; and you could buy the same clothes in the UK for much cheaper, so there wasn’t a lot of point buying them in Malta. So in the end, rather like the runner-up in The Weakest Link, we left with nothing.

After a relatively early afternoon nap – for which relief, much thanks – we decided we would have dinner around the bay in St Julian’s and then head off to Paceville to witness the much vaunted nightlife. For dinner, we returned to San Giuliano, because the food is ok and it’s a great location. I was very happy with the stylish “Still life with water and wine bottles” pictures I took.

Night fell and we walked up the hill in the direction of noisy and raucous youth. We thought we’d have a drink in a little bar somewhere we could sit outside, but there were surprisingly few places, and those there were, were absolutely full. Then we stumbled upon De Olde Keg. To be honest, it promised little from the outside, but there were seats and it was relatively clean. We tripled the average age of the clientele, but that’s never put me off before. No one seemed to be serving outside, so I went to the bar and asked for two glasses of white wine. Two mismatched glasses of wine were haphazardly poured out with a “wotever” attitude. The price? Two euros. Mentally, I took all my criticisms back. Naturally I presented Mrs C with the smaller of the two glasses. And you know what? It didn’t taste at all bad.

It was getting late (for us) but Paceville was just waking up. We found a welcoming looking bar/club/restaurant called Soho Lounge, nabbed a really good outside table, ordered a rather delicious bottle of white wine and watched the youth of Malta and several other countries getting tanked up, refused entry, acting riotously, wearing precious little, and all those other things young people do on a Wednesday night out. It was a bit like Bridge Street in Northampton but with less fake tan. We left around 12.30am to go back to the hotel; for Paceville that’s the equivalent of morning elevenses. But we had a busy day lined up for Thursday…

Review – Richard Alston Dance Company, Derngate, Northampton, 16th October 2012

Posted on October 17, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

An evening of dance is always a treat, and to see the Richard Alston Dance Company on top form is a fine treat indeed. There are a few touring companies who we will always make the effort to see if they come to our neck of the woods – Rambert, Matthew Bourne, Jasmin Vardemon, Balletboyz, and Richard Alston. I realise that we were really spoilt in the old days when our most convenient theatre was the Wycombe Swan. They used to have their Swan Dance season every year – they may even still have it, I don’t know – and we used to get a fantastic range of dance. I particularly remember the wonderful Royal Ballet’s Dance Bites programmes – Darcey Bussell, Deborah Bull, Irek Mukhamedov, Jonathan Cope… we saw them all, without having to struggle into London and pay inordinate prices. Happy days. Still, I’m delighted to say that the current Richard Alston company is jam-packed with superb dancers and that this particular programme – The Devil in the Detail, Shimmer and Madcap – is as entertaining a threesome as I have seen in a long time.

Tuesday’s audience at the Derngate in Northampton was, I’d say, 80% students, which kind of worried us because you never know quite how young people will behave. Yes I know I’m an old fuddy-duddy, but nothing kills a serious piece of dance like teenage girls giggling at men in tights. Mrs Chrisparkle did her “glare of death” to one chattery youngster behind her during the first piece, and I noticed another turn on her mobile during the last dance, but apart from that the kids were jolly well behaved. So, well done young people of Northampton, he says patronisingly.

The first piece, The Devil in the Detail, is a re-worked version of Richard Alston’s original 2006 production, with seven individual dances to the music of Scott Joplin, played live and brilliantly by Jason Ridgway. It makes a perfect opener to the evening, with its bright and cheerful choreography that never goes over the top but retains a kind of reserved classiness. The costumes are pastel and pretty; it brought to mind the innocence of a well-to-do 1950s summer garden party. It allowed – as all three pieces did – the individual dancers to express their own personalities through the dance. The partnerships of Nancy Nerantzi with Liam Riddick, and Pierre Tappon with Nathan Goodman were particularly enjoyable to watch; the first for its intense charm, the second for its good-natured mateyness.

