New Guest Post: Catherine Flies High with Boeing Boeing at Oldham Coliseum Theatre

You are probably all familiar with the old saying, if you want a job doing properly then send a better, sensible person to do it for you. Hence on Friday 15th May, whilst I was hanging round the alcohol at Cocktails in the City, the lovely Catherine went to press night of Boeing Boeing at Oldham Coliseum. Here's what she thought - beware though, she wrote this in a giddy mood after watching Eurovision, so there are a LOT of puns. DON'T SAY I HAVEN'T WARNED YOU...

Boeing Boeing touched down last week at the Oldham Coliseum Theatre for its opening night after originally flying into the West End for a seven year run during the 1960s. The play navigates the confusing love life of Bernard (Robin Simpson), a Parisian architect who has not one but three air hostess fiancés. Set during the early 1960s when a jet set lifestyle was still in its infancy, Bernard is able to take advantage of international scheduled flights to plan out his love life and create a dating system he describes enthusiastically as being mathematical “perfection”.

Luckily for Bernard his three fiancées all have names beginning with ‘G’: there’s Gloria from America (Laura Doddington), Gabrielle from Italy (Maeve Larkin) and Gretchen from Germany (Sarah Lawrie). All three also wear colour-coded clothing that makes it easy for not only Bernard, but also the audience to identify his different fiancées. The play takes off without a glitch as the coordinated comings and goings of Gloria, Gretchen and Gabrielle are as hassle-free as a place in first class. However, Bernard’s dating system soon meets turbulence when stormy weather and faster planes conspire to bring his system into free fall.

The first half of the play really begins to pick up the pace when Gloria takes off for America and Gabrielle flies in from Italy. Not long after this, Gretchen touches down in Paris from Germany and Bernard faces the uneasy prospect of entertaining both fiancées at once in his apartment - without either knowing about each other’s existence. From this moment on, the farce soars and things soon start to unravel faster than a transatlantic flight on Concorde. Bernard enlists the help of his best friend Robert (played by Ben Porter) who is visiting from the provinces, to act as a comic foil. He also needs his housekeeper Bertha (played by Gilly Tompkins) to help keep his love life airborne.

Because the action unfolds in one room, some elements of the plot are a little implausible at times. Gloria, Gretchen and Gabrielle would definitely be able to hear each other in the apartment and they would also be able to hear Robert and Bernard’s high-pitched, Carry-On-esque outbursts during the closing scenes. But this is a farce, and by its very nature should not be taken seriously. What prevents Boeing Boeing from becoming farcical is the on-set choreography as the different actors coordinate their moves seamlessly between the seven doors of the Parisian apartment. The energy of the choreography and comic performances by the cast are exciting and engaging throughout. The set itself is also impressive, with a convincing view of the Eiffel Tower illuminated in the background to remind the audience that this is Paris in the swinging sixties.

Boeing Boeing has been adapted for Oldham Coliseum Theatre by director Robin Herford from Swiss-born Frenchman Marc Camoletti’s play written in 1960. The original was a huge hit and it appears in the Guinness Book of World Records for holding the title of the most-performed French play ever. It’s well worth watching this classic hit at the Oldham Coliseum theatre before it’s Boeing Boeing gone.

- Boeing Boeing is at Oldham Coliseum Theatre until 6th June. Photos used in this post are courtesy of Joel C Fildes.

Guest Blog Post: Susan Hill's The Mist in the Mirror at Oldham Coliseum

So, I've been a bit off-colour the last few weeks, and have had to hand over the blogging reins to some trusted souls - including the lovely Catherine, who has been to Oldham to see the premiere of The Mist in the Mirror, based on the novel by Susan Hill and adapted for the stage by Ian Kershaw. Here's what she thought of it...

Oldham often bears the brunt of the wintry weather in Greater Manchester and there was definitely a strange chill over the town on Tuesday evening, when Oldham Coliseum Theatre hosted the world premiere of Ian Kershaw’s adaptation of Susan Hill’s The Mist in the Mirror.

Avid fans of the Gothic tradition will not be disappointed with this chillingly entertaining production as Kershaw’s adaptation retains all the terrifying plot elements of Hill’s Gothic novel including: orphaned hero, terrifying villain, lots of thunder and lightning, eerie old houses, and even the Yorkshire moors.

Set at the turn of the 20th century, The Mist in the Mirror follows orphaned hero James Monmouth (played by the affable Paul Warriner), as an ‘honest’ gentleman on a quest to trace his family history. James travels from Africa, where he was sent to live at the age of 5, back to his native England. One gloomy evening he finally arrives in a Dickensian-like London that is smothered in fog and harbouring secrets down every alleyway.

It is at this moment that the production really brings the dark magic of the play to life. Whilst the narrator of the tale (played by Jack Lord) starts to recount the journey, a steamboat lurches into view and words appear to write themselves around the interior rim of the set. Actors pull wings from the blackened stage, and the dark set is suddenly transformed into an inn, then it morphs into a London street, and then an antiquarian bookshop. The list of set transitions and locations is copious, and all morph within the blink of an eye.

The stunning video and light projections are perfectly choreographed to every actor’s movements. Even the act of holding a lamp or candle is visually arresting in this play as the glow creates creeping shadows on the walls, illuminates a door that definitely wasn’t there a second ago, and allows the audience to glimpse the terrifying epitaph of the play’s arch-villain, Conrad Vane. Some of the set-pieces of the video projections include Monmouth’s spine-chilling amble around a library in search of Vane’s demonic writings, and a journey on a steam train to Yorkshire, complete with moving landscapes and falling snow.

A Gothic tale couldn’t be ‘gothic’ without exaggerated pathetic fallacy and Kershaw’s production brought the first audible gasps of fright from the audience with a huge crack of lightning that rippled across the backdrop. Further gasps and jumps were created by the lingering spectre of an unknown boy with a cloth sack for a head, who haunts James Monmouth throughout the play, and it’s a spectre that isn’t a video projection. This makes his appearances all the more terrifying and it will be impossible to look at a scarecrow in the same way ever again.

So, whilst the wintry mist still lays thick over Oldham, go and see The Mist in the Mirror before it descends on another town as part of its nation-wide tour.

