Wednesday 4 February 2015

REVIEW: Anything Goes (tour) at the New Wimbledon Theatre


Monday 2nd February 2015. Rating: ****

For those not familiar with Anything Goes the musical, summing up this Cole Porter classic in a sentence is easy: Farce, failed gangsters and tap-dancing sailors. Directed by Daniel Evans, this adaptation provides a heady mixture of all three. The trouble is, there’s not much more to it than that- though this is largely more a reflection of the old-time musical than of the production itself.

Though the comedy certainly picked up for Act 2, there was something slightly clunky about the first act. Richard Kent’s clever upended cruise ship set provided an effective and adaptable backdrop for all scenes and the rippling swimming pool at its centre was a stroke of pure genius. 

However, the cast at times appeared to be treading a perilous gangplank. They often appeared unsure of how far to take the farce, whether to play things straight or fully embrace potential moments of comedic value. This resulted in a tendency to, and no pun intended, occasionally go overboard. 

Hugh Sachs was a prominent example of this with his tentative Moonface Martin and took a while to warm to his role. Fortunately, he morphed into a deliciously camp figure throughout Act 2, and his pan-faced rendition of Be Like The Bluebird left audience members tittering.

Leading man Matt Rawle portrayed a cheeky Billy Crocker, albeit slightly too smooth to be believable as the hapless lovestruck stockbroker. Whilst easy to watch and entertaining, he was outshone in every way by Debbie Kurup, who oozed sex appeal and brought a fresh and modern edge to the role of evangelist Reno Sweeney. Her performance was tinged with just the right amount of irony needed to breathe life into this old-time tale, and she showed an impressive stage presence during Blow, Gabriel, Blow.

Alongside Kurup, Stephen Matthews provided a dose of that much-needed farce in his brilliantly comic portrayal of Lord Evelyn Oakleigh. Pompous, naive and fun, he and Alex Young as a breathy and flirtatious Erma both showed that it’s not only the main roles who are able to dominate the stage.

And this was true of the entire production. It was impossible not to tap along to the classic 1930s songs, which have lost none of their appeal. Timeless numbers such as I Get A Kick Out Of You and of course the musical’s title song were executed with flair, and Alistair David’s ensemble choreography was a treat. 

In fact, with the exception of Debbie Kurup’s powerful numbers, the cast were at their best in unison. It wasn’t just a row of identical sailors, impossible to tell one from the other. Each had a personality of his own, an extra touch which added life to the overall production- and the iconic tap-dancing did not disappoint. A delicious, delightful and de-lovely evening.

Wednesday 28 January 2015

Writing about writing


It’s Wednesday morning and I’m sitting on my bed at 7.30am, fully dressed. No, I haven’t experienced a time warp. It’s part of my new routine; write before work at least once a week, keep the old fingers tapping over. It’s a funny thing, writing. Enjoyable, challenging, always subjective. But I’ll tell you what- as I look through old documents on my computer, I really have written some corkers over the years. Not, as you’ll shortly discover, in a good way.

Firstly, I draw your attention to a file called ‘Regret, by Ella Dove.’ Now, on first sight, this appears to be a ghastly teenage poem, full of the angst and woe that, thankfully, I never actually experienced as a child. I distinctly remember writing a poem about heartbreak and trying to rhyme ‘break’ with the ‘stake’ that I felt had been plunged deeply into my chest. I was about 14 at the time, so the most that had happened was a boy on the bus had made fun of my hair. I probably didn’t even know his name.

But ‘Regret’ turned out to be something else entirely. It was a piece written for my Open University course when I was 17 (yes, I know, had to get that in there...). Essentially, it was Anne Frank, except that it was a grown man hiding in the loft in wait for his ex-wife. That’s what Point Horror and Jacqueline Wilson does to you.

But let’s go further back into my childhood. Allow me to take you on a journey, old chum. Of course, these are ‘masterpieces’ that aren’t on my computer, but they’re so engrained into my memory (and that of my parents) that I could probably recite a lot of them straight off. From the Brussels sprouts that came alive and chased poor little Mikey down the road while his parents were out shopping to the hamster who fell into a post-box and ended up travelling the world, reading back these early stories often makes me question my sanity.

