"Nothing lasts forever in the theatre. Whatever it is, it's here, it flares up, burns hot - and then it's gone."
Another production has been and gone. Or rather, has chugged along unassumingly for months, has sputtered and fizzled a bit, has exploded into glory, and has suddenly, unbelievably, ceased to exist.
I've said it before, I know, but putting on a show is an emotional bloody rollercoaster. Nowhere else do you experience such completely consuming glee and glumness within such a short space of time. No flippin' wonder we're all tired, cast-mates!
Truthfully, the Post-Show Bereavement isn't too strong right now. (There's a lot to be said for a full-time job - I get the after-show blues far less devastatingly now than I did in my student days!) Everyone is a little sad it's over, and Facebook is comfortingly flooded with photos and reminiscences. I think the saddest thing is actually the knowledge that the glumness will quickly fade, because with it goes the excitement, too. I'll always have my memories of this brilliant week, but how much will they mean to me, three weeks, three months, or a year from now?
In February, you remember, I was in two big-scale shows within two weeks. I had two scores, two librettos, two costumes, two casts, two opening nights and two final ever nights, and two consecutive Sunday mornings brought fresh show-hangovers. It was a double whammy, a rollover, of everything I love and hate about performing, and how many times a week does that crazy, exhilerating, exhausting fortnight cross my mind now, four months later? Hardly ever. Two months from now I shall be home from Buxton and bitterly mourning Iolanthe, while A Tale of Two Hamlets will be a dusty old has-been of a memory. Every show is the best one there ever was; every, every time. Each new one pushes the previous ones further back and knocks off a bit more of their ancient sparkle. Show-business, my friends, is fickle and heartless!
In the grand scheme of all the shows in my past, and all the shows I hope will be in my future, it was small fry. But while it was here it was a cracker, and worth celebrating. Commemorating, if you like, since we're on a royal theme. The best one there ever was, for now at least. Queen for a Day.
Hmm. Introspective eloquence an unexpected side-effect of post-show blues? This lengthy blog post has been maudlin and self-indulgent, but I quite like it! Makes a change from the wittering you get when I talk about dresses and lipstick, at any rate!
Dress rehearsal photographs of A Tale of Two Hamlets taken by my candy-floss-haired chum Liffy Wood.
On Friday afternoon I skipped away from school, changed my clothes and ate some toast, and drove with Philip and Simon to Sunderland, whereupon I put on a pretty mediaeval frock and a pointy hat and took to the stage as Lady Angela in Gilbert and Sullivan's Patience. I felt that Friday was the best night of the run, and it all went splendidly. After the curtain fell I retired to the pub, as is traditional.
Saturday
A long-awaited lie-in, some house-cleaning and soon it was time to go back to Sunderland for the fifth and final performance of Patience. Laura said to me, as we were sipping our secret backstage fizzy wine, "If you cry tonight, I'll punch you in the face.", so I kept the weeping at bay, and after we had performed the house down, packed up our costumes, taken down the set ("Heads on stage!") and enjoyed tea, cake and speeches, we tootled off to Laura's flat for wine and karaoke. (You haven't heard 'A Whole New World' until you've heard it in Mackem accents), finally flopping into bed sometime in the morning.
Bloody brilliant. Thanks for having me, St Andrews.
Sunday
Far earlier than my aching head would have preferred, Phil and I carefully on tiptoe stole out of the flat, leaving Jen, Seann and Laura sleeping, and returned to our side of the river. I put down my Patience costume bag, picked up my Pirates costume bag and headed out for a looong rehearsal. Not gonna lie, at that point performing in Pirates was the last thing I wanted to do. In fact, Phil and I were secretly planning to just do Patience again. I mean, once we were on stage they couldn't stop us, could they? Surprise! Anyway, after a somewhat chaotic run-through, I returned home and played host to the mother and the aunt, who have come North to see my shows.
Monday
The first and only day of the fortnight that did not involve any sort of rehearsal or performance. The mother and aunt and I went to Fenwicks and the Tyneside and the Laing art gallery and the Baltic (to be perfectly honest I mutinied and stayed in the Baltic gift shop and cafe), and narrowly avoided the Biscuit Factory, and then back to the Tyneside to see the Artist and then to Zizzi's. Calzon'Pizza (Silly name. I would have called it a Pizzazone.) is possibly the greatest invention of the century.