...so, I think we can all agree Catherine is too professional by half and has put me to shame somewhat - gald she enjoyed it though (said through slightly gritted teeth). I'm keen to see this (despite having embarrassed myself when I saw Susan Hill's The Woman in Black at the theatre by being openly and audibly terrified) - luckily it's on until 21st Feb: full details here.

(All Mist in the Mirror production shots: credit Joel C Fildes)

New Guest Post, in which even the Gorgeous Nicole is Out-Glammed by The Lady Boys of Bangkok

When Liz asked if I would like to accompany her to the Lady Boys of Bangkok Gala Night, I believe she actually put her fingers in her ears, such was the high pitched nature of my excited shriek. Having always wanted to see a Lady Boys show, this was an opportunity I couldn't pass up, and it's safe to say my excitement reached fever pitch as I donned my sequin jacket (a nod to the evening's moniker - Glamorous Amorous) and we made our way to Old Trafford football ground.

The Lady Boys have brought their own brand of glamour to Old Trafford's car park, as the Sabai Pavilion includes an outdoor seating area with bamboo screens, exotic shrubs in urns and various stone deities which makes for an authentic Thai experience, particularly as you get a delicious waft of Thai food from the pavilion's own kitchen. This is where Liz and I set up camp before the show, feeling that a bottle of Prosecco was clearly the only appropriate way to toast the occasion. Basking in the early evening sun with a glass of sparkle, the drone of traffic on Sir Matt Busby Way was pleasantly drowned out by summery pop tunes, and we could easily forget we were in a car park, which was particularly amusing when a friend commented on our check-in, saying he was in ACTUAL Bangkok...

With the show about to commence, we whisked up our bottle of fizz (rather too hastily I might add, resulting in the unfortunate sloshing of Prosecco into a Louboutin) and made our way into the main marquee, set up with large cabaret-style tables arranged around the stage. When an event official moved us closer so we wouldn't have our view obscured by the queue for the bar, we found ourselves right at the foot of the stage, and by turns, involved in the action. A mild warning: if you do find yourself close to the stage, be prepared, as the Lady Boys enjoy a bit of audience participation, which is always in good humour and actually, rather fun when you find yourself at the head of a conga train on the Way to Amarillo.

The performance opened with an energetic J Lo piece, and we were instantly impressed with the costumes, the choreography, and the convincing way in which the Lady Boys absorbed the mannerisms of the stars they were emulating. This continued throughout the show, where the ensemble-piece-alternated-with-individual-performance format allowed for seamless set and costume changes, and a much-needed rest for the dancers as they ratcheted up the energy and glitz throughout the first half. During the interval it became evident my sequinned jacket was woefully inadequate when compared with the Lady Boys' impeccable standards of grooming. The second half of the performance was one crowd pleaser after another, a mixture of modern and classic pop with some of the Lady Boys' own creations, including their interpretation of 50 Shades of Grey, all of which were delivered with professionalism and panache, and tongues firmly in cheeks. And this is what makes the Lady Boys so enjoyable - the performances are cheeky but not crass, titilating but not tacky, and just very good fun. This is demonstrated in no better way than by a glance around the audience - no other stage performance could surely lay claim to such a diverse demographic.

I thoroughly enjoyed all bar one of the individual performed pieces, which was a tribute to new mothers to the tune of Fairtytale of New York, which I found to be in poor taste. Highlights for us were Nicki Minaj's Starships, Tina Turner's Simply the Best, and an individual rendition of My Way, where the Lady Boy started out dressed as Shirley, and finished the song as Sinatra. We agreed it was brilliant and very moving, even threatening to bring a tear to the eye and a goosebump to the flesh. A special mention should also be given to the male performers, who embodied their stars so well, particularly as Pitbull and Ne-Yo during Give Me Everything, which really revved up the audience. The show finished with a spectacular ensemble piece to Whitney's I Wanna Dance with Somebody, and by this time, the excitement proved too much and we abandoned any thought of maintaining our glamorous composure, instead kicking up our heels in the aisle.

So what of the Lady Boys themselves? Well, they are remarkably entertaining performers, and astonishingly beautiful. One has to applaud a show that places the girls at the heart of it, even down to a whole page in the souvenir brochure dedicated to make up tips and the value of contouring. Did I try to re-create Lady Boy-worthy cheekbones when facing the post-Prosecco haze of the following day? Of course I did. Even the toilets in the Sabai Pavilion have the ladies in mind, with double the number of female to male, and a sign commanding the gents to go around the back...well, if you insist.

And I insist that you purchase your ticket to see the Lady Boys of Bangkok in Glamorous Amorous immediately, if not sooner. It is magnificently glamorous, and I am entirely enamoured with them. They will be dazzling Manchester for another week, before moving the tour on to Wales and Scotland - full details can be found here.

Opera North's The Makropulos Case at The Lowry: Guest Blogger is Smitten, and Wants to Bounce on her OWN Bed

Now, I know what you're thinking, and it goes a little something like this: "Well - that WAS an enjoyable and informative blog post on Opera North's current productions of Faust and Don Giovanni - I feel it was was entertaining AND useful - infotainment, if you will. However, I believed Opera North to be touring THREE shows this season - what of The Makropulos Case? And, more importantly, who will go out of Strictly tonight?"

Well, as it happens I can answer BOTH of those questions for you, but in the interests of leaving your viewing pleasure unbesmirched I will concentrate solely on the former - here's lovely guest blogger Nicole to tell us more...

Now, as an opera virgin, I'm not afraid to admit that I did have some pre-conceptions. Firstly, that all operas are highbrow, frequented by people who know the plot, and the songs (yes, I know that's not the technical term) intimately. In my mind, there is also a strict dress code - diamond drop earrings, glittering floor-length gown and expensive fur definitely NOT optional. Cue frenetic fretting about what to wear, curbed only when Liz tells me, "dress smartly, but not too glamorously, as the man next to me was wearing an actual anorak!" As a firm believer that there is no outfit that cannot be tarted up with a shiny blazer, a pair of vertiginous heels, and slick of red lipstick, I slid into a taxi (the tram being, in my mind, wholly unsuitable for such an important event in my life) and made my way to The Lowry for my first ever opera experience - Opera North's production of The Makropulos Case.

