Millom in the Dock (18 page)

“Oooooh!
Another man!” Said David Marcus, (a rather flamboyant gay man and a
fab name dropper) grabbing me delicately by the arm, female Rugby
League style … dragging me across the room … gulp! ... Placing me
in the middle of the chorus line … between two women … gulp! … To
join the pillow fight.

Hang on!
Haaaaannnnng ooonnnnnnn! There is no way I’m doing this! I did
protest loudly but, alas dear friends, roaming men and country folk
from Millom … to no avail. “My lord, I’ve only come to take some
photographs!” I don’t think he heard me though, if he did he took
no notice (story of my life).

Three days/one
hour later, the rehearsal came to a close and my heartbeat returned
to 200 overall (not the same type as farmers wear). I was then
dragged kicking and screaming, unrehearsed, yet still very
dramatically, in a mellow kind of way, over the other kind of way
and into the MCC. Millom Critic Club (invented by Piggy Newton,
remember?) This is an establishment where they all walk pigeon toed
and talk about critic, usually with a wicket sense of humour … I
sat next to a patch of recent looking paint and watched it for a
while (the drying process is fascinating and, I regretted not
having a microscope to study it on a molecular level). I guzzled
beer in order to change my experience of reality, listening in one
ear to Gowerisms (David Gower was a famous cricketer) and in the
other, David Marcus name drop the entire population of Hollywood.
There was a worrying side effect to the beer; I somehow began to
vaguely understand the rules of the game, through a member
attempting to explain them to me. Aye, aye, he told his mind upon
my ear. I scarce could understand it, except for bits and bobbets
sire … which luckily now, I have to say, I’ve managed to forget and
continue to do so to this day, over and over again.

Once upon a
time, in a nightmare period of my mysterious journey through this
life, I had stumbled upon calculus which, I had not understood at
all but, slightly more than critic. Here is sense for you … the
bowler bowls at the batters head and that ball is hard. People
watch this! It has always baffled me as to why they don’t use a
spongy? If the bowler knocks down the wickets because the batter is
useless with a piece of 3” x 2” ex-Willow he is consoled by the
rest of the team and his tears are dabbed dry by his caring
companions. Mind you, choosing to be a spin bowler is a wise move,
because he’s had the pleasure of rubbing his knackers all morning
right in front of everyone, with the world’s greatest pervs excuse
… “I was polishing the ball” … Yeah, righto! “Yes, okay, I used
grit, but not to manipulate the spin! Honest!” Like it rough eh?
But still the ungrateful wretch cries after knocking down the
wickets with a splendid grubber … why? Well, this is because he is
upset by the fact that he has missed through lousy, lousy bowling
sire and a distracting erection, a fine opportunity to knock out
the batsman or at least de-tooth him … never mind though, they can
always have a pigeon toed feud in the cart park after the game and
muck their virginal whites. They don’t have a ladies team thank
goodness. I have asked my muse, God and the entire team of cosmic
writer helpers for some inspiration i.e. “Excuse me Muse, God,
everyone, what is interesting and funny about women’s critic?” The
only reply I got was a silent … “What’s funny and interesting about
critic full stop?” So I wrote that answer down, better than
nothing!

“Whatever,
drink and be merry with the musical stars who have parts and, of
course, with the chorus line scum then, agree to come back the week
after to take some pictures of the rehearsals and the characters
and … the hens! For … Chicken Watcher’s Weekly, a little side line
I’d found to make a few extra dollars. Hands up who thought I was
going to say bucks?

C’mon M’lud,
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader … I wonder if chicken
watchers wear anoraks? “Ooooh look everyone! A Staffordshire red
hen! Let’s stop and watch it peck in the dust for ages and take
lots of pictures to look at for ages longer with others like
us!”

Well M’lud,
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, it seemed to make
top sense coming back … no it didn’t! It made none whatsoever
coming back the following week for another drag into the working
class, chorus line scum … yet it seemed to please the women, first
time I’d ever done that to a group of fillies yet, only because
they were short of men, or men of short be it stature, aye! Stature
my lord! They tended to do the King and I nearly every year because
they needed only a King and the rest could be done with women and
wild controllable kids (some with bum fluff moustaches) whose proud
parents comprised the nightly audience, a double whammy in
fact.

The bug, M’lud,
ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, does actually bite
when a person joins a theatrical society (especially in the men’s
changing room), to the point sometimes when they will do anything,
no matter hoooow daft, to get on a stage in front of ‘People’.
Although us normal folk are still not going to achieve the women’s
statement directed affectionately at Rugby lads … “What’s he
like?!”

Bow Street
Runners were tall policemen (here we go again), in my first
production, Oliver (for a change), I ended up playing one … after
shouting, screaming and holding my breath until that nice Mr Marcus
relented. BUT only after I’d agreed to try and get him fixed up
with a certain male … oh never mind. The audience laughed when I
went on to do my part, because I have such … comedy timing or,
possibly because the trousers were far, far too long (20” leg)
rather baggy (possibly fashionable now amongst young attitudinal
muggers and car thieves) and, my partner in crime fighting, was a
six foot odd (very) Cooperman, but, I did it, anything for a prat,
sorry part. Oliver has a dog actor, Bullseye, named thus because of
his black eye, belongs to the villain Bill Sykes (he was played by,
in my opinion, a brilliant amateur actor, Kevin McNally). The
non-equity dog had a white head, no one could get near him with
make-up so he was put in a crate with Fireblade Jackaljaw for ten
minutes … Bingo! Our accompanist and a marvellous friend to me,
Betty Newton, was a natural genius when it came to playing the
piano and second to none when it came to sight reading (i.e.
playing straight from a strange piece of music). One dress
rehearsal, a fly came into the room after doing overtime on a shaw
kite pizza. Luckily Arthur Ferguson didn’t see it, cos it would
have been pursued around the field with a fly swatter, the little
thief. It landed on her score and rid itself of some ballast. Betty
just played the new notes without missing a beat, breaking into a
short and surprisingly acceptable version of the minute waltz by B.
Bottle, the unintentional Chopin of the insect world. There again,
maybe he was actually insectspired?