Tuesday
I couldn't cope with any more culture, so I waved the mother and aunt off to Durham and Simon and I sat around watching useless rubbish, which is what, I think you'll find, half-terms are FOR. Soon it was rehearsal time again, only this time we had Pub Plans. (Pubs are also what half-terms are for.) After a fairly successful run-through, Simon and I marched over to the Men's Bar (which, in the new refurbished Union Society Students' Union, goes by the silly name 'MENSBAR'. Probably 'MENSBAR @ Students' Union. Why do so many things have silly names nowadays?) for Diesel and crisps. When they called last orders we convinced our GBFs Phil and Chris to come to the Goose for some more drinks and gossip, and when we got kicked out of there we went to some bar until actual last last orders (FYI, blackcurrant sours (or 'sars', if you're Northern Irish) enrich our lives.) THEN a dirty takeaway and then home, for pyjamas, tea and after-show party mischief plotting.
As far as chronology is concerned, this photograph is a lie, but it sums us up pretty well.
Wednesday
I was up and at 'em on Wednesday, despite Tuesday night's over-indulgence, with a trek into town on the hunt for various bits and bobs and secret birthday accessories. Mission. All day it seemed completely improbable that it was dress rehearsal day, but nonetheless, I rocked up at the RGS at 6, installed myself as chief make-up Nazi artist ("No no, singing men, you need LASHINGS more eyeliner.") and then boom, we were on! Dress rehearsals are always a bit hectic, but this one was relatively successful, and I enjoyed the beginning of my stint as naughty Isabel! And then we went to the pub. And then pyjamas, tea and Big Fat Gypsy Weddings.
Thursday
I decided that the thing my Isabel costume was missing was a large hair ribbon, because nobody else had a hair ribbon and I like to make the audience look at me even when it's not my turn for the limelight (I am a total bastard to direct, and Simon is worse. I pity anyone who has ever had to direct the both of us.), so I went and purchased myself a bonny blue ribbon, and, more excitingly, welcomed off the train my dear chum and partner in mischief Little Hannah, who comes to live with us a couple of times per year. Hannah had brought a bottle of home-made sloe gin and Alice brought maple syrup and pecan cakes, and we celebrated Hannah's birthday most satisfactorily! Then it was Opening Night! The mother and aunt had returned to be in the audience, and we put on a jolly good show. I was rubbish and kept doing things wrong (AND the poxy hair ribbon fell off, which I suppose was my comeuppance for being a diva), but on the whole it was grand. And then we went to the pub. And THEN the core cool people decided that after last orders it would be a brilliant idea to all pile into Laura's little car and decamp to Casa Bette/Simon (via the chip shop, which had technically closed half an hour earlier - it was a case of "What have you got left?" "Two portions of chips and a sausage." "We'll take them!") to drink wine and watch the DVD of our last performance, HMS Pinafore: The War Years: Buxton Edition . Hannah fell asleep on the sofa but the rest of us had a splendid time, and accidently stayed up until ridiculous o'clock again. What half-terms are for.
Naughty Isabel terrifying poor little Frederic.
Friday
We languished in bed with sore heads for a while, and then sent Little Hannah out for sausage sandwiches. We caught up with some more trashy tv (Geordie Shore AND Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents!) and then headed off to a(nother) pub to meet Rory and Hull people, before returning to Pirateville. The second night's performance went much better than the first, and afterwards we went to the pub. At last orders time some tipsy idiot (Simon) had the brainwave of going round the corner to Mr Lynch's for cocktails. Whoops, another very late night and sore head!
Saturday
Too lazy to go out and find actual food, we had birthday cake for breakfast, and managed to bring ourselves to life just in time to attend the 60th Anniversary Reunion celebration for members and alumni (I sneakily manage to be both!) of Newcastle University Gilbert and Sullivan Society, my beloved NUGSS. It was fascinating to meet people who had been in the society in the '50s, '60s, '70s, '80s, '90s and '00s, and you can imagine my glee at the moment when the whole room became an impromptu Pirates singalong. Tarantara!