His penultimate opera, The Makropulos Case is one of Janacek's lesser known works - an adaptation of Karel Capek's play of the same name, written in the 1920s. At the heart of The Makropulos Case is the long-hoped-for resolution of the Gregor vs. Prus case, a legal battle over an unclaimed estate that has dragged on for over a century, and dragged many generations of both families into destitution and death. Albert Gregor ('Bertie' - played with complete conviction by Paul Nilon) is on tenterhooks waiting to hear the outcome of the latest legal brawl, when the "dazzling, seductive and fascinating" soprano Emilia Marty (the captivating Ylva Kihlberg) arrives at his lawyer's office with some surprisingly accurate knowledge of the case, and some mysteries of her own. Bertie promptly falls in love with Miss Marty, and so begins the drama. Although essentially a dramatic comedy, The Makropulos Case presents some real food-for-thought: if you could live forever, would you really want to if it meant living without love? And can we ever truly appreciate life unless we accept that at some point, we will die?

Opera North have set their production in the same decade, and the set design and costumes are suitably 'roaring', particularly Miss Marty's shimmering dress coat, which I briefly considered snaffling, as it is entirely suitable attire for my next girls' Sparkle Night. The staging was particularly inventive, with the detailed hustle and bustle of a lawyer's office in Act 1 convincingly portrayed through stacked shelves and desks in varying states of disarray. Act 2 takes place backstage following Marty's latest performance, giving the cast the opportunity to have fun and allow the audience in on a few backstage secrets, with a knowing wink. The final act brings the story to its riveting climax in Marty's hotel room, where the bed in the middle of the stage, resplendent with diaphanous curtain, becomes the focus, despite the huddle of armchairs stage right (well, I am practically an expert now) that remains throughout the acts, serving as a waiting area, a stack of disused furniture, and a lounge area respectively.

Admittedly, the first 15 minutes of the opera were, for me, a rather unsettling experience. Having been led to believe that opera consists of a series of sung pieces hinged on a gravely serious plot, it was a surprise when the characters began to sing their lines to each other. Coupled with the fact that The Makropulos Case is a comedy, as an opera novice, I felt in a state of cognitive dissonance - was I to laugh, or nod soberly? As soon as I realised laughter was acceptable, nay, expected (especially with such pithy quips as "Do you want to spit in my face?" "No, I want to spit in my own!"), I got into the groove. I found myself unable to take my eyes off Kihlberg, and began to fancy myself as an Emilia Marty figure: beguiling, jet-setting, jaded. Well, I was wearing red lipstick...My companion and I both agreed that Act 3 was most enjoyable, due almost entirely to Kihlberg's mesmerizing portrayal of Marty's self-destruction - as she bounced on the bed with reckless abandon whilst swigging from a bottle of wine, we exchanged a glance of recognition, mentally singing along to our own internal soundtrack *aaaall byyyyy myyseeellf...* Unfortunately, this was the only song to run through my head following the performance as the production did not include any sung pieces, which I was a little disappointed by. Despite this, the orchestral accompaniment was aurally luminous, and the ovation for conductor Richard Farnes justly deserved.

Back to my pre-opera pre-conceptions. I can honestly say that Opera North made my first experience a very positive one. The Makropulos Case is accessible for opera newbies as it is sung in English, and for those who can't quite discern the dialogue, the subtitles are helpfully displayed on large, easily-visible screens to the side of the stage (however, if like me, you find yourself needing to continually refer to the subtitles to be sure you are following the complexities of the plot, it can be distracting). With all first-timers, I must reflect on what I have learnt from my experience: 1. Opera can be funny. 2. Not all operas contain arias (yes, I have now learnt the technical term) 3. You don't have to be glam, but of course it helps if you identify with the main character...! My companion - also new to the opera - summed up her experience of The Makropulos Case as being "like a musical version of Death Becomes Her - but in a very good way". And in the taxi home, we found ourselves deeply engaged in a discussion about the relevance of Heidegger's 'Seine zum Ende' (a being towards death) - his idea that until we accept that death is not just a possibility, we will never fully 'live' our lives. Now who would have thought my first experience of opera would have provoked a discussion of 20th century German existential philosophy? Certainly not I, but I would certainly go again.

Opera North's Faust and Don Giovanni at The Lowry, Salford: Local Girl Tra-La-Las and Wants to Dress as Madonna

There's a general perception, I think, that opera is kind of old, and stuffy, and elitist. If I asked you to picture your idea of a typical opera-goer, I'm betting there's a good chance you'll think of a posho posh elderly couple - he has a grey suit, and a slightly military bearing, and possibly a handkerchief a-poking out his top pocket; she has a tidy bouffant updo, and a twinset, and possibly a pince-nez. And I'm not denying that there weren't plenty such in evidence at The Lowry this week when Opera North rolled into town, bearing tasty mid-week treats in the form of Faust on Tuesday night and Don Giovanni on Wednesday, but they certainly were not in the majority - what Opera North do best is make this most majestic of all the theatrical arts accessible, appealing, and - dare I say it - sexy to all.

And I do mean ALL - I can pay no finer accolade to Opera North than by pointing out that, on a busy night of European football action, Mr Liz actually requested to come and see Gounod's Faust with me on Tuesday. This classic tale of a middle-aged scholar and his desperate yearnings to relive the pleasures of his youth (hmmm - *looks closely at self in the mirror*) was first performed in 1859 and has been an Opera North favourite since 1986; the current production opened to rave reviews in Leeds last month.

You probably know the story already - Dr Faust is a lonely man, getting older and feeling all alone in a world he no longer relates to; he contemplates suicide, and calls upon Satan, who duly appears and offers him renewed youth and all its pleasures in exchange for the trifling consideration of his immortal soul. The clincher here is the vision that Mephistopheles shows him of Marguerite, a beautiful young woman who - the devil suggests - can be Faust's if he agrees to make the deal; Faust thinks long and hard for about half a second and agrees. He is transformed into an attractive young man (albeit minus his soul, which now glows becomingly in the devil's greedy mitt) and begins his pursuit of Marguerite; I will reveal no more of the plot but will suggest that all of this is unlikely to end well, lest we all start following Faust's example, handing over our souls to any passing charmer (hmmm - *looks closely at self in the mirror, again*).

