Home Front

I’m a big fan of the theatre but I wouldn’t mind if I never saw another dystopian drama, currently all the rage on the London Fringe.

The moment I set eyes on the grim, minimalist set, usually depicting a Somme-like landscape, or some abstract arrangement with large cubes, I start to envy Betty and Mr Home Front watching Celebs Go Dating on the sofa at home.

The plots are wearily predictable, often depicting dysfunctional youth struggling to survive in a postapocalyptic Britain. There invariably seems to be a scary, tattooed man in combat fatigues, a feisty, but vulnerable heroine and a mysterious, missing relative. If an old person appears, they almost always have dementia. An important issue, of course, but many younger playwrights currently seem incapable of portraying old age in a more imaginative way.

Then, at some point in the play, one of the characters will embark on a sexually explicit, sweary monologue. Or take all their clothes off for no apparent reason, with oldies in the audience trying to conceal their dismay.

Scene changes for this genre also tend to be identical: the theatre is plunged into darkness and we are blasted with deafening, distorted noise, presumably the soundtrack to a bleak and terrifying future (though, for all they know, future generations could be enjoying a Gilbert and Sullivan revival).

And then there are those new plays described as ‘groundbreaking’ and ‘ambitious’ (‘self-indulgent’ and ‘never bloomin’ ends’ in my experience). Saint George and the Dragon at the National was a case in point. It wasn’t as preachy as some, though its simplistic, anti-brexit subtext was nearly enough to make me

wish I had voted Leave. My main gripe was that it was just very boring. If I had been on my own, I would have left at the interval. Instead I stayed to the bitter end, disliking all those smug audience members in their retro NHS specs chortling at jokes that would not have passed muster in a bad TV sitcom.

But by far the most torturous play I have seen in recent years was Enda Walsh’s Ballyturk, again at the National. It was so meandering, chaotic and pointless that I thought, if I don’t walk out soon, I shall lose my temper. So I left. And how liberating that felt.

Perhaps this is why I have recently taken to seeing tribute bands at the Dorking Halls instead. It is a lot cheaper than traipsing up to London; the atmosphere is great, with entire families of all generations having a ball.

The Upbeat Beatles – who have lasted much longer ‘live’ than the original Fabs – were splendid (though moustachioed Sgt Pepper- era John looked more like Blakey from On The Buses).

They entertained us for over two hours with authentic renditions of their greatest songs, from the early days at the Cavern to the Apple building rooftop concert of 1969. The End – the Beatles’ swansong – was not quite as moving as hearing Mccartney himself perform it at Wembley in 1990 (before his voice went for a Burton). But it came close. Perhaps because there was something absurdly touching about the sincerity and dedication these four middle-aged men gave to recreating our greatest pop group for Dorking’s pleasure.

And I dragged Mr Home Front along to see the Explosive Light Orchestra, despite his doing everything in his power to stay at home (‘We can’t leave Lupin’, ‘I feel a head cold coming on’ etc). He grumbled all the way there.

But not on the way back. In fact, he reluctantly admitted he hadn’t had as much fun since The Jam played at the Civic Hall, Guildford, in 1978.

At one point, fake Jeff asked the audience which ELO song was the only one to reach number one, eliciting cries of, ‘ Evil Woman!’, ‘ Livin’ Thing!’, ‘ Mr Blue Sky!’… The answer, oddly, is their joint rendition, with Olivia NewtonJohn, of Xanadu (their least impressive song in my opinion).

The Explosive Light Orchestra were so good that even Mr H F enjoyed himself. Meanwhile, I have bought tickets to see the real Jeff Lynne at the O2 in October (wondering slightly if he will be as good as the tribute act).

At least he won’t take all his clothes off and bore on about Brexit.