At school, it seems I favoured poetry above all else, which made for some wholly inappropriate rhyming, this RE project being a prime example...

Transubstantiation,
The Catholics believe,
Wine- blood, and bread- His body,
As they worship Him with ease.

Somehow, I’ve managed to sum up the whole of Catholicism and massively insult anyone having a crisis of faith. And that was just one stanza.

Indeed, no academic subject was safe. I refer you to the poem I wrote at the start of secondary school about Salmonella. To provide a bit of background, we were asked to do some research. Mind maps, diagrams, perhaps the odd pie chart for those blessed with the power of Excel. But I was not a fan of graphs. I didn’t fancy a straightforward fact sheet either. Oh, no. No prizes for guessing how I chose to present my research...

Salmonella, he’s a nasty little fella,
He gets in your food,
Which is very rude....

And so it continued; my own little form of rebellion. The poor, poor teachers. No wonder I wasn’t in Set 1 for maths- I probably would have turned my algebra into a sonnet. Let’s not even talk about the time I turned my speech for House Leader into a geeky version of Rihanna’s Umbrella...

I’m prepared for all the things,
That being house leader brings,
Chess, debating, science quiz,
Our house will be the biz

Still, it worked, I suppose. As the keen blog followers amongst you will know from previous entries, I still rhyme- and surely that's not a crime?

Thursday 15 January 2015

REVIEW: The Railway Children at the Kings Cross Theatre


Wednesday 14th January 2015 at 7pm.

Howling gales, torrential rain and BBC Outnumbered’s Tyger Drew-Honey in a garish tartan suit were what greeted me as I approached the Kings Cross Theatre for Mike Kenny and Damian Cruden’s production of The Railway Children. Not, I’m sure you’ll agree, wholly suitable conditions for sitting in a purpose-built theatre tent and watching two hours and twenty minutes of E. Nesbit’s classic tale.

The lighting rigs jiggled, the wind whistled through the canvas roof, there were plenty of suspicious noises loud enough for me to grip my seat and wonder whether the whole jolly ensemble might perhaps crumple on top of its anxious-seeming audience at any given moment.

Yet if one word could describe the theatrical experience, it would be professional. As raindrops  that felt like boulders pummelled above us and hyperbolic journalists scribbled frenziedly into notebooks (!), not one of the cast faltered in their enthusiasm, dedication and professionalism. I wish I could say the same for Tyger.
Stepping into the foyer, audience members were immediately transported into an Edwardian station’s waiting room. The attention to detail was remarkable, from the miscellaneous suitcases dotted around the floor, to the ‘refreshment room’ (otherwise known as a bar) and cast in period costume milling around and exchanging pleasantries with passers-by. It even smelt like a station; that damp, slightly musty odour reminiscent of school dinner kitchens and old umbrellas- though perhaps that was just the rain.

 Either way, I was impressed, and when a crackly tannoy announced that the train would be departing in two minutes, we all hurried to our respective platforms, one or two depending on which side of the traverse staging we were seated, everyone thoroughly caught up in the experience.

The set itself did not disappoint. Joanna Scotcher’s clever design consisted of a train track with moveable wooden stages, pushed into the centre by a group of lads with sooty faces and boiler suits. There was plenty of sound, plenty of bustle and plenty of steam. The real 60-tonne steam train loaned from the National Railway Museum stole the show, delighting adults and children alike when it chugged in before the interval and for the finale- a genius addition.

Indeed, ‘adults and children alike’ is a most appropriate description, and captures the essence of this production perfectly. Whilst full of subtle comment and wit, the clever script was such that it also managed to hold the younger audience members captive, their eyes wide and faces glued to the stage throughout, barely a fidget in sight.

Narrated through the eyes of an older Bobbie (Serena Manteghi), Peter (Jack Hardwick) and Phyllis (Louise Calf), the tale is told backwards, and from the beginning, there are no illusions about it being a play. The audience are told at points to use their imaginations, and notably, before the interval, a cheeky Calf instructs them to ‘go and get an ice cream or something while we clear all this up.’

