The time-limited Mrs Pither is going to the theatre tonight. She will be Pitherless.
It's not that I'm not invited. Sadly, I am. It's not that I dislike the Small Town Metropole/Realto. I do. It's one of the finest not-so-little theatres in Europe - not trendy, not modern, not "Mwa, mwa, daaarling it's to die for". It is Victorian, with gilt here and there, it is cosy and it has proper muppet boxes. My kind of theatre.
No, it's the genre of the production which makes me want to turn up armed to the teeth. I have previously ranted on this blog about another theatrical pet hate of mine - the musical. Well, tonight's little offering is just as fucking bad. It is a farce.
Never was a term coined with such appropriate double meanings. Classic, French farce is bad enough but the post-'70s British variety is just unbelievably fucking awful! They are all the bloody same, be it "Run For Your Trifle", "Oops, There Goes My Colostomy Bag!" or "No Wanking Please, We're Irish". It is the sort of fodder enjoyed by people who think Terry and June was avant garde comedy.
The sight of someone dropping their trousers to reveal long boxer shorts and suspendered socks was only even vaguely risible to me when I was four, let alone now! Scantily clad women I am all in favour of but the wankers behind British farce insist on these ladies spending the entire production hidden in wardrobes or under beds.............and what happens every time these shenanigans are going on? Yes, the fucking vicar calls round! How many bastard times has the vicar called round at your house? The last time I saw ours he put water on my head and I vowed then that our relationship was henceforth over.
To make matters worse, tonight's little number in Small Town doesn't even star Brian Rix! I thought he had to be in it for it to be called a farce? No, the star of the show this evening is none other than fucking Dirty Den from EastEnders! Give me strength. I haven't heard who else is in the cast but no doubt there are thespian giants like the former Milky Bar Kid and some bloke who played "fellow bus passenger" in an edition of Brookside.
No, not for Pither. I am headed in another direction this evening, in more ways than one. While "farce" could also be used to describe what I intend to watch down at The Duck and Gynaecologist, and there will be lots of kissing and running around, it, in fact, goes by the name of association football. England are taking on the might of Estonia in a qualifier for the European Championship. Estonia have, apparently, recalled a couple of blokes who were abroad on holiday and so now have 11 men available to play the game and so it looks like being a bit of a thriller. England will, of course, lose.
Farce, in all its guises, can go to Grantham.
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2 comments:
For the first time in ages you refer to Mrs P as other than the-soon-to-be -ex-Mrs-P. I am very pleased to see this. Has the romance been rekindled? Has your recent conversion to vegetarianism resulted in her seeing the good in you? Or is she just hanging around until your colon unspasticates? Whatever, make sure you welcome her home to a clean house, with the washing up done and a nice cup of tea (preferably herbal). It is so nice to hear about young couples in love.
Sadly, Vicus, it is you who is the dreamer. She is the time-limited Mrs Pither only because she is shortly to become the Free-From-Pither fairy whom she was always born to be. If you know of any morally casual, alcoholic, Nottingham Forest season ticket-holding, nymphomaniacs who live over off-licenses then I shall also be happy in my loneliness.
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