Review – Blue Stockings, University of Northampton BA (Hons) Acting, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 17th March 2016

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No sooner had I finished my review of the University of Northampton’s Welcome to Thebes, I was back out at the Royal and Derngate for the second in this March’s season of Third Year Students’ plays and Jessica Swale’s Blue Stockings, set in Girton College Cambridge in 1896, and first produced at Shakespeare’s Globe in 2013. Would my enthusiasm for the skill and craftsmanship of the young actors extend to this second play? Oh yes it would.

It’s hard from today’s perspective to appreciate how difficult it was for a woman to get a university education back in those days (1896 that is, by 2013 things were a bit easier). Certainly at Girton, it was very much tied in with the general progress towards emancipation for women, including the suffragette movement and a recognition that a woman could be more than just a baby-making machine. The play tells the tale of four women commencing their studies at this ground-breaking college. They come from very different backgrounds, but all have the same burning ambition to devote their time to learning, to self-improvement, and to preparation for a fine career. They are encouraged and nurtured by gifted and unorthodox tutors, but have to negotiate several stumbling blocks on the way.

The Mistress of the college, Elizabeth Welsh, is an eminently practical person who won’t risk the college’s reputation by being too avant-garde. The best brains in the land, like visiting Professor Maudsely, are also highly misogynistic when it comes to women’s education and refuse to recognise the female students as having any place in college. A random woman in a tea-shop berates tutors who fight for women’s recognition. And even their male fellow students don’t back them up, finding their female counterparts somewhere between risible and contemptible. The sense of injustice that the play – and the performance – creates for the audience leaves us furious at their opponents’ pig-headedness.

What really comes over in this production is how well the cast gel together and excel at telling this story. You can really believe the sense of intimidation and awkwardness at the students’ first meeting; the inspirational nature of their early classes; the imbalance of the attention bestowed on the male students at the expense of the women; the irritation caused to both sides by constantly having a chaperone present; and the loneliness and bravery of the women who choose this calling, giving up what society expects and requires of them, much to its disapproval. Of course, this is all expressed in the text, but it is the strength of the performances that really flesh out these hopes and fears and make them vivid for a 21st century audience.

The play calls for four strong central performances from the young women students and it certainly gets it! Lucy Kitson’s Tess is at the very heart of the play and we identify with her completely. Her hopes and dreams, her expectations, her disappointments, her joys all become ours. She is Tess; you never get the sense that this is a performance, it’s real. She makes a demanding role seem effortless – definitely a name for the future. I was also really moved by the performance of Sophie-Rose Darby as Maeve, a fish out of water as far as the Victorian class system is concerned, although not for her phenomenal intellect which Ms Darby conveys with great spirit and charm. When she resolves to stay in Cambridge despite the calls for her to go home I wanted to punch the air with support! It wasn’t the only punch I wanted to do in the course of the play, more of which later. Ellen Shersby-Wignall is excellent as Celia, dutifully studious and keen to do the right thing, but also allowing the comedy to shine through with her unique take on the Can-Can. And Danni-Louise Ryan makes a splendid Carolyn, the character oozing the kind of confidence that only money and breeding can bring, introducing a sense of brightness and daring to the women’s otherwise closeted existence.

I really enjoyed the performance by Rhiana Young as the tutor Miss Blake – challenging the women to think differently, listening intently to her students’ responses as she would, and reacting with perfectly-pitched fury to every attempt to denigrate their achievements. Stephanie Waugh as Mrs Welsh gives a strong account of an authoritative woman who permanently has to tread carefully to promote the college and her students, whilst knowing she has to live in the real world and make unpopular compromises as a result. I was so disappointed when she insisted that Maeve had to go home, she really let down the sisterhood there! There’s an amusingly awkward performance by George Marlow as Tess’s suitor Ralph, tentatively trying to know her better while observing strict politesse; Mr Marlow also shows his versatility doubling up with a very effective portrayal of Billy, Maeve’s brother, desperate in his plight and genuinely unable to understand his sister’s lack of traditional values.

There’s also a fantastic cameo from Stuart Warren as Maudsely, aggravating our sense of injustice as he rides rough-shod over Tess; a warm and funny performance from Jaryd Headley as the laddish Edwards (especially in his perfectly executed drunk scene); and an infuriatingly strong portrayal of the revolting Lloyd by Tom Stone, whose bullying and prejudice really made me want to get up on stage and punch him on the nose. I don’t advocate violence, but boy, would he have deserved it. There’s great support from Cynthia Lebbos and Elliot Holden in a variety of roles, Mr Holden in particular taking the role of Miss Bott and resoundingly making it his own. But primarily all the cast give solid and rewarding performances, putting storytelling at the forefront, and creating a very enjoyable experience for the audience by making this fascinating play live on in our minds and hearts well after the final curtain.

As in Welcome to Thebes, I am truly impressed at the standard of acting. You would never know this was an amateur production. Congratulations to all! I have one more university play to see today – this has been a very rewarding experience.

Review – Welcome to Thebes, University of Northampton BA (Hons) Acting, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 16th March 2016

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So this is a new experiment for me. Outside of all the professional productions we see at the Royal and Derngate in Northampton, we’ve also seen work by the Actors’ Company, the Young Company and the Youth Theatre. However, following the leads of Messrs Smallmind and Mudbeast, this March I’ve booked to see all three plays in the University of Northampton BA (Hons) Acting season, performed by final year acting students. I genuinely had no idea what the standard would be like. Mrs Chrisparkle frequently shudders at the words “Amateur” and “Dramatics” when put together in the same sentence, and to protect her for her own good I thought I’d go it alone with these three plays by seeing them as midweek matinees by myself. Well, if Welcome to Thebes is an indication of what this little Trinity of drama is all about, she’s missed out on a treat.

Moira Buffini’s play which opened at the National Theatre in 2010 is quite a complicated affair. It takes characters and plots from early Greek tragedies by Sophocles and Euripides and shakes them up into a modern fable about fragile democracy emerging from the ruins of a bloody civil war. There’s also an examination of the relationship between the home state – Thebes – and its powerful neighbour Athens. Thebes’ President Elect Eurydice and Athens’ “First Citizen” Theseus meet for a summit, but Eurydice has strong political opponents in the form of war criminal Prince Tydeus and his lover Pargeia, who are happy to whip up civil unrest to unsettle the fledgling democracy and overthrow the new President. When one of Theseus’ aides shoots one of the Theban soldiers, it’s a cue for more subterfuge and the breakdown of the relations between the two city states. And that’s only part of it.

It’s a meaty play; although I will admit I felt a lull in the story halfway through the first act, but the more unrest there is on stage, the more interesting the play becomes. The cast work terrifically together as an ensemble, and the scenes where the stage is filled with characters all interacting together, providing a sense of anarchy or danger, are most effective. The first act is considerably longer than the second; and at one stage a number of us in the audience wondered whether or not the interval was actually the end of the play. It wasn’t – so be warned, don’t leave too early! I really enjoyed how the production uses all parts of the Royal auditorium, from its surprise and challenging start, through to using not only the stage and the front apron, but the boxes and various parts of the Stalls too.

However, I guess when a play is performed by third year acting students, the most important thing is – how was the acting? Well, if you hadn’t told me it was performed by students I would never have guessed – apart, perhaps, from the fact that all the actors are relatively young. On the strength of this performance, I’d say that almost every member of the cast could easily find their feet in any professional acting company. The overall standard was amazingly high, much more impressive than I could have expected or hoped for. If I was to pick out the “best” people from the cast of 18, I’d probably have to give you a list of 14 actors – and that would be both boring and unfair, so I’m not going to do that!

However, I’ve got to point out some of those amazing young actors. Let’s start with President Eurydice – a strong, authoritative performance from Sharni Tapako-Brown. She absolutely looks the part: dignified, resolute, no-nonsense; when she was proclaiming from the box she put me in mind of Evita Peron. Technically, I loved the clarity and audibility of her speech; she’s one of those actors who’s simply a joy to watch. As her political opponent, Charlie Clee as Prince Tydeus owns the stage with a perfect combination of swagger and thuggery, mocking and cajoling us to support him, getting a weird thrill out of others’ misfortunes, yet portraying surprising vulnerability and panic when things don’t go his way. Technically first class, and revealing the great depth of his character – he’s definitely One To Watch in the future. As his partner in crime, Pargeia, Kathryn McKerrow turns in a fine performance of quiet domination and ruthlessness – you’d surely not want to cross her. Moreover, she delivers one of the most ferocious slaps in the face I’ve ever seen on stage! I hope Stage Management have a poultice handy.

