Southend U3A

January 2024

Pantomime - Marie Day

The wind howled and growled around the tiny theatre standing alone on the cliff top. Sea-soaked posters flapped, coming loose from the bill-boards facing the road, advertising this year’s pantomime. Inside the lights flickered all-round the Victorian building. Two hours to curtain up and the only sounds came from the basement dressing rooms where the cast readied themselves for the final performance of ‘Aladdin and his Wonderful Lamp’.

In one dressing room far below the stage sat Mike Lavelli, erstwhile top of the bill comedian, showman extraordinaire and just lately failed quiz show host. He stared into a cracked mirror. The mirror was leaning at an angle as one leg of the dressing table it was attached to wobbled and a folded programme for the show had been pushed under one leg to keep it steady.

As Mike Lavelli contemplated applying make up for the final show of the run, he thought about the day his agent texted him last September. ‘Get in touch. May have something for you.’

The few months after the debacle of the ‘Friend or Foe’ quiz nightmare had not been full of ‘somethings’ so Mike was straight on the phone to find out what job he could hopefully secure to help build up his fractured career to its former heights. At least it might placate the bank manager who wasn’t interested in former glories only in reducing his ever-growing overdraft. His agent of 30 years, Percy Entage, had also made it clear he was becoming close to tearing out what hair he had left trying to interest clients in what he was increasingly calling rather unkindly ‘a 2023 comedian with a 1953 act.’

The job turned out to be a part in a pantomime. At first, he’d hoped for one of the big cities: London, Manchester, Birmingham. If not then a coastal location: Brighton, Torquay, Scarborough even Southend on Sea at a push. But although the seaside beckoned here, he was in Newbiggin by the Sea, Northumberland. Lovely place when the sun was out but in the depths of an English winter not so hospitable.

And the part! The show was Aladdin. So ‘cheeky chappy’ Wishy Washy – NO – to be played by ‘up and coming’ comedian Charlie Chuckles. Evil Abanazar – NO – to be played by ‘everybody’s favourite national treasure’ Sir Laurie Oliver. He shifted in his chair making it creak and straightened his skirt – YES – Widow Twankey. Three months in a skirt and bloomers! The only compensation it wasn’t either end of Horace the Horse!

So, he embarked on those months of rehearsals and the eight shows a week to audiences ranging from coach loads of OAP’s who talked all through the quiet scenes, groups of U3A members usually after they’d sampled the liquid delights of the local hostelry and on a really bad day recently three Japanese tourists and a class of 6-year-olds from the local primary given free tickets by the theatre manager. Their class obviously lost the playground contest of ‘rock, paper, scissors’ to see which lucky children would spend a scintillating afternoon yelling, ‘he’s behind you’ in the presence of British, thespian greatness.

Mike stared round the broom cupboard the management laughingly called a dressing room. Cobwebs in every corner but in three months he’d never seen a spider – clever creatures, arachnids. He sighed and continued to dab make up on his face to cover the wrinkles that seemed to increase every day. After tonight he expected to be back to his dingy flat in London. He rammed his large, yellow wig down hard on his head and sighed again. He’d endured all these months of custard pies being thrown at him by the ‘lovable’ Charlie Chuckles and being chased and kicked in inappropriate places by Horace the Horse for comic effect, or deliberately, he really couldn’t say. A voice at the door interrupted his gloomy thoughts. ‘Five minutes Mr. Yavello.’

Just once in sixty-odd performances get the name right thought Mike.

Now he had one last performance to endure. Couldn’t be any worse than yesterday’s matinee. O.K. till the finale when he and Wishy Washy sing that ghastly song about ‘being happy if you know it’ and invite some of the audience who were still awake to join in. Fine until a child eating a choc ice with an evil glint in his eye and ice cream dripping from his chin decided to storm the stage. He grabbed Mike’s dress and, cackling like one of the witches in Macbeth only nastier, dropped the choc ice. Wishy Washy tried to, within the rules of constraint as written into their contracts, delicately remove him both from Widow Twankey’s person and the stage. Mike stepped back to free himself from the demented child, trod on the choc ice and his skirt, ballooning like a multi coloured parachute, slipped inelegantly, showing large areas of frilly bloomers, straight off the stage into the orchestra pit. The words the percussionist used were imprinted on Mike’s brain for all eternity as he tried to extricate himself from the remnants of the kettle drum. Trouble was he couldn’t! It took Wishy Washy (Did that boy ever stop smirking?), a lady usherette (You were my granny’s favourite.) and the devil child’s unapologetic father (Boys will be boys. Ha,ha!) to get him out.

Back in the dressing room Mike struggled to get up from his chair and grabbed a crutch from its place leaning against the wall. He dragged himself up with difficulty. Just then his mobile phone began to play ‘There’s No Business Like Show Business’. He reached across to answer it.

‘It’s Percy. Give me a ring when you get off stage. I’ve secured you a season as children’s entertainment manager at Butlins Skegness from the beginning of next month.’ The call ended abruptly.

Mike now resigned to his fate and looking more like Long John Silver than Widow Twankey pushed his heavily plastered leg through the doorway. He began the steep and narrow hop up the stairs to greet his public just as the orchestra struck up the first notes of ‘Happy Days Are Here Again.’

‘That’s show business,’ thought Mike and with a shrug hobbled on stage to the sounds of sweets being sucked loudly, slurps from Slush Puppy drinks and the inevitable sniggers from Charlie Chuckles and Horace the Horse.