Category: Christmas

That Time of Year #5: A train called Barry – Pants Panto and Creative Mishears.

Posted on by urbanramblings19687496

One of the good things about having ears blocked enough to not quite hear things straight, is that some of the mishears are quite evocative. Getting out of a train the other day, the following, rather poignant message came over the speaker – “We have now reached our destination. When you leave the train, please take all of your longings with you…”

The C2C train that I got out of in Grays station had a name plate. Barry Flaxman. Not quite Thomas the Tank Engine, but quirky in its own way. C2C being owned by TrenItalia, you’d expect something zappier and well travelled, the Marco Polo perhaps, or the Amerigo Vespucci. But those would work better for high speed rail over continental distances. If the Belt and Road Initiative was a European enterprise heading East to Samarkand, Ulan Bator and Beijing, instead of vice versa, the locomotives might have names like that. For a short haul commute between Southend and Fenchurch Street, Barry it is.

An appropriate honour for a man from Southend who spent his life from 1949 onwards campaigning for passenger improvements, died of a heart attack on his way to view a new train in 1998 and whose “timetabling knowledge was the driving force behind the electrification scheme benefits of the early 1960s that brought such a step change in journey time and frequency.” The world is full of barely acknowledged contributions to life being a tiny bit better, made by people unknown outside their own field and tiny circle. Its a pity that the train just has the name, with no further information, leaving it to stand alone in almost anonymous obscurity.

All the same, perhaps Barry himself might have been a bit cross that the train with his name on it was having a problem with its connecting doors on the day I went down; making the carriage with the toilet in it innaccesible from the rear coach. Having indulged in a coffee from Fenchurch Street, which seemed like a good idea at the time, this was becoming more and more of a problem as the stations counted down.

Dagenham Dock,

Rainham,

Purfleet,

Grays.

The train glided into its final destination in what felt like mocking sloth and was in no hurry to let the doors bleep their escape signal. Limping at speed to the toilets in the Precinct and just about making it, or so I thought; there being an “Out of Order” sign improvised in cardboard across the Mens. Knowing that I would never make it back to the toilets in Morrisons before suffering leaks on a grand scale, I expressed my frustration at slightly “Broken Britain” with a satisfying fricative explosion

“F*$*£!!!!”

“No need to swear”, says a concerned woman passing by.

“There’s a disabled toilet. You can use that. Are you disabled?”

“I will be in a minute if I can’t use it”.

My nephew, who is a very talented musician, is now in the band for this year’s Aladdin Panto, with Gok Wan, a Loose Woman and the surviving Chuckle Brother. Most of the music in Panto is what they call “stings”; musical sound effects that punctuate the story and draw attention to jokes. Ba -boom – tisshhh – Ta – daaah! – Wa, Wa Waaaaa! That sort of thing. Not massively taxing, and not a lot of room for solo improvisation, but quite fun.

Meanwhile, at the Thameside Theatre, this year’s version of Snow White has just one named actor – Luke Coldham (who may, or may not, be a cold ham) – playing “Nurse Kelly” – a character I don’t recall either from Grimm or Disney – who looms very large and central in the poster. None of the other actors merits a mention, but they are all smiling happily, if anonymously, enough. Its possible that this is Panto’s answer to Tom Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead, where he takes two minor but essential characters out of Hamlet and makes their offstage existential angst the centre of the play, posing the fundamental question of what Non Playable Characters think of when they are not being played, but probably not.

And SMILE! A broadside of dentistry to brighten the bleak midwinter – and not a dwarf in sight. What have they DONE with them? The other acts being advertised at the Thameside, and Civic Centre, have a definite nostaglic quality: The Upbeat Beatles, The Jersey Boys, The Roy Orbison story: appealing to people who remember 1963 and think the world has gone to pot since; partly because the Beatles did themselves and got a lot less upbeat and a lot more quirky as a result. I’m not knocking the concerts, I expect they are good fun, albeit in a safe retread sort of way, but its the sheer uniformity of the cultural offer – nothing for anyone under 60, no cultural influences other than an aging transatlantic mainstream: like Radio 2 forty years ago. And the only other piece of Theatre on offer is a stage version of “Allo! Allo!”, the 1980s situation comedy in which the situation is the Nazi occupation of France reimagined as farce. Always good for a laugh, if you don’t have much grasp of what that was actually like.

Luke probably gets a mention, not because he might have been on Eastenders once in 2013, but because he’s a Thameside Panto regular – having played Sarah the Cook in Dick Whittington (who?) Widow Twanky in a former Aladdin production, Dame Dolly Doughnut in Peter Pan, Stanley in One Man Two Guv’nors and must do it well enough to be a bit of a draw. He’s also played Maximilian Robespierre at the Royal Opera House, so he’s not a one trick pony (unless he’s playing him in drag). Like everyone in the Arts, you get the work where you can.

