Millom in the Dock Page 12

  Of course when the Millom audience saw electric lights on the films they just felt the same as you do now when you see something like Star Wars … mumbo jumbo fantasy.

  It’s funny you know, Peg and Fred sometimes have to go to Barrow on foot, the last occasion being when she broke her wings showing off stunt flying. She got egg on her face when she got tangled in the Millom flag, which was flying at half-mast because Freddie Gleaves had just been elected Mayor (how come no one voted?) She, on these clip clop occasions when she goes Shanks has to wear a panto cow outfit so as not to get mistaken for a horse and therefore risk, at status Devcon 2, being eaten by the Barrowbarians.

  The light source inside the wardrobes was provided by two Spermaceti (Sperm Whale) oil lamps, the bottled, cinema grade oil provided by Arthur Ferguson on a special promotional ‘Buy one get another for the same price’ special, often to be repeated offer. The flame provided by shaw kite just wasn’t bright enough. The picture was still a little dim with the spermaceti but the lenses were good and if it was difficult to see sometimes, the audience would ‘scrum’ up to the screen and an intimate, almost ‘magic lantern’ evening was enjoyed by all. So, why did the cinemas close? Well, the reason is quite sad really and perhaps even more relevant in today’s silly world … in which the beautiful whales have been hunted to near extinction. Arthur, being the absolute gentleman he is, kept on feeding the Haverigg pods good crusty Thompson’s bread (if they had had hair it would have been curly) but refused to kill the creatures. Sadly one can’t get good old Ken Thomson’s scrumptious bread any more anyway, he retired.

  The Millom folk lost their cinemas … but did a very human thing in the process. That M’lud is all I can say in defence here. The good people of Millom have no cinema because the world is against them … sad but true.

  M’lud: “Thank you Mr Lassut, my wife is very active helping to save the planet’s whales and dolphins from needless annihilation by the abundance of greedy fools and imbeciles. It is strange that as humans we either destroy or allow to be destroyed everything that is beautiful and ‘then’ complain. Nothing is seen as valuable until it is rated then when it becomes extinct … it reaches its highest worth. It is a strange world we create and are about to un-create. Court will recess for one hour, back at 12.30”.

  “All rise for M’lud”.

  ***

  12:30

  “All rise for M’lud!”

  M’lud: “Welcome back everyone for the final hour; I must admit I’m feeling a little sad Mr Lassut. Don’t you know of any other small towns that have been given a good slapping by the Police and the press which you could put on the map with your superb writing skills?”

  Well, M’lud, sorry but no. Unfortunate really because I’m charging a King’s ransom next time. But nevertheless, I being ‘the way and the shaw kite light’, guarantee that you will enjoy this little recount concerning the Millom Amateur Operatic Society. So again and, finally, under the heading of self-entertainment M’lud I would like to continue with a poem.

  M’lud: “A poem? My God Mr Lassut, such abundance of style and massive charisma for one so floppy haired, small, plump yet with a fizzog that would look at home on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with the rest of Michelangelo’s angels”.

  Why thank you M’lud, you really do have a superb eye for natural perfection … ahem!

  Millom Amateur Operatic Society! What a mob!

  The show must go on, despite family and job

  Lots of talent on tap in the town

  From the serious actor to the winnable clown.

  A Broadway show! Panto or play

  Just givvem a script and they’re away!

  Mesmerise the audience like wickle bunny wabbits in a beam

  Yes, an entertaining lot … the MAOS (chaos) team.

  M’lud: “Excellent Mr Lassut! Without further ado may I offer you £1,500 for that signed original too? Making that three grand in total.”

  M’lud of course you may, I will see you after Court just before I get duffed up by the people of Millom. Now ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, there is no business like show business, or so they say, a family friend and a significant person in the changing of my life, the lovely Andrea Horodny (now a Guy, in name only not via a sex change), arranged for me to go to a dress rehearsal of the local Amateur Operatic Society, not as an actor mind you, oh no! Forget that for a start! But, as I was an exponent of the Daguerreotype shoebox with a lens, which was a modern, updated version of a shoebox with a pinhole, I was hungrily looking for photography work and she thought she would help me out, nice girl. This kindly feat of giant proportions was achieved by arranging for me to take the publicity pictures for the up and coming show. I went trepidatounervously to the rehearsal (cissy actors! Humiliation junkies! Won’t catch MEEEEE doing that!) which was apparently being held in a ‘hut’.