As ever with Opera North, the central performances are flawless - Peter Auty shines as Faust, and I am finding James Creswell FAR too sexy as Mephistopheles by the end of the show. Juanita Lascarro is also most convincing as the chaste young girl who gamely resists Faust's advances until he showers her with shedloads of diamonds (*mirror now on floor, smashed*). The updating is as inventive as ever - the chorus takes the guise of a bunch of immoral, greedy, lascivious bankers, storming the stage importantly wielding their iPads, and much use is made of sliding screens onto which are projected various images which are often suitably dark and unsettling (but which do at times become a little distracting).

Anyway, after all this brilliant darkness, and passion, and death, it is fortunate that Wednesday night's production of Mozart's Don Giovanni is played very much for laughs. This is an equally familiar tale - Don G is a serial charmer and seducer, making a string of empty promises to all the women he meets and then leaving them heartbroken and - in the case of his magnificent former conquest Elvira - more than a little cross. We follow him on his eventful last day, which begins with a grope that goes very wrong and ends with a splendidly baroque picnic with a dead man, with just time to seduce a bride on her wedding day in between.

I know that this perhaps doesn't sound like a barrel of laughs (particularly as, the same as Faust, we know that things cannot possibly end well for a man who is mean to women and goes round killing people, or they'd all be doing it), but it really is. This is largely due to the character of Don G's increasingly frustrated servant Leporello, who spends most of his time either keeping watch while his master is seducing his latest lady friend or avoiding a comedy beating from all the previous ones; he is splendidly played by Alastair Miles with a perfect combination of righteous anger and a keen urge to get laid himself, just once. Other standout performances come from the women - Elizabeth Atherton makes for a feisty Elvira, alternating between a classy laydee and a dejected, pouting figure dressed in Desperately Seeking Susan era Madonna-esque lace, whilst Claire Wild's turn as Zerlina, the innocent young bride who turns out to have a great deal of inner raunch, contains one song (delivered from atop her new husband) that you probably won't forget in a while.

The staging is also quite brilliant, relying heavily on use of puppets - characters often appear as scaled down, mannequin-like versions of themselves, and the moment at the end when our philandering hero finally meets his maker is quite something. It also goes without saying that in both productions the music is flawless - Opera North might play it for laughs sometimes, but they always take the essentials seriously, which probably explains why they appeal to both opera purists and to people like me and my Wednesday companion (who particularly enjoys the bit where Don G buries his face in a pair of boob-shaped jellies). In fact, as she was, until Wednesday, an opera virgin, I will use her words to sum up her cherry-popping experience: stunning, brilliant...and SAUCY. And that, I would say, sums up Opera North pretty well.

- You can find out more about Opera North here, and about The Lowry and their other productions here.

An Evening of Burlesque at Manchester's Palace Theatre: Local Girl (Thankfully) Keeps Clothes ON

Now then, let's be honest about this: Manchester, much as I love it, does not always make it particularly easy for its residents to feel sexy. Take any night last week, for example - even the most cursory of glances at a random selection of Mancunian timelines would have indicated beyond any reasonable doubt that Manchester was pretty much at home, in its pyjamas, on the sofa with the heating on, drinking hot chocolate with brandy in it. To many of these Mancunians, even the thought of taking their clothes off long enough to jump into a hot bath seemed HIGHLY unpalatable.

Let us spare a moment then, to ponder the fortitude, bravery and downright selflessness of the plucky ladies and gentlemen performing at Manchester's Palace Theatre last Friday night in An Evening of Burlesque. This was a filthy wet night - cold, showery and miserable (although Mr Liz did manage to convince himself it was weather enough for a cheeky banana gelato at the nearby Fresco Freddo's beforehand) - yet here they were: suspenders jaunty, corsets laced, tassels poised, purely for our entertainment (and that was just the MEN).

I have to be honest and say I didn't really quite know what to expect from An Evening of Burlesque, basing my imaginings on a vague awareness of Dita Von Teese and a recent visit to the Faerie show at Paris' Moulin Rouge. And perhaps it was unfair to judge the show based on this admittedly rather sketchy body of existing knowledge, but the first half was certainly something of a disappointment - a mish-mash of traditional variety-style acts, fire-eating, singing and suspenders. It lacked any kind of cohesion and left the (clearly well-oiled) audience of hen parties and birthday celebrants baying for more; it seemed very tame and - dare I say it - a little unprofessional. A confused, slow version of Ice Ice Baby performed by compere Ivy Paige pretty much summed this half up for me - a little dull, a little wrong, a little, well, odd.

What a difference an interval makes. The second half was fabulous: Ivy Paige won us over with a VERY funny section involving an audience member who was supposedly stalking her; the Folly Mixtures quartet of burlesque dancers, kept exceedingly under-wraps in the first half, were finally allowed to show off their beautifully sparkly and strategically placed tassels in a series of group and individual pieces which were far more engaging than their earlier equivalents; and the star of the show, Amber Topaz - the original "Yorkshire Tease", as seen below - got to show off her full range of considerable talents (by which I mean that she sings beautifully, as well as being funny AND sexy - get your minds out the gutter).

So overall, a good night - if the first half had been up to the standard of the second, I would have been so overcome with burlesque spirit that I may well have treated my fellow travellers to a quick strip on the bus on the way home, inclement weather or not. As it was, I kept my clothes firmly on, and hurried home to turn the heating on, don fleecy pyjamas and have a nice cup of hot chocolate...

A Tribute to the Blues Brothers - LIVE Gets Local Girl Dancing in the Aisles at Manchester's Lowry Theatre

Now, although I like Edinburgh very much, and visit on a pretty regular basis (not least because Mr Liz claims at least twice a year that "something may have changed" at the Scotch Whisky Experience, thus necessitating yet another trip), I have never actually been when the Edinburgh Festival is on. There are two probable reasons for this. Firstly, I am mildly claustrophobic, and just thought of the vast number of people likely to descend upon this fair city at Festival time makes me feel a little anxious. What I suspect to be the real reason, though, is the vague notion I have of what the Festival might be like - a notion that involves an entire weekend of picking the wrong things to see, thereby earning oneself the pleasure of sitting through a selection of fairy tales performed entirely through the medium of dance and/or mime, or perhaps some scary, shouting, wild-haired thespians banging on drums whilst loudly proclaiming the complete works of Ibsen in Norwegian, and possibly backwards.