Megan Burda is hardly off stage, doubled over in what must be a physically challenging performance as the all-seeing blind Tiresias, portentously issuing her warnings and nicely irritating the figures of authority. Again, I really appreciated her vocal clarity; her put-down line to Talthybia, a quirkily amusing portrayal by Ciara Goldsberry, was probably worth the ticket price alone. Vandreas Marc has great stage presence and bearing, and splendidly conveyed the arrogance of Theseus. Suzannah Cassels was a very affecting Antigone, a performance of true sincerity and dignity, and Amber Mae a supportive and charming Ismene, very emotional in her realisation that she has lost out on the marriage stakes to the hapless Haemon, a deftly underplayed performance by Benjamin Williams – who made the words “I’m not blind” sound very funny indeed.

There are also very hearty and spirited performances from Madeleine Hagerty and Daniel Gray as the two young soldiers Megaera and Scud, appropriately scaring the sh*t out of us at the start of the play; I loved Ms Hagerty’s portrayal of vengeance at the end of the play too. I enjoyed the all-female senate, especially the performance of Caroline Avis as Thalia; Neizan Fernandez Birchwood gave great support as the wronged Polykleitos, and Kieran Hansell played Phaeax in a delightfully believable state of near-tantrum. But everyone in the cast gave a very good performance, with a great feel for both the ensemble scenes and their characters’ individual times to shine. Also – great work with the stage blood; effective and slightly shocking without going over the top.

Congratulations one and all on a superb performance. Can’t wait to see the other plays now!

The Agatha Christie Challenge – The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926)

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STOP PRESS: The Agatha Christie Challenge is now available as a book in two revised volumes – details at the end of this blog post!

In which we become reacquainted with Christie’s most renowned detective, Hercule Poirot, and witness him solve the murder of Roger Ackroyd, as narrated by Dr Sheppard, in the absence of Poirot’s usual narrator, Captain Hastings. And, despite the enormous difficulty in doing so, I’ve written this blog post so that you can still read it without finding out whodunit!

It’s been a fascinating nostalgia trip to re-read The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. It makes me feel a little deprived of one of life’s most exciting surprises, as, just before I read this as a lad, a “friend” told me who the murderer was. I still think that was one of the rottenest things to do to anyone. I read it of course, but there was no sense of mystery for me. Many critics and observers cite this book as Christie’s masterpiece. In 2013, the British Crime Writers’ Association voted it the best crime novel ever. Because I’ve always known whodunit, I find it hard to imagine reading it without knowing. Whenever I read it, I always feel that the identity of the murderer is, in fact, pretty obvious. But that’s the baggage I bring with me from my childhood, and I guess I must be mistaken, or else the book wouldn’t be held in the great esteem that it enjoys.

Christie dedicated the book to “To Punkie, who likes an orthodox detective story, murder, inquest, and suspicion falling on every one in turn!” Punkie was the family nickname for Christie’s big sister Margaret, and in fact it was Margaret who originally inspired Agatha to write The Mysterious Affair at Styles. However, it was her brother-in-law, James Watts, to whom she had dedicated The Secret of Chimneys, who actually gave her the inspiration for The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Coincidentally, Lord Mountbatten, too, had written to Christie in 1924 suggesting a similar storyline and structure, although she was so overworked at the time that she forgot to reply.

So welcome back, Hercule Poirot, we’ve missed you. We last saw you dealing with all those short story cases in Poirot Investigates, two years previously; for a full length novel we had to go back three years for The Murder on the Links. Christie has now bundled Hastings off with his lady love to make a new life for himself in The Argentine, as it used to be called. We now have an image of Poirot, missing his old pal, having moved from his London digs that they shared, now retired to the village of King’s Abbot, where he devotes his life to growing vegetable marrows. Honestly; is there anything more unlikely? Poirot, who thrives on the psychology of people’s brains, whom we last saw avidly reading the gossip and celebrity magazines, whose life has been a celebration and a triumph of the power of the little grey cells – settling down to a village where he spends the day grubbing about in the earth growing vegetables? Christie has always pointed out how fastidious he is; can you imagine Poirot accumulating garden dirt under his fingernails? No. It’s never going to happen. So either it’s a complete lie – which I’m not sure is right as I believe Poirot’s apparent affection for marrows recurs later in Christie’s oeuvre – or it’s a complete miscalculation of his personality. Whatever, as soon as crime rears its ugly head in King’s Abbot, Poirot doesn’t give another moment’s thought to his prize crop.

Of course there is no such place in the United Kingdom as King’s Abbot; but, with Christie based in the south-west, maybe the name was inspired by a mixture of Newton Abbot and Kingsbridge. There’s no Cranchester either, not that it matters. What’s more important to the story is that Poirot needs a replacement for Hastings, and one turns up just perfectly in the shape of Dr Shepperd, who takes on the mantle of being Poirot’s scribe. He even draws us a couple of plans of room layouts to help our understanding, just like Hastings used to do. Poirot takes him under his wing and into his confidence with surprising alacrity, and for most of the book, Shepperd seems to just follow him around, occasionally revealing how impressed he is with the old man’s powers of deduction, but primarily there in order to feed Poirot with local insights and backgrounds about the characters. Like Hastings, Shepperd isn’t a particularly nice man, I don’t think; he has a rather unpleasant view on suicide: “women, in my experience, if they once reach the determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the state of mind that led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight”. He does though, have a rather cynical sense of humour too: “lots of women buy their clothes in Paris, and have not, on that account, necessarily poisoned their husbands”. He doesn’t hold back at describing the worst aspects of a character he doesn’t like; of Ackroyd’s butler Parker, he says “what a fat, smug, oily face the man had, and surely there was something decidedly shifty in his eye”.

He also doesn’t hesitate to pick Poirot up on his poor use of English – not something many people would dare to do, I suggest. “Is there anything else that I can tell you?” inquired Mr Hammond. “I thank you, no,” said Poirot, rising. “All my excuses for having deranged you.” “Not at all, not at all”. “The word derange,” I remarked, when we were outside again, “is applicable to mental disorder only”. “Ah!” cried Poirot, “never will my English be quite perfect. A curious language. I should then have said disarranged, n’est-ce pas?” “Disturbed is the word you had in mind”. “I thank you, my friend. The word exact, you are zealous for it.” I must say I was personally very pleased with that exchange, because Poirot’s misuse of the word had really annoyed my own sense of language. Interestingly, it’s only Caroline who criticises Shepperd in the book: “take James here – weak as water, if I weren’t about to look after him”. Christie was later to observe that the rather meddlesome Caroline was her favourite character in the book, and that elements of her were like a prototype for Miss Marple, who would be hitting the shelves in a few years’ time.

But where the book becomes delightfully surreal and rewarding, is when Shepperd confesses to Poirot that, just like Hastings, although he wouldn’t have known it, he has been writing up the case every night. It’s when you realise that the book you are reading is actually the account that Shepperd is talking about – even to the detail that he has just finished the twentieth chapter, and you look back and realise that yes, that is the part of the story that Shepperd has written up so far, that you feel like you are almost part of a book within the book. You feel that, by reading thus far, you are probably the first person ever to have read those words – because, in real time, it clearly hasn’t been published yet. This gives a strong sense of involvement and immediacy. From then on you really imagine Shepperd at his late-night desk, catching up on the day’s events and getting them down on paper. In a way, the book takes on the extra dimension of being a creative piece of work that examines its own creative process, which I always find very stimulating. Near the end it really turns itself on its head when Shepperd actually starts to critique himself; really most inventive writing that’s a delight to read. And there’s a certain symmetry to his narrative which leaves you with a sense of balanced satisfaction at the end too.

