I've been in panto this weekend. Snow White to be exact. I wasn't one of the dwarves though.
This happened through an admittedly unlikely set of circumstances. But bear with me.
I was previously involved in panto years ago, when I was young and fit and sort of liked messing about on stage. Then I drifted away. I never missed it; I found new interests and the thought of yearly ritual humiliation (singing live, mainly, 'cos although I have the voice of an angel, it's bleedin' satan) left me cold. So I bought an Ipswich season ticket instead, and sing 'live' every home game and usually leave with a dodgy voice and (until recently) depression.
Anyway, a friend I used to do panto with was doing it again this year but his dad died suddenly on New Year's Day, so he pulled out. Cue me agreeing to take his place and learn his lines in 6 weeks. "He won't have many lines" I thought, cockily, as I read the script. Then saw that he was actually a main character. B*gger.
So, cut a long and boring story short (just imagine me 'cramming' the script to the backround theme tune of Rocky when he runs up those steps) I learnt the part and our first performance was Friday night, with a matinee performance yesterday at 2.30 (hence my absence at the Leeds game yesterday) and 7.30pm last night. Then I caught yet another cold, and my voice went. Fortunately, it returned in time but I was huskier than Rula Lenska on 60 untipped a day.
Panto is all about kids, and although we had a fair mixture of adults as well, it does make you feel like you're this sad old git somehow encroaching on a school production. Added to this, I managed to split the arse on my satin breeches at Thursday's dress rehearsal kneeling to tie me shoelaces (and the mend done by a kindly, if somewhat cack-handed, costume helper made me walk like I'd sh*t meself throughout the three performances).
So Friday night came along all too quickly, my make up made me look like the lovechild of Shrek and Aunt Sally off Worzel Gummidge, I was wearing a velvet cape to cover the sewing misdemeanour on my breeches and on I went. Well, kids in amateur productions usually look angelic on stage, but they're a bloody nightmare backstage, constantly messing about, running around, getting on your wick. Some well-meaning but deluded props volunteer had brought their kids' high-powered water gun thingy (it looked like a bright plastic Kalashnikov) which apparently held a litre of liquid. This was meant to be used in a scene when I wasn't on, but the kids decided my solo rendition of "Over the Rainbow" needed a localised heavy shower effect. Dunno how Gene Kelly managed to sing in a downpour, but I gargled quite a bit.
To top it all, I missed the Leeds game and my dad had my ST, thoroughly enjoyed it, and is now making plans to attend any other home games I can't do. He's hooked again. I kept getting texts during the matinee crowing about Freddie's goal (typical he scores for the first time in months when I'm otherwise engaged) and how the equaliser was Bart's fault. As well as second half running commentaries on Didz hitting the bar and then having a long ranger saved by Green, and the "USA" chants and the "You've let down your country" chants and the swearing and the banter and how crowded Mannings was pre-match. All while I'm saying lines like "Oh Prince Karl, one kiss from you will waken Snow White" etc.
It's over. I'm sat here knackered, day off work tomorrow, just been down to help 'em clear up, considering an afternoon of football on telly and plenty of beer. My dad posted my ST through my letterbox last night. With a programme. I hate reading them when I'm there; feels even worse when you've missed the match completely. He means well though. When I rang him this morning, my mum said he was still croaky and he was moaning he had to stand all game despite having a seat. He'll fit in well at PR.
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