Wot No Phil: Sister Act Does This Morning

Hello, chickens. Sorry I'm so slack on the blogs these days. It's a busy life, what with trying to edit a ropey old first draft into an internationally-bestselling debut novel, as well as eight shows a week and more time in the Palladium rehearsal room than is necessary — or indeed, healthy. It's like dancing in a dirty old sauna. Even when you open the windows you're blasted with hot air from the generators outside.

Moving on quickly to This Morning.

If ever there was a topic you could move onto without having to fashion an appropriate link, it would be morning television. They do it themselves, every five minutes. Phil and Fer—um, Holly can be interviewing some distraught soul one minute about some dreadful catastrophe that has befallen them, only to switch glossily to camera two to introduce a ridiculous item about canine fashion. The programme coordinators never seem to get the order quite right. I know the age-old device of splicing up tragedy with comedy for greater dramatic effect, yadda yadda yadda, but still, there's only so crestfallen you can legitimately appear when telling several million viewers about their chance to win 25k.

Anyway, today was Friday, so it was an Eamonn/Ruth day...

Right, let's get this one out of the way or it'll hang over the rest of my latest entry like a black cloud of unspoken resentment.

I was disappointed. There, I've said it. Don't judge me. I know you all get it, that sinking feeling when you switch on the telly at half ten for an hour or so of guilty chit-chat pleasure and realise that it's not a Phil-and-Holly day. It's not just me, is it?

However, the disappointment faded slightly when breakfast arrived. You can always tell a group of musical theatre actors in a TV studio. We'll be the ones making the most of the free food. We're not used to it. The television stars drift in and out at their leisure, sometimes only turning up three minutes before they're due to be interviewed (you know who I'm talking about, Mitchell and Webb). They give their finest colloquial chat for five minutes and then waltz out again without so much as a bacon sarnie. The actresses are too busy trying to stay waify to squeeze in a pain au chocolat, and most male actors prefer to maintain a self-styled air of mystic importance on black coffee and nicotine. Besides, they're all so used to catering and runners attending to their every whim that they barely even notice it all.

Not so with us turns.

I remember a chilly afternoon in January when, after a particularly grueling morning of rehearsals, the company manager brought biscuits in for us as a treat. Nothing special, just a few custard creams and the odd Hobnob.

It was carnage.

You can only imagine the excitement of a full English at eight o'clock in the morning. Catering didn't know what had hit them. "Chocolate, before the performance?" "No, but I will have egg, sausage, beans, tomato and two rounds of toast."

I avoided the make-up police successfully, having had a particularly nasty run in with them on GMTV when I tried to convince Linda, one of our wiggies, that the blusher on my cheeks was just a "natural glow". Apparently nuns don't wear make-up. Neither do they break into disco songs and shake their booties every five minutes, I tried to argue, but she wasn't having it. I had to console myself by keeping my pearls on under my habit. A small act of rebellion, but it made me feel better.

No, this time I dodged the baby wipe test with all the finesse of Jack Dawkins on a pickpocketing mission. I even got away with a small amount of natural lip liner and a dab of Eight Hour Cream. Mission accomplished.

Our item seemed to go well. We were following an interview with Sheila and Patina. I'm sure the last thing Patina felt like doing before singing live on national television to a quiet backing track was telling Ruth and Eamonn how she was finding life in London, but she coped very well, before legging it to the other side of the studio to start the number with us in record time.

It was over very quickly. I had a minor skirmish with the dry ice machine, but managed to bat off great swathes of smoke with my habit sleeves. Finally, that horror of a frock has a use.

Eamonn rushed over to us at the end of the programme.

"Girls, girls! Can I get a picture? It's for my mum. She'll appreciate the nun thing."

I was surprised how pleasant he was. Chatted to us for a few minutes, located the Catholics amongst us and compared tales of convent school life — the highs, the lows, the beatings... No sign of Ruth, though.

I bumped into Jason Gardiner on the way out. He was very charming — a kindred spirit, a fellow twirly. I wanted to mention that he knew the Wanderer, but couldn't think of the best way to work "I think you worked with my fiancé in Beirut" into the conversation.

Maybe I should have made like This Morning and done an inappropriate link...

What's Up, Doc?

Witch has developed a sudden interest in medical matters...

There are numerous ailments suffered by performers that sadly go undiagnosed and untreated, so I thought I would bring some of them to the public's attention. Education is the first step, after all. Here are some of the most common theatre afflictions:

Mugging

A psychological disorder which renders the sufferer unable to control his or her onstage facial movements.