Calf, it must be said, glows with just the right amount of childish exuberance. Though sceptical about her pouting and baby-like mannerisms at the start, I found myself watching her expressions closely, sometimes to the detriment of her fellow ‘railway children.’ Whilst Hardwick offered a consistent level of only-boy angst and protective gestures, Manteghi comes across as slightly too pompous for Bobbie, a performance which had plenty of gumption but didn’t always yield sufficient warmth. That said, the three work beautifully together, pulling off the feat of portraying children whilst seamlessly stepping out of their roles to deliver plot and commentary.

Caroline Harker delivers a strong and believable performance as Mother, whilst Downton favourite Jeremy Swift is charming in the role of kindly station master, Mr Perks. His Northern accent, it has to be said, is wholly convincing throughout.

The ensemble work together in a flawlessly smooth manner, with no visible mishaps or clunky set changes at all. The children in the cast must be particularly commended for their professionalism; often faced with lengthy scenes and few (if any) lines, they remained focussed and in character, a sign of brilliant direction on Cruden’s part. Not one smiled sneakily at a parent or called out ‘Daddy, my daddy’... Oh, wait.


It was with rapturous praise that the audience left the auditorium. All seemed highly impressed, except Tyger, of course, who was much keener on squeezing his lady friend’s buttocks. 

Monday 12 January 2015

Ode to Woman's Weekly

So as it turns out, I'm a poet (and I don't know it). I won't crowd this blog entirely with rhyming couplets and verse (otherwise you might... curse?). Anyway, this one's for my beloved Woman's Weekly, as requested by a colleague recently...

Woman’s Weekly, what a mag,
It really is such fun,
The departments beavering away,
There’s something for everyone.

All the knitters sitting round,
Their needles loudly clacking,
Yarn balls rolling, patterns galore,
Creating things- and yakking!

Lifestyle and home, they do their stuff,
Desks piled high with card,
They craft, they sew, they choose designs,
Their hands all working hard.

In features too it’s go go go,
Celebs- stage and TV,
Are waiting for us on the line,
To talk about cups of tea!

The fiction team, they sit behind
With expert eyes they look,
For new writers, so to find,
The next serial or book.

Up in the kitchen it smells divine,
The cookery pros are baking,
They bring down trays, we all delight,
In goodies for the taking.

And ‘well, why not?’ we ask ourselves,
With few airs, cares or graces,
We’re focusing, we need a treat,
It’s time to stuff our faces!

Yes Woman’s Weekly, what a place,
All kinds of laughs we have,
Each day we’re writing with a smile,
Your favourite little mag!

Tuesday 23 December 2014

Twas Two Days Before Christmas...

Last Christmas, a parody round robin. This year, some silly verse.

Twas two days before Christmas,
And all through the house,
The Doves were a-prepping,
Turkey, puddings and sprouts.
The rooms were all buzzing,
As the relatives arrived,
All of them cursing,
The long busy drive.
In rolled the cases,
In rolled the sacks,
Out came the slippers,
The chatter and snacks.
Everyone shouting,
Keen to be heard,
All kings of the cooking,
As they rolled, chopped and stirred.
Granny was stuffing,
The turkey for eight,
Her sleeves were rolled upwards,
Her hands in a state.
The windows were steamy,
The heating full blast,
The voices, some strained,
Were content with their tasks.
The children were choosing,
The frozen bird’s name,
They settled on Terence,
In the seasonal game.
Daddy was outside,
Stringing the lights,
‘Better than the neighbours,''
‘They’ve only used white.’
The inflatable Santa,
Once 6 ft but sagging,
Waved from the front lawn,
His arms slightly dragging.
While Mummy at the front door,
Rolling her eyes,
Cast an unimpressed glance,
At his masking taped thighs.
The street’s tasteful twinkling,
All families inside,
Yet our lights were blazing,
Like a Disneyland ride.
Indoors was Grandpa,
In his usual position,
Racing Uncle Andy,
(The Scalextric was tradition).
Auntie watches sipping snowball,
Wearing pink fluffy boots,
 ‘I’ve won!’ shouts Grandpa,
 ‘3-0 now,’ he hoots.
Mummy calls us for dinner,
In her red festive pinny,
‘Salmon’s on the table,’
She shouts, ‘you great ninny.’
As the family then gather,
As the table is laid,
The stress all dies down,
The peace is all made.
The Doves begin Christmas,
With a smile and a snicker,
Merry Christmas to all,

And to all a good bicker!

