I was in Derby market, sitting down for a cup of tea when I Iooked up at the walls. To my surprise and delight, they were covered in framed posters of wrestling bouts at the Derby Assembly Rooms in the 1970’s. It took me back to the days of World of Sport, Dickie Davies, Saturday afternoons, 4pm. The names came flooding back; Mick McManus, Big Daddy, Giant Haystacks, Jackie Pallo and Kendo Nagasaki. They were household names, and they came into your living room every Saturday afternoon.
My Dad was normally a reserved man. But at 4pm he would be like a man possessed as we watched the good guys beat the bad guys, the cheats try it on, until justice was done. You could smell the sweat. As a child it didn’t seem fixed, and to the ringside live audience it was real, with middle aged women happy to dish out some restorative justice with their handbags or brollies if any of the villains happened to tumble out of the ring. My younger brother was four years my junior, and I always used to re-enact the greatest moments on the living room floor, with me winning.
Big Daddy, Shirley Crabtree, was the big draw. He seemed old, He really only had one move, “the splash”, but that was invariably all it took to flatten, literally, an opponent. Giant Haystacks was his some tie arch rival, some time tag team partner, but he was so big that I never saw a serious contender to take him on- apart from Big Daddy.
Kendo Nagasaki, was my favourite, a masked man, supposedly from Japan, but really from Stoke. Every week you knew that his opponent would try to unmask him, and every week they would fail.
Bobby Barnes and Adrian Street had a gay act, and would frequently be pitched against Catweasel who would become outraged when they tried to touch him up.
Mick McManus was the Chief Baddy, a pantomime villain whose appearance was the highlight of every week. I miss him. Saturday afternoons have never been the same.
The Final Fall
That moment when he was counted out, forever
When neither bell chime,
Nor wet towel ,
Could raise his life on the canvas, it was time.
Not just for him, but for an era.
The wrestling holds he taught, on each World of Sport, were broken
No more,
And I paused smiled and stopped
Just like I did at four o’clock,
Every Saturday afternoon.
From New Cross, he made grannies irate,
At their Saturday date, by the ringside or fireside,
Their handbags close, and heavily packed, just in case they had to act,
Trusty possessions, to avenge any of Mick’s minor transgressions.
Trumpet fanfare, Dickie Davies’ grin
Then let battle begin.
Who would win was decided in advance
It was not chance
But pre-ordained fate
On our Saturday date
With Giant Haystacks and big Daddy
I’d watch it, with my dad and brother ,on ITV.
The bad guy, slippery and sly
A pantomime villain not as bad as he was painted
As he grappled and feignted
In his battles with Jackie Pallo who knew his worst fears
Mick pleaded with the ref “Not my ears not my ears”
Relishing the crowds anger and hate
On our Saturday date
Even after 92 years
You can still hear the cheers
The battles the hopes
I was a punk fan. I was also a music fan. As punk splintered into New Wave, which in turn spawned the New Romantic movement, Spandau Ballet stood out alongside Duran Duran. They were cool, they looked different, borrowing the make-up and androgynous mores of Glam and Bowie. They also had some good, strong, danceable songs. On a Mother’s Day Sunday evening, I was not the only one to treat a mum to an evening with her eighties heartthrob ( Martin, not me, obviously).
The NME Cover that launched a lifetime of success
The cool, hip, phase was quite fleeting, no more than the first two albums, but it was enough to establish them before they found a commercial pop groove which defined their success. Tony Hadley was the voice of the band, Gary Kemp the song smith. As his brother Martin talked about his career he admitted to not being the best bass player, but instead wanting to be in the band, for which the only available place was bass player. It characterised his self- effacing style. What was apparent as the evening wore on was his clear vision for, and understanding of, success.
Relaxed, assured, and confident
Puling around 300 people simply to hear you talk at £25 a head is a measure of that success. Martin walked onto the set of “Two”, a bar, to be interview by a local DJ, but we could easily have been in the bar at the Queen Vic. Relaxed, assured and confident. He commanded the stage from the start to take us on a trip down memory lane. His childhood, the Spandau years, and East Enders was familiar territory, but his anecdotes about the making of the Krays film, then his personal battles with brain tumours ratcheted up the content from the routine to the extraordinary.