It’s not hard to see how Shimmer, the second piece, got its name – we were both stunned by the extraordinary costumes, designed by Julien Macdonald and now given extra Swarovski sparkle, according to the programme. Equally extravagant for both the men and the women, the costumes are in fact no more revealing of the body underneath than most costumes, but they challenge and confuse your brain into thinking they are in fact extremely revealing. Richard Alston’s choreography is taut and thoughtful, with an eloquence of movement that goes beautifully with Mr Ridgway’s playing of Ravel piano music. The whole company were superb, but I was particularly impressed with one of the apprentices, Oihana Vesga Bujan, interloping with Elly Braund and Mr Riddick; and with the extraordinary solo of Mr Goodman at the end. The combination of his dancing together with the costume and lighting provides an incredible image of artistic strength that stays with you long after curtain down.

The final piece, Madcap, is choreographed by Martin Lawrance, whose work, on-stage and off, I have admired for a few years now. This is a fantastic new piece – athletic, aggressive choreography makes dancers outstretch to grab their piece of the stage, to a clashing, argumentative soundtrack that really pulls you up sharp in your seat. There’s a wonderful solo for Liam Riddick, and Nathan Goodman gives another great performance as an outsider in the action, dashing everywhere to assert himself in the body of the dance.

A perfectly balanced evening; first the pleasant, pretty dance, then the difficult, challenging dance, and finally the in-your-face athletic crowd-pleaser. It was a pleasure to witness great performances from the entire company; maybe special mentions to Hannah Kidd, who makes everything look so effortless and beautiful, Liam Riddick, whose technical expertise is stunning, and Nathan Goodman, who is so expressive in every scene. Absolutely top quality stuff – catch it in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Cheltenham and Wycombe, before they go off to New Jersey in December. Highly recommended.

Malta – Valletta

Posted on October 16, 2012 by therealchrisparkle

Tuesday came around quickly, it only seemed like a few days since we’d arrived; oh, it was! A week’s holiday isn’t a long time. Seeing as how our adventures trying to get back from Bugibba had ended up with our buying a week long standard bus pass, there didn’t seem a lot of point doing more Hop-on Hop-offs at 15 Euros a day. So we decided to take the bus to Valletta and have a leisurely strolling-around-the-capital sort of day.

A word about the buses: if you are a long time visitor to Malta, you will no doubt remember the old Morris buses: colourful, ancient, smoky, slow, reckless, uncomfortable, dirty and highly entertaining. However, last year a new broom swept the island clean of these characterful monstrosities, and now it’s served with a spanking new, sleek fleet of modern buses, run by Arriva. From a practical point of view it’s a superb improvement; from a romantic point of view, a little bit of history just got erased. Still, getting from St Julian’s to Valletta couldn’t have been easier, quicker or more comfortable.

You get disgorged at that big fountain-in-a-roundabout in Floriana, just outside the city walls. It’s not the most elegant or beautiful gateways to a city; in fact it feels like the tradesmen’s entrance, with hundreds of people looking for the correct bus stop and hundreds of bus drivers avoiding eye contact with you. There are a number of food and drink stalls around but they all look a bit down at heel. It’s not helped by the fact there is a huge amount of development going on at the moment, so you’ve got all this and a building site too. However, once you tread your way carefully through the small entrance and into that first square, things start to improve considerably. There’s still a lot of building work going on; but you can’t get in the way of progress, can you? At least we were pleased to see that the guys working on the sides of the buildings were taking sun precautions by working under a parasol.

Armed with my trusty guidebook, Mrs Chrisparkle and I embarked on a walk round the ramparts, and then a further exploration inside the city to catch some of the major sights. We turned left, and up the staircases till we found ourselves at Hastings Gardens, with its magnificent views across the water from Ta’ Xbiex to Sliema (nowhere near Hastings). The rampart walls are amazingly thick and would have kept out the most mischievous marauder. The gardens are very attractive and would be a nice place to rest with a book in the sunshine; but we had no time for that, so it was onward, down the steps, past the Anglican cathedral and on towards St Sebastian’s Bastion, if that’s not a tautology. The views out to sea – particularly of Manoel Island – and of the charming old buildings inland are very rewarding and it makes for a pleasant sunny walk. We did get pestered by a horse and cart man though. How many times did he need to be told we didn’t want to be paraded around the town in the back of his manky looking carriage with his sorrowful looking horse? Several, as it turns out. With our pasty pink skin and solar topee hats I’ve no idea how he knew we were tourists. “Don’t know why you’re walking this way, you can’t get into Fort St Elmo, you know”, he warned. I gave my “so what?” shrug. I don’t think it was the response he sought. He trotted dismally off, like a dismissed extra in a wild-west movie.

