The Alternate

Hooray, hooray, I’m on holi- holiday, as Boney M once almost sang. Yes folks, it’s true, even a committed (not in that sense… yet) Theatrephile such as I needs a break from the hustle and bustle of West End life, so I’m off to drink Pina Coladas in the sun (rather than champers in a glamorous London hostelry) for a couple of weeks.

How will I cope without a single trip to the theatre for 14 long hot days? I just don’t know. How does a field mouse cope without fields or a dormouse cope without dors (presumably the latter just stays in whichever room he is stuck, or looks for a window)?

It will be odd, to say the least. Will it be as odd as some of the sights I have seen in the West End since the turn of the year? I don’t know that it will be quite that strange. But when you spend your weeks reading and writing about theatre during the day, and watching shows in the evening, a two week holiday is a bit like going cold turkey. (I’ve never understood that expression. What have chilly Christmas birds ever given up? Feathers I suppose.)

Still, as old man Theatrephile used to say, ‘A change is as good as a rest’. Like many of old man Theatrephile’s sayings, this was proved wrong; simply alternating your outfits will not keep you awake for the entirety of the Edinburgh festival. Coffee, Red Bull and pins in your shoes – that does the trick.

So, to quote a mildly popular West End show: “So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu” for the next fortnight. Carry on without me; I’m sure you’ll manage.

“Mick Jagger does it… Orlando Bloom does it… Denise Van Outen does it all the time…” How the mind boggles. What is it that this threesome does, and do they do it together or separately?

Do birds, bees and educated fleas also do it too? Oh, so many questions posed by the exciting new button on the Official London Theatre homepage.

My first guess was that they all strutted around a stage looking as though they had something distinctly uncomfortable wedged in a place it really didn’t ought to be. On thinking about it, that only really applied to the eldest of the famous trio. (Obviously I’m referring to Jagger, not Van Outen, you bitchy readers, you!)

Only one of them has ever played a pirate, so the link couldn’t be ‘wear a parrot, an eye-patch and shout ooh-arr a lot’, and only one of them has dated the current star of Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (as far as I know).

So it must be a pastime, mustn’t it? Do they enjoy similar sports, tobogganing maybe? Possibly they are all fans of internet sensation the dramatic chipmunk or the world’s oddest looking dog, Mr Winkle?

Then I thought again. They are all major stars, so probably have a few ecological concerns, as major stars do. There must be a pet conservation project or two lurking around (they are easier to look after than dogs, you know). Maybe, they spend their weekends collecting samples of flora (the flowery stuff, not the popular margarine, silly!) to keep for posterity in case the flowers become extinct. Possibly they specialise in soft, small plants that thrive in shady, damp areas.

Of course, I was fooling myself again, as I had forgotten about Jagger. As everybody know, a Rolling Stone gathers no moss.

To find out what the stars really do, click here.

I have never taken a rickshaw ride through London. Frankly, the view from behind a sweaty man cycling is not one I covet and is the sole reason I don’t go to the gym – too much moistened wobbling.

But, as old man Theatrephile used to say before giving me a soul-destroying new chore to do, it’s always worth trying anything once. (As a note of caution for the future, this is not the case if it refers to grazing in the back garden to save money on lawnmower electricity.)

The experience was free, as transportation from a press night to the glamorous party held in St James’s Park, where there were canapés but no canopy (luckily it didn’t rain). Though it wasn’t entirely unenjoyable (rear view excepted), it was one of the strangest experiences of recent years.

Imagine, if you will, a convoy of rickshaws, laden with men in sharp suits and women in summer dresses billowing in the breeze, comb-overs blowing around like tall grass in a windy meadow, panicked arms clutching at expensive hairdos, confused pedestrians, bemused taxi drivers and a simmering rivalry between the pedal jockeys that made Gordon Brown and Tony Blair look like the best of friends.

It was like a Tour De France for lazy businessmen, with champagne instead of illegal doping.

I have been feeling rather autumnal this week, which is as silly as a limbo-dancing chipmunk given that we have not really got into summer yet.

But the rainy, windy weather and the recent raft of stories about autumn productions  has got me wishing the warm weather away faster than you can say ‘I wouldn’t have gone to Devon on holiday if I’d known the BBC’s reports of a heatwave were unfounded, would I?!’

I’m not really a fan of the summer anyway. Life in London’s Theatreland slows down a bit as everyone is inexplicably drawn to Edinburgh like wasps to anything eaten al fresco between March and October.

Yes, it’s more relaxing for a capital-centric theatre hack during the (allegedly) warmer months, but where’s the fun in that? Fewer opening parties at which to pretend I actually know some of the stars. More nights spent at home doing jobs I pretended I didn’t have time to do but really was just putting off as long as I could.