The “Krays” with “mum” – Billie Whitelaw
Inevitably the first half of around three quarters of an hour was scripted and prepared, and not the worse for that. The second half was questions from the audience, a format that can go wrong if the performer is not fleet of foot, and if the questions clunk and grate. Fortunately neither eventuality was realised. Apart from the selfie and hug requests from the predominantly female audience, the questions were interesting, the response direct and full. We did squeeze out of him that a replacement vocalist for Spandau had been identified, but not yet announced.
Phil Mitchell probably offering to “sort it” for Steve Owen
Despite the bitter internal feuding and court case on song writing royalties, which Gary won, Martin was surprisingly generous towards the other band members including Hadley. No-one present could not help but be won over by his easy manner, and fluid stories. The two hours, including interval flew by. A show with no frills, props or music could have left him exposed, instead it revealed a genuinely engaging man, with some good tales to tell.
Brothers in arms in Spandau Ballet
There was so much more I would have liked to have heard about his friendship with George Michael, and there was zero title tattle from East Enders, nor was there any explanation as to the rapprochement between Gary and the other band members bar Tony Hadley such that they were able to tour again together ( I suspect a probable seven figure pay cheque helped). Yet therein lies Martins skill, discrete, yet open, warm, but not naïve. An evening I can recommend for all music fans , East Enders fans and Krays fans.
Another time, another place. At its peak, in the 70’s, it could sell as many as a quarter of a million copies an edition. The Guardian and the FT would be pleased with that today. This Friday will be its last ever print edition, a free sheet. In the end they could not give it away.
I first became aware of the music press triumvirate in the early 1970’s. Melody Maker (MM) dominated as the voice of the music establishment, founded in 1926. Sounds was born as the difficult sibling in 1970 championing Prog Rock, in 1952 NME was founded as the first UK music paper to include a singles chart reflecting Billboard’s success in the USA. Record Mirror and Disc brought up the sales rear totalling five weekly popular music papers.
This was a time when Top of the Pops, and Radio One ruled. There were only four TV stations and every teenager was watching TOTP’s on a Thursday night devouring the chart sounds. The Old Grey Whistle Test launched on BBC2 in 1971 to reflect the broader pop scene, but its late evening slot was beyond the bedtimes of most schoolchildren, and too niche to pull older teenagers from the pub. The music scene was burgeoning with talent and interest, the mainstream media had neither the space, nor interest, to capitalise on it.
In those first years of the 1970’s, I read the MM as the bible of popular music. But there was a problem. It was boring. It also felt like an old hippy paper. As prog rock bit, so the self-indulgence of MMs writing became bloated. Jazz was still covered, the technical prowess of the likes of Yes, Mike Oldfield, Pink Floyd and their ilk revered. It was not what a young teenager wanted to read. For me, Bowie was when the pendulum swung forever. MM covered Ziggy, but NME understood it, and their coverage of Bowie’s Wembley concerts in 76 was superb. NME was as burdened by the rock monolith as MM but was the first to recognise it. In 1972 , in the face of declining sales, and closure, a new editor , deputy editor and writers were brought in. They quadrupled sales.
NME staff writers were rock stars in their own right. Frank Zappa famously argued “Rock journalism is people who can’t write, interviewing people who can’t talk, in order to provide articles for people who can’t read”, but the new wave of British music journalists in the 1970s changed all of that. Alan Smith and Nick Logan recruited the cream of the underground press, Nick Kent, Charles Shaar Murray, Tony Tyler, Chrissie Hynde and Ian McDonald followed by enfants terrible Tony Parsons and Julie Burchill as punk broke. Mick Farren, Danny Baker and Paul Morley also contributed to a formidable writing roster.
