Despite greatly exaggerated reports of his demise, Santa Claus came early this year. I can only imagine he’s got me confused with Lisa Snowdon (straight onto the Nice List with an exemplary Argentine Tango) or perhaps with Frosty Snowman, who last time I checked remains a jolly happy soul with a corncob pipe and a button nose and two eyes made out of coal. Sheesh, what a suck-up.

 

I am now the bleary-eyed possessor of an Unlimited Cinema Card, which allows me to see as many films as I can cram beneath my eyelids. When you spend as much time in a dark room guzzling ice-cream as I do, a gift like this practically pays for itself. Well, it would if you’d bought it yourself. Thanks, Santa.

 

Therein lies the problem. This weekend I’ve endured a preposterous schlockbuster, a fantastical rumination on the evils of children’s literature, and a chilling cartoon about war and skinny-dipping. Why would marooning myself in a cinema prove so addictive? It’s the economy, stupid. Nothing staves off the recession like a little escapism. Especially escapism that you can smooch in the back row of. And a card that offers unlimited film-going arouses the wallet along with the imagination.

 

Surely we can magpie, bastardize and re-ribbon this clever enterprise and apply it to theatre. A confederation of small theatres could conspire and offer a Theatre On Tap card: you pay a hundred pounds or so for a year’s subscription, entitling you to see as much as you like at participating venues.

 

‘That’ll be £14.’

 

‘Aha! But I have a TOT card!’

 

‘Oh, in that case madam, march right in!’

 

‘Huzzah!’

 

TOT cards would encourage copious audience attendance: even vacuum-eyed telly-serfs would drag themselves away from the X-factory if they’d already spent the money on an All You Can See card. Deep down we’re all cheapskates, thank goodness. And who better to organize such a noble venture than the good people here at OffWestEnd.com. Although this will be the first they’ve heard of this, so give them a little time to catch up.

 

Any problems with this scheme (many of which I have already chosen to ignore) please feel free to contribute. But here are a few smug retorts in advance:

 

a)     No, popcorn will not be included. Stage actors get put off by munching in the aisles. Screen actors seem more resilient. It’s a mystery why.

 

b)     Yes, you can see the same show twice. Especially if it’s Doctor Who taken ill. Although his understudy may be better. Scandal!

 

c)      Of course —if cinema is anything to go by— the theatres will make Olympic-sized pools of cash. Unlimited Cinema Card sales were up 17% last year, which popped profits to a salty, nourishing £30.4m. Yowza.

 

And for my final flourish, those of you who’ve been reading these tiresome, indulgent blogs from the very beginning will be eligible for free TOT cards.

 

Well, I’ll try my best. But, hey…I’m no Saint Nick.

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Remember ‘Ben Sherman’ shirts? Of course you do. Nobody wore anything else. A dodgy decade or so ago the Berkshire waterfront was set agog by a sickening montage of chequered shirts, Doc Martin boots, pints of Fosters (rather exotic at the time) and Café Crème cigarillos being inexpertly smoked. Those were the days. But not for fashion.

 

Well, that’s all changed now. Once the clandestine retreat of drama students and greasy-haired hermits, charity shops and vintage stores are now lapping up the limelight with profits up 7.4% to the tune of over £100m. And I for one —as a long-term loyal customer— am spluttering like a cuckolded walrus. Example: Angels (Europe’s largest film and theatrical costumier) had their one-day-only big surplus sale last week. YSL blazers, 1940s tea dresses, ostentatious cavalier hats, Roman shields and a giant Turkey costume. All for as much as you can stuff into a £20 bag. On the day of the sale I set out at 6am  — laughable, perhaps, but having queued for three hours in the snow for Ivanov, I knew that these audacious moves paid off.

 

Even an hour before its doors opened, the queue for this vintage bonanza whirled around three sides of the giant warehouse, past an industrial estate and off into the speckled distance: four hours waiting time. Some stalwarts had begun queuing up the previous afternoon. Since when did trans-epoch dress-up become so popular?

 

After a palpitatingly long wait, we breached the warehouse: The euphoria of accomplishment and defrosting appendages was quickly supplanted by the sound of sinking stomachs. Empty boxes lay piled upon empty boxes. Tat and shattered merchandise were the only remnants of what was to be a glorious escapade in the realm of costume. The crowds were so impregnable that twice someone mistook my Soviet cap for part of the sale, and I had to swipe it back. To top it off, NO REFUND signs glared austerely from every wall, mocking my empty £20 bags. Hell on earth amongst Angels, my friends.