It was however true, and annoying, that you can’t get into Fort St Elmo, unless there’s some special military re-enactment going on. Part of the building is given over to the National War Museum, which I am sure is very interesting, but if you know Mrs C at all, you would know there was no chance of going in. Instead, we dropped down into the town along Merchants Street, which, like most of Valletta, has very tall buildings and is quite a narrow street, so you don’t get much sun at human height. The architecture is ornate and grand, and there are some splendid big doors, behind which lurk mysterious churches and palazzos. The morning market was just packing up, which is presumably how the street gets its name. Eventually we found ourselves at the back side (so to speak) of St John’s Co-Cathedral. We had decided we would visit either the cathedral or the Grand Master’s Palace, but not both. The cathedral won.

Inside it’s astonishingly ornate and beautiful, a veritable festival of the Baroque. It was built between 1572 and 1581 as the main church for the Knights of St John, so it’s not surprising they made a bit of a song and dance about it. You get an audio guide with your entrance fee but, to be honest, there is so much information to read, hear and understand that you could turn a simple visit into a lengthy history lesson; and I feared that by deconstructing it into its separate parts you might lose the overall magic of the place. Instead, we just wandered around, admired the art and the incredible skill required to make the building what it is. The oratory has an extraordinary Caravaggio, “The Beheading of John the Baptist”, and it’s well worth giving it a good few minutes of your time to appreciate it in full. I hope the photos give you an indication of just how splendid the cathedral is.

Time for lunch, and we had a nice salad and a bottle of Trebbiano in the middle of Merchants Street – a couple of the cafes had staked out tables and chairs in the middle of the pedestrianised area. Alas, they didn’t run to a wine cooler, and in the Maltese sun it didn’t take long for the cold white wine to warm up. But we soldiered on. I can’t remember the name of the place and their receipt didn’t mention the name either – curious. It definitely existed though.

We remembered enjoying the Malta Experience the last time we were here in 1993 and thought we would go again, for Auld Lang Syne if nothing else. Just one tourist attraction, that’s not too reprehensible, we thought; and it would be informative and enjoyable. And so it is. You basically sit in a very shallow but wide cinema and take in a 45 minute audio-visual account of the history of Malta. It’s comfortable, and the sound and picture quality are very good. One of the screen images of modern Malta as a tourist destination includes a picture of the Costa Concordia; they might want to think about changing that.

Unexpectedly, after the Malta Experience, included in the price is a little private tour of the Hospital of the Order of St John. Most people toddled off after the presentation and so missed it; only about eight of us waited for the beaming jolly lady to take us across the road to visit the hospital. As we walked towards it, the horse and cart man was lingering around again. “Ah, you came back to me, I knew you would”, he said. We just stayed silent with our noses in the air. The hospital is adjacent to or somehow joined in with the Mediterranean Conference Centre, so not only did we see the two main hospital halls, with their pageantry banners and plaques, but also the theatre stage where Bush and Gorbachev met formally to end the Cold War in 1989. It was a very interesting addition to our day’s sightseeing.

And that was it really. A bit late in the day to attempt any more sights, and we wanted to get back to St Julian’s for a decent nap as later on we would be going out to dinner with a Maltese Eurovision star. I know; what a name-dropper. In our best bibs and tucker, we waited outside the hotel for them to arrive. Just before 9pm there was a loud beeping of horns as said star waved maniacally at us from behind his steering wheel and we dashed across lanes of the moving traffic to hurl ourselves in the back of their car. We zoomed up the hilly streets until we found the only parking space in Paceville. They recommended this rather expensive but very nice Italian/Mediterranean restaurant in the Bay Street complex, the San Crispino. The staff there obviously recognised our famous host and so we got an excellent corner table and some very smiley and courteous service! The dinner and the company were both excellent, plus we had a nice bottle of Gavi to wash it down. Bay Street at night was a very lively place, even on a Tuesday; one of the cafes was holding a late night tea dance which, at even past midnight, still had a lot of people of all ages waltzing around. We got back to St Julian’s by about 12.30, and I think we might have sneaked in a little half-bottle of wine to read by on the balcony before lights out at 1am. A perfect day of sightseeing and socialising!