Chrissie Hynde and Nick Kent compete for most beautiful human being
It was exciting. It was hip. Although initially not in the vanguard of punk, it understood that the first phase of rock was over. Its influence is impossible to overstate. If you wanted to know who was playing anywhere in the UK, news of new tours, band break ups, band reunions, record releases and gossip, NME had it every week. It was an essential weekly purchase. The writing was terrific for a time, with the writers strapped to the pulse of what was happening, and an esoteric vocabulary I still use today. In the end the writing did eat itself. Reviews that did not mention the artist or songs, but were instead a platform for the journalist, became a quirky badge of honour. But we loved them for it.
It was also political; anti- fascist, pro Anti -Nazi league and Rock Against Racism, socialist by nature, anti- nuke, pro- Greenham Common protests. It mattered to teenagers. I learned about new bands from them. I certainly saw live acts simply on their recommendation, I bought, and didn’t buy, singles and albums on the basis of their imprimatur. The Clash and the Slits were in, the Kursaal Flyers were not.
Punk / New wave was perfect for them. The sheer volume of new acts and new releases meant that an informed opinion was vital – and for a time, NME was that vehicle. Of course it couldn’t last and with the New Romantics came The Face , Smash Hits, and MTV carving out space, together with the tabloids and broadsheets increasingly giving editorial , review and gig news room in their publications. Their stylistic and factual hegemony on popular music was at an end.
It did have subsequent flurries, most notably with Brit pop, but the landscape had changed irrevocably, the glories of the 70’s would never return. Sixty-six years is a good run for any publication. It has had a good run. The cycle is over, the wheel has turned, but the impression it has left on the fortunes of pop culture endures.
Playwright Jim Cartwright created this little theatrical gem in 1989, almost thirty years on, he was in the audience to see how it was faring, and no doubt to personally check the bums on seats versus the royalty payments!
Jim Cartwright
Jim Cartwright’s message to actor Sean McKenzie after the performance
It has been performed professionally, and by amateur theatre, ever since. It is to actors, what the Olympic Decathlon is to athletes, and what Everest is to climbers. It requires two actors to assume fourteen different characters, as a night in a pub unfolds. As such it is hugely demanding of, and wholly dependent upon, the skills of the two actors who take the parts of, initially, the pub landlord and his wife, and then a succession of strangely familiar pub regulars. In this production Sean McKenzie and Jo Mousley assume those roles.
Sean McKenzie and Jo Mousley
As a veteran of pubs in that era I can confirm the authenticity of the bar room set, accurate and atmospheric. It provided the perfect visual backdrop. But for this production it was more than a backdrop, with seats being sold in the bar itself onstage. I was fortunate to have one such seat as close to the action as it was possible to get, and on occasion was part of it, as the actors ad-libbed around their customers.
McKenzie and Mousley are both superb. Neither tries to outdo the other, instead complementing each other wonderfully for the greater good. They bookend the production as landlord and landlady. Between, we are treated to a whirlwind of character, costume, accent, and age changes, as various pub characters reveal themselves. Cartwright is strong on dialogue, but the inevitably brief appearances of the characters mean that the actors have to throw their all into the physicality, as well as the spirit, of their roles. They do.
Jo Mousley
The creative inspiration for this production is Sarah Brigham, the Director, Julia Thomas. The decision to make the audience part of the production by having them on stage with a working bar serving specially brewed Dancing Duck ale from the eponymous local brewery is a masterstroke, creating an immediate intimacy. Although set in the 1980’s, and with an eighties soundtrack, what struck me was how contemporary the people felt. This was no period nostalgia piece. The temptation to pump up the 1980’s songs at every opportunity is wisely eschewed in favour of the real stars, McKenzie and Mousley, playing out their craft. Superficially, the play is a series of comic-tragic vignettes, stitched together by the same actors. But as the drama unfolds, it becomes apparent that we are not watching a smorgasbord of random incidents, but instead neatly sliced portions of the universal human experience.
Sean McKenzie
There was so much to enjoy that it seems invidious to choose highlights, yet it would be remiss not to mention McKenzie’s terrific old man, whose weary, laconic demeanour and creaking movement competed with every word he spoke, or Mousley’s heart -warming, chirpy, “liver bird”. Because of the onerous demands upon the two actors, this play is much loved by drama schools, because of the small cast it is much loved by amateur companies. Yet it is a fiendishly difficult piece to pull off well. Clunky physical, and character, shifts can destroy a production. However here, the opportunities are seized, the pitfalls side-stepped, for what is the best production of “Two” I have ever seen.
