Recently the child bride and I went to the theatre (should that have a capital “T”?). We accompanied my brother and his family to watch his son and our nephew star in a performance of Spamalot. For those not in the know, Spamalot is a series of Monty Python sketches and songs attached to a theme similar to that enacted in the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail. So we had the arrogant Frenchman proclaiming “I fart in your general direction” and the coconut shells making the horse clip-clopping sounds from the movie. And we also had some old favourites from the TV show like the fish-slapping dance and references to the immortal dead parrot sketch. Which sketches and references are incorporated into the production I think, are entirely at the director’s discretion.
As this musical (for sing they do) is set in the dark ages of King Arthur and Camelot you would expect peasants dying ugly, horrible deaths as occurs in pretty well all re-enactments of that particularly nasty time in our history (despite chivalrous knights rescuing damsels in distress) but, no. Only the Black Knight suffers any sort of harm and even afterwards can still hurl insults – not a bad effort when you have been relieved of both of your arms and both of your legs, not to mention fingers, thumbs, toes, elbows and knees.
I can’t recall the last time the CB and I graced the theatre with our presence if you exclude things like flamenco in Seville and puppet shows in Hanoi and acrobats in Beijing, all of which were parts of various guided tours. It’s not that we’re cultural philistines. Heavens, we once bought a painting. From an art gallery. But I’m guessing a Led Zeppelin tribute band at the local pub doesn’t really count. Incidentally, you can read about that sophisticated trip down memory lane on this very website. Our cultural proclivities may be few and far between but it doesn’t mean bogan and cerebral are mutually exclusive (except at the same time). So off we went.
Prior to the performance, another trip down memory lane was warranted. In our youth, me, my brother and our other brother all played for a cricket club which used a particular pub in a not particularly salubrious part of town, as its club-house. We would go there before games to fuel-up and after games to top-up. It was called the Prince Alfred and was your typical Aussie pub with a public bar which housed all the drunks and loud mouths, a private bar which loud mouthed cricketers decamped to and what is now a complete anachronism – a rarely patronised ladies lounge. Plus a few rooms upstairs for the patrons who were unable to walk at closing time.
As the area gentrified, the “PA” or “Down There” as it was variously known changed ownership, changed décor, changed clientele, changed its name to something gaudy and hip and frankly, became an absolute disgrace. More recently it has changed its name to the Lord Alfred, a hat-tip to its past but still a “pub” with couches and craft beers. Its clientele is still loud but wears short skirts and loafers and hipster haircuts.
Notwithstanding all of this, animal instincts never change. While we were there a fight broke out. Just like the old days except it was a bunch of millennials throwing drinks at each other and falling about because they were too pissed to let fly. Not a knife or broken bottle in sight. And security came from everywhere to escort the miscreants off the premises unlike in the good old days when the barman would leap over the bar and toss the offender/s out into the street. Unfortunately the falling about involved falling onto my brother’s other son and his mate who were with us. No damage done but free drinks for the boys.
With some faith in humanity restored, we set off for the theatre, a couple of hundred meters down the street. As the CB has been know to assert, it’s sometimes more entertaining to watch the crowd than the performance (don’t get me wrong – the performance was very good). So a group of what appeared to be friends occupied the seats in front of us and the man and woman who sat immediately in front of us were obviously friends because he put his hand on her seat and she promptly sat on it. Instead of leaping up in fright, she hunkered down and settled in. The CB and I glanced at each other and we settled in to watch this performance. Sadly not much else happened. After a few minutes she removed his hand, directed it round her shoulders and snuggled up to him. After the interval he fell asleep and snored through the entire second half.
I wasn’t only gifted something to write about in front of me but to the side also. Now, I’m not about to disparage the afflicted but sometimes you have to make exceptions. I was reminded of a certain character in the Mike Myers’ Austin Powers movies – specifically a large Scotsman called Fat Bastard. He sat next to me that night. How this kilted (honestly) behemoth levered himself into the seat and more to the point, got out of it again is beyond me. His partner was of similar proportions. I really felt sorry for their bed. And I make no apologies because the fat mcbastard, when he sat down, spread his kilt across my leg and his arm took up a third of my space. Still, it could have been worse. We could have been on a flight to London.