  Hmmmmmmm?

  ***

  Walking up the ramp I passed through a Hitchcockian ‘cluck’ of peeved hens which, I assume had been politely asked to leave their spacious house for a couple of hours while ‘the-spians’ went through their artistic paces. I was grateful to Arthur Ferguson for downsizing through rapid pork scratching evolution all those years ago, the 6” curved beaks of these feathered piranhas, because they could so easily have shredded my expensive Levis with their incessant trouser leg pecking as I carefully tiptoed my way through their obviously ‘hennoyed’ group. I bet Bill Oddie never gets pecked so viciously watching birds from his nice safe hide. Get a proper job Bill! You don’t know you’re born! It was quite a large hut, with a long corridor sporting a door with a window lens at the far end. I never realised that chickens were enthusiastic about windows? (Not Microsoft, obviously!) Maybe then as natural evolution unwraps its mysterious package and chickens begin to take on human characteristics (and dumb down) … they could find that they somehow get talked, door by door, into cherishing UPVC douuuuu buck! Buck! Buck! Buck Liiiie glazing?

  I crept up, SAS style, to the lens and glanced through the glass, using a steam blob to hide most of my face. There were loads of people in the room, some were sitting around the edge talking rhubarb. Some were up on two feet in singing and dancing mode. It looked like a big pillow fight due to the down disturbance of St Vitus feet. They were using shaw kite lamps because the candles I was to learn later, kept blowing out as people spun enthusiastically around and around in spirited, trancelike, almost Voodooeque artistic movements. Maybe that’s why the chickens had vacated so as not to have their plumes trampled? A lady came out of a side door; she looked at me and said “You’ll have to go inside if you want to meet everyone”. That was Vulcan logic, Hick A level standard. I crept in quietly through a 1mm gap but, fate which was in a cosmically silly mood, bumped the camera on the side of the door frame. The Producer looked around and saw me and walked or rather Morticia’d (it isn’t in the spellchecker, so I don’t know?) over to me.

  “Oooooh! Another man!” Said David Marcus, (a rather flamboyant gay man and a fab name dropper) grabbing me delicately by the arm, female Rugby League style … dragging me across the room … gulp! ... Placing me in the middle of the chorus line … between two women … gulp! … To join the pillow fight.

  Hang on! Haaaaannnnng ooonnnnnnn! There is no way I’m doing this! I did protest loudly but, alas dear friends, roaming men and country folk from Millom … to no avail. “My lord, I’ve only come to take some photographs!” I don’t think he heard me though, if he did he took no notice (story of my life).

  Three days/one hour later, the rehearsal came to a close and my heartbeat returned to 200 overall (not the same type as farmers wear). I was then dragged kicking and screaming, unrehearsed, yet still very dramatically, in a mellow kind of way, over the other kind of way and into the MCC. Millom Critic Club (invented by Piggy Newton, remember?) This is an establishment where they all walk pigeon toed and talk about critic, usually with a wicket sense of humour … I sat next to a patch of recent looking paint and
watched it for a while (the drying process is fascinating and, I regretted not having a microscope to study it on a molecular level). I guzzled beer in order to change my experience of reality, listening in one ear to Gowerisms (David Gower was a famous cricketer) and in the other, David Marcus name drop the entire population of Hollywood. There was a worrying side effect to the beer; I somehow began to vaguely understand the rules of the game, through a member attempting to explain them to me. Aye, aye, he told his mind upon my ear. I scarce could understand it, except for bits and bobbets sire … which luckily now, I have to say, I’ve managed to forget and continue to do so to this day, over and over again.