Sunday 24 August 2014

A stitch in time

So, I’ve started knitting. Did I ever tell you my Granny has won prizes for her knitting? Perhaps I’ll do the same one day. Follow in her footsteps and produce a masterpiece so beautiful, so intricate, that it’s worthy not only of a Waterstones book voucher or a box of Malteasers but perhaps of its own cabinet at the V&A. For the record, I have no idea exactly what she won, but let’s face it, it’s unlikely that my creations will turn heads. Since starting work at Woman’s Weekly, I’ve made two cats, a pig and a steadily-growing strip of bunting. I’m proud of them all for varying reasons, the main one being this: I am far from a born crafter. Don’t believe me? I think I need to set the scene a little more.


Returning home from primary school with doodles of teachers and tissue paper collages, I was frequently told by my parents that I was the most artistic member of our immediate family. Given that my younger sister, now aged 21, still draws pigs the way I taught her aged 11, this is hardly surprising (sorry Althea...). So as a result of such misleading encouragement, I grew up with a somewhat inflated view of my artistic abilities. Every time I presented relatives with a hand-drawn thank you card, there were coos of gratitude. Every time I attempted a still life vase of flowers, my dubious watercolour was dutifully put on the fridge. Every time I used the miniature paintbox from a Christmas cracker to produce reindeer that looked like dogs or stick-man portraits of family members, they were received with beaming smiles. I’d also like to point out that this third event happened only last year.

So it will come as no surprise that secondary school was something of a rude awakening. I mean, it didn’t start off too badly. Regardless of the attainment grade (we won’t go there), I always received ‘A’ for effort and my parents displayed my full-sized paper-mache chicken with pride on the kitchen shelf. However, as the years marched on, the criticism became harsher. I say harsher, when perhaps I should say more realistic. My year eight ‘African jewellery’ that consisted of a single bead threaded onto some manky ribbon was met with raised eyebrows by a rather formidable teacher, whilst the sketch of my left hand holding a pencil merited a comment which has since become legendary among my friends: ‘C. It looked better last week before you painted it’. And the time I got an AA for my innovative sewing machine skills when I simply tie-dyed a Tesco t-shirt? I put that purely down to a dippy Textiles teacher who, when she wasn’t floating around in her loose-fitting kaftans, spent most of her time hiding in the materials cupboard.

But knitting, well, that’s a different skill entirely. Like many little girls, my granny taught me to make a scarf for my teddy bear, but I very quickly grew tired of the pastime, moving on after the thirteenth dropped stitch to bigger, more exciting things like turning the living room into a dog rescue centre. When the knitting craze swept through secondary school, I watched friends and peers with balls of wool in their trademark Jane Norman bags, yet brushed off any encouragement to have a go, preferring to busy myself playing Neopets in the library or writing the next school assembly.

And then, Woman’s Weekly changed my life. A bold statement, I hear you cry, but it’s not entirely inaccurate. Of course, I adored my job, but when the weekly makes and beautiful knitting patterns were displayed in conference, I couldn’t help feeling mildly unworthy. Why couldn’t I make novelty fruit and veg or turn my hand to a knitted Usain Bolt? Clearly, my fingers just weren’t quite fast enough.

When I was first invited to the Friday knitting club, I was skeptical to say the least. Well, not so much skeptical as embarrassed. Despite my granny’s teachings, I knew I’d have to start from scratch, but luckily for me (and with some very patient tuition!) I picked it up again much more quickly than I’d first anticipated. It wasn’t long until I was knitting on the train, in front of the TV, even on one occasion in the theatre, although when the house lights went down, I struggled significantly with my purl row. Safe to say, I was hooked. An addiction had unravelled.


