Fallen Angels - Coward’s Classic

 

Haven't posted for a few weeks, so I thought I'd try something a bit different. This is my first bash at a play review, and it's Fallen Angels performed by Intimate Theatre.

Intimate Theatre staged their version of Noel Coward’s ‘Fallen Angels’ at the George Hotel in Lichfield on the 13^th April.

  This was a ‘double first’ evening for me, it was the first time I had seen an 'Intimate' production and the first time I had seen any of Coward’s work performed.

  In fact, my knowledge of Coward is pretty limited to smoking jackets and ‘Don’t put your daughter on the stage Mrs Worthington,’ so I was looking forward to this play.

  With a minimum of props, and the song‘La Mer’ playing in the background, the Garrick Suite was transformed into 1950s elegance.

  The story centres on two young friends, Julia and Jane, whose husbands Fred and Willie prefer the Golf course to their wives. The girls receive a post card from a mysterious Frenchman, Maurice Duclos (charmingly played by Ian Henderson), whom they both had a fling with before married life, and who is returning to stay in London.

  With the guys away on a golfing weekend, Jane joins Julia at her flat for dinner, where they agree to push their stuffy husbands aside and surrender to the Gallic charms of Maurice, when he arrives. However, the drinks are flowing, and a tipsy (but bitchy) rivalry, is soon in full swing.

   The girls are played to perfection; Nicola Bannister showed clever timing as ice maiden Jane, who melts into drunken hysterics after numerous glasses of fizz, while Amanda Robertson excelled as the elegant – but neglected – Julia.

  Robin Lewitt gave a stylish portrayal of Julia’s golf loving, frustrated husband Fred, and Richard Bannister played the priggish Willy (complete with Oxford bags) to full bombastic effect.  

  

   To say any more would spoil the story, but a special mention must be made of Sue Evans who plays Saunders, the knowing maid, who certainly has the edge over her naïve employers.

  This was an enjoyable performance, and I hope to see more of Intimate Theatre’s productions in the near future.

Valkyrie

Back in the 80s, Heavy Metal was a musical genre lacking a feminine touch. Of course, there were artists such as Ann and Nancy Wilson, Pat Benator or Joan Jett but they were more rock gals as opposed to 'proper' ladies of metal.

  An exception was Doro Pesch, frontlady of German head bangers Warlock. With Valkyresque looks and a line in slinky black leather, Doro was something of an icon for spotty adolescent rock fans such as myself. Sugary pop chicks such as Sinitta or Kylie (as she was then) just didn't cut it compared to this metal maid.

  Easy on the eye, Doro could also belt out a few tunes, whether screaming like a banshee on anthems such as 'All we are!' or showing her melodic side on the haunting ballad 'Fur Immer'.

  I saw Warlock back in 87, (my first gig!) when they opened for Ronnie Dio (RIP) in Birmingham at the NEC. Nearly three decades on, Doro is still recording/performing and - apart from the odd foray into classical - still rocking.

 Whether you love or loath Heavy Metal, Doro deserves some respect for surviving in the fickle music business - long may she continue.

Picture by rock photographer, Ray Palmer (1955-2002), it (or something very similar) probably graced my bedroom wall, circa 1988.

Wake up without the coffee

A guy at work was rubbishing Camp Coffee.

'Absolute dross, on a par with some of the worst supermarket cheap, chicory crap!'

  I have an affection for this sticky beverage, so I beg to differ. A cup of camp made with hot milk is as fine a drink as any (except a good scotch). It's not bad in cakes too.

  So if there's a bottle lurking at the back of your cupboard (probably stuck fast with congealed gunge), give it a go, you may be surprised. It evens boasts a new label with the sepoy and highlander sitting down and enjoying a cuppa together.

 Allright, it's not coffee, but then it's never claimed to be.

 Before this blog turns into a free advert, I must explain the coffee theme. For two weeks now I've given up drinking coffee.

  At work this is dead easy, the coffee comes in those big economy tubs, where after a couple of weeks the contents have the resemblance (and probably the taste) of a tray of cat litter. At home it's more tricky, I like fresh coffee, made in a cafatiere, that fills the kitchen with a fragrant aroma and gives you that morning kick up the derriere.

 I didn't think you could get withdrawal symptoms from coffee, but over the last few days I've had cravings as bad as any when I packed in smoking ciggys.

  Ah well, I have a few more weeks to go yet, so best grit my teeth and enjoy my cup of Redbush tea.

Tying the knot

There was an article on the BBC website about ties, apparently school kids are now showing a new rebellious streak by knotting their ties in outlandish fashions.

 I wonder what school the writer went to? This revelation is nothing new, and for years kids have been wearing school ties in any number of weird styles.

  At my school, the fashion was to tuck the fat end inside your shirt and just show the skinny length; often the tie would be pulled down barely visible, to your jumper neck. A few years earlier, when my sister was at school, the trend was the opposite and ties would be worn in a freakishly fat knot - with the tie often as wide as it was long. Uniforms weren't compulsory at sixth form, and my tie probably ended up in the clothes rag-bag along with the rest of my old school clobber. I now had a tie free time until I started work.