  Once upon a time, in a nightmare period of my mysterious journey through this life, I had stumbled upon calculus which, I had not understood at all but, slightly more than critic. Here is sense for you … the bowler bowls at the batters head and that ball is hard. People watch this! It has always baffled me as to why they don’t use a spongy? If the bowler knocks down the wickets because the batter is useless with a piece of 3” x 2” ex-Willow he is consoled by the rest of the team and his tears are dabbed dry by his caring companions. Mind you, choosing to be a spin bowler is a wise move, because he’s had the pleasure of rubbing his knackers all morning right in front of everyone, with the world’s greatest pervs excuse … “I was polishing the ball” … Yeah, righto! “Yes, okay, I used grit, but not to manipulate the spin! Honest!” Like it rough eh? But still the ungrateful wretch cries after knocking down the wickets with a splendid grubber … why? Well, this is because he is upset by the fact that he has missed through lousy, lousy bowling sire and a distracting erection, a fine opportunity to knock out the batsman or at least de-tooth him … never mind though, they can always have a pigeon toed feud in the cart park after the game and muck their virginal whites. They don’t have a ladies team thank goodness. I have asked my muse, God and the entire team of cosmic writer helpers for some inspiration i.e. “Excuse me Muse, God, everyone, what is interesting and funny about women’s critic?” The only reply I got was a silent … “What’s funny and interesting about critic full stop?” So I wrote that answer down, better than nothing!

  “Whatever, drink and be merry with the musical stars who have parts and, of course, with the chorus line scum then, agree to come back the week after to take some pictures of the rehearsals and the characters and … the hens! For … Chicken Watcher’s Weekly, a little side line I’d found to make a few extra dollars. Hands up who thought I was going to say bucks?

  C’mon M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader … I wonder if chicken watchers wear anoraks? “Ooooh look everyone! A Staffordshire red hen! Let’s stop and watch it peck in the dust for ages and take lots of pictures to look at for ages longer with others like us!”

  Well M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, it seemed to make top sense coming back … no it didn’t! It made none whatsoever coming back the following week for another drag into the working class, chorus line scum … yet it seemed to please the women, first time I’d ever done that to a group of fillies yet, only because they were short of men, or men of short be it stature, aye! Stature my lord! They tended to do the King and I nearly every year because they needed only a King and the rest could be done with women and wild controllable kids (some with bum fluff moustaches) whose proud parents comprised the nightly audience, a double whammy in fact.

  The bug, M’lud, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, dear reader, does actually bite when a person joins a theatrical society (especially in the men’s changing room), to the point sometimes when they will do anything, no matter hoooow daft, to get on a stage in front of ‘People’. Although us normal folk are still not going to achieve the women’s statement directed affectionately at Rugby lads … “What’s he like?!”

  Bow Street Runners were tall policemen (here we go again), in my first production, Oliver (for a change), I ended up playing one … after shouting, screaming and holding my breath until that nice Mr Marcus relented. BUT only after I’d agreed to try and get him fixed up with a certain male … oh never mind. The audience laughed when I went on to do my part, because I have such … comedy timing or, possibly because the trousers were far, far too long (20” leg) rather baggy (possibly fashionable now amongst young attitudinal muggers and car thieves) and, my partner in crime fighting, was a six foot odd (very) Cooperman, but, I did it, anything for a prat, sorry part. Oliver has a dog actor, Bullseye, named thus because of his black eye, belongs to the villain Bill Sykes (he was played by, in my opinion, a brilliant amateur actor, Kevin McNally). The non-equity dog had a white head, no one could get near him with make-up so he was put in a crate with Fireblade Jackaljaw for ten minutes … Bingo! Our accompanist and a marvellous friend to me, Betty Newton, was a natural genius when it came to playing the piano and second to none when it came to sight reading (i.e. playing straight from a strange piece of music). One dress rehearsal, a fly came into the room after doing overtime on a shaw kite pizza. Luckily Arthur Ferguson didn’t see it, cos it would have been pursued around the field with a fly swatter, the little thief. It landed on her score and rid itself of some ballast. Betty just played the new notes without missing a beat, breaking into a short and surprisingly acceptable version of the minute waltz by B. Bottle, the unintentional Chopin of the insect world. There again, maybe he was actually insectspired?

  M’lud: “Mr Lassut, another one like that and I will lock you up”.