After a quick shopping trip for after-show party supplies (bread, bacon, birthday badges) and a very quick turnaround, it was back to Jesmond for the final performance. Three shows always seems such a flash-in-the-pan, especially after my five-night run of Patience. Still, "Nothing lasts forever in the theatre. Whatever it is, it's here, it flares up, burns hot, and then it's gone." (All About Eve, the film version of my life) Surpise pirate candles, handkerchiefs and Queen Victorias abounded, and we had the best audience of the week. While the more conscientious members of the cast helped with the get-out, Simon and I went to the pub. After last orders, it was party time! Every NUGSS after-show party I've been to (Twelve, in all) has gone down in society history for some reason or other, and while this one may not have been the most scandal-filled, we all had a blooming good time. I fell back on my usual after-show party routine of drinking gin, demanding everyone tell me who they fancy in the cast, and flirting with any passing baritone, while Simon licked people's faces and talked about our fellow cast members in code. We hi-jacked the party and made everyone celebrate Simon's birthday, and bundled our blotto selves into a taxicab at 4.30, and retired.
Sunday
Sunday was spent, in time-honoured tradition, on the sofa in our pyjamas, watching Facebook explode with show photos. Poor Simon slept through most of his birthday, I spent a great deal of it worrying about my lost phone and purse, and we had to say goodbye to Laura and our little housemate Hannah. The idea was an early night, but post-show bereavement gives me insomnia, and it was after relatively little sleep that I dragged my despairing self out of bed, into clothes and up the hill to work this morning. That's that, then.
Pyjamas
Snow boots
Fur coat
Mob cap
'Generic Victorian Lady' blouse
LEGGINGS AS TROUSERS
Character shoes
Black tights
White tights
Piratey belt
Hoodie
Slippers
Yes, you've guessed it, it's show time again. I'm currently in the final days of "I'm sorry, I can't come, I've got rehearsal", and the curtain rises for realz on Tuesday. This year I'm being particularly idiotic and performing in TWO different Gilbert and Sullivan shows, in two different cities, on two consecutive weeks. So it's medieval aestheticism (I'm playing Lady Angela in Patience - just WAIT until I show you a picture of that costume!) next week, and Isabel in the jolly old Pirates of Penzance the week after that. Expect a few boring "This one time I was on the stage, look at all of these pictures of me being on the stage" posts in the near future!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and move a hook and eye a vital centimetre, attempt some amateur millinery, and brush up on my rag curling prowess. On with the show!
This is a random moment of vanity depicting me doing my hair in my dressing room some time in 1946, because I can't think of a good opening sentence for this Toast Post.
I have been to Buxton.
Buxton is a beautiful town in Derbyshire (and I'm not really one for admiring natural scenery, but Buxton was incredibly pretty), famous for spring water and an annual Gilbert and Sullivan festival. Just to warn you, this post will be about the latter, so fans of spring water may wish to leave now.
Have we just got G&S enthusiasts left in the room now? Excellent.
I was there to perform a special edition of HMS Pinafore: The War Years, which we first put on back in May (Remember?)
You've seen my synopsis and pictures of the first show, so I'll not bore you with the same thing again.
(Lies - when have I ever neglected an opportunity to publish photographs of myself? Pictures will be in abundance!) We returned late on Thursday, and I spent Friday in a state of utter despondency, which got me thinking about the nature of pre-show excitement, post-show bereavement and everything in between. I have never known any experience that is so much of an emotional rollercoaster as putting on a show.
G&S face interpretation of 'happy' and 'sad' :op
My chum Kayleigh always likens the post-show blues to a messy break-up. The whole thing IS rather like a crazy whirlwind love affair. You can't sleep, you can't eat (doesn't seem to stop me drinking though...), it occupies your thoughts so completely that you neither notice nor care that you haven't been anywhere but rehearsal, spoken to your other friends, cooked a meal or watched a minute of tv all week. You delight in in-jokes, you sing in the street without a thought to how silly you look to those who don't understand, and even though you know, you know it's going to come to an end soon, on that awful morning when it's finally over, you desire nothing more than to hurl your poor, hungover, heartbroken self into the nearest river.