Certainly the book as a whole is a gripping read. There are several moments of exquisite tension and suspense, plenty of detailed plotting for the amateur sleuth reading it to lose themselves in, bags of clues, likely suspects, unlikely suspects, and even a highly suspicious brand new character brought in with only about sixty pages before the end. Shepperd is a great narrator, the domestic staff who at first appear rather nameless and insignificant, unexpectedly grow in importance as the story develops; and Poirot is on fine form as he quickly eclipses the rather dull and underwritten police officers, expounding what may appear at first to be general theories but which are in fact targeted examinations of particular suspects. As usual, he has to run the gauntlet of the police accusing him of senility: “Then a grin overspread [Raglan’s] weaselly countenance and he tapped his forehead gently. “Bit gone here,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time. Poor old chap, so that’s why he had to give up and come down here. In the family, very likely. He’s got a nephew who’s quite off his crumpet”. Not the most enlightened times when it comes to mental health, were they?

If you’ve read any of my previous Agatha Christie Challenge blogs, gentle reader, you’ll know I like to convert any financial values mentioned to what they would be worth today, just to give you a greater insight into the comparative size of the sums we’re talking about. There’s only one real instance of it in this book – the sum of £20,000. This is the amount of money that Miss Flora Ackroyd says her Uncle Roger has left her in his will. That sum is worth about £850,000 today – no wonder she feels like all her Christmasses have come at once.

As usual there are a few references and idiomatic use of language that might merit a little further investigation. I fully recognised the first one: in the fifth paragraph of the first chapter, the irrepressibly snooping Caroline is given the motto of the mongoose family: “Go and Find Out”. That is a reference to Rudyard Kipling’s Rikki Tikki Tavi, the perpetually curious and nosey companion of young Teddy. One of the most enjoyable short stories I know – if you’ve never met Rikki Tikki Tavi, you really should read his victorious tale.

After that my confidence with Christie’s references gets weaker. “I don’t know what Mrs Cecil Ackroyd thought of the Ferrars affair when it came on the tapis”. On the what? That’s French for carpet, isn’t it? Well yes it is, but apparently “on the tapis” is an obsolete phrase meaning “under consideration”. Yes, I don’t understand why it should mean that either. Flora and Blunt are looking in the water and think they can see a gold brooch. “Perhaps it’s a crown,” suggested Flora. “Like the one Melisande saw in the water.” “Melisande,” said Blunt reflectively – “she’s in an opera isn’t she?” Yes, she is, by Debussy, but originally she was in the play “Pelléas and Mélisande” by Maurice Maeterlinck, first performed in 1893. All sorts of misfortunes befall Melisande, but none of them really bear any resemblance to what happens in the book – so it’s a bit of a classical garden path moment. In what would now feel quite a trendy observation, Poirot is quick to recognise the tools of the drug addict and remarks that the goose quill found in the summer house must lead to the presence of “snow”. That’s cocaine of course, sometimes (I believe) snow refers to particularly fine powdered cocaine – and cocaine was a very aspirational drug back in the 1920s. “I’ve been every kind of fool,” said Blunt abruptly. “Rum conversation we’ve been having. Like one of those Danish plays”. Well, your guess is as good as mine there. He can’t be thinking Ibsen – he’s Norwegian. Strindberg? – he’s Swedish. All the big Danish names at the time wrote novels or poetry. Weird. I don’t suppose he’s thinking of Hamlet?

And now it’s time for my usual at-a-glance summary, for The Murder of Roger Ackroyd:

Publication Details: 1926. My copy is a Fontana paperback, published in July 1979, twentieth impression, priced 25p. The cover painting is by Tom Adams, and, on the whole, I think it’s fairly lousy.

How many pages until the first death: 34; unless you count the death of Mrs Ferrars, which gets reported in the very first line of the book. However, it’s not really the death of Mrs Ferrars that we’re investigating, although it is relevant to the murder of Roger Ackroyd. And of course, because of the title, the reader spends the first 34 pages fully aware that Ackroyd is going to croak at some point.

Funny lines out of context:
I don’t know whether Christie had turned a corner with the seriousness of this book – generally speaking there are far fewer little moments of humour here than in most of her other stories. As a result there’s not many funny lines to be enjoyed. The only one that stood out for me was when Charles Kent was infuriated by Poirot and called him a “little foreign cock duck”. What a bitch.

Memorable characters:
I’m not sure that many of the characters are that well delineated to make them memorable as such. Caroline Shepperd is amusingly nosey, but her brother doesn’t give too much of his personality away in his narrative. Parker the butler is creepy in a slightly eerie way.

Christie the Poison expert:
Although Roger Ackroyd is killed by an antique silver dagger (this is a very posh murder), poisons do still play an active role. Mrs Ferrars was suspected of poisoning her husband, and she herself commits suicide by taking an overdose of veronal. Veronal, of itself, was not a poison – in fact it was the first commercially available barbiturate, sold as a sleeping aid from 1903 until the 1950s. Taking about four times the recommended dose though was enough to kill you.

It is Ackroyd’s housekeeper Miss Russell who corners Shepperd on the subject of poisons. “[She] asked me if it was true that there were certain poisons so rare as to baffle detection. “Ah!” I said, “You’ve been reading detective stories… The essence of a detective story…is to have a rare poison – if possible something from South America, that nobody has ever heard of – something that one obscure tribe of savages use to poison their arrows with. Death is instantaneous and Western science is powerless to detect it. Is that the kind of thing you mean?” “Yes. Is there really such a thing?” I shook my head regretfully. “I’m afraid there isn’t. There’s curare, of course.” I told her a good deal about curare but she seemed to have lost interest once more. She asked me if I had any in my poison cupboard, and when I replied in the negative I fancy I fell in her estimation.”

Class/social issues of the time:

There’s a nice dig at vegetarianism, which had really hit public awareness about ten to fifteen years earlier. Shepperd (or, I suppose, Christie) gives us an amusing description of the time when he invites Poirot to join his sister Caroline and him for lunch but Cook has only prepared two chops. In order to avoid a scene, Caroline pretends to be vegetarian. “She descanted ecstatically on the delights of nut cutlets (which I am quite sure she has never tasted) and ate a Welsh rarebit with gusto and frequent cutting remarks as to the dangers of ‘flesh’ foods”. Later we discover that Poirot wasn’t fooled for one moment.

There’s the usual anti-foreigner invective every so often from Christie, not only with Kent’s rather absurd little insult I mentioned earlier, but also from Mrs Ackroyd, in her annoyance at what she sees as Poirot’s interference. “Why should this little upstart of a foreigner make a fuss? A most ridiculous-looking creature he is too – just like a comic Frenchman in a revue.” I think if I were Poirot I’d be much more insulted than he tends to be.

Classic denouement: Yes and no. Poirot sets up the big meeting with all the suspects present but leaves it with a cliffhanger, so that all the suspects (bar the murderer) leave the room before the truth is revealed. As a result, there’s no big shock in front of a room full of people, as it were, although the final surprise is still extremely exciting and suspenseful.

Happy ending? Not especially. Justice isn’t entirely seen to be done. The murderer escapes trial, although he does not get off scot-free. A number of people will feel very unhappy in the weeks, months and years after the book ends. Additionally, a theft of money appears not to be followed up and the thief doesn’t seem to carry the can at all. It’s all a rather dark story from that perspective.

Did the story ring true? Yes! For me everything fits very believably into place, and although it’s a bold and ambitious crime, Christie fairly presents us with all the clues. In addition, this book seems to rely on chance coincidence much less than some of her others.

Overall satisfaction rating: 10/10. Who am I to disagree with the British Crime Writers’ Association?

Thanks for reading my blog of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and if you’ve read it too, I’d love to know what you think. Please just add a comment – but don’t tell us whodunit! Next up in the Agatha Christie Challenge we move forward to 1927, and another Hercule Poirot mystery, The Big Four. I can’t remember a thing about it, so I’m looking forward to rediscovering it. I’ll blog my thoughts about it in a few weeks’ time. In the meantime, please read it too then we can compare notes! Happy sleuthing!

If you enjoy my Agatha Christie Challenge, did you know it is now available as a book? In two revised volumes, it contains all my observations about Christie’s books and short stories, and also includes all her plays! The perfect birthday or Christmas gift, you can buy it from Amazon – the links are here and here!