 

Eventual spoils include:

 

1 pair black Wellingtons (both left foot)

 

1 semi-authentic soldier helmet (noticed swastika only after exiting)

 

1 20s ladies hat (good fit for a Leprechaun)

 

1 “Electro-Sassy Pink Wig”

 

My blood and spit went into battling for these tawdry items. What a sad little life I lead.

 

Disappointment aside, we emerged, eventually, with a smile on our faces (breathing again was nice). And judging by the sheer amount of early-birds hopping away with pirate caps, musketeer jackets and leopard masks, dress-up is something society’s far more comfortable with these days. Which from the standing point of the theatrical can only mean progress. Much like in Shakespeare’s time, when each Elizabethan’s outfit was a unique amalgamation of style and cross-culture (‘What a deformed thief this fashion is…’). Perhaps we can finally do away with the ubiquitous chequered shirt and embrace a new and guilt-free age of wearing whatever we damn well like.

 

I’ll be the one with two left wellies.

 

–>

Burghfield Common, circa 1989. Jive Bunny And The Mastermixers are top of the charts, and to own a Global Hyper-Colour T-Shirt is to be part of an elite and much-coveted fashion pantheon. A young boy sits on a tree branch, painting small lead figures with audacious strokes. Suddenly, a small group of adolescents arrive on the ever-popular Street Wolf BMX. One of them points to the boy in the tree.

 

‘Oy, flub-a-lubb!’

 

‘Look at that belly-flab!’

 

‘Grab an inch!’

 

‘Did your dad find that T-shirt in a Grundon?’

 

The boy looks down at his T-Shirt.

 

‘What is it? A Global Hyper-Colour?’

 

The boy plays subconsciously with the material, and says something softly.

 

‘What?’

 

‘It’s a Tie-Dye.’

 

‘A Tie-Dye!’

 

The other boys squeal with laughter.

 

‘What an off-the-wall-spooner!’

 

‘What’s yer name?’

 

‘Per…’

 

The boy in the tree trails off.

 

‘What did he say?’

 

‘Hercules?!’

 

‘Don’t worry, we’ll be friends. My name’s Dave. What’s yours?’

 

The boy sighs.

 

‘Pericles.’

 

The adolescents exchange mortified looks. Their pack leader motions grimly. The tree shakes. A savage beating ensues.

 

I owe a lot to my mother. But surely the greatest gift she could have bestowed upon a young scamp with aspirations to high society —or at least to library-card ownership— was my name. It sort of sums me up. Over-laboured, out-of-date, and conspicuous in the way that a garish butterfly is conspicuous to a mantis disguised as an orchid.

 

It’s a folly easily enough embarked upon with a small baby that has no distinguishing features beyond yellowing skin and over-large hands. But what about theatre’s most important christening? That of the character.

 

I’m a (library) card-carrying name-snob when it comes to characters. I don’t like my heroes to be called James. I like them to be called Echo. Or Mordechai. I don’t like my villains to be called Dr Evil. I like them to be called Gotteschalk Von Prinz. And as for romantic interests, well…my first leading lady was called Bingo Summertime. Which says it all. It seems reasonable to be adventurous with character names these days because society itself is boldly leading the way. I remember back when Chardonnay seemed an outrageously left-field choice for a child. Now GCSE Inspectors are juggling a multitude of children named after a tasteless white wine. And so it seems fitting that our theatre reflects that.

 

Some playwrights worry this breaches the world of absurdism, of arch-reality: the riotously inventive naming of Philip Ridley, Charles Dickens and Sheridan. For me, the difficulty of writing a character with a common name is keeping it from being tainted by all its namesakes. You’ll never see a Jesus on the cast-list without some connection to the original Nazarethian. The character becomes an amalgamation rather than a distillation. Hence Boo is more helpful than Brenda.

Though perhaps if I had been called Clive, I’d be writing plays about Dave.

 

Ah. Don’t you worry, Dave. I’m still writing plays about you.

 

Only in my world, you’re called Cookie.  

 

 

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