Drunk and grumpy, post-after-show-party
So why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves through the grief, to say nothing of the pre-show stress and exhaustion, all for two hours in the limelight? Because it's FUCKING BRILLIANT, that's why.
In the past week I've been recognised in the street by audience members (DEFINITE high point!), wept tears of frustration at my own persistent out-of-tunefulness (low point), been lifted up in the air like Buzz Lightyear, spent inordinate amounts of money in public houses, been on a cross-country road trip, drunk more cups of tea than I normally do in a month, lost half a stone, made wonderful new friends, been treated to charming stories about being catheterised, indulged my vanity by watching myself on tv twice, soothed ruffled feathers, had my own feathers ruffled, been bitten by the Buxton bug, laughed myself into coughing fits, killed a few brain cells with hairspray fumes, sung, danced, acted made faces to dialogue, had a wonderful time and took the International Gilbert and Sullivan Festival BY STORM!
Bring on next year.
To Infinity and Beyond!
(Photographs stolen without asking first from the talented Liffy Wood. Oh, and Matt.)
I've been off having a lovely jaunt around the world.
Now I'm back in the fine city of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, bemusing onlookers by jumping around on the steps. As you do. Today I feel like Em of Brighton Peach in my stripes.
(From the head downwards: charity shop, Oasis, Keds)
Anyway! Onto business! This here is an advertising Toast Post. I happen to know that an absolutely outstanding 1940s-set production of HMS Pinafore is being staged at the International Gilbert and Sullivan Festival in Buxton next week. (As you probably guessed, I 'happen to know' because I'm in it ;op )
Plug plug plug. Go to Buxton, watch us being brilliant.
Ooookay. I'm not going to holiday snap you to death, but here is an amusing illustration of Mother trying to get a nice picture of me and the sibling on holiday, and us not playing her game.
Last week a very strange and exciting thing happened to me.
I achieved my life's dearest wish and time-travelled to the 1940s!
I took a boatload of my best friends with me, and for three nights only we sailed the ocean blue, wearing (or not wearing, as the case may be) our best '40s finery and singing our Union Jack-patterned socks off.
HMS Pinafore: The War Years
It is 1945 (yes, really. More on that later.) and the British Navy is busy ruling the waves and keeping Britain's waters free from the invading Hun. Aboard the good ship Pinafore, currently anchored in port, morning has broken and the crew of remarkably fine sailors (many of whom are actually sailorettes - there is a deplorable lack of available singing men around these parts, don't you agree, readers?) awaken to greet their gallant captain, and to buy some black market goodies smuggled in under the radar by local dodgy tradeswoman, Little Buttercup.
For those of you who are fans of the infamous Simon and his blog cameos (and he seems to have many fans, though I could never tell why), here he is as icky sailor Dick Deadeye, with Northern Irish accent, plastic eyepatch and 1950s copy of Picturegoer masquerading as a '40s mucky magazine. (Quote from Simon: "Ralph's ballad was so boring that I actually read that magazine. I never remembered to sing the chorus responses because I was busy learning about Burt Reynolds.")
Meet Ralph. He's the one with the pigtail. (Ralph is pronounced 'Rafe' because... Oh, never mind why. While we're on the subject, 'boatswain' = 'bosun', ok?) He's gin-sodden and suicidal because the woman of his dreams, Captain Corcoran's beautiful daughter Josephine (Josephine pictured with some rather splendid victory rolls, hand-crafted by yours truly!), does not love him. (She does love him, but it would disgrace her noble father's reputation if she married a plebeian sailor, so she's being haughty and unfeeling.)
If it were up to her father, Josephine would marry the exceedingly rich, influential and boring Sir Joseph Porter, KCB, who, fresh from enjoying a spot of sunbathing with his family, has come aboard for a little word with his prospective father-in-law.
I spent a hilarious day assisting with costumes for the show - it is unsurprisingly difficult to find a olde-fashionede men's bathing suit for a very tall youth, when your budget is limited to Primark and charity shops!