M’lud: “Mr
Lassut, another one like that and I will lock you up”.

Understood
M’lud.

Frank Eccles,
an actual author of seafaring books, once playing Clint Eastwood’s
part in Paint Your Wagon, (whilst looking like his dad) completely
muffed the words of his song and said “I do beg your pardon but
isn’t this supposed to be I Talk to the Trees?” That ruined it, I
was enjoying the waltz, later in a dress rehearsal Frank forgot his
lines, couldn’t hear the prompt correctly and again said his
favourite phrase … “I’m sorry, I do beg your pardon”, in his
extremely posh accent. Hilarious!

It frightens
the cast because:-

He’s an
ex-Headmaster who taught their kids and they all think he will do
it on the night … I hoped he would. He did however start talking to
trees … sort of. He would get into the habit of reading one of his
own unauthorised and controversial seafaring books after several
pints in the Harbour Hotel, to the apple tree in his garden. In
response the tree attempted to throw apples at him. Frank though,
being an ex-teacher and therefore far too clever for the tree by a
long shot, sat just outside the canopy. He would never have
discovered gravity, which is why it was done a couple of hundred
years previous. If it had of been left up to Frank we all would be
wondering just WHY that toast falls, butter side down being the
mere afterthought, thus destroying the mystery of the …”Why me?”
type of bad luck.

The “I can, do
and will play anyone”, simply because he is a chameleonic actor is
Colin MacDonald, husband to Jonquil. In the production of the King
and I which, as I’ve mentioned, is performed often-often-often,
that often he tends to wear the costume all the time to save
changing and, the audience acted as prompts which was really
useful. I suppose the Millom MAOS audience were years ahead of “Who
Wants to Be a Millionaire”. They had “ask the audience” without
actually asking …

Colin: “Yes …
erm … erm … erm … damn!”

Audience: “Miss
Annnnnnaaa!!”

Colin: “Yes
Miss Anna!”

Rapturous
applause!!!!

Anna: “erm …
erm …”

Colin played
Yul Brynner brilliantly. There was one hitch though he wouldn’t
shave his head, not even for Sweet Charity! Ha! Ha!

To combat this,
Peg and Freddie went a calling on Millom Football Club (their women
don’t have facial hair and neither do they) and permanently
borrowed a football. Colin cut it in half and placed one half of it
over his head. This would have been fine except he didn’t turn it
inside out first. ITRE, across the forehead does not fit in with
the image of the King of Siam. It would have been better being
given a ball with HEAD written on it. At least that would have been
a useful instruction to some of the Millom audience … probably!

My pal, the
late Betty Hughes, was the tea lady. Boy! Could she brew a pot with
the use of the water boiler. The boiler was a fantastic contraption
straight from one of Disney’s mad professor films. Shaw kite burner
underneath and more pipes than the Reverend’s organ. She would
always have an affectionate go at me when I always complained about
the temperature of the brew, which would really have made a hot
geyser appear lukewarm. She was actually a consultant to George
Stephenson, believe it or not! She would always be saying to me …
“Oooooh you cheeky bugger … it’s no wonder your mother tried to
swap you with Brick!” That almost led to me having several weeks of
cheap therapy with Poggy. Make-up was fun, except that the more the
men put on the more unfriendly David Marcus became with them? AND
…

Why is it that
everywhere else in Millom has kite methane heating to some degree,
or wood fires, or coal fires, or Uranium?! Shhhhhsh! Yet the male
changing room was/is beyond freezing? The women’s changing room was
of COURSE a palace! Romantically lit: crystal chandeliers,
highlighting creamy oooh bar ooooh curves ooooh which shamed the
bowling green into a close second. Chandeliers and ACME production
line Church candles, courtesy of the Rev … 12 gold teeth. Yes, the
ladies changing room was cosily warm (that early morning bed
feeling) … or maybe it was simply their personalities? (Naaaa!)
There was, still is, Maureen Wilson, nothing in Hollywood could
match Maureen (except one of those actresses Chihuahua’s on
therapy?), she was a straight comedienne who made Buster K look
like Togo on Prozac.

.

I was
brilliant; Maureen … so, so.

Myself and the
NOW famous Maureen Wilson in panto as Hirem and Firem (she died a
few years back), Notice if you will the even shaw kite lighting.
Maureen is actually saying … “Tell me my next line punk or I’ll
crack you one!” … Charming!

Frank Hill
(probably dead?), a great singer, so he told me, stood behind me
once and just made noises in tune! He was a little moth with big
eyes on its wings. I had taken weeks to learn all the words.

Peter Clark,
who played the cowardly lion and had his tail come off …
marvellous! He bled for hours afterwards. Pamela Newton, the
pianist Betty’s daughter, splendid actress and singer, she’s now
married to a Bell.