I do understand, of course, that the Festival is (probably) not really like this. I know plenty of people who go every single year, and who speak with passion and excitement of the times they have discovered a true gem lurking amidst the Hungarian drummers - a thrill I myself will never experience. Fortunately for me, I did manage to catch up with one of these gems in the altogether safer environs of The Lowry Theatre last week, as the Hartshorn-Hook production A Tribute to the Blues Brothers - Live made its Manchester debut after three successful seasons at the Fringe AND a run on the West End. This is essentially an hour and a half of insanely catchy music interspersed with the odd key line from the original film, and is exactly the kind of way that EVERYONE should spend Thursday nights: sitting in a darkened theatre wearing sunglasses as two men - one thin, one fat - sing great songs accompanied by enthusiastic and talented musicians, and doing a small, surreptitious dance at the back of the box during the second half to help burn off the big fat portion of confit de canard consumed before the show (actually, this might just have been me).

The show has apparently now played to over 10,000 people (9,995 more than have seen the Hungarian shouty Ibsen, no doubt), and is the only one in the UK licensed to use Jake and Elwood, the Blues Brothers characters. As if that wasn't enough, Hartshorn-Hook Productions (founded by Louis Hartshorn and Brian Hook five years ago) are a Manchester-based company, so whilst Jake and Elwood have now packed up their bumble-bee suits and moved on from our fair city, you should certainly take the chance to see them next time they're in town - keep an eye on the Hartshorn-Hook website for details of upcoming shows.

As for me, I'm off to plan my next holiday - I hear Edinburgh is just LOVELY this time of year...

Opera North's Carousel Comes to The Lowry: Local Girl's Lack of Talent Cruelly Revealed

Now, as previously noted, I am a woman of many talents - in my head, at least. I can't count the number of times I've moved an attentive audience (the cat, bribed to stay with liberal promises of Dreamies) to tears with beautiful renditions of various modern classics that are surely wasted in the confines of my own kitchen. And sometimes, I dance and pirouette my way across the floor towards the beer fridge with the natural grace and poise of an exceptionally talented gazelle.

Of course, it only takes a visit to The Lowry to see anything by Opera North to remind you what real (as opposed to delusional) talent actually looks like. This remarkable Leeds-based company have previously won a reluctant Mr Liz over to opera through their sultry, steamy Carmen, and come pretty close to converting me to Gilbert & Sullivan via their spirited Ruddigore; this week, it's the turn of Carousel, a Rodgers and Hammerstein classic that I had - inexplicably - never seen, not even the film version. And I have to admit that, reading the programme notes beforehand, the whole thing sounded pretty bizarre.

Obviously though, being Opera North, it was superlative in pretty much every way. The story is as follows: young man (the splendidly named Billy Bigelow) puts his arm round young girl (Julie Jordan - only people with alliterative names are allowed to go out with each other in THIS world) on the carousel; both are fired from their jobs as a result. Meanwhile, Julie's friend Carrie is engaged to be married to a Mr Enoch Snow - he owns a fishing boat and is therefore, ahem, quite a catch *smirks at own wit*. Julie is not proving so lucky in her relationship: Billy misses the female attention he used to get on the carousel and has a hankering to go back - until Julie gives him some news that forces him to rethink how he can best fulfil his responsibilities to his wife.

I'll say no more of the plot, just in case you've never seen it, but suffice to say that the second half includes a clam bake (why have I never had one of these? why?), a trip to heaven and a mid-section entitled simply "Ballet" - and it still works. This is partly because the songs are great - I know my work colleagues certainly enjoyed the selection of "Songs from the Shows" I performed for them the following day - and include the infuriatingly catchy June is Bustin' Out All Over and a fairly well-known ditty called You'll Never Walk Alone ("typical Scousers," commented Mr Liz, controversially, "they nick EVERYTHING"*). The whole cast was as pitch-perfect as you'd expect, with standout performances from Joseph Shovelton as Enoch and Claire Boulter as Carrie.

*I take NO responsibility for this remark, or any other made by errant gentlemen with whom I am connected.

The staging was beautiful, with notable scenes including the opening number on the carousel, the scenes set in heaven, and the ballet of the second half. A key scene just after the interval perhaps lacks the required violence that would make it truly convincing, but the packed house was certainly most appreciative of the whole thing, and it speaks volumes about Opera North's peerless reputation that they can pretty much fill such a large venue on a Wednesday night.

And me? Well, I've discovered where my true talents lie: sitting outside Lime, drinking Prosecco and eating olives, and then checking my watch and having to SPRINT across the square two minutes before the performance starts. It's nice to know that we're ALL good at something...

- Carousel is on at The Lowry until Saturday 26th May and then spins away to prepare for its residency at London's Barbican Theatre in August and September - for full details visit the Opera North website.

Ruddigore at The Lowry - Ruddy Good, Ruddy Hell (Sorry)

Sometimes, there's just no option but to put your hand up and admit to having a glaringingly wide gap in your cultural knowledge. I have many such holes in my repertoire; I have never, for example, seen The Sound of Music all the way through (a record which Mr Liz is doing his best to ensure I maintain), and I managed to get through the whole of the nineties without once being exposed to a single episode of Cold Feet, Northern Exposure or Frasier.

Nor had I ever - until last night - had anything whatsoever to do with Gilbert and Sullivan. I had some general ideas, of course, involving vague notions of two avuncular English gentlemen, beloved of old ladies and amateur operatic associations the length and breadth of Britain, and in my head confusingly combined with an image of Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer in waistcoats and top hats.

So when the always-reliable Opera North announced they were bringing Ruddigore - one of G & S's least known operettas - back to The Lowry in Salford after a triumphant run in 2010, it seemed churlish not to take the chance to go and have a look. Even Mr Liz was enthusiastic at the prospect, no doubt due in no small part to the question Opera North are posing with this year's production - "Are the old jokes still the best?" As Mr Liz grew up in the age of Benny Hill and Les Dawson, and appears himself not to possess a single joke more recent than 1978, this was always going to be right up his street.

Nor did it disappoint. Ruddigore - or The Witch's Curse - is billed as "a comic opera in two acts", and was first performed in 1887, the era of some of Mr Liz's very best jokes. It wasn't a complete success at the time, as the audiences who had been so thrilled by the novelty of G & S's previous work, The Mikado, now found themselves watching a comic slice of social satire, parodying the melodramas so beloved of the Victorians, complete with ghosts, a mad woman, and a properly old-school, be-caped villain. Naturally, such sophisticated, complex humour is perfect for someone who is SO high-brow they have a video of a bear dancing round a tree saved on their laptop to watch whenever a quick pick-me-up is needed.