(Interesting fact: the character of Sir Joseph Porter was inspired by a certain Victorian figure of tabloid ridicule, a well-known stationer who was appointed First Lord of the Admiralty despite never having set foot on a boat. Ever heard of a Mr W. H. Smith, readers?)
Sir Joseph is followed everywhere he goes by a pair of little sisters, a disapproving aunt and two amorous cousins. (Spot me!)
The dramatic Act 1 finale (complete, in our version, with air raid sirens and an actual bomb) sees Ralph attempt suicide, assisted by the crawly Deadeye, only to be thwarted by Josephine coming to her senses and declaring her love for Ralph. The happy couple are rapturous, Deadeye is packed off to sulk in his cabin, scheming cousins Hebe and Phoebe spot an opportunity of bagging Sir Joe for themselves, and a plot is hatched for Ralph and Josephine to secretly elope. Everybody sings about how brilliant sailors are. Exeunt.
Act Two opens with another thwarted love affair. The lowly Buttercup has taken a shine to Captain Corcoran, but his social-climbing ambitions will not permit him to marry a member of the working-class.
Ugh, the very idea!
As the captain muses, Sir Joseph, pursued as always by his increasingly drunken and vulgar cousins Hebe and Phoebe, appears to complain that Josephine does not seem terribly impressed by his advances. The lady herself, meanwhile, has been dithering about Ralph again, contemplating the grand existence she would have as Sir Joseph's wife ("and all that's new purchased from Marks and Spencer's!"), versus the humble, working-class life she would lead, married to Ralph. ("and bath time, a flannel and a kitchen basin!" - Double ugh!) Sir Joseph, attempting to persuade Josephine to accept his proposal, accidentally convinces her that true love outweighs social position, and she decides to go along with the original plan of eloping with her humble sailor.
Oh no, what's this? Dastardly Dick Deadeye has grassed them up to the Captain, and the pair of them are hiding out in the orchestra pit, ready to give the unlucky couple a nasty surprise! The crew try to convince him of Ralph's British virtues, but to no avail.
Captain Corcoran is furious, and in his fury he says a naughty swear word! (Well-bred Victorian lady theatre-goers swooned en masse upon hearing the awful "damn" blight the air, I'm sure!) If there's one thing Sir Joseph Porter cannot abide, it is bad language, so he and his appalled female relatives pack the captain off to his cabin in disgrace.
Poor Sir Joe learns the truth of Ralph and Josephine's affair and it looks as though Ralph is headed for the ship's dungeon, but Little Buttercup steps in to save the day with a ludicrous story about baby-swapping.
Note the legs. Somebody, and I'm not naming any names, but she was wearing red shorts, tried to upstage everyone by fainting across the middle of the action. Bloody attention-seeker.
Buttercup reveals that Ralph is really nobly born, and thus eligible to marry Josephine. Captain Corcoran, on the other hand, was actually born a commoner, and can therefore marry, oh, say, a humble tradeswoman. Sir Joseph needs a wife, and, while Phoebe is distracted by a convenient sailor, Hebe finally gets her man. Joy and rapture all round, and we ended with a rousing chorus of Rule Britannia!
The End! Hope you liked. If you are particularly interested, you may view the overture and opening scenes on YouTube. (Uploading issues mean that that is all there is at present - the rest will be appearing sooner or later!)
HMS Pinafore has always been my absolute favourite G&S operetta, and this unusual production has only made it rise even higher in my esteem. The show was written in 1878 and, as such, isn't usually set during World War Two. I think it was a bit of a brainwave to update it, though, and not just for OMG'40shairandmakeup!! reasons. There are a great many interesting facts, themes, satires and stylism in Pinafore, but I left my textual analysis days well behind me when I ran, screaming, from my bullshitty Master's degree, so I will leave you to look them up yourselves if you want to! It is sometimes quite clever, though.
Anyway, this pictorial post took me a hundred years to put together, and I'm going off to wash my hair and have my tea. Maybe in that order, maybe the opposite.
Well done to all sailors, captains, sisters, cousins, aunts, musicians, technicians, bumboat women and first lords of the admiralty onboard the Pinafore, and thanks for a jolly good time. I loved every minute of this show!
Almost all photographs by Matt Goode or Ashley Bell