On set. And Jo Mousley liked my jumper!
The incendiary, visceral, denouement in the final fifteen minutes is outstanding, as the tragic secret past of the couple is revealed drawing deserved cheers and enthusiastic applause at the end. “Two” runs until Sat 24th March, if you can, book a stage seat to enhance your enjoyment of the evening to the maximum.
Gary Longden
When this song was released I was a teenage boy. Apart from a magnificent bust, there was nothing about Dolly Parton that interested me. There are not many good things about growing older, but one of them is the ability to reassess songs of the past which have already been distilled through time’s harsh filter. “Jolene” is one of those songs.
The premise for the song is pure country, and not to be found normally in pop and rock. It is the tale of an ordinary woman who fears her husband is obsessed with a prettier rival, who will take her man “just because (she) can”. Parton claims that the idea was based on a true experience, an attractive bank teller who flirted with her husband when he called in. At two minutes forty- two seconds it is an astonishing recording.
Sung beautifully, the lyric is perfect, with easy, seductive rhymes and an insistent rhythm which suggests an inevitability that she will lose her man – but she is imploring Jolene to spare her the anguish of that outcome. It is a fabulous song for a woman to sing because it is awash with emotion; jealousy, despair, love, fear, hope, envy and agony. She does not do her rival down, instead, she laments her own perceived inferiority.
Widely covered, but never bettered, most new singers manage to extract something new from the song. Parton also likes to duet on it, sometimes with god daughter Miley Cyrus. But once again, she is always the boss in the singing stakes. I am not a fan of the bulk of American C&W which I find generally maudlin, introspective, deeply conservative, and irritating. But at its best, it celebrates the best of the Folk tradition. “Jolene” is just such a song.
***
This afternoon’s performance was the end of a series of previews prior to a nationwide tour. A one woman show, it has been made in conjunction with the Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust. Louise White is the performer, writer, and producer of the show and describes herself as a theatrician. Its marketing of content is a little ambiguous, but its 7+ recommended target age positions itself as show suitable for primary school age children.
I took along a seven and five year old, the audience child range was five to nine years.
Performed in The Studio, it offered a basic single set, backcloth to project images on and a portable porthole, this morphed from ocean, to sea bed to scientific laboratory. The plot embraces some simple themes. The ecological threat posed by plastic in our seas. Overcoming personal phobias, in this case a marine biologists’ fear of the sea! And the importance of having the courage to follow your dreams.
One person shows are tiring, and demanding, upon the performer. Louise tackled her task with energy, enthusiasm, commitment and a smile. A short presentation at the end from a representative of the Lincolnshire Wildlife Trust underscored the ecological message, explained the good fortune and serendipity that David Attenborough’s Blue Planet had chosen to feature the problem of plastics in our oceans bringing the issue to a vast audience, and rightly cherished a letter of support from the man himself for this project.
“Octonauts” is the gold standard for children’s oceanographic scientific adventure and provides a formidable comparison. Wisely, Louise does not try to oversimplify her ecological message and neatly interweaves it with a first- person narrative. The inflatable orca, and turtle puppet, are welcome component parts of the show, but the opportunity to provide them with a narrative voice was eschewed, a curious choice for a children’s show. Our children said they would have liked more of them both.
Louise White
At around forty -five minutes playing time, and ten minutes ecological presentation after the play itself, the show did not outstay its welcome. Louise was given warm applause at the end, acknowledging her effort and dedication to the production. For more information on future productions: http://www.louisewhitetheatrician.com/
Gary Longden
I am pleased that I have two poems included in the St Giles Hospice Charity Poem collection:
On the theme “makes life worthwhile” Much Ado About Nothing
Fresh, crisp, laundered sheets, at the end of a tiring day.
A sudden kiss, when, there is nothing more to say.