*has a quick watch of bear dancing round tree. Laughs, a LOT*

The opera follows the complicated love life of Rose Maybud, the darling of the town, who checks her every move in her book of etiquette and is secretly in love with Robin Oakapple, a humble local farmer. They sing a lovely duet together and everything looks most promising - except for one, minor, inconvenience. Robin is not Robin at all, but is actually Ruthven Murgatroyd - yes, I too would change my name - the Baron of Ruddigore who seemingly died ten years ago. Turns out Robin has lain low for all this time not merely to avoid having a name like Ruthven Murgatroyd, but instead to avoid the curse of Ruddigore, whereby the current Baronet is forced by his ancestors to commit a daily crime.

Rose is on the brink of marrying Robin when his younger brother Despard, the current Baronet, bursts in to the church after a tip-off from a jilted sailor who Rose has passed over in favour of lovely farmer Oakwood. But wait! Despard is removing his villain's top hat and cape, and passing them over to the rightful Baronet, a simple farmer no longer. And all this is just the first act - definitely time for a glass of wine and a regroup.

The second act is even better. Opera North are always ambitious with their staging, and the scene where all the dead Baronets come to life and emerge from their portraits is worth the ticket price all on its own. As they glow into being and return to the physical world, it becomes clear that it's going to take a pretty ludicrous plotline to save Robin/Ruthven from the slow, painful death that accompanies the breaking of the curse; I shan't spoil it for you...and frankly it's so barking it would take too long to explain.

Overall, I can summarise thus:

1. Opera North are brilliant, consistently proving that opera doesn't have to be stuffy and boring.

2. I too would like to be followed around by a chorus in the guise of a troop of "professional bridesmaids", always on the hopeful lookout for a spot of romance that might lead to matrimony, and ever ready with a jaunty song, skip and handful of confetti to throw if a marriage looks likely. I will pay for this if necessary.

3. There are some seriously good voices in this cast - we particularly liked Grant Doyle as goodie/baddie Robin/Ruthven, and Steven Page as the ten-years-dead Sir Roderic Murgatroyd.

4. Conductor Timothy Henty is young, and talented, and brilliant - he has a genuine enthusiasm for this opera that is infectious, and NO-ONE can resist a conductor who is visibly enjoying himself throughout the performance.

5. We did NOT like the character of Mad Margaret, Despard's old love, driven crazy by his treatment of her. Yes, I know it's satire, but we thought the part completely over-acted and all a bit uncomfortable. Everybody else seemed to love her though.

6. We enjoyed the music, despite having been warned that G & S are a bit like Marmite (presumably in terms of being something you love or hate, as opposed to them being excellent on toast as a late-night snack). Mr Liz was delighted that the songs were memorable enough for me to serenade him all the way home with a selection of show tunes.

7. Gilbert and Sullivan are indeed beloved by old people, of whom there were approximately nine million in the toilet queue at any given time.

8. And finally? Yes, the old jokes are still the best. I'll take a twirly-moustached villain with a cane and a bunch of dead men running round dancing with skeletons over high-brow entertainment ANY day of the week.

There's another chance to see Ruddigore at The Lowry this Thursday - see the Opera North or Lowry websites for details, and then go and practise your best mwah-ha-ha laugh - you'll need it.

Theatre Review: We Are Three Sisters at The Lowry, Salford

As previously noted, I have a weakness for booking theatre tickets during the week, when I am too tired to do anything other than slump languidly in my seat, waiting for it to be over. And obviously, having noted such a weakness, I have learnt a valuable lesson from my own life-mistakes and made sure not to do it again. Well, apart from last night that is, when I attended the opening night of We Are Three Sisters at The Lowry, entirely unavoidably, for the following very good reasons:

- We Are Three Sisters is a new play about the Bronte sisters, two of whom have written books that I am either currently teaching or have taught in the past. Therefore, the evening counts as research for work, and not as a night out, in any way.

- The play has been written by Blake Morrison, an author I admire. He is from Yorkshire, but this cannot technically be held against him on this occasion, as the play is about ladies who are, after all, from Yorkshire.

- The play is a Northern Broadsides production, and they are always excellent (despite, again, hailing from across the Pennines); their 2010 production of The Canterbury Tales (also at The Lowry) was splendid, and no doubt had many a hopeful man enquiring whether they too might swive in trees and stick their backsides through windows.

- The Lowry is a great venue, with a proven track record for booking interesting productions. And on a less artistic note, we always get to eat at Lime beforehand, where Mr Liz spends a good three minutes pretending to study the menu before deciding - again - that he simply cannot resist the Bookmaker's Sandwich; I truly live in fear of the day they decide to take it off the menu, anticipating tears, tantrums and truculence.

In short, we went along with high expectations; well, one of us did at least - Mr Liz enjoyed his Bookmaker's Sandwich, but was then saddened to find that the Man Utd game was just starting on the big screens in Lime as he was being dragged off to watch some "Bronte nonsense". In the end, we both enjoyed it, even the man who spent the first few minutes sniggering at there being a character called Tabby and asking whether this part would be played by a specially trained acting cat. (It wasn't).

The play opens with the three surviving Bronte sisters having already penned the novels that would become so famous - Anne and Emily have found a publisher, and Charlotte is on the hunt for one. Being women, of course, they have written under male pseudonyms, sure that their work would not be taken seriously if anyone were to find out the authors' true identities. Meanwhile, brother Branwell - not without talent himself - is busy drinking, gambling, and carrying on with his married employer, the magnificently vulgar Mrs Robinson who, for me, was the star of the show; Becky Hindley deserves full credit for creating such an appallingly enticing character whilst wearing the most unpleasant dress yet seen on these shores.

In fact, the acting is superb across the board. The three sisters are clearly drawn and played utterly as individuals rather than the amorphous mass of Bronte-ness they have come to represent for trepidatious literature students: Charlotte (Catherine Kinsella) is sensible and dowdy on the outside, but fiery and passionate on the inside; Emily (Sophia Di Martino) is morbid, and poetic, and solitary; Anne, the baby of the family, is played by Rebecca Hutchinson as desperate to work and experience new things, finding the quiet life at Haworth more than a little limited.

