The Curse of the Chipbelly

Witch has another illness to add to the list, having suffered profusely at its menacing hands on Saturday...

Chipbelly.



Well, I'll call it Chipbelly, but it's really a blanket term for having eaten too much before a show. It's most common on a matinee day, but can occur at any time.

The conditions have to be right, of course. At Grease or Mamma Mia for example, with their strict back-to-back regimes, it just wouldn't happen. The turn around between performances is so quick that after the matinee you find yourself getting out of costume to the tune of Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your half-hour call...

Harsh.

And no time to stuff anything more down than a couple of biscuits.

Another contending factor is the choreography. Attempting a Chipbelly in a piece by Rob Ashford or Gillian Lynn would be foolhardy. You'd simply be sick. Trust me, I've tried it.

The final hurdle is your costume. A major hindrance to the cultivation of the perfect Chipbelly. Anything involving whalebone is a no-no, as are hooks and eyes or any sort of corsetry. Lycra is definitely out.

No, what you need is a show with not too much choreography, with nicely loose-fitting costumes and about an hour in between the matinee and evening...

In other words, Sister Act.

On Saturday, the girls in my dressing room and I decided to go for fish and chips. We had been planning it since Wednesday and were really looking forward to it. Oddly, half of the building seemed to have the same idea, and the queue outside the chippy looked like the turnout for an open audition at Pineapple.

We thought we'd be conservative, sharing chips and ordering small portions. No need to overdo it. We still had another show to do, after all. Best not be greedy...

By five to seven not a chip was left, no morsel of batter could be seen and five pots of mushy peas had been licked clean. We looked at each other nervously.

"I feel alright," said Jennie cautiously, as if she couldn't believe it.

"Me too," said Helen, a little over-confidently. There was an air of doom hanging over us. We sat in silence for five minutes, hoping to escape the inevitable...

And then it came.

The half was called. I tried to move, but it was as if Derren Brown himself had bound me to the chair with the power of his mind. Nothing happened. I tried again, managing to unseat only my left buttock as my right one remained rooted to the chair. I heard a little whimper from the other side of the room.

"Oh...God..." said Helen. "Spoke...too...soon."

Gradually, with much sighing and grunting, we started to get ready for the second show. Poppers and zips were groaning under the weight of our stomachs. Mutterings of "Never again" and "Whose idea was it to get fish and chips" floated around the dressing room. This did not bode well.

It seemed we were not alone. I passed Tom Goodridge in the corridor, clearly anything but ready to go onstage, his eyes rolling back into his lolling head as he grasped the wall.

"Two...jumbo...sausages..." was all he could muster by way of explanation.

It appeared that most people had succumbed to the lure of Chipbelly. At any given point during the show I could virtually guarantee there would be a nun, somewhere on the stage, taking advantage of a moment facing the back to blow her cheeks out exhaustedly and try to gain momentum again. The dance numbers felt as if we were wading through curry sauce. Getting a big enough breath to sing was a chore. Even bending over to put a pair of tights on was a struggle.

Suffice to say, tomorrow I'll be having a sandwich...

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...

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.

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...

Nuns Play for Chelsea

Well, that was a first. West End Witch playing football at Stamford Bridge. A peculiar day...



I made a comment some weeks ago about the instant comedy points that can be scored from wearing a habit. Part of the show's success must be down to the fact that nuns doing anything is funny. People will laugh at anything you do, provided you are "Y-wimpled well".

It seems that this hilarity even extends to the football field. Joop van den Ende (our producer) agrees and today had us all lined up for a footie lesson with his pal, Guus Hiddink. Apparently he's a big deal in the football world. I'm not sure what Guus or any of the Chelsea officials knew what to make of a bunch of over-excited nuns descending onto the field, but they took it with good humour.

Witch didn't exactly shine on the pitch...

Let's face it, I'm more croquet-on-the-lawn and cucumber sandwiches than muddy shins and sliding tackles. I left it to some of the more skilled players. Emma Woods scored a spectacular goal, to the thuggish chants of "Woods-y! Woods-y!" Verity Quade gave us some Beckham-worthy free kicks, too, and Allison Harding was like a brick wall against penalties.

What a good idea for publicity. I don't even like football and I was impressed. I thought it would be hard to top the abseiling nuns, but I think we did.

I wonder what stunt the marketing team will come up with next. It had better be good. After all, one more and it's a hat-trick...