Review – An Evening with Lulu, Derngate, Northampton, 9th March 2016

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Time to add another name to the list of people whose music I grew up with and whom I never thought one day I would actually see live on stage. Lulu’s been recording songs for almost as long as I’ve been listening to pop music. Her only UK No 1 single was Relight My Fire which she shared with Take That; she had a No 2 with her Eurovision winning Boom-Bang-a Bang, and a No 3 with her version of Bowie’s Man Who Sold The World. Guess which of those three songs she didn’t perform last night? That’s right. Come closer and cuddle me tight. #mustwriteeurovisionoutofthehistorybooks.

But as Mrs Chrisparkle pointed out, her career really has taken a new direction with her latest album, Making Life Rhyme, and a lot of the early stuff would have sounded out of place on that stage last night. Yes, I confess, I had hoped for The Boat That I Row, Me The Peaceful Heart, I’m a Tiger, Love Loves to Love Love as well as her Eurovision winner; and I am sure the audience would have been very happy to hear those songs again too – in fact, there was a massive sigh of relief when we all realised she was just about to perform To Sir With Love. But I accept that there’s a time and a place for everything and Lulu is currently in Try Not To Mention the 1960s mode. It’s something of a running joke, is it not, that the one thing no one wants to hear when they go to see an act they’ve known and loved for decades is “now I’m going to play some tracks from my latest album”. NOO!! We came for nostalgia! We want to be reminded of when we were slim and still had hair! But to be honest, the second song she played was from her new album and within a minute or so of the band striking up, I knew I had to buy it.

But I’m leaping too far ahead too quickly. The show started on the dot of 7.30pm with an unassuming bearded guy wandering on to the stage with a guitar. Blimey, that Lulu’s sure let herself go, we all thought to ourselves. But no, this was Mr Darren Hodson, one of her guitarists, come out to warm us up with three songs from his group’s latest album. First he gave us The Leaving Kind, then Feels Like Years, then Crash. I’m not normally one for too much of a country sound, but I must tell you, gentle reader, that I really enjoyed these songs. Terrific guitar work, an excellent sense of story-telling and a genuine warmth in his voice. His group’s called The Southern Companion and the album is 1000 Days of Rain. I commend them to you most heartily. Sold.

Then it was time for the main event. The rest of the band members took to the stage; as well as Darren, there were two other guitarists, John-Louis Riccardi and Yolanda Charles, drummer Ricci Riccardi, and musical director and keyboard player Richard Cardwell. Over the course of the next couple of hours, I really grew to appreciate how talented those musicians are. In the middle, all in black, Lulu. She cuts a petite figure, enhanced by an attitudinally perched hat, and, after the interval, a glitzy red jacket and less uncomfortable boots. Now at the age of 67, she’s no longer the bumptious teenager who cheekily grinned her way through her repertoire. Now she comes across as someone who’s had a serious reappraisal of her life, has worked out what it is she wants from it, is still learning from life’s mistakes, and is using song-writing as a way of re-establishing not only her music career but also her identity. No wonder, then, that she comes on stage, mainlining cool, focussed on her performance more than on her interaction with the crowd. Slowly gaining a relationship confidence with us as each number gets a good reaction, it’s part performance, part therapy.

We started off with what I would have bet good money would have been one of her encores – Relight My Fire. It didn’t have the party feel that the old Take That single has; I’d say that Lulu (not necessarily the band) was still in warm-up mode for that one – it was good but it didn’t soar. However, that quickly changed with her second song, the brilliant Faith In You from her new album. It’s got such a deliciously funky rhythm, it captivated me from the start, and it really brought out the best from the band. As did the next song, her 1974 hit of David Bowie’s Man Who Sold The World. I’ve always loved that recording, as it’s so slinky and sensual, and was one of those instances when a cover version revealed hidden depths to what was already a superbly recorded song. Vocally Lulu gave it some fascinating rephrasing which made it very exciting to listen to, but the performance was really made by the brilliant guitar accompaniment by Louis Riccardi. He emphasised all the mournfulness and innate beauty of that melody. Even if nothing else that followed were to be remotely as impressive, then the evening would not have been wasted.

It was at this point that Lulu started to open up, and become a little more confident about talking directly to us, and this became the pattern for the rest of the show, introducing each new item from a personal perspective. Her next song was Where The Poor Boys Dance, that she recorded as a single in 2000. I had heard it before – a long time ago – and it’s a refreshingly honest and sincere number, that I really enjoyed. Other songs she performed included a track about obsession, Every Single Day, from her new album, and Cry, for which she was joined – as a rather heartwarming surprise – by members of the Military Wives Choirs.

After the interval, we were treated to a couple of wonderful Bee Gees songs – Lulu having been married to Maurice, of course, recollected a few warm memories of her being with the group and watching their songwriting process just organically grow in her presence. She gave us a beautiful rendition of To Love Somebody, and then a very emotional I Just Gotta Get A Message To You, one of my personal Bee Gees favourites. I ended up singing it all the way home, much to Mrs C’s alarm and critical response – she didn’t comprehend that I was doing the descant.Amongst other nuggets, Lulu gave us a fantastic version of To Sir With Love – she said that originally on the tour she had performed a reggae version, inspired by the Reverend Al Green. Apparently it hadn’t gone down too well with the fans. So they’ve pared it back to a very plain and simple version, relying heavily (and exquisitely) on Yolanda Charles’ bass guitar contributions, and it was a thing of beauty. There was also a very different version of Hound Dog, the old Elvis favourite, transformed into a kind of love duet, where us the audience would also lose our inhibitions and join in. And with a knowing wink of recognition that she hasn’t completely abandoned her roots, we ended up with a rousing performance of Shout, a song that stands the test of time surprisingly well; even in an evening of cool there’s always room for a little raucous abandon.

To my amateur eye, Lulu’s tour schedule looks absolutely punishing. Last night Northampton, tonight Barrow, day after tomorrow, Grantham. With 34 dates between 2nd March and 20th April, there’s no room to swing a cat let alone sing I’m a Tiger. If you haven’t seen Lulu live before, or only have memories of her 60s/70s youthful output, go along to one of her concerts. You’ll be amazed. We absolutely loved it.

Review – Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Curve Theatre, Leicester, 5th March 2016

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There are few more iconic images in 20th century culture than that of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in the film of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Sexy, cute; the ridiculously long cigarette holder adding a touch of posy extravagance; cosseting her pussycat to show that she’s kind to animals too. Delicately unreal; almost – but not quite – attainable; forever to escape labelling or compartmentalising; teasingly aloof; charmingly kooky. It’s a character that should be full of life and extremes; full of light and shade. Funny and tragic. Confident and timid. Gazing vacantly one minute, then teeming with motivation the next. You can get all that from the poster. We’ve never read the book, and we’ve never seen the film. We saw the Lost Musical of Holly Golightly a few years ago, and looking back I remember it was a rather unsatisfactory experience, neither giving us a decent insight into the character of Holly Golightly nor telling a good story, lacking, as it was, in both drama and substance. Surely, this new full length play adaptation of Truman Capote’s original book will fill in the gaps.

The story is somewhat slight. Holly lives in a brownstone apartment in New York, with no discernible job nor way of funding her lifestyle. She’s totally unpredictable, sometimes going away for weeks on end, unannounced; often in the company of more mature men and other insalubrious companions. She clearly likes a good party; she allows her neighbour to get part way into her life but she still keeps him at a certain distance. In the end, she suffers a downfall in fortune, loses an unborn child but follows her heart by escaping to Brazil. I was struck by the many similarities with Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby; a charismatic, extravagant but elusive central character; a slightly misfit narrator commenting on the side of the action; scenes of New York excessiveness; and ending up with shattered dreams.

I should point out that Mrs Chrisparkle and I saw the third (I think?) public performance of this production which still counted as a preview, so it was definitely still bedding in and maybe there was still some scope to make a few tweaks here and there before press night. But let’s first look at the ingredients that make up this production. The adaptation is by Richard Greenberg, an experienced American author who won the Tony Award for best play in 2003 for Take Me Out, and who also adapted Strindberg’s Dance of Death to critical acclaim. It’s directed by Nikolai Foster, Artistic Director of the Curve, who last year gave us two stunning productions with Beautiful Thing and A Streetcar Named Desire – he also directed Jodie Prenger in the fun revival of Calamity Jane. The enjoyably detailed set is by Matthew Wright, whose work at the Menier is a series of delights; he also designed the eye-catching costumes, and Miss Golightly obviously makes it a rule never to be seen in the same outfit twice. The original music is by Grant Olding, he who gave us the tunes in One Man Two Guvnors, and created the stunning Drunk with Drew McOnie. Heading the cast you have Pixie Lott, with three number one singles under her belt, nominated for four BRIT awards, quarter finalist on Strictly Come Dancing, and having sold 1.6 million albums worldwide. What could possibly go wrong?