That first early morning cup of tea,
An unbuckled belt, when it all hangs free.
Door held open as you enter the shop,
Champagne cork, when it goes pop,
Bright smile from a stranger at the side of the road,
Crossword puzzle when you crack the code.
Vacuumed house shorn of all dust,
Catching that train- but only just.
All bills paid, with money to spare
Laughing till it hurts, as if there’s no-one there,
A song that takes you back, to the moment when,
That film that you can watch again, and again.
My favourite chair when I sink right in,
Lottery numbers which at last say “win”.
Palm pressed on palm, fingers wrapped tight,
A gentle squeeze, – it will be alright.
Gary Longden
On the theme “ I want to be remembered”
Superstar
For that best- selling novel
That Nobel Peace prize
For being the first human to walk on Mars
That welcome- home parade,
O what a size!
For that song which everyone knows, and sings the words to
For having a face that everyone knew
For that bridge which brought people closer together
Handling with ease inclement weather
Leaving sporting records, which will remain unbroken
Making great speeches, wise and outspoken
Yet as I stir from my reverie,
The bright daylight is what I see
I did what I could, with what I had,
Where I was, good and bad
Largely unnoticed, the world turns on
Oblivious, unknowing, that I have gone.
So, I don’t become weighed down with everyday stuff
I know that I did it – that is enough.
Gary Longden
On Moving House
Convulsed, it gasped its last memories
Exhausted, wringing out what remained
Prone, barely breathing
I wanted there to be more
But there was no more
Nearly a quarter of a century left no trace
Just a faded familiarity
Not even a distant echo of what once was
There was just me
Once five, now one
Then none.
Seth
We are mates
We see each other twice a week
Sometimes more
But when we meet
We are sure, about each other,
We are like brothers
We have a chat, about this and that
Together we pull birds
As we have our words
They flock to us, well him, actually
I think that I owe it to him, to speak absolutely factually
We strut our stuff
We walk with a swagger
Sometimes I let him toddle, until he staggers
But he likes it best, so do I, I confess
When our faces are together , so very tightly pressed
The grannies, the schoolgirls, and all the yummy mummies
They bill and coo and stroke his soft tummy
He doesn’t say much, well nothing in fact
But between us we have an unspoken pact
He understands, he knows, he doesn’t have to talk
He just wants to be held high as we carry on our walk
Moving in perfect synchronicity, for all the word to see
Him and me, in perfect formation
Enjoying together our leisurely perambulation
I look out for him and him for me
I let him go when he wants to wriggle free
But when he needs me , he grabs my leg tight
To pick him up, to let him know it will be alright
He enjoys my foolish childish games
He points, and I tell him all the names
I try to teach him all I know
He expects his pooh cleaned from down below
When he reaches for his mum, I don’t mind
He’s just on loan, and love is blind
When I let him slip and blood was splattered
He didn’t hold a grudge, it was as if it hadn’t mattered
Apart from us, he just wants to know
That I will be around
Gone but I won’t go
When he needs a bottle , or a play or feed
I will be around with what he needs
He is his own man, I know I have to share
I know I am not the only person there
But when I call around, and his arms reach to me
It’s like I am the only one the little man can see
We cuddle we squeeze we kiss we smile we hug
He gurgles he pokes we tumble on the rug
When he is older he wont remember this time
When nothing could part us
When all was simply fine
He has taught me to appreciate, when it is just him and me
The joys of just togetherness, of simplicity.
My Town
My town is like your town
C & A has gone away, John Collier’s window
Once the one to watch, now a thousand yard stare
From front and behind
There is nothing there
My town is where
Woollies pick n mix lured a generation of young fingers, fresh faces
Ratners was crap, its demise was heralded
After it had been unceremoniously Geralded
Not available now from BHS
Bed linen lamps, little brothers socks and vests
Not available at Comet, mums tumble drier
Not available from Rumblows a deep fat frier
Staples is stationary, Toys R us crushed by the folly
Of not foreseeing the supermarket trolley
The New Look in my High Street
Is a shuttered shop front
Don’t just book it Thomas Cook it
If you fancy going nowhere
Mothercare doesn’t, anymore
Soap wiped windows, empty store
Amazon knows no Borders
While betting shops throw loaded dice
Temples to empty avarice
My town is like your town
Its closing down.