Marking

At the opposite end of the medical spectrum from Mugging, this condition usually rears its head during dance numbers. The afflicted party will lack energy and appear listless, easily distracted and slightly behind the music. Movements will be small and unfocused. Only two known cures for Marking currently exist: the threat of a clean-up call or an announcement that the producer is watching.


Don't pop the head, Cassie.

Sowing the seed

Also known as How-to-get-a-day-off-when-there's-nothing-actually-wrong-with-you. A common affliction, particularly amongst lazier performers. Usually involves a pained expression, limp and/or cough, loud request for Neurofen, doubling over, refusal to eat and a brave "No, I'll soldier on" attitude. Precedes a day off.
Anyone who has swung a show will have an acute ability to spot the seed-sowers, but it takes a strong dance captain to weed them out.

Saturdayitis

A medical condition that renders the sufferer unable or reluctant to come into work on a Saturday. Often accompanied by Friday seed-sowing. Cf. Midweek Matinee-itis.

Phoning it in

A polite way of demonstrating one's apathy towards the show.

Midweek Matinee-itis

Why should I come into work more than once a day?

Corpsing

Probably one of the most common theatre ailments; certainly one of the most well-known. Often mistakenly associated with dead bodies, corpsing is actually the inability to control laughter when onstage. Can be caused by anything from a rogue piece of set to a fart noise from the wings. The effects of corpsing correlate directly with an actor's self-control and can be calculated by the simple formula C=E (s x S), where E is the event causing the mirth, s the amount of self-control mustered by the actor and S how high the stakes are at the time of corpsing, ie. how serious the moment in the piece.

Inappropriate Notes Tourette Syndrome

The inability of an actor to refrain from giving fellow turns advice on their performance.

Pulling Focus

An umbrella term encompassing many disorders, from the classic hand-clap-and-rub-before-one's-line, to general ensemble mugging.

Don't Pop The Head, Cassie

Focus-pulling for dancers. Often accompanied by extreme arrogance. Very difficult to treat.

Witch Returns

So, after two weeks of Mediterranean bliss, Witch finally made it back to work last night...

I was a little concerned that I might have forgotten the show, after so long a break. I'm not known for my long-term retention of steps. Give or take a fortnight and things I've had in my brain for six months will start seeping out of one ear.

Lipstick frequently entertains me with her renditions of numbers from a job we did five years ago together. She remembers every kick, every turn, every top C that has ever come out of her. I humour her and watch politely, secretly wondering if I ever performed the same steps, or if she's just improvising very well. My memory is not what it was.

Of course, some things never leave you - All That Jazz from Chicago, the jive from Grease, or anything that has ever been drilled into you by Karen Bruce. I can also still remember the first jazz routine I ever learnt at college, oddly. Whether I can still do it is another question...

It seems that a fortnight, though, was not long enough for me to forget the show, although God knows I tried. The only problem I had was that people seemed to have forgotten how big I was (having been blessed with the teeny tiny Kate Coysten for a couple of weeks) and spread out accordingly. Gaps had become narrower, spaces smaller and I felt the jostle of shoulders and elbows at every turn. I felt like a full-on Blundernun, Bella Emberg-style. Not good for one's self-esteem.

Aside from that, very little seemed to have happened in my absence. It seemed there had been another skirmish with Equity over an additional EPK recording (which thankfully I missed) and more dramas about the West End Agreement, which could perhaps more aptly be named as the West End Unfair Buyout, but I won't get all political on you now, chickens. It's so boring you'd be asleep before I got through the first sentence.

Oh, and I did nearly miss a cue because I was engrossed in my book. I'm reading The Historian, by Catherine Kostova. Terrifying and gripping all at the same time. Fine for holiday, but now I'm not sure if it's unholy or blasphemous to read about vampires whilst dressed as a nun. Still, it's compulsive reading. I can't seem to put it down.

It's only fiction, but I keep my rosary to hand, just in case...

Curtain Call

Witch is dizzy from bowing...

So, we've redone the end of the show. About time. I know the curtain call is way down on the "to do" list, but it was getting just a little embarrassing, straggling on all higgledy-piggledy like Aunt Sally's Ballet Academy annual display. A few half-baked bows to a piece of music that ran out thirty seconds too early was not going to cut it.