I’ll tell you. A complete lack of energy, and a total lack of drama. It’s almost paralysingly dull. Mrs C had to check Wikipedia when we got home in order to verify what kind of story it’s meant to be – and the answer seemed to be romantic comedy. Well there’s not a lot of romance, and even less comedy. I’ve hardly ever seen such a packed audience (and believe me the Curve Theatre was absolutely packed) react so quietly to a play. And it’s not that “I could hear a pin drop” type of intense quietness; it’s the aghast quietness that says “I can’t believe I paid £38 to see something so totally bland”. It’s almost as though after the first couple of scenes we had united in a communal “glazing over” of all our senses. I think I gave a slight chuckle three times in the entire show. You could tell the lines that were meant to get laughs, as the cast had built in useful pauses in the proceedings to deal with them. However, they were met with silence. I almost wondered if we had gone on a work to rule and weren’t going to react to any of the lines until our demands for free half-time ice-creams had been met. Desultory applause at the interval and curtain call told its own story. Yes, there were of course some whoops for Miss Lott, but they were clearly out of appreciation for her back catalogue rather than anything to do with her performance.

Fair’s fair – Pixie Lott absolutely looks the part. She’s radiant, she’s stylish; you’d have to be a very hard-hearted chap not to get some warmth in your soul from looking at her. In the course of the show she sings three songs: Grant Olding’s Hold Up My Dying Day which I thought was a very classy number, Oklahoma’s People will say we’re in love which just seems The Wrong Song from The Wrong Show at The Wrong Time, and Henry Mancini’s Moon River, in a version so laid back that it can barely stand upright. This is patently not a musical – it’s a play with music. I thought it was very revealing that a packed house watching Pixie Lott perform three songs on stage only resulted in one very half-hearted round of applause – for Moon River, when you could sense the audience guiltily relent into it as though it were a kind of obligation. With looks like that she doesn’t have to be the world’s finest actor but I couldn’t help but feel that she hadn’t really got into the part at all yet. It felt much more like she was doing a vocal impersonation of Audrey Hepburn – or, actually, to me it sounded more like she was channelling her inner Zsa Zsa Gabor, darrrlink.

Matt Barber played Holly’s neighbour Fred – although that isn’t his name – and again I didn’t really get a full impression about how he actually felt about Holly. The character’s ambiguous sexuality was quite subtly played out in many scenes, with his more than usual delight at meeting Jose, his looking twice at the sailors home on leave and the initial suggestion that Doc was stalking him for a very different purpose. But I couldn’t work out if that made him Holly’s Gay Best Friend or what, really. Many of the other characters succeeded in featuring somewhere on the irritating scale, with some rather over the top performances; maybe they were just trying to compensate for the overwhelming dullness of the whole thing by goofying-up these minor characters. Mrs C’s main criticism of the show – during the parts where she stayed awake – was that a lot of the acting was very shouty – one of her pet hates. Only Robert Calvert as Doc – Holly’s rather sad and confused husband from the early days – struck me as getting the tone of his character right. They say never work with animals – couldn’t agree less. The cat was one of the best things about this show.

I really wanted to enjoy it; I so wanted to enjoy it. But in the first few scenes it offers the audience nothing to latch on to that can carry them through the rest of the play. No intrigue; no humour; no suspense; no characters with whom you can identify or admire. It ends up being two and a half hours (or more) of supreme irrelevance. I couldn’t wait for it to end.

Review – Tommy Tiernan, Out of the Whirlwind, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 4th March 2016

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Reading Tommy Tiernan’s Wikipedia page I have no idea how come neither of us had ever heard of him before. He’s been doing stand up for over twenty years, appeared in many TV and radio shows, and toured extensively. Apparently he’s also caused endless offence to many people several times owing to his ability to allow his comic imaginings to run riot and without inhibition. Having spent an evening with him for his Out of the Whirlwind tour, I’m not remotely surprised. But boy, is he funny.

It started kind of controversially. Within a few seconds of his taking to the stage, he was getting heckled by an older lady a few rows back. At first it was hilarious. She was really giving him short shrift, and he hadn’t even started yet. He named her “Nanna”, and indeed it seemed she had been taken out for the night by the family but she wasn’t at all sure he was going to be her cup of tea. But after she kept on interrupting, she pretty quickly became not my cup of tea. “He’s going to have to move on”, observed Mrs Chrisparkle. “How’m I doing, Nanna?” “I’ll let you know. I’ll write to you in a fortnight”. And so on it went. Eventually, Mr Tiernan judged it was the right time to slap her down, and he did, with great forthrightness, a bundle of heckle-busting lines and a little minor aggression. It worked. We never heard a peep out of her again. When he checked in with her at the beginning of the second half, she’d already gone home, much to his regret. But it was never going to be a match made in heaven.

When he did finally start his show you quickly realised that you were seeing an absolute master at work. He does not shy away from sensitive subjects – indeed he makes a big song and dance about tackling them. He tells a long story about how he was accused of racism, much to his indignation; and in the telling he manages to imitate (and indirectly insult) Roma people, an Indian doctor, a Nigerian taxi driver and the Belgians. At least he doesn’t exclude himself from the maelstrom with a painfully hilarious exposé about what can happen to a gentleman’s once proud member once it gets past the mid-forties – erectile dysfunction has never been more soundly rounded on!

Other memorable moments included him translating his dog’s growlings into English, explaining why he voted against equal marriage (it’s to save the gays from themselves) and lamenting the way a woman’s body simply gives up the ghost after a certain age. This prompted the second major heckle of the evening from an affronted woman who reminded him that it’s the women who have the babies, and basically how dare you take that tone with us. I thought he handled it with an excellent balance of couldn’t you tell I was speaking out of affection with it’s a comedy routine, ffs. He certainly does have the ability to rub people up the wrong way, particularly if they lose sight of the fact that it’s not actually a documentary. His routines are studded with easily recognisable moments of reality, which he then reduces ad absurdam. For example, there’s the sequence where he reveals the loving way in which a lady can relax a gentleman by playfully wafting her bosoms in his face to take away the cares of the day; and then he imagines the return gesture if he was to kneel astride his lady’s face and playfully bounce his dangly bits onto hers. If it works one way, why shouldn’t it work the other?

It’s a short show – but you certainly don’t feel short changed. It went up a little after 8 o’clock and including a generous interval we were on our way out at 9.45. But we continued laughing about it all the way home and during the rest of the evening. That’s the mark of a true comic. The warm glow he gave us lasted until at least the following morning. His connection with both his material and his audience is simply magic. Mr Tiernan’s tour continues throughout the UK, Ireland, Australia and New Zealand until June. Definitely one of the best comics we’ve ever seen.

P. S. As we left the theatre for our interval drink, we bumped into Dan Evans, who was hosting Screaming Blue Murder, which had also been scheduled for the same evening. “Turncoat!” he accused us. It was most unfortunate that both shows were on the same day. Tommy Tiernan’s was the first to go up on sale, and thus he claimed our comedy pound. I was full of apologies to Dan – and to be fair we had hummed and hahhed about taking back our TT tickets and replacing them with SBMs. But on reflection I’m very glad we didn’t.

Review – Funny Girl, Menier Chocolate Factory, 28th February 2016

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Yes, gentle reader, I was one of those hopefuls poised at their computer on the 17th August last year, the day when Funny Girl tickets went on general sale. The run was sold out in an instant. I was lucky enough to procure our favourite Menier combination of Row A for a Sunday matinee, for very nearly the end of the run – it closes this weekend. But of course, the production is transferring to the Savoy, as was announced at the end of October – before it had actually opened, such was the public’s faith in the show; a twelve-week, limited engagement from April 9th. And now, even before the transfer has opened, it’s been extended by another three months, taking it to October. That is how it stands as the moment. There aren’t many shows that successful before even a dress rehearsal has taken place.

