Yes it's PANTO time!
Oh no it's not.
Oh yes it is!
No -- it's not.
Pantomine happens in pretty much every theatre in the UK every Christmas -- except of course this Christmas because theatres are closed. One of the saddest things about this year was that Esme and I didn't get to see Matthew Bourne's Red Shoes again. I see it's on BBC on Christmas Day.
The arts have been devastated by Covid and there is little or no safety net when it comes to performing arts. Some funding has been provided but what of the performers themselves? Normally a young out of work performer would work in the service industries to tide them over. I know some have gone back to 'the day job' nurses for example. Many have found alternative ways to perform.
Creativity is an important human function and it's something we all need. It's not an economic necessity but it is a HUMAN one. Nonetheless, until we are sure that gathering indoors is safe again, the theatres will suffer. I hope not too many people give up on their dreams.
The premise of all Pantos is the impossible happens. In Newcastle upon Tyne they intend to run the panto in April 2021 as an Easter treat. I sincerely hope that is possible.
Never Trust a Talking Cat
Ever since that cat arrived
my life’s gone down the chute.
To start with he demanded
a pair of shiny boots.
I tried to state the obvious;
I was the one in charge
but he stood up on his hind legs
his eyes all bright and large,
he put his forepaws on his waist
and whiskered his disdain,
'I'll need a coat and trousers too.
Us cats don’t like the rain.'
His stolid and unflinching look
crumpled my resolution.
To give him what he wanted
seemed the easiest solution.
When he started poaching pheasants;
taking presents to the king
I thought Oh good! I’m rid of him
You know -- it’s a cat thing.
But not a bit of it. This cat
had hatched a plan you see
and part of it involved a bit
of subterfuge – and me.
The Royals had a daughter
a bit plain -- a bit rotund,
for whom it seemed no suitor
suitable had yet been found
and Puss, that’s what I called him,
fancied a life of luxury
and decided in his scheming way
that she should marry me.
So while I was skinny-dipping
he purloined all my clothes,
flagged down the princess' carriage
and she said: Here put on those
and made her footman take his off.
She said I looked quite fine.
Then she drove me to the palace
and ordered meat and wine.
I don’t recall what happened next
but it seems I am engaged.
That furtive and rapacious cat
had my whole life story staged.
It’s the night before the wedding
and I’ve never been more sure
her father the King’s an imbecile
and the princess is a whore.
I know I can’t go through with it.
Marry? I’d rather kill her.
I was never meant to be a prince.
I’m content as a simple a miller.
I am writing this for you today
‘cos I won’t be here tomorrow.
Don’t mess with talking animals.
They’ll only bring you sorrow.
Don’t be like me, so innocent!
Talking cats aren’t at all cute.
They’re malevolent, maleficent.
Just give the cat the boot!
Published in The Linnet's Wings