As I sit with my ninth piece of bunting half-finished on my lap, I reflect on the days of sticky art tables and dyed orange fingers (the top marks Tesco project wasn’t without risk), I realise that this is perhaps the closest thing to crafty I’ve ever been in my life. Stuffed animals, bunting... What’s next for this intrepid knitting enthusiast? The other day, I found myself excited about a knitted cactus! And as I chat patterns with my granny and contemplate whether or not I’m capable of making myself a jumper without mismatching arm lengths and unintentional holes passed off as deliberate design decisions, I can’t help thinking one thing, and one thing only: I’ve been well and truly Woman’s Weekly-fied!

Tuesday 3 June 2014

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner...?

Perhaps my daily commute to the Big Smoke is why my absence from this blog has been so uncharacteristically prolonged. But then again, perhaps not. I like to leave you guessing.

There is, however, a distinct element of truth to say that ‘Londoners’, if I can call them that when the vast majority appear to live at Bromley South, scarcely seem to have the hours to breathe. There’s no time to pause, no time to engage in any kind of meaningful dialogue with meandering tourists save the odd point and directional nod, no time to languish over lunches as they check their watches in the queue at Prêt à Manger, and certainly no time to be scrutinised for my own observational purposes. Pity, really, as these people are such a rare breed of human being. Their character and diversity astounds me every day.

Casting all that aside, I’m going to give it a go anyway. And why not, indeed? Those folk from Pompey who sit on trains for hours at a time to earn the gloried name of City Workers, those eager young graduates with a standard 2.1 and a dive of a flat in Clapham, those bigshot Suits who take the Waterloo And City line just to prove a point...they’re all classed as Londoners nowadays. Heck, I’m one of them. I spend two hours a day commuting from a rural Kentish village. I pass the evenings in ‘quirky’ pubs and pop-up restaurants checking the National Rail app on my phone. I still live with my parents. The fact that I aim to move to Zone 2 or 3 within a few months is neither here nor there. I, my friends, am a Londoner with the best of them.

The question is, which category do I fit in to? I’m a ‘yo-pro’ of sorts, granted (for those of you who don’t know, that’s ‘young professional’, where have you been?), but as a trainee journalist I’m not quite at the dizzying heights of a 25-30k grad scheme, nor do I wear, nor indeed own, a trouser suit. The very thought of such a garment makes me feel queasy. I’ve got nothing in particular against Clapham as a location, but I like to think I’m at least a little different to the ranks of barely pubescent graduates on Boris bikes who navigate the traffic in their hi-vis waistcoats each morning, Starbucks card in wallet, trainers at the bottom of suits and a roll up towel in their briefcases; cardboard cut-outs of a London business ideal.

Does that make me a ‘hipster’? Well, I do like East London. What I don’t like are sunglasses in winter and mismatching socks on show over brogues. I don’t care if they were sold as a set at your local vintage flea market, go out and regulate the colour scheme of your footwear like everyone else.
So where else do I belong then? North is for students, and South is mostly Made In Chelsea. Then there are the people who claim they live in ‘South-East London’, when actually they mean Bexley. If we’re going down that route I may aswell claim that Maidstone is London. Why on earth the Oyster card only works up to St Mary Cray, I’ll never understand, darling. It surely can’t be because I live in Kent? Oh, no. Perish the thought.


I suppose, then, that I’m just your bog-standard commuter for now. Those that come from a non-descript suburb and brave the wartime conditions of First Capital Connect trains on a daily basis in order to achieve that idealistic but often completely unsatisfying town-country balance. In some ways, these people are the worst. They want the best of both worlds, yet are the first to complain when their meticulous routine goes wrong. ‘Electricity Faults’, ‘Tree On The Line’ and ‘Excess Moisture On Rail Tracks’ are all regular crises. ‘But it’s so lovely,’ they cry when confronted. ‘I can spend my weekends by the sea.’ 

Buy a beach-hut down Margate then, love, and don’t moan about the Tube.