Not that they don't have a stream of male admirers beating a hopeful path to their door, including an incompetent doctor who hits the bottle when it becomes clear that Anne doesn't return his love, an idiotic school master determined to get the girls to work at his school, and a slimy curate who fancies his luck with anything in a skirt, using the same tired lines on whichever Bronte sister happens to be around at any given time. Amusement is also provided by Duggie Brown as Patrick, the father of the Bronte sisters, although some of this humour is unintentional as his supposedly Irish accent veers wildly from coast to coast during his performance (which is, nonetheless, extremely likeable).

In fact, I only have one quibble (well two, if you count taking along a husband intent on making cat jokes): twenty to eleven is really much too late for a play to finish on a school night. I certainly won't, ahem, be making that mistake again.

- We Are Three Sisters by Blake Morrison is on at The Lowry until Saturday 24th October, with tickets priced from just £16 - full details and booking on The Lowry website.

Girl Talk: I am Woman at The Lowry, Salford

Life can really be most humbling.

Take cooking, for example. I like to cook (and eat, but I feel most readers will already know that); indeed, I am really quite good at it. A few years ago, I even toyed casually with the idea of applying to go on Masterchef, where I would rustle up a few of my crowd-pleasing dinner party favourites, get approval from Greg although some sneery comments from John about the rustic appearance of my food, and perhaps get an honourable quarter-final place before being sent packing, holding my head high.

That was, of course, before Masterchef got slick, professional, uber-competitive and - frankly - terrifying. Now, I would be as likely to enter Masterchef as I would be to abseil naked from the top of the Eiffel Tower, so certain a humiliation would I face for my incomprehensible inability to whip up a brandy basket in thirty seconds flat.

Singing is a similar minefield. The proliferation of reality TV shows - which are inevitably starting to discover that Britain is apparently not a bottomless pit of talent - can easily encourage one to believe that a half-decent singing voice is theirs. As someone who has received many standing ovations for her heartfelt performance of Hey Big Spender aloft a table in Crazy Wendy's Thai Karaoke Restaurant, AND who holds a record SingStar score of 9990 for Papa Don't Preach (although those missing ten marks are starting to rankle now - where ARE they?), I had begun to form a favourable opinion of my talents that allowed me to sneer with impunity at those hopeless wannabes prostrating themselves at La Cowell's immaculate feet.

That's why last night was so humbling. I wrote about Girl Talk a couple of weeks ago, a three-woman-show at The Lowry in Salford, exploring through song various aspects of being female (I didn't tell Mr Liz this or he'd never have gone - I just told him it was nice ladies singing, and that he'd get dinner and beer at Lime first.) And very nice ladies they were too, with quite ridiculously, ludicrously, horrifically good voices. Suddenly, the oh-so-clever-and-lovely drunken harmonies performed by myself and my similarly-voiced best friend at Christmas parties looked - sadly - like the efforts of out-and-out amateurs; these were three voices that complimented each other to perfection.

The first voice belonged to Mari Wilson, upon whom I now have a slight girl crush - I definitely want to be her when I grow up. The second belonged to Gwyneth Herbert, the youngest of the three, who has the kind of smoky, deep, cocktail-bar voice that makes you fall a tiny bit in love with her as well. The third, Barb Jungr, got the loudest applause of the night for her solo version of Babs' Woman In Love, but should probably know that the length of her dress was prompting considerable discussion in the ladies' toilet during the interval (something that struck me a little out of keeping with the pro-woman spirit of the event, but that's women for you.)

There is banter between the songs, and excellent accompaniment on the piano (and tambourine - let us not overlook his versatility) from Adrian York, but this was all about the singing. Oh, and some extremely impressive balance in the face of some very high heels. The show (and its shoes) is still touring - do go along if you get the chance - full details are on the Girl Talk website. Me, I'm off to practise some more, lest my hopes are fulfilled and the art of perching on a bar stool, singing songs about men and having lovely bouffy hair, becomes the Olympic sport it so richly deserves to be.

Brad Fraser's 5@50 at The Royal Exchange, Manchester

Any husband who expresses an interest in attending a theatrical production is, naturally, to be cherished. Mr Liz is a long-term fan of a Canadian playwright named Brad Fraser, an admiration born in 1995 - or the dark, pre-Liz days as I prefer to call this sorry period - when he went to see Andy Serkis and Beth's-lesbian-lover-off-Brookside (his cast list, not mine) in something called Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love (can't imagine how I managed to let such a gem pass me by, but he swears that it's the best serial killer comedy EVER...)

Since then, Fraser has built a mutually-loving relationship with Manchester's Royal Exchange Theatre - his latest play, 5@50, is the seventh of his plays to be staged here, with the world premiere two nights ago. I'm not the biggest fan of his work, but am happy to encourage any husband-preference that results in a theatre trip rather than an evening involving opening some cans of lager and watching a United match, so we went to see it last night. The fact that any trip to the Royal Exchange does also, by law, include a couple of Amaretto Sours and a cheeseburger at Grinch first is, of course, completely by-the-by - culture comes first here, and is naturally my sole concern.

*dreams for a moment about the sheer perfection of the Grinch cheeseburger, cooked perfectly pink and served with fries and pickles*

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, 5@50. The name refers to a group of five female friends, four of whom are approaching a certain landmark birthday. They have been friends since school, but cracks are beginning to show in their relationships - the play begins with one of them, Olivia, getting spectacularly drunk at her own birthday party, sparking a chain of events that will test the friendships even further. Old resentments begin to emerge, and before long accusations are flying and a lot of things are said that can never be taken back.

Cue lots of shouting, squawking and general female-angst - Fraser is known as a comic writer, and if the reaction of the women sitting next to me is anything to go by, this play is particularly funny if you are yourself a 50-something woman. That's not to say it isn't funny if you're NOT a 50-something woman, but if you're an innocent young man there may be much here to shock you - think a post-menopause Sex and the City fuelled by copious amounts of vodka and you'll be along the right lines.

Of course, part of the fun of going to the theatre is checking the programme to see how many of the actors have been in The Bill and/or Casualty; we certainly weren't disappointed on this score, and Mr Liz, having done some extensive research during his busy working day, confidently informed me that the most famous cast member was Ingrid Lacey who - wait for it - replaced Haydn Gwynne as the object of lust for sad randy George in Drop the Dead Donkey.