THE LAGER
Lager, lager foaming bright
From the beer taps of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy awful chemistry
In what distant vat or vault
Steeped the essence of thy malt?
What unnatural process led
To the whiteness of thy head?
What the sugars? What the yeast?
And when fermentation ceased
From what market research came
The inauthentic German name?
What dread flavour, what aroma
How much will induce a coma?
How does calling lager ice
Begin to justify the price?
When the bars rolled down their shutters
And the drunks spewed in the gutters
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made Medoc make thee?
Lager, lager foaming bright
From the beer taps of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy awful chemistry
Abandonment
You deserted us, for You Tube illusions and an easy life
Made by others
You lined the pockets of our tormentors to make them strong
And us weak
You let others do the fighting for you
While you rest, and are fed.
The women who bore you, the old men who taught you
Look on, in despair
As our girls are preyed upon, and the fields lie unplanted
Those too sick to move plead for our aggressors’ compassion
In the absence of yours
Our dignity, our beliefs are not worth your struggle
Leaving those least able, to do the most.
Our future disappears over the horizon
As you leave us condemned to live the past.
If you had built fences rather than try to scale them
If you had bravely faced the enemy – as you faced the sea
We would be together now, pride intact.
Instead you beg for yourselves there
While the old, the sick, young mothers and children
Lie abandoned here in fear.
****
Written by David Almond, and staged by Theatre Alibi, this is a one set, one hour, production. The opinion of adults is irrelevant to a children’s production. Jacob, aged five years, and Harry, aged seven, both theatre veterans, accompanied us to tell us how they saw it.
A simple, but striking and colourful, set, designed by Trinna Bramman, turns out to be more versatile than it at first appears, seamlessly morphing from a block of flats to the moon. A cast of three manipulate puppets to tell the story, Lisa Lee- Leslie plays accordion and hang drum, the latter to considerable effect, as musical accompaniment. Having live music brought an immediacy and vibrancy to the morning. The performing style is more one of animated storytelling, than conventional play.
The plot itself is dreamy, laconic and ambles, rather than races, along. This is a cerebral, not visceral experience, one which encourages children, and adults, to dream, and wonder, “What if ?”
The target audience is ostensibly six to twelve years old, but the late morning performance was solidly in the five to nine years age range. They were captivated by the idea of a young boy, Paul, who thinks that the moon is a hole in the sky and that he is going to climb into it. And who could not warm to Clarence the poodle who thinks he can fly? Harry liked the bit where, “everyone had to heave to pull Paul to the moon”, and gave it twenty out of ten. Jacob gave it 100/100, and liked the bit best where Paul is climbing the ladder to the moon. They liked it.
The story did not outstay its welcome, all the children in the audience were kept engaged, by a lovely, wistful show which is a credit to Daniel Jamieson’s adaptation of David Almond’s story, and Director Nikki Sved’s vision for how it should appear on stage. It continues on national tour.
“Are you reviewing it?” she asked. “No, I feel awkward” I replied.
#MeToo is a collection of poems written by women, about women’s experiences with men, carrying a powerful foreword by MP Jess Phillips. It is not an easy read. It is, however, a rewarding and essential read. Although the theme is constant, the experiences are disparate and diverse, a crystal ball of innocence shattered into a myriad jagged, angular, irregular pieces.
Editor Deborah Alma, whose original facebook posts were the unplanned genesis of this project, has assembled them into seven chapters as loose groupings. In so doing, she has succeeded in creating a pleasing narrative flow . I was struck by how little polemic there was in these poems. That is their strength. Dozens of little stories telling a big story. The collection could have evolved into a literary companion to Gloria Gaynor’s torch song, “I Will Survive”. Alma wisely eschews that option. The power lies not in a unified entity, but in the rough, brittle, sharp, edges of each one of those shattered shards.