After two weeks of this increasingly awkward proceedure, I began to wonder if it would ever get changed, or if the creatives had forgotten about us and we were doomed to a finale of embarrassing entrances and excruciating exits.

I failed to remember one thing: Anthony Van Laast.

The king of the curtain call, the don of the encore, the man who single-handedly invented the megamix (remember Joseph?), Anthony Van Laast is a force to be reckoned with when it comes to the matter of stooping one's head to the merry tune of applause.

We started off in the usual way - ensemble, followed by semi-demis, principals and top turn. Nothing new there. Every West End and Broadway show seems to follow the same pattern these days. We dutifully followed the formula before piling into the wings, relieved at such a quick and painless curtain call.

But what was this? A false exit? Surely not?

We were herded back on stage quicker than Liza to the bar. Round two of the bows. Okay, fair enough, I conceded. The show gets a standing ovation most evenings. Let's not be selfish here.

After the seventh bow, I was beginning to feel a little like a weeble. But surely this must be it now?

Almost.

Just a quick verse of Raise Your Voice, and you're done, said the voice over the God mic.

Okay, a simple reprise. I could handle that. It was the show's signature tune, after all. I wouldn't begrudge them that. But that really must be it. He wouldn't make us do any more. We finished and turned to go.

Onemorebow! screamed the God mic.

I think I did nine bows in total. And that was just me. So, with all the principals, including several for Sheila and Patina, the figure must have surely reached the twenties. Maybe even the thirties.

I'll count tonight. Maybe I'll have a little sweepstake. Answers on a postcard, please...

The Paul O'Grady Show

Witch is considering a career in TV after her appearance on the Paul O'Grady show...

I awoke yesterday morning in eager anticipation of a fun-filled, celeb-packed day at the London Television Studios. That place has long intrigued me, ever since I walked past one day on my way to the Oxo Tower and saw Christine Hamilton doing a live televised survival course on the roof for This Morning.

TV is a different world. It's all "security" this, and "have you got your pass" that. You can't even go to the loo without being collared by some well-meaning runner. It's not their fault. They're under order to chaperone you to within an inch of your life.

They also seem to be under strict instruction to feed you at every opportunity. It's a good idea. Those stroppy celebs don't like to be kept waiting, especially when there's a sea of low-grade paps waiting outside for them. The TV people cleverly provide food as a pacifier. The dressing room is a cornucopia of cakes, biscuits, sandwiches, tea, coffee, juices...

Let's be honest. It probably goes to waste when the likes of Angelina and Paris come in to promote their latest ventures.

Not so today. Every morsel went.

It's easy to spot the theatre people in a TV studio. We're the ones stuffing our faces and putting biscuits up our sleeves for later, you know - just in case. We're not used to such spoils.

I was hoping to get a glimpse of Phil and Fern thrashing it out over wages, or at the very least Jane McDonald and Carol McGiffin mid-slanging match in the cafeteria, but the most I got was Justin Lee Collins sweeping grandly down to the first floor in a pair of outsize sunglasses. (FYI we were in a sunless stairwell miles from the entrance, ample time for him to have removed them. No. He meant to wear those shades indoors.)

The team at The Paul O'Grady Show were still cobbling together a mini-church set for us when we arrived at the studio. I was grateful for the camera rehearsal. Having lived and breathed the musty air of theatre for the last ten years, I found it difficult not to stare directly into the lense. I even got a bizarre urge to pull crazy faces and wave, but thankfully I managed to control it.

Paul O'Grady loved our rendition of Raise Your Voice and the audience seemed to as well, although it can be difficult to tell with a telly crowd because they'll applaud someone blowing their nose. Not so much a sign of true appreciation as an eagerness to be noticed.

Look out for me, chickens. I'm the one in the habit.

The London Palladium

Okay, so I'm a few days late, chickens. I do apologise. There's just so much going on at the theatre that it's been impossible to write anything...

Oh, and just for the record, the tech is going very well, thank you. Friends in other shows keep calling and asking me what's going on, why are we so behind. Are they going to have to delay press night? Apparently it's spread round the West End quicker than when Richard Dreyfuss got the sack from The Producers that we're running ten days late, the set's not working and we're going to open late...

Not so. The set changes are seamless; beautiful, even. There's an air of relaxed calm about the place and the faces dotted sporadically amongst the sea of equipment in the stalls are contented. Carline, our director, manages to stay buoyant even when things are perhaps a little slower than anticipated. No, all things considered, a good tech.