I should really go on holiday, but such is my attachment to London that I come out in a rash if I’m more than half a mile from a jellied eel. I tried to take one on holiday with me once, but he was a very poor travel companion and other holidaymakers thought him a bit slimy.

I found the perfect antidote for this malaise in The 39 Steps, which I saw just yesterday. The finale of the comic-thriller (or thrilling comedy, depending how you look at it) features a Christmassy snowstorm, which made me feel rather chilly and had me wishing for the summer again.

It seems I change my opinions like I change my socks (which, coincidentally, is with the seasons).

Press representatives, I have found out, are tricksy people. They pretend to be the organised responsible overseers of interaction between us journos and the theatre world’s precious stars, but instead they are as cheeky and mischievous as the fairies of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (but without the wings and magical talents).

At a certain press night recently, the star of the show was being interviewed on camera, chatting, no doubt, about something very important. I was relaxing after a hard day’s work, bubbly in hand, canapés in mouth, keeping a watchful eye on proceedings like a wise old enchanted owl (but without the wings and magical talons).

As I talked happily to the lovely press reps, who, as I imagine fairies to be, are always very chatty and happy and grant wishes (as long as they involve procuring champers or nibbles), a certain other celebrity expressed their anxiety at speaking to the interviewee before making a Cinderella-esque flee into the night. (I’ve never seen a Cinderella-esque flea, but I imagine it would be very beautiful if quite small and bloodthirsty. Sounds like a female journalist I know).

When the waiting celeb suggested popping her head into the interview to speed up the process, there was a notable absence of suggestions that this might not be the best of ideas. An air of childish naughtiness hung over us as we imagined the possible randomness that could be caught on film. The press reps – let’s call them Peaseblossom, Mustardseed and Cobweb – were less vocal in their protestations than the tongue-less daughter of Titus Andronicus (though less bloody in the mouth area).

I, of course, was the picture of professionalism, and in no way suggested that this was the finest of ideas and that the interviewer would surely appreciate having two celebrities for the price of one – that would have been immature. I also did not leave the party giggling to myself and stuffing canapés in my pocket for the train journey home.

I’m not sure whether the interview was interrupted or not, someone went past with mini-Yorkshire puddings and distracted me. But as I left I did see a glass slipper at the doorway and one of the press reps carrying a pumpkin.

I’ve been rather confused this week. Not because someone put me in a round room and told me to stand in the corner, but because it is officially summer and it is actually sunny. We’ve not had weather this shocking since Michael Fish predicted a calm night back in 1987.

Should I have fancied it, I could have gone to the theatre in merely my Speedos, it was so warm. Though after the reaction last time I tried that, I thought I would give it a miss. Who knew an audience could be so distracted? In hindsight, it was probably the water wings and swimming cap that did it.

If I had tried this level of audience nudity at a recent performance of Twelfth Night at the Open Air theatre, I might have been a touch chilly and would have looked very silly indeed.

It might well have been mid-June, but it was so cold I could barely hear Janie Dee’s Olivia over the sound of chattering teeth. In fact, I think I saw Jack Frost sitting in the front row. No-one would have batted an eyelid if they noticed member of the Blue Man Group in the audience.

More resourceful audience members used picnic blankets to warm themselves up. As I’m cheap and had a home-made sandwich before the performance, all I had was a Tupperware pot, which kept my knee marginally warmer than the rest of my body.

I’m a big fan of Tupperware – nothing keeps food fresher – but when it comes to keeping yourself warm on a chilly night at an al fresco performance, it’s just not as useful as a blanket. Or a heater. Or having a building surrounding you.

I’m often hungry. Every time I have made a reference to The Good Soul Of Szechuan recently, I have had to stop myself putting ‘Chicken’ on the end.

I find it very difficult to find time to eat dinner on days when I attend early press nights and finish work in the office late, which, to me, feels as unnatural as not breathing or enjoying Big Brother…

Imagine my horror then during 2,000 Feet Away, when Joseph Fiennes literally eats his way through the performance. His acting may well be of the highest quality, but it was the amount of food he could consume in just 90 minutes that impressed me the most. He packed away more munchables than a team of trainee shelf stackers.

And all the while I was in desperate need of something tasty on my tongue. I must apologise to the person sitting next to me whose knee I grabbed for support – they looked quite surprised, but didn’t seem to mind.

What a variety of sumptuous treats the Hollywood heartthrob had to choose from… He starts with pancakes covered in enough maple syrup that they could be considered an honorary Canadian province, moves on to doughnuts – Mmmm, doughnuts – and there are some burgers thrown in there for good measure. I should clarify that no burgers were actually thrown, though if they had I would have resembled a dog who has spotted a Frisbee coming his way.