The stories, worthy though they are, are not enough. This is a poetry collection. The key question is, “Are the poems any good?” The answer is yes. Readers will recognise some contributions from amongst the most eminent of contemporary female poets, they will also be struck by the cogency and veritas of writers whose names may not be known, but whose writing on the subject deserves to be heard.
Rhyme is almost entirely absent, it is as though the content has stripped the songs from their heart. Sally Jenkinson’s contributions are written in staccato couplets. Their bone lean framework carrying a potent punch. “Nervous”, with its, “That’s how you win the game/ You just have to tolerate it” a witheringly effective tour de force.
There are some lines, and poems to make you smile too. Natalie Whittaker’s, “To the Giant Ground Sloth in the Natural History Museum” is amongst the pick of them, inspired in its allegory.
The contributions from the heavyweights do not disappoint. Jane Commane’s “Bitch” is a masterclass in control, Helen Ivory’s “Scolds Bridal “ savage in its brevity, Helen Mort’s “My Fault” is my favourite, cinematically zooming in at the start, before pulling back to reveal the big picture.
Initially I did feel awkward about the prospect of commenting on this work, wary about what to say. Yet if this collection ends up being a collection by women, for women only, that would be a shame. It deserves a fifty per cent larger audience. It is effective in numerous respects. It is an authentic, first person, contribution to the #metoo debate. It serves as both a lightning rod, and rallying flag, for those touched by it. It has literary merit, and substance, in its own right. It reaches out by means of its humanity to a male audience who should not feel alienated by the subject matter.
This fine collection, published by Fairacre Press necessarily compiled in short time, is a valuable extension , and exploration of, a movement which has come of age.
A hugely inventive but simple story by David Almond, but produced by Theatre Alibi. Behind the Arras will be there on Friday morning to review it. The plot? Some pretty odd ideas are floating around Paul’s street. There’s Mabel, whose brother hides under a brown paper bag. And Clarence the poodle who thinks he can fly. But Paul has the oddest idea of all. He thinks that the moon is a big hole in the sky and he’s going to climb into it… Anything’s possible in this warm and very funny story by David Almond, award-winning writer of Skellig and My Dad’s A Birdman. Its target audience is 6-12 year olds and is touring nationwide in Spring 2018. Theatre Alibi’s excellent website offers the following background information:
The production team comprises:
Cast: Kirsty Cox, Sian Kidd, Jordan Whyte
Accordion and hang drum: Lisa-Lee Leslie
Writer: David Almond
Adaptor: Daniel Jamieson
Director: Nikki Sved
Designer: Trina Bramman
Composer & Musical Director: Thomas Johnson
Lighting Designer & Technical Stage Manager: Marcus Bartlett
Production Manager: Rachael Duthie
Design Assistants: Sarah Vigars & Ruth Webb
Production Electrician: Will Tippett
Set Construction: David Elliot
Set Painting: Charlotte Hillman
Thanks to the R&D performers who helped develop the show:
Charlotte Dubery & Simon Palmer
Theatre Alibi are contemporary storytellers, creating work for all ages that moves freely between the intimate and the epic and aspires to be inventive, joyful, moving, vivid, intricate and ambitious. Our productions are marked by a passion for the live event – actors as storytellers absolutely present with their audience, live music, a delight in revealing acts of transformation that would often be confined to the wings and a level of inventiveness that allows us to embrace action that might seem to be unstageable. The company integrates a wide variety of art forms into its work and recent productions have featured animation, film, puppetry, photography and music both live and recorded.
Past productions include Falling, Hammer & Tongs, I Believe in Unicorns, Olive & the Dream Train, Curiosity Shop, The Crowstarver, Cabbage Heart, Goucher’s War, A Flying Visit, Ministry of Fear, Cobbo, Spies, Teapot, Lost & Found, Why the Whales Came, One in a Million, You Can’t Catch Me and Shelf Life.
Theatre Alibi tours to large and small venues nationally and regularly co-produces with other theatres, including Oxford Playhouse, Exeter Northcott Theatre, The Lowry, Exeter Phoenix and Polka Theatre in recent years. The company also performs its work for around 11,000 children in primary and special schools in the South West, providing a first experience of theatre to many. Click here for more information about where we tour to and when.