I had no previous knowledge of Funny Girl apart from People and Don’t Rain on my Parade. Neither of us have ever seen the film, nor any other stage production. I knew it was about the life of Fanny Brice, but I didn’t know anything much about her either. Stephen Sondheim’s lyric “we aren’t the Lunts, I’m not Fanny Brice” was about the sum of it. The real Fanny Brice was a comic chanteuse at the Ziegfeld Follies on and off between the 1910s and the 1930s. Later she was to have a huge radio comedy presence until her death in 1951 – but the show doesn’t get that far in her life. It also ignores her first marriage to Frank White and doesn’t reach her third marriage to impresario and lyricist Billy Rose. Instead, it’s all about her breaking into showbiz by impressing Florenz Ziegfeld, and her relationship with husband number 2, Nicky Arnstein – swindler, racketeer, gambler, con artist, and all-round good egg. He lived until 1965 so actually got to see himself immortalised in this show.

The original production opened on Broadway in March 1964, just a couple of months after the opening of a not dissimilar musical, Hello Dolly. But whereas Dolly scooped ten of the eleven Tony awards for which it was nominated, Funny Girl missed out on all eight of its nominations. Both shows featured a larger than life female lead that dominates the story and gets all the best songs. It was the Swinging Sixties, but both shows give us a huge dollop of nostalgia. Both shows portray people falling in love and the pitfalls associated therewith. They even each have a song about a parade! And of course both are associated with La Streisand (although Miss Carol Channing is the only Dolly for me.) Having seen both shows, I think where Funny Girl falls down is that there isn’t a big attention-seeking show-off number in the second half, which is the moment where Hello Dolly simply excels. Funny Girl’s best songs are all in the first act so you get a sense of imbalance. As in Gypsy, the song before the interval is a moment of pure theatrical defiance which sends you into the interval bristling with excitement and anticipation for the second act. But it’s a peak that the show never quite reaches again. On reflection, I think if I had been in the selection panel for the 1964 Tony Awards, I would have voted for Dolly too.

But that’s not in any way to criticise this production because it’s every bit as good as you could possibly have hoped it would be. The ever flexible Menier acting space is in standard Proscenium arch mode, but with a front curtain at a diagonal angle criss-crossing the stage rather than straight across the front – and you’ve never seen a curtain whip into position as quickly as it does at the end of the first act – stand in the way and you’d get concussion. Alan Williams’ band is on great form, playing those catchy show tunes with immense gusto. Lynne Page’s choreography neatly allows the large cast to dance together on what is a very shallow stage without bumping in to one another yet still appearing technically intricate. The show also benefits from having a very funny book, revised by Harvey Fierstein, and many of the songs also have wickedly delightful lyrics. If a Girl isn’t Pretty, You are Woman and I am Man, and Sadie Sadie had me laughing all the way through because of their clever turns of phrase (and also delightful performances). I haven’t heard the song Who Taught her Everything she Knows? for decades and had no idea it was from Funny Girl. I last heard it performed by – would you believe – Larry Grayson and Noele Gordon on the stage of the London Palladium in 1974, so it was fascinating to see how it actually fitted in to a real musical (although I also note that it usually appears in the first act – this production delays it till the second). I was also, erroneously, expecting Second Hand Rose to make an appearance, but it isn’t actually from Funny Girl, it was one of the real Fanny Brice’s hits, way back in 1921.

I have no doubt that the main reason the show sold out so rapidly was the promise of seeing Sheridan Smith as Fanny. Over the past few years she’s built up an enviable reputation of being the kind of actress who can turn her hand to anything. A pocket-sized powerhouse of warmth and charm, with a fantastic singing voice and a comic delivery to match the best in the business, I really couldn’t wait to see her in the role. And she was superb. From the naïve tomboy of her early years, failing (hilariously) to keep apace with the other dancing Ziegfeld girls, through the headstrong abandonment of her career to follow after Arnstein, to the wiser and sadder old trooper of later years, she always captures that spark of positivity that drives the character on. She’s one of those actors you just can’t take your eyes off, even if the others on stage are really good!

Darius Campbell plays Arnstein, and although he’s now something of an old hand at the theatre game, this is the first time we’ve seen him on stage, although we’re very familiar with (and fond of) his musical oeuvre. How does that singing voice translate to musical theatre? Incredibly well, as it turns out. He cuts the most imposing figure, his height adding to his stage presence, and his voice – would it be a baritone? – just resonates throughout the auditorium. They really use the “little and large” nature of the couple to great effect, including the delightful wedding photograph and her sneaking out from under his gangly limbs when he tries to get a little jiggy with it.

I really enjoyed Joel Montague as song and dance man Eddie, lamely trying to get Fanny’s romantic attention, when it was clear he was always only going to be Buttons to her Cinderella. I always like it when a relatively big chap carries off some challenging choreography, and Mr Montague is incredibly light on his feet throughout. Bruce Montague (no relation – at least I don’t think so) plays Ziegfeld with dignity and authority but also a mischievous glint in his eye. You might remember Mr Montague (Senior) as Leonard in Butterflies all those years ago, one of Mrs Chrisparkle’s childhood favourites. He’s also one of two cast members who are nearer to their 80th birthdays than their 70th, the other being the excellent Maurice Lane as Mr Keeney, hoofing it with the best of them. Fine examples of how you’re never too old to give a great physical performance.

There’s the magnificent triumvirate (if that’s not too male a term – triumfeminate?) of Mrs Strakosh, Mrs Meeker and Mrs Rose Brice, all cunningly playing poker in the corner of the stage, cackling like hens and you wouldn’t trust any one of them an inch. With experienced performers like Gay Soper, Valda Aviks and Marilyn Cutts taking those roles, you know they’re going to give it every inch of oomph it needs, and their performance of If a Girl isn’t Pretty was especially enjoyable. The ensemble of singers and dancers are all first class but I did feel a twinge of sympathy for Matthew Croke and Luke Fetherston having to perform what must be the feyest dancing soldiers routine I’ve seen since the Monty Python Camp Square-Bashing sketch.

It’s a great show that leaves you with a smile as wide as your arm and makes you want to tap your toes all the way back to London Bridge station. Everyone who booked all those months ago certainly got their reward, and I’d be very surprised if the Savoy transfer doesn’t get extended yet again. And I promise you, you’ll be singing Don’t Rain on my Parade to yourself for days.

P. S. I know the Menier is a charity, but £5 for a programme? That’s a bit toppy isn’t it? Increase the price of the peripherals and you’ll only find people decreasing the size of the voluntary donation when they book in future.

Review – Katherine Ryan, Kathbum, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 27th February 2016

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Buying tickets to see Katherine Ryan was yet another of these risky punts on a comedian whom we haven’t seen before. Well, that’s not strictly true – we’ve seen her a couple of times in HIGNFY, where I would identify her style as savagely jocund. I also knew she was Canadian, which is a bit like being an American, but just more balanced. That’s about the full extent of my pre-show knowledge.

Before the show we’d already enjoyed the relaxing experience of sampling ten different wines at the Wine Connection’s monthly tasting. Dinner was to be a late night Indian so we realised we would need something snacky to keep us going through the early part of the evening. So we went to a local pub for a pint of ale and a gin and tonic, and above all, two packets of crisps. We wouldn’t have had the beer if it wasn’t for the fact that we needed the crisps. Honest.

Thus restored, we wandered over to the theatre to order our interval drinks. We’d had more than enough to see us into the first part of the show, but I do like to plan in advance for my interval. We were close to the wire, time-wise. It’s always a danger to walk in to a comedy gig late and I was getting anxious. I finally got served about three minutes after the announcement that the show would start in one minute. And do you know what? They weren’t even taking interval orders because the interval would come just twenty minutes or so into the show. Huh? I never quite get the logic of that. I let out an irritated Grrrrrr. That’ll show them. They won’t do that again in a hurry.

If the interval comes just twenty minutes into the show, it can only mean one thing – a support act. If you’re not expecting a support act – and we weren’t – the sight of the wrong person ambling on to the stage to entertain you can be one of the most disappointing things to endure. We’ve seen plenty of support acts, and for the most part they’ve been ok but not really shaken any trees. It’s a psychological thing. As part of a Screaming Blue Murder line-up they’d be great; up against a big name, somehow they aren’t.