Fiennes is a fairly slim fellow, at least he was at the start of the show’s run. I fear for how he will look when it ends though. A dinner of burgers, pancakes and doughnuts every night for the show’s four week run… Listen closely, that sound you can hear is Fiennes’s arteries saying hello to their good friend Mr Cholesterol, and his heart screaming for mercy. Actually, it might just be some of his fans screaming for an autograph.

What really worries me, though, is that his waistline will expand so much that sometime before the end of the run he will try to make an exit and get stuck like Winnie The Pooh in a doorway. They would have to baste him like a turkey to free him from his food-induced captivity… which would be ironic.

(Anyone still thinking about Joseph Fiennes being basted should seek some kind of help.)

 What can I tell you about this week? I’m as stumped as an English cricketer facing Shane Warne, as, to be quiet honest, not a lot has taken my fancy in the last seven days… except maybe the ladies in lingerie at the All Bob’s Women launch.

Strange things, show launches; you never know what to expect. Normally there’s a bit of a presentation and a few nibbles (bubbly if you’re lucky, or carry your own around with you in case of party emergencies). Occasionally there is a quirk of some kind – badgers serving scones, that kind of thing. Most of the time you don’t get a parade of models in skimpies so tiny a mouse with a microscope would have trouble seeing them.

I originally thought the models had forgotten their kit and were being made to do the catwalk in their pants as punishment, as though the launch was being run by a sadistic PE teacher-style press company.

But no, the smalls, designed by Caprice, were examples of pieces that will be worn as costumes in the show. It’s lucky All Bob’s Women is on over the summer, as the actresses would be mighty cold wearing those in the winter.

I’ll be very honest with you, dear readers; this particular theatre hack didn’t know where to look. I fear the red glow from my blushing just helped add to the sensual ambience. If you look at the models for too long in the wrong place there is the danger people will think you ‘odd’, if you look away you look rude and disinterested. I took the only safe route open to me – I found the canapés and looked at those instead.

You’ve got to hand it to PRs and marketers, haven’t you? Like Paul Daniels’s stalker, they never miss a trick.

At the press night of Fat Pig this week, chocolate bar behemoths Nestle were giving away free packs of their Heaven choccies. I’m not sure how many of the audience members who had just watched a show about society’s intolerance of the overweight indulged in the fatty freebie. I did, in fact I took a few extra packs. Who cares what society thinks? Chocolate tastes good!

I’m not the only one to think like this. More than a few of the West End’s theatre critics have referred to their rotund stature in their reviews of Neil LaBute’s show. At the risk of sounding flippant (and that would be very unlike me, wouldn’t it?), is it surprising that a profession where you are paid to sit around all evening with only the rapid movement of a pen for exercise has a large proportion of workers of larger proportions?

Anyway, I started wondering to myself (wondering to other people is a very odd habit and has, in the past, led to me receiving some very strange looks and, on one occasion, a miniature poodle), what other inappropriate cross-promotional avenues are yet to be explored.

That Face, for example, could give away free drugs and alcohol. If nothing else, it would probably increase the number of rock stars in its audience. Mamma Mia! theatregoers could receive free paternity tests on their way home; this idea could even see the Abba musical form an allegiance with The Jeremy Kyle Show. And Blood Brothers could team up with an adoption agency specialising in twins.

There’s a whole feast of borderline distasteful ideas waiting for a hungry promotions agency to vociferously work its way through… like a theatre critic through a pack of donuts.

It’s interesting, isn’t it?

Well, it is when the it you are referring to is kissing technique, which is indeed the it I am referring to in this instance.

For example, reading Caroline Bishop’s interview with Marguerite man Julian Ovenden, I noticed that he said, of kissing co-star Ruthie Henshall in rehearsals: “You have to jump into it.”

Now I’m no expert on kissing – though there are those who, I’m sure, would disagree with me. I can sense the protest rising around Theatreland as I type – but jumping into it would strike me as one of the least advisable things to do. That way broken teeth, cut lips and decades of embarrassed glances lies.

Neither, I venture, should you take a run up at it, like an amorous bull charging a handsome and flirtatious matador. That also holds the promise of injury, especially if your stage lover feels daunted by the sight of someone running apace towards them, lips pursed and expectant, and performs a neat sidestep, leaving a hard, unfriendly wall as the recipient of your affections.

I do have a little experience in this area: in my former days as a promising actor – before the unfortunate accident with the superglue and the plastic rhinoceros – I was told by a director that there would be stage kissing involved with a role I was to portray and that I should practice, which I duly did. I’ve never had so many splinters in my face!