West End Live

West End Live...

It's a bit of a new phenomenon, this. A strange outdoors-y affair. London theatre's attempt at a festival, a chance for the producers to wring some free publicity out of their shows.

When I was there four years ago, it was a tame affair. A smattering of people, hardly enough to call a crowd, consisting mainly of proud mums, diehard fans and passers-by who had halfheartedly stopped on their way through Leicester Square to see what all the racket was.

Saturday was a different story. Thousands of people had crammed themselves into the relatively small space to show their support. The Wanderer came to show his support (or rather, bring my packed lunch that I left on the kitchen sideboard) and found he couldn't get anywhere near the stage, having to content himself with a rather inhibited view from the other side of the square behind a giant Postman Pat.

It was definitely the place to be on Saturday morning.

I felt a little bit like a child at a dance competition as we piled into the coach outside the Palladium, already in full costume and wigs. It was Aunt Sally's Ballet Academy all over again, en route to the annual Eastbourne Dance Festival. All we were missing was a bottle of Ellnet and a carton of Um Bongo.

People stared as we drove down Regent Street, teenagers laughed, children waved... We could have been on an open top bus going to switch the Christmas lights on, for all the attention we attracted. I felt a strange pressure to put my wimple on correctly, even though usually I leave it till the very last second. (It leaves a crease in my forehead, and who needs more of those?)

We were quickly herded onto the stage, sandwiched neatly between Jodie Prenger and the cast of We Will Rock You. For some reason we were to be introduced by Biggins. I suppose it needed someone pretty spangly to contend with a show like ours...

After his patter, he bizarrely chose a seat at the side of the stage, crossed his legs and sat back to watch the action like a oddly camp Brechtian Chorus, tapping his foot and grinning over at us encouragingly. I had to fight an irresistible urge to drag him up and start do-si-dos-ing with him.

The sound was a bit am-dram, but apart from that, everything went well. Alli Harding did a great job of standing in for Julia Sutton, despite our concerns that she might repeat her performance at the press launch when she forgot the words and sang four lines in what can only have been Gaelic.

I looked up West End Live on the internet. As far as I could see (and I researched it a long time), it's purely a promotional gig, designed to encourage people to go and see shows. Performers are required as part of their contracts to do a certain amount of publicity unpaid. Fair enough. We're happy to promote our shows if it keeps them open and flourishing. Not a bad cause, if you don't compare it to any serious charities. But I couldn't help thinking I'd be happier to work for free if I knew someone else other than the producer was going to benefit. It would be nice if the bosses would stump up some cash for something like the Variety Club, or the Unicorn Theatre. For the families who can't afford sixty five quid a ticket.

The Broadway community has a different fundraising event almost every week. We do a bit here, but not as much as we could. West End Live would be the perfect opportunity to give something back.

The Witch Returns

Oh God oh God oh God. Has it really been a whole month?

I'm so sorry, Witchlings. I have no idea where the days have gone.

One day, chickens, one day, I'll effortlessly be able to churn out a daily blog entry, just like the old days. It's poor, I know - sometimes not even managing one a week, but I've never felt such a lack of time as I do at the moment.

Still, I thought, once we've opened I'll have time. Loads of the stuff. Seconds and minutes dripping off me like warm honey. Hours oozing by like treacle. All those delicious daytimes to sit and scribble to my heart's content. I might even get the novel finished in a few months.

Naive.

No sooner had we opened than the rehearsals kicked in again. Understudy calls, clean up calls, rehearsals for the cast recording, not to mention West End Live and GMTV... An endless list of reasons to bring us in early. I reckon I've got about a month of it left. The end is in sight...

So, I'll do a quick run-through of the main events, just to catch you all up.

Right, what's first? Oh, press night, if I can remember that far back...

It went well, I think. Opening night audiences are a strange breed, a bizarre concoction of businessmen and cronies, crazy fans and cast members' families. It makes for an odd evening. Laughs are thrown up unexpectedly from concentrated parts of the auditorium, mainly where friends and relatives are stationed. Some gags fall on huge applause, others get caught on passing tumbleweed.

Whoopi came, or should I say, was shoved somewhat reluctantly onstage at the end of it to shrieks and whistles from the audience. None of us knew exactly what she was going to do, but I had a feeling it would be a talk about how the film came about, what she thought of the musical and how exciting it all was.

Instead, however, she merely gestured to Patina and Sheila and made them bow several times, holding their hands and pushing them forwards. Not a word did she utter. Not a single sentence of endorsement or opinion, no stories of life on set with the original nuns, nothing.

Had Whoopi become a mute? Where was the chatty, witty woman we met in rehearsals? Was she under some sort of silencing clause in her contract? Did she hate the show? Or had the Palladium worked its showbiz magic and left her speechless with wonder at our good ol' British theatre? Who knows.

The party was good, from what I remember. We managed to befriend one of the waiters and successfully got us table service all evening, including all the best food and a never-ending supply of champagne. It made for a bleary-eyed show the following day, though, with more than half the nuns looking as if they might throw up at any given moment.

GMTV was fun...

The studio is surprisingly tiny. It looks sprawling on television, all luxurious sofas and Habitat vases big enough to pop your children in. In real life it's about the same size as my living room. When the presenters do the inter-department chit-chat between items, it looks as if they're calling to each other across a small park. In reality, Penny Smith is practically sitting on Andrew Castle's lap for most of the news hour.

It was a bit boring miming a song that we belt out every night, but the GMTV studios do not support live music. Go figure.

New weather presenter Kirsty McCabe caused quite a stir.

"Where's she from, anyway?" inquired Jennie Dale.

"She used to be weathergirl on the BBC," offered someone.

"What?" said Jennie. "She's a lesbian?"

Everyone stopped.

No, weathergirl, not with a girl," I said.

I'd better stop now and do West End Live tomorrow, chickens, before this blog spans more than a page and starts to look like an industry publication. I promise I'll be on it as of today, though. In fact, to quote a phrase that's spreading round the West End quicker than cocaine at a press night party, I'll be all over it.