Ralph Oswick: My not so happy New Years
At the risk of yet again being accused of Grinch-like tendencies, I’ve had some pretty dire New Year’s Eve experiences.
Apart from all that kissing of strangers which is thankfully currently against the law, things invariably turn out rather dull for yours truly.
Not least on Millennium Night. The Natural Theatre Company was lucky enough to win a contract to supply large numbers of street performers for the entire run of the much-maligned Dome. Except for the opening party.
We upped our fee so much, thinking they would be desperate, what with the Queen being there and all, the powers that be decided that just for that night they couldn’t afford us.
So, we took a lucrative booking in Hamelin, of Pied Piper fame. Lucrative, but exhausting.
Not only did we have to present two consecutive performances of our physically demanding spoof musical about the baroque harpsichord maestro Scarlatti (with yours truly in the title role), my accompanist and I also had to deliver a recital of topical comic songs as our alter-egos Lady Margaret and her nephew Penkivil. At 1am, would you believe, when she should have been up to her neck in champers celebrating the new age!
The second Scarlatti show was a horribly sweaty affair but went down reasonably well. The Lady Margaret recital was post-buffet. Not only were we full of smoked ham, pumpernickel and sauerkraut, so was the dwindling audience.
When I say ‘topical’ I mean the songs were relevant to a sophisticated youngish British theatre goer. They were completely lost on the elderly burghers of Lower-saxony.
‘Just sing everything double speed’ whispered Penkivil, ‘They’ll be so busy trying to understand they won’t worry about not getting it!’ When, for the finale, I stepped into the audience to lead an impromptu chorus of Auld Lang Syne, they barely stirred from their slumbers.
My other bad New Year was in Switzerland. We performed for guests arriving at a lavish party in a super-luxury hotel. The theme was the travels of Marco Polo.
He must have gone to Morocco as they dressed us as carpet sellers in an improvised souk. There were life-size papier mache elephants flanking the main entrance, fine wines by the gallon and turbaned waiters bearing huge gold salvers loaded with delicious delicacies.
Not that we got any of it. Our changing room was far from superluxury. A broom cupboard in fact.
Arriving back as the bells rang out at our less than salubrious hotel down the road all we were offered was some rather dry speculaas and a free bottle of beer. We were in bed by ten past midnight!
As I write this, I have no idea what the Hogmanay regulations will be this year.
I trust my dears you will make the best of it as we look forward to better times.
Or not, says the Grinch in me. *Speculaas anyone? *Speculaas are the driest, dullest seasonal biscuits known to mankind and are invariably lurking in the minibar of German, Austrian and Swiss hotels. I have yet to meet anyone who actually likes them.
Ralph Oswick was artistic director of Natural Theatre for 45 years and is now an active patron of Bath Comedy Festival