  Understood M’lud.

  Frank Eccles, an actual author of seafaring books, once playing Clint Eastwood’s part in Paint Your Wagon, (whilst looking like his dad) completely muffed the words of his song and said “I do beg your pardon but isn’t this supposed to be I Talk to the Trees?” That ruined it, I was enjoying the waltz, later in a dress rehearsal Frank forgot his lines, couldn’t hear the prompt correctly and again said his favourite phrase … “I’m sorry, I do beg your pardon”, in his extremely posh accent. Hilarious!

  It frightens the cast because:-

  He’s an ex-Headmaster who taught their kids and they all think he will do it on the night … I hoped he would. He did however start talking to trees … sort of. He would get into the habit of reading one of his own unauthorised and controversial seafaring books after several pints in the Harbour Hotel, to the apple tree in his garden. In response the tree attempted to throw apples at him. Frank though, being an ex-teacher and therefore far too clever for the tree by a long shot, sat just outside the canopy. He would never have discovered gravity, which is why it was done a couple of hundred years previous. If it had of been left up to Frank we all would be wondering just WHY that toast falls, butter side down being the mere afterthought, thus destroying the mystery of the …”Why me?” type of bad luck.

  The “I can, do and will play anyone”, simply because he is a chameleonic actor is Colin MacDonald, husband to Jonquil. In the production of the King and I which, as I’ve mentioned, is performed often-often-often, that often he tends to wear the costume all the time to save changing and, the audience acted as prompts which was really useful. I suppose the Millom MAOS audience were years ahead of “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire”. They had “ask the audience” without actually asking …

  Colin: “Yes … erm … erm … erm … damn!”

  Audience: “Miss Annnnnnaaa!!”

  Colin: “Yes Miss Anna!”

  Rapturous applause!!!!

  Anna: “erm … erm …”

  Colin played Yul Brynner brilliantly. There was one hitch though he wouldn’t shave his head, not even for Sweet Charity! Ha! Ha!

  To combat this, Peg and Freddie went a calling on Millom Football Club (their women don’t have facial hair and neither do they) and permanently borrowed a football. Colin cut it in half and placed one half of it over his head. This would have been fine except he didn’t turn it inside out first. ITRE, across the forehead does not fit in with the image of the King of Siam. It would have been better being given a ball with HEAD written o
n it. At least that would have been a useful instruction to some of the Millom audience … probably!

  My pal, the late Betty Hughes, was the tea lady. Boy! Could she brew a pot with the use of the water boiler. The boiler was a fantastic contraption straight from one of Disney’s mad professor films. Shaw kite burner underneath and more pipes than the Reverend’s organ. She would always have an affectionate go at me when I always complained about the temperature of the brew, which would really have made a hot geyser appear lukewarm. She was actually a consultant to George Stephenson, believe it or not! She would always be saying to me … “Oooooh you cheeky bugger … it’s no wonder your mother tried to swap you with Brick!” That almost led to me having several weeks of cheap therapy with Poggy. Make-up was fun, except that the more the men put on the more unfriendly David Marcus became with them? AND …

  Why is it that everywhere else in Millom has kite methane heating to some degree, or wood fires, or coal fires, or Uranium?! Shhhhhsh! Yet the male changing room was/is beyond freezing? The women’s changing room was of COURSE a palace! Romantically lit: crystal chandeliers, highlighting creamy oooh bar ooooh curves ooooh which shamed the bowling green into a close second. Chandeliers and ACME production line Church candles, courtesy of the Rev … 12 gold teeth. Yes, the ladies changing room was cosily warm (that early morning bed feeling) … or maybe it was simply their personalities? (Naaaa!) There was, still is, Maureen Wilson, nothing in Hollywood could match Maureen (except one of those actresses Chihuahua’s on therapy?), she was a straight comedienne who made Buster K look like Togo on Prozac.

  .

  I was brilliant; Maureen … so, so.

  Myself and the NOW famous Maureen Wilson in panto as Hirem and Firem (she died a few years back), Notice if you will the even shaw kite lighting. Maureen is actually saying … “Tell me my next line punk or I’ll crack you one!” … Charming!