WHOOPEE. SUNDAY Night At
The (etc). Bothered to wash for this one.
Hired a dinner suit, called a cab from
around the corner and arrived in elegant
style arm in arm with my escort (from the
Venus Agency sixty quid a night,
all in). Proceeded to seats and before
parking our rears effected a prim curtsy
to the royal box (although THEY were not
glanced around, uncomfortably taking
stock of the state of the
audience. The Palladium was full of the
type of people who make
emigration seem like a good option.
an average gathering for this venue,
there was a wide cross-section of ages
from old ladies with glasses perched on
noses peering at their programmes to the
little girl behind me, amusing herself by
sticking bits of chewing gum down my
year or so since I last saw them, the two
remaining Marines, Kurt and Wilbur, have
become deftly (or should I say deathly)
professional entertainers. They are now
exponents of the perennial plastic smile,
displaying sets of gleamingly white teeth
which look disreputably false.
Mari's entry they "warm" the
audience with a series of unfunny quips
of the men-wearing-earrings ilk. The
crowd laugh their heads off
(metaphorically speaking, more's the
suppose the Queen Beehive at the
Palladium is a major triumph of sorts.
The tinsel on the Compact vision of a
product which they've
"successfully" packaged and
presented in a mass public context.
past, the strength of the Wilson
entourage has been in their subtle sneers
and put downs of the bland inanities
inherent in the sham of 'show biz' while,
at the same time, providing a dazzling
spectacle of their own. Hank B. Hive, the
smarmiest, most multi faced MC in the
world was an essential part of all that
and his absence is painfully felt.
Wilson camp (sic) has slickened up by
employing musicians who can play, dancers
who can dance and actors who can act. A
human element has been removed and
neither is there any hint of the kitschy
dabblings which used to be so
allowing for my terminal rock and roll
sensibilities (snort), this was a tedious
brand of pulp entertainment. I didn't
loathe it exactly, but I was sorely
tempted to exit after two songs.
monotony was alleviated slightly by the
special guests, John Cooper Clarke (his
'Evidently Chicken Town' probably
providing more "fucks" in its
90 odd seconds than previously heard in
the history of the Palladium) and Paul
Young. I hung around on the off chance of
more appearing. They didn't. The show
ended in predictable pantomime style with
'Just What I Always Wanted' which, in
Mari's case, this presumably was.
before midnight my expensive companion
turned into a pumpkin, chewing gum
clogged the grace of my dinner suit and
as people began to rave in
their seats during the encore, I scurried
to like Mari Wilson but this was,
irretrievably, the end of the affair.
to the beehive!