Based at Emmanuel Hall in Exeter the company offers rehearsal, workshop and office space to other arts organisations.
Artistic Director: Nikki Sved
Associate Writer: Daniel Jamieson
Executive Producer: Ruth Weyman
Administrative & Financial Director: Mary Attewell
Marketing Manager: Debbie Bucella
Production Manager: Rachael Duthie
Administrator: Annie Chave
Caretaker and Cleaner: Graeme Drew
Theatre Alibi Board Members: Melita Armitage, John Bunting, Roz Duffin, Pete Goodwin, Jonathan Gower, Jonny Ison, Tony Lidington, Dulcie Oliver & Erin Walcon
Theatre Alibi is one of Arts Council England’s National Portfolio Organisations and is also grateful for support from Exeter City Council.
The author, David Almond, also has an excellent website from which this information is gleaned: http://davidalmond.com
“I grew up in Felling on Tyne, close to the city of Newcastle and not far from the icy but beautiful North Sea. I had four sisters and a brother. My dad worked in the office of an engineering firm. My mam was shorthand typist. We lived on a council estate until I was 13.
I think I was a happy kid, but there was also a good deal of sadness – one of my little sisters died when I was seven and my dad died when I was fifteen. We were Catholics, and I was an altar boy, so I spent a lot of time in church. I loved roaming the streets and fields, playing football with my mates, camping, heading off to beautiful Northumbrian beaches. I liked primary school but disliked grammar school. I loved our little local library. I knew I wanted to be a writer and I dreamed that I’d see my books on its shelves one day.
To the astonishment of some of my teachers, I went to UEA and studied English and American Literature. Over the years, I’ve been a labourer on building sites, a tank cleaner in a shipyard, a brush salesman, a postman, a hotel porter. I became a primary school teacher, which I loved. I wrote short stories at the weekends and during the holidays, and started to get my work published in little magazines. As I approached thirty, I gave it all up, resigned from my job, sold my house and lived in a Norfolk commune for a year and kept on writing, writing, writing.
My first novel took me five years to write, and was rejected by every UK publisher. I shrugged, spat and kept on writing. I wrote stories, poems, plays. I travelled. I worked in Adult Literacy and as a part-time special needs teacher. I edited a literary magazine, Panurge, for a few years. My first two story collections were published in tiny editions by the heroic Iron Press. Then I was ambushed by a story that turned out to be called Skellig, and everything changed.
Skellig has been published in 40 languages. It has sold over a million copies in the English language. It has become a stage play, a radio play, a movie and an opera. Skellig opened up a whole new creative world for me and I’ve written many more novels, stories, plays, opera librettos and songs. I’ve won some of the world’s major literary prizes.
I live in Newcastle. I have one amazing daughter. I’m Professor of Creative Writing at Bath Spa University. I’m fascinated by the nature of creativity, by the writing process, by education. I work with artists, musicians, actors, teachers, directors, dancers. I work with, and write for, children and adults. I’m astounded by this amazing world, by the universe in which we live. I love beaches, light, music, Italy, skylarks, garlic, pasta, theatre, sardines, chilli, cinema, books. Every story that we write or read or act or sing or dance is an act of optimism, a move against the destructive forces that want to stifle us. I keep on writing.”
Almond’s publisher describes “The Boy Who Climbed into the Moon”, thus:
A magnificent tale of crackpot notions and sky-high courage – from David Almond, the master of magical realism, with illustrations by the award-winning Polly Dunbar.
Paul believes that the moon is not the moon, but is a great hole in the sky.
It’s one of many strange ideas that he’s never told anyone (at school he was told that he had no ideas at all), until he meets Molly, his irrepressible neighbour, who begins to convince him that his theory might just change the world.
Helped by a very long ladder, some highly irregular characters, two rather worried parents and a great deal of community spirit, Paul takes to the sky.
But his astonishing discovery there can’t keep him away for long – what is waiting for him back at home is turning out to be better than he’d ever imagined…
Garyswordz 