But as soon as anything goes wrong, Witch'll be the first to tell you.

So. The Palladium...

For a start, its very name is grand. As a substance palladium is as precious as gold or platinum. Rare and lustrous and highly valuable. An apt title for a building steeped in glamour. It's no stranger to sparkle.

Even the stage door is glamorous. Huge cast iron gates crowned with the words London Palladium in gold paint and a rather grandiose sloping walkway lead you down to a pair of heavy wooden doors. Their brass handles must have brushed with more celebrity than Parkinson and Letterman put together.

There's something about those vast iron gates that screams importance. We're not tucked away down some rancid back alley, hidden from public view like the hired help. Oh no. At the Palladium we're worn proudly like a badge, paraded like pageant contestants as we walk down the ramp. As I walked towards the entrance on Great Marlborough Street I could hear the cheers of fans from days gone by ringing in my ears. I half expected someone to unroll a red carpet for me as I slipped through the gates.

Sadly no one did. I was brought back to reality with a sharp whiff of bins and the sight of disused paint pots and a forklift truck. There's nothing as humbling as the smell of garbage...

We're doing the Paul O'Grady show tomorrow, at the London Television Studios. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm hoping to bump into Phil and Fearn, but I'll settle for Buster the dog.

Online Dating

After a less than exciting day, I decided I needed a break from theatre (difficult in my line of work, I know.) So I went to meet Polly at... the Theatre Royal.

Okay, so it's hardly getting away from theatre, but at least it was a show I wasn't in. There's something quite lovely about being backstage and just knowing that you won't be called down to the stage for anything. At least, I hoped not. Great as my rendition of Food, Glorious Food would be, I might stick out somewhat. To say the least.

Polly and Dolly were apparently too busy even to come down and meet me at the stage door. They had left a note for me summoning me to their dressing room, so I climbed the hundred sterile stairs alone, wondering what could be so good they couldn't tear themselves away from it.

"What's going on?" I asked, pulling off my coat. They were huddled over a laptop in the corner of the room.
"Polly's joining a dating website," said Dolly excitedly, barely looking up.
"Actually, we might need some help," said Polly. "I've done the bit about me. I'm struggling on the section where I have to say what type of man I'm looking for."

"Certainly none of the cockmonkeys you've been after lately," I said, leaning over their shoulders to get a better look. "Pol, if you don't know what type of man you're after, there's not a lot we can do."

"Maybe I should say I want someone with a good sense of humour, honest, kind..."
" - doesn't screw around with nineteen-year-old chorus girls behind your back," added Dolly.

She had a point. It's so incredibly hard to meet anyone in this business. Polly is what you would easily describe as a "catch". Petite, auburn, fun-loving (sounds like I'm writing her dating biog now) - she's hot. And lately, all she seems to be attracting are tech-y sleezeball types with hidden agendas or fucked-up dancer boys with sexuality issues.

In the real world, she wouldn't even give them a second look. But the odds are stacked highly against women in showbiz. If you take all the men involved and divide them up you automatically lose:

About forty percent to homosexuality (that's a rough guess).

Then come the "players" - I'm underestimating, but it must be at least another thirty percent. Don't forget how many gorgeous women there are floating around. You can't blame the poor lads.

Another fifteen percent are insecure, needy, whingey actor-types. No good. Who wants a man who spends longer getting ready than you do?

Of the remaining candidates, ten percent are probably married or have girlfriends.

That leaves five percent. It's not looking good for us, ladies.

Five percent of the men Polly meets are even close to possible dating material. And then, she's actually got to fancy them. The stupid thing is, in the real world, she'd have them falling at her feet. The girl is gorgeous.

It annoys me, actually - that due to massively reduced competition, blokes who wouldn't ordinarily get a look in suddenly consider themselves Adonises. The good ones really are few and far between. It took me long enough to meet the Wanderer, and even then it wasn't free of complications or heartache (long story - another time, chickens).

It surprised me that Polly should want to try internet dating. But when I thought about it, I realised I knew lots of women in showbusiness who lately had done the same thing, and successfully. Working in the theatre is antisocial. Everything happens at the wrong end of the day. By the time we get out for a drink after a show, most people have gone home. We just don't meet anyone.

Polly should be with someone who adores her every move, hangs off her every word, takes tender care of her and makes her laugh. Not someone who doesn't call, leaves her feeling insecure and can't really be bothered. Isn't that what every woman deserves?

If online is the way to find a partner, then I'm all for it.