Not so with Mr Stephen Bailey. He strikes up an instant rapport with the audience, literally bringing gaiety to the stage. He’s like the lone male out on a hen party, pushing camp cheekiness to the limit and encouraging bad behaviour from the audience but still with top quality material. I think he was a little surprised that none of us in the audience used dating apps; either we had a coach party of Plymouth Brethren in, or some of us were lying. He has a hilarious sequence where he tries to pass himself off as straight – suffice to say, he’s not very good at it. Twenty minutes was not enough! His was one of the many acts we missed in Edinburgh last year; if he’s on at the fringe this year, we might well go and see him.

And so on to the main event – Katherine Ryan with her Kathbum show. Apparently Kathbum is a family nickname. It’s even her twitter handle. You might get the wrong impression that she makes a lot of bum jokes. She doesn’t. Bum jokes would be rather cosy in comparison with the kind of material Ms Ryan uses. She isn’t afraid to take on the most divisive and contentious subjects and go to town with them. She’s clearly highly intelligent; I reckon she could win any argument she chose. Her voice has a deceptively charming purity to it, and she delivers her material with calmness and clarity; if you just heard her voice you might think she was a rather nice infants’ school teacher, gently telling everyone to play nicely.

But her material is acid. She out-Rivers Joan Rivers (indeed that was one of the subjects briefly touched upon). She goes straight for the jugular with other celebrities like Cheryl Cole and Peter Andre; a little of that went over our head as we don’t know much about celebrities in truth, but, if you do, you’ll find it funny. And then there’s all the Bill Cosby material – well, he deserves it. There’s a splendid story about a dead rabbit, side observations about small town Canada, and an insight into the hideous rivalry between her and her sister.

Killer deliveries, misleadingly sweet, and with material that sometimes makes you gasp at its daringness, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Mrs Chrisparkle laugh out loud quite so much for such a long period as she did in this show. It’s an extremely funny evening and I would definitely recommend you catch her tour! She’s all over the country (so to speak) until June.

Eurovision You Decide, The UK National Final at the O2 Forum, Kentish Town, 26th February 2016

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It’s hard to believe but it has been six years* since the UK had a Proper National Final where the public could choose both the song and the performer that would represent the country at the Eurovision Song Contest. How well I remember the excitement of six years ago. I even wrote a blog post in amazement that the one and only Pete Waterman – oodathortit – would be in charge of our entry that year. I implored him to write a great song, to be fully involved in the process, to make us all proud. Sigh. Compare that with what actually happened. It was a rubbish song, he’d never seen a Eurovision stage since the 1980s and his support to our winning act was – let’s be charitable – invisible. To be fair, we had some excellent performers to choose from. Josh Dubovie is terrific at the Michael Buble style of music. Alexis Gerred has carved out a very successful career in musical theatre. Esma – well, having forgotten her words during the show, she’s done well to apply herself at the London School of Economics and go on to do Good Things. Josh won that contest with a song that was completely unsuited to his style; he went to Oslo with a dog’s dinner of a staging, was hung out to dry and came a stonking good last.

Since then we’ve been down the road of internal selections. Blue was a good bet, and had a good song, but the vocals and the staging again let them down at the big show. Engelbert was a risky strategy, being completely the wrong kind of singer (and age); if his song had appeared anywhere other than first or second in the running order it may have got a few votes simply by being an antidote to the more regular Eurovision fayre. As it was, it was sung first and therefore was the antidote to nothing, and was bizarrely saved from last place by the much better Tooji from Norway. Bonnie was the same risky strategy; she also made a mess of the jury final and came 23rd, with a lot of help from a sympathetic Irish vote. In 2014 Molly was a step in the right direction but she made poor eye contact with the audience, and gave a thoroughly introverted performance, fully deserving of its 17th place. Last year Electro Velvet gave us a 1920s song but with a 1990s presentation – two excellent performers but just very wrong for contemporary Eurovision.

And so we reach 2016, and a proper contest in a proper venue, with six songs and performers, the majority of whom sounded perfectly contemporary to me (although what do I know) and none of them were sufficiently gimmicky to make us quake with fear when it comes to May. It was a school day, so Mrs Chrisparkle was conducting high level business meetings until 4pm and didn’t get into London until 6pm, but HRH the Crown Prince of Bedford and I had arrived earlier for a spot of lunch and the pre-show OGAE UK party hosted in the elegant surroundings of the upstairs bar at a Kentish Town Road pub. It was appropriate that OGAE should host a pre- and post- party, as for the first time Official Fan Club members had been invited to assist in selecting a song from the public submissions. Everybody involved in it was sworn to secrecy. I could tell you if I was one of the people who took part in the selection – but then I would have to kill you. And that would be an awful waste of a decent life. An early highlight of the afternoon was meeting Radio 2 and Eurovision announcing legend Mr Colin Berry, who’s every bit as avuncular and charming as you would imagine. I was also quizzed for my opinion on the National Final in an interview for Radio International, where I play a small but beautifully formed part every few weeks.

After quaffing a reasonable number of alcohol units, we all walked up the road to the venue. I’d not been to the O2 Forum before – it’s a converted art deco cinema dating from 1934 and a pretty useful place to hold an event like this. We arrived shortly before 7, met up with loads of other friends, found a convenient place to stand – near the back but against a railing so we had a) a raised view above heads and b) somewhere to loll. Our host for the evening was Mel Giedroyc, a genuine Eurovision fan it seems to me; not only one of our new BBC commentators for the semi-finals but also fondly remembered for her hilarious Boyka in Eurobeat that we saw three times in 2009 (I think). Eurobeat is coming back this summer to the Edinburgh Fringe – Mrs C and I are already champing at the bit.

Unlike many other countries who involve a jury as well, the UK winner was chosen purely by televote. We had an expert panel, but they were there only to give their comments and maybe guide the viewers in what they thought was the right direction. Frankly, there wasn’t a lot of time for in-depth commenting. Vocal coach Carrie Grant was perhaps the most outspoken of the three but I must say I thought some of her comments were downright weird. Choreographer Jay Revell is obviously no relation to choreographer Craig Revel Horwood, as he was the permanent nice guy of the panel, seeing the best in each entry and generally being encouraging. 1997 Eurovision winner Katrina (of the Waves) had a dodgy microphone and a tendency to shout her responses with the result that I barely heard a word she said.

We started the evening off with a reprise performance by last year’s winner Måns Zelmerlöw (one of the most intimidating names to type on a UK keyboard). What an entertainer that man (or should that be mån) is. Heroes remains as fresh as a daisy, and the inventive chalkguy video that runs behind him still warms the cockles of your heart. Mel interviewed Måns afterwards with ill-concealed lust. I was waiting for the Crown Prince to tell the story of how he and Måns shared a hug last year. I resolved to combat that with my story about how Elizabeth Andreassen of Bobbysocks and I flirted outrageously when we met a few years ago. One-all.

The first act was Canterbury busking duo Dulcima. He’s called Tomas, she’s called Dulcima, and they’re called Dulcima. Someone should tell Tomas to get new marketing staff. Their song is the irrepressibly infectious, thigh-slapping hoe-down tune When You Go. This is Mrs C’s favourite of the six, and I can see why. Very catchy, the kind of song that brings a smile to your face when you hear it. In the hall it sounded great. When we got home and watched the recorded programme we were amazed at how poor Dulcima’s vocals were. Weak as a parvo-puppy, I’m afraid. Carrie Grant said that she thought with their costuming and appearance she was expecting something darker. Darker? Dulcima herself looks like the hippiest folk chick out there. She’s pure Woodstock from head to toe (the festival, not the Snoopy character). She’s about as dark as Tiny Tim singing Tiptoe Through the Tulips.

The second act was ex Bad Boys Inc singer Matthew James with A Better Man. When the songs were first unveiled on Ken Bruce’s radio show I thought it sounded really contemporary (that word again) and I thoroughly enjoyed it. However, it looks like I was just about the only one as it was the rank outsider at 40-1 (not very promising in a field of six). I thought he gave it a very good performance but you could tell it just wasn’t capturing anyone’s imagination. We were standing near his family all wearing their Vote Matthew t-shirts and no matter how much they whooped, they were never going to affect the result. Come the end of the evening they were a picture of misery, poor things.