   My first 'job' was a YTS placement at John German chartered surveyors, where the senior partner bluntly told me to cut my hair and put on a tie if they were going to suffer my presence in the office (a bit rich - considering they were getting me for gratis). At my next office, open necked shirts were also taboo. If you forgot your tie, the senior draughtsman would lend you one of his spares. These were a selection of 1970s kippers garishly decorated with paisley swirls - and a surefire incentive to remember your tie!

  I don't where a tie to work now. If media presenters, (seen by millions on national TV), don't bother, why should I - working on an industrial estate? I must admit though, seeing a middle aged TV presenter, shirt askew, as if he's had a rough night on the razzle, isn't too inspiring.

 So the ties have been consigned to the wardrobe, only to venture out for weddings and interviews etc; and if I look hard enough, I'm sure I'll find a paisley number lurking at the back somewhere...

Running for 40

This is the 20th post - and my first mile stone in blogging; so a big thank you to everybody who's taken the time to read my ramblings - much appreciated.

  My 40th birthday is approaching rapidly, and I wanted to do something to mark the event. So, in a moment of madness I signed up for the Great Birmingham Run in October.

 Why not something different - like Machu Picchu by spacehopper?

  Well, it's been nearly 10 years since a younger and fitter me last ran a half marathon, and I want to see if the old dog can still do it.

 Why not go the whole hog and run a full 26 miles?

   Good question - I've ran the Newcastle Great North Run three times and each time I've  reached the last mile along the South Shield sea front, things were starting to hurt. Thighs were rubbed raw, knees protested, and the idea of running another 13 miles didn't appeal.

  I trained for the Great North Run with my friend Steve. We ran a weekly circuit of country lanes and villages on summer evenings. A fellow friend, Jason (my old brandy drinking companion), suggested an alternative route.

  'When you get to the village on the hill, don't turn left, go straight on. There's a nice little route - I've tried it, it'll only take you about ten minutes.'

  So we gave it a go. The fields were bathed in the evening sunshine, and we chatted about everything and nothing as we ran -  it was a pleasant route indeed.

  J R R Tolkien wrote 'The road goes ever on'; well this road went on and on - and then some. A ruler straight run, heading off into the sunset. Eventually we emerged (somewhat wearily) onto a main road, where we were about 8 miles from home. There was nothing for it but to trot back to blighty. I came home footsore with 'joggers nipple' and a craving for a large cheese sandwich.

The next time we saw Jason we mentioned his little detour.

   'I thought you said it would take ten minutes,' quizzed Steve

   'Well it did - driving in the car.'

    Hmmmm - not quite the same thing, but never mind.

What the Dickens...

Tuesday was the bicentenary of the birth of Charles Dickens, and I must confess that I haven't read any of his books.

  That's not entirely true - I've read a Christmas Carol and a couple of his other ghost stories, but the rest of his great works, Oliver Twist, David Copperfield etc, remain unopened.

  I did tentatively start 'Great Expectations', but I never ventured pass Miss Havisham and her mouldy wedding breakfast. One thing I did enjoy though, was the BBC adaption of Bleak House.

  Bleak House has a complex plot (which I won't do justice trying to explain in this Blog) which centres around the heroine, Esther Summerson (played by Anna Maxwell-Martin) and her search for her parents' identity.

  Costume dramas (particularly the Austin variety) can sometimes have a 'fluffy' feel to them, but this was very different. A dark brooding story set against the hopeless background of the London chancery courts - where families are broken by endless legal quarrels. 

  The adaption featured an all star cast, with Charles Dance, as sinister lawyer Tulkinghorn, and Gillian Anderson (in a very 'un-Scully' role) as tragic Lady Deadlock.

  So what am I waiting for? Grab a copy, get reading, and reacquaint myself with characters such as 'Conversation' Kenge, Harold Skimpole and the sleuthing Inspector Bucket.

Jobs for a Junior

My first proper job (excluding YTS slavery) was with a firm of consulting engineers in Birmingham.

  I was a junior working in the drawing office. 'Drawing office' was a loose description and the lads frequently took on the roles of handymen and general dogsbodies.

  These other duties included changing light bulbs and shifting sacks of rubbish down to the skip. I often wondered why we didn't wear boiler suits rather than shirts and ties.
 
 Occasionally more novel tasks would crop up. I once fetched a bottle of scotch for the chief draughtsman (12 year old single malt no less) and placed a horse racing bet on the strength of a tip (PG?) from the tea-lady (came nowhere -  must have read her tea leaves wrong). However, the job that sticks in my mind was when the juniors did a stint of 'guard duty'.

  The firm had been involved in the design of an unpopular road bypass. As a result, protestors had shown their dissaproval by scrawling graffiti and daubing s**t over several of the firm's offices. This triggered a minor panic amongst the Birmingham management. We could be next - the Goths were at the gates of Rome! (well Goths in Brum, possibly).

  I was first on the sentry rota. Armed only with the office mobile phone, (which could have doubled as a club) and a Colin Dexter Novel, I sat in the foyer awaiting an invasion of New Age protesters. If they had decided to storm the office Bastille style I don't know what I could have done. Perhaps fended them off with a cleaners mop while frantically phoning, 'Help! The Crusties are here!'

 In any event nothing happened, Morse solved his case, and I went back upstairs to a boring afternoon  at work.