Meanwhile, the Guardian quotes Keira Knightly as saying that her latest Xmas set thriller will “ruin Christmas”. Many of us think that she and Richard Curtis did that already with Love Actually, which will probably be running on a loop on most channels for most of the holiday.

That Time of Year #4. Deck the Halls with plastic holly…

Posted on by urbanramblings19687496

In the precinct – not a tree, but a simulation of a tree. A geometric shape in plastic. A prefab structure with built in baubles. Tall, pretty in its way, but by definition lifeless and sterile. None of the tension of a real dying live tree, no reflection of the mid Winter dramas of light in the darkness, evergreen boughs, blood berries and spiky leaves. And no aroma; no fresh gusts of pine leaf and sap to quiver the nostrils and refresh the mind.

When the school that I worked in for many years fell seriously foul of OFSTED and we were forcibly academised – which tipped a difficult situation into one that became almost irretrievable – on the first Christmas after the takeover, I walked into the reception area between the Scylla of the Head’s Office and the Charybdis of the Office office, and there, standing in the corner, was a silver, plastic tree (with attached baubles). Frank the Premises Manager had just put it up and was appraising it with his head on one side. Under the old regime we had had TWO real trees. Big ones. One in the reception, one in the Middle Hall, where most Assemblies took place. These were lovingly decorated with great craft and skill by the TAs and the whole school was treated to great wafts of aromatherapy for the whole of December. This was not a box being ticked. There was a heart to it. I looked at the plastic replica of a tree, looked at Frank. We both looked back at it, then at each other. We had the same expression. “Sums it up in a way, doesn’t it?” “Yeah, it does”.

Customers are fairly sparse. The independent cafe in the centre is closed, but the Costa on the corner facing onto the High Street is full of people drinking vast bowls of coffee at the bladder bursting end of the spectrum.

Meanwhile, at the War Memorial, an equal opportunities Remembrance Parade, in crochet, lines up on the bollards.

That Time of Year#3. How are the Mighty Fallen?

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Seen in Foyles Bookshop on Saturday. Someone with a sense of humour has placed the parody of Boris Johnson’s memoir alongside the original; which many reviewers thought was surreal enough.

This may be a desperate attempt to boost sales for that, as the red sticker showing that its on sale for half the recomended retail price does not indicate that it is exactly flying off the shelves.

Yesterday’s man.

That Time of Year #2. A Carnival for Carnivores!

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Grays High Street was not its usual quiet self on Saturday morning. A blue tent with a sound stage flanked by huge loudspeakers was deployed at the strategic centre between Clarence Road and George Street. Manned by a tiny, grey complexioned DJ in his fifties, it was belting out Romanian techno beats, while he rapped along with it, hopping about with an enthusiasm appropriate to someone a third of his age like a gleeful goblin.

We have the meats….

In front of the shops on either side were lines of Eastern European market stalls, most selling meat. Steaming meat, cured meat, barbecued meat, meat to take away, meat to eat. Tables were laid out in between so people could sit and munch in their anoraks while the vibrations from the sound stage thundered through their chests.

Giblets steaming on gibbets…

There is something almost medieval about it. All you’d need is some jugglers and fire breathers.

In case the last stall didn’t have enough meat, here’s some more…and a bit of cheese.

In case you were in any doubt where the meat comes from, this makes it pretty apparent. Not Kosher, pretty Haraam and no place for a vegetarian.

It was quite sparsely attended when I passed it in the morning, but it was rammed in the afternoon. A mix of local people enjoying being swamped by an alien culture. The Disco King on the stage was playing a Techno verison of the Lambada as I walked past; proof positive that multiculturalism is dead.

One of the regular young black evangelists a little further down offers me a leaflet. I politely decline and he says “Jesus loves you”; which is quite a pitch when you think about it, particularly to anyone who feels otherwise unloved.

That time of Year #1. The Nativity with no baby.

Posted on by urbanramblings19687496

In the midst of the great Temple of Mammon that is Brent Cross Shopping Centre, a not quite life size Nativity scene is installed on the first floor. It looks normal enough until you notice that, in the midst of the manger, where the Christ baby should be, there is a void.

As a result the hand and face gestures that should express awe and wonder are more akin to shock and bewilderment, puzzlement or even irritation. Where’s that baby gone? He was here a minute ago?

The Gold and Frankincense seems to have arrived with two of the Three Magi, but there’s no Myrrh for the third. Its obviously a result of something prosaic – some of the parts haven’t been delivered perhaps.

Nevertheless, it comes across almost as a statement of doubt. The absence at the heart of doctrine. Faith without object. Or perhaps as a practical joke, or a Shopping Mall Treasure Hunt – find the missing Son of God and win a Waitrose voucher (bonus points for the missing Myrrh).

A small dog strains on his lead to sniff through the barrier at one of the plastic sheep, trying to work it out.