Next came Until Tomorrow by Darline. Another country sounding song, performed by two pretty girls, Abby and Càra. Country doesn’t normally do that well in Eurovision, although pretty girls do. These were a very popular combo, but I confess I don’t like the timbre of the warble of the blonde girl. Carrie Grant criticised them for not being together enough – not a duo, more like two side-by-side soloists, and I think she was spot on. It’s not, as I thought, Darline, rhymes with Margarine, but Darline, rhymes with Northern Line. What kind of a silly name is that? Very popular in the hall and I know much enjoyed by the fans. But it wasn’t to be.

The fourth act was Karl William Lund, with Miracle. This was the entry that had been chosen by the OGAE members as their contribution to the sextet of songs. Now here’s a Marmite song if ever there was one. To many it was the obvious winner, to others it was totally dire. For me it fell between the two. I was chatting to a friend at the bar and we both agreed that it has the elements of being a great song, but it just needs a little more development. Certainly the presentation was very static and the arrangement could have done with oomphing up. However, three days on, it is the chorus of Miracle that is persistently, irritatingly, infuriatingly, and constantly re-emerging in my musical brain. There it goes again. Stop it, Karl William, you’re getting on my nerves!

The fifth act was the rather classy Bianca (no relation to Electro Velvet’s Bianca) with Shine a Little Light. Again this was popular with many of the fans, particularly the ones who like the strong female power ballad. That style isn’t entirely to my taste all the time, and whilst I thought she gave a very fine performance I just find the song a little… generic balladish to make me sit up and listen.

Last up were Joe and Jake, both alumni from The Voice, a programme that I always think I am going to enjoy but then turns out to be a complete anti-climax once the audition stage is over. Their song, You’re not Alone, is very nearly as catchy as Miracle and When You Go but performed with real commitment and joy. Of the six I concluded this was probably our best potential entry, performed by a couple of cheery lads who actually sing pretty well and have a good stage presence together. And it appears that the rest of the Great British Public agreed with me, as this will indeed be the UK’s entry for Stockholm in May 2016. You’re Not Alone, We’re in this Together – could be David Cameron and George Osborne’s next release.

After a rousing rendition of Katrina’s Love Shine a Light (always a favourite), some memories of the Eurovision’s Greatest Hits show from last year and a tribute to the late Sir Terry Wogan, the result was announced by giving us just the name of the winner – no agonising “and in sixth place…..” Joe and Jake were well chuffed, the other five acts magnanimous in defeat, and the rest of us headed back to the pub to continue the post-show analysis and socialising. Just drinking really.

Good things about the night – the introductory films before each song were insightful and considered the lyrics and why the singer found them special, which I thought was a neat trick of introducing both the song and the singer in a meaningful and factual way. The fact that it was on BBC4 meant that it was under the auspices of BBC Music instead of BBC Light Entertainment and it felt like a much more credible programme. Its viewership of 678,900 may not sound many, but the average for that slot is a paltry 167,000, so it’s an improvement of something around 300%. Mel Giedroyc was an excellent host, managing the live aspect with humour and confidence, so that when things (inevitably) went wrong, she didn’t go to pieces. Among the less good things – the sound in the arena was very bassy and quite uncomfortable to listen to; I’m not sure the panel added that much to the experience; and the O2 Forum charges £3 per item for their cloakroom. You’ve never seen so many guys keep their coats on all night.

Best of luck to Joe and Jake – I don’t think it’s a winner but I don’t think it’s going to shame us either. All will be decided on 14th May. However, before that, we’ve got the London Eurovision Preview Party to look forward to on 17th April, where we can listen to several of this year’s acts and see how well they measure up. Happy Eurovisioning!

*It has been pointed out that in 2010 the UK public only got to choose the singer, not the song. The last time we chose both was in 2008. Dang! My mistake. Oh well.

If the picture looks rubbish, that’s because I took it. If it looks professional and smart then it was taken by DizzyDJC on Flickr.

Review – Alan Buribayev conducts Sheherazade, Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Royal and Derngate, Northampton, 21st February 2016

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Once again we welcomed the return of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra to the hallowed portals of the Derngate Auditorium for a programme of German and Russian music under the baton of Alan Buribayev. Mr Buribayev is new to us and cuts a dashing figure in his modernistic shiny suit. He’s one of those conductors who gets carried away with the vigour of it all and frequently ends up using his full body and not just his arms in cajoling the orchestra to give him what he wants. After real exertion he even lets out audible gasps and grunts because he’s concentrated so hard. Personally, I didn’t mind that. It makes you realise that this music business isn’t just pretty-pretty but also has its fair share of blood, toil, tears and sweat. I felt I got my money’s worth.

Our first piece was the overture to the Flying Dutchman by Wagner. I always like it when they start a concert with an overture. It just feels right. They’re designed to capture your attention, give you a lot of tuneage in a reasonably short space of time, and then leave you wanting more at the end. This overture does all that in bucket loads. An orchestral interpretation of a windswept storm-tossed sea, there were plenty of waves breaking on rocky shore to get your musical taste buds flowing. Full of attack, the violins in particular gave a terrific account of themselves; which would also be a foretaste of the excitement yet to come. A really great opener.

Second up was Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto, featuring our soloist Anna-Liisa Bezrodny. With a conductor from Kazakhstan and a soloist born in Moscow, it truly was a cosmopolitan bill of fare. Who knew that Tchaikovsky only wrote one violin concerto? I’d have thought he’d have made it a speciality. But no, he wrote just the one, at great speed, and the programme notes tell us how personally liberating it was for him to produce it. It’s well known for being a real challenge to play – technically demanding to the highest degree, so it needs a fantastic soloist.

Step up to the mark Ms Bezrodny. A vision in shimmering scarlet, she took her place at the front of the orchestra like the brightest crown jewel fronting the plainest crown (and here I mean no disservice to the other musicians). Even when she’s tackling what are obviously the most challenging passages, she seems to do it with natural ease. The effort and concentration required to play the concerto come from an inner strength rather than an outward show. Her playing was extraordinary. She evinced such complex musicality from her Amati violin. Even in the hustle and bustle of the vigour of the music, she never sacrificed purity of tone; in fact she seemed to create one where you wouldn’t have thought it possible. The audience were spellbound – you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Her first movement cadenza especially was out of this world. Even though it’s frowned on to do so, a large proportion of the audience could not hold back from rapturous applause at the end of the first movement, so mind-blowing was the performance. The concerto is a stunning piece, so full of different moods and emotions, and Ms Bezrodny was more than a match for it. Everyone went into the interval gobsmacked with pleasure.

The second half of the concert was devoted to a performance of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Sheherazade. It’s one of those pieces that I always know that I really like, but for some reason, whenever I think of it I can never quite bring the themes to mind. I have no idea why that is, because it is a really stirring piece of music, again with so many wonderful melodies and textures. Mr Buribayev encouraged terrific performances from the entire orchestra but the contribution from the violins was just amazing. It was almost as though they had said during the interval we can’t let that soloist take all the credit, we’ve got to show them what we’re made of too – this was particularly evident in the first and final movements.

Elsewhere I thought Daniel Jemison made a particularly fine effort with his bassoon portraying the Kalendar Prince in the second movement, Suzy Willison-Kawalec’s harp contributions were beautiful and emotional, and orchestra leader Duncan Riddell gave such a superb rendition of the triumphant Scheherazade at the end, that you couldn’t take your eyes of his bow. By keeping his arms outstretched for the longest possible time, Mr Buribayev dramatically kept the silence at the end of the piece until we were literally bursting to applaud; and as conductor congratulated First Violinist at the end I could lip-read him saying to Mr Riddell the words “absolutely outstanding”, which must be high praise indeed. And who would disagree? A stunning performance from everyone involved – one of those occasions when you walk back home afterwards realising you had witnessed something very special. A brilliant night.

P.S. Shockingly, Anna-Liisa Bezrodny doesn’t have a Wikipedia entry. Someone needs to do something about this!

P.P.S. This year it’s the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra’s 70th birthday. They’re looking in fine fettle. Must be eating very healthily and taking lots of exercise. Congratulations to them!