He was wrong though, for he had overlooked that drunk old Olivia was played by Jan Ravens, a woman stunningly famous to anyone who grew up in the 1980s - she featured in ALL the programmes that I used to secretly watch on my rubbish portable TV when my parents thought I was soundly asleep and dreaming of ponies and sewing: Spitting Image, Whose Line is it Anyway, Carrott's Lib and countless other quality shows.

Actually, all the cast were good, once you got used to the American accents, and the staging - as ever at The Exchange - was excellent, with tables, chairs and other props seamlessly appearing and disappearing from the ceiling as and when required. The play runs until 14th May 2011, and is well worth a visit if you get the chance - full details on the website. Just make sure to write in the Amaretto Sour clause before you sign up...

Theatre Review: Of Mice and Men at Contact, Manchester

One of my long-acknowledged weaknesses is signing up for theatre trips mid-week. As a pseudo intellectual who fools no-one except herself, I tell myself that it is perfectly likely that I shall wish to teach all day and then, rather than don pyjamas and lie on the sofa eating crisps, I shall want to go out again and watch something mentally stimulating that requires me to stay awake until past eleven o'clock. For reasons unknown, I am particularly prone to booking the types of plays that appear on the National Curriculum, as if perhaps I didn't get quite enough of that sort of thing during the day.

Hence I found myself at Contact Theatre last night for the opening night of Mind the Gap's production of John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, a novel that surely every school child since the beginning of time has studied. Apart from my basic laziness, another thing I forget when I book tickets for plays on the National Curriculum is that just because I'm not taking my students doesn't mean that other teachers aren't taking theirs; I tell no lie when I say that Contact appeared to be filled with ten thousand school children last night, each of whom seemed wildly excited to be doing something so cultural on a wet Wednesday night.

The biggest compliment I can pay Mind the Gap is that this seething mass of adolescent humanity was perfectly hushed and quiet during the performance, except for the one occasion where someone kindly explained in a very loud voice to the person next to them the explicit meaning behind a comment about small men. This aside, the youth of today, so recently seen in the foyer throwing sweets at each other, seemed much impressed by this sensitive portrayal of Steinbeck's classic tale, performed by a theatre company who believe that learning disabled and non-disabled artists should perform alongside each other as equals. The cast of three - Jez Colborne as George, Robert Ewens as Lennie and Jessica May Buxton as Suzy - was uniformly excellent, with particular credit to Jessica, who was required to play three male roles as well as two female. Good as she was, the real heart of the play is the relationship between George and Lennie, and Colborne and Ewens were never less that convincing as the mismatched but inseparable friends.

Criticisms? Well, the performance was only 65 minutes long, with no interval. Aside from the obvious downfall (no interval, no wine), this resulted in the play feeling rather one-paced - the whole point of an interval is that it allows a play to build to a mid-point climax before everyone is allowed a gin and tonic to calm down for the second part. Nor did the play quite achieve the intensity that such a pared-down performance should have allowed. Still, it is clear to see why this production has received so much praise on its previous tours, and is certainly worth seeing, even if you don't have a hundred teenagers in tow. Of Mice and Men runs at Contact until Sat 19th Feb, and is back in Manchester on May 26th at the Waterside Arts Centre in Sale - full details on the website.

Oh, and much as I hate to say it, a 65 minute running time has another advantage: I would certainly go to the theatre more often if I could guarantee being in bed by 9.43pm every time...

Evita at The Lowry, Salford

Before last night my knowledge of Evita could be described, at best, as "sketchy". I think I once saw the last 10 minutes of the Madonna film, possibly through a Christmas Day fug of gin and Quality Street; I know approximately half the words to Don't Cry For Me Argentina; I am aware that The Dark Lord was fond of making the quivering Dorothys/Marias/Nancys/whatever in the bottom two every week sing something about a suitcase in a hall. But that's pretty much it.

I never like to be left out, however, and accordingly found myself at The Lowry in the company of two girls who appear to have been listening to the Evita CD on repeat since the age of six. The plot (look away now if you don't wish to know) seems to be roughly as follows: plucky but poor Eva Duarte sets off for Buenos Aires in the company of mustachioed club singer; plucky but ambitious Eva Duarte dumps mustachioed club singer for string of increasingly important lovers; plucky but manipulative Eva Duarte bags Colonel Juan Peron; Peron becomes President; plucky but self-interested First Lady of Argentina wears a series of impeccable outfits and launches a foundation that prompts a small child with gappy teeth to sing about how she is a saint; plucky but poorly Eva Peron clutches stomach a lot, then dies, to much mourning and some really rather nice floral displays. All, of course, accompanied by lots of singing and twirling.

Now, you're either a fan of the musical genre, or you're not. Evita is not my favourite musical by a long way - it has rather too much of that not-exactly-singing-not-exactly-talking stuff in it for my liking - but the current production at The Lowry is spectacularly impressive (particularly when you're right in the front row, enjoying a view up the cast's nostrils - when will I ever learn to book the right tickets) with seamless set changes and a uniformly excellent cast. Our hearts sank a little when we saw that the lead actress, Abigail Jaye, was best known for Hollyoaks (well, it's always that or The Bill), but she was simply superb, handling The Dark Lord's ludicrously difficult starts-very-high-then-goes-very-low repertoire with aplomb.

But, despite my best efforts to sum up the performance, recreating the highs and lows and communicating every little nuance, I find that I am unable to better the plot summary so decisively announced at the interval by a perceptive fellow theatre-goer in the row behind us: "so, he knew that she was a dirty tart all along..." Next time, I really don't think I'll bother trying to compete.

- Evita finishes at The Lowry tomorrow; visit the website at www.thelowry.com for more details.

Review of Joseph (and his AMAZING Technicolour Dreamcoat, of course) at The Lowry, Manchester

Every so often, it pays to leave your good taste at home and, ignoring the scoffing and taunting of ignorant, blinkered friends, have a quite amazing night out. It is at this point that I should hold my hands up and admit that I like Andrew Lloyd Webber. I like his coy over-acting with Graham Norton. I like the ill-disguised pain etched all over his face when the camera switches to him during some caterwauling performance. I even like his throne. True, the sight of the Dark Lord clutching a pair of no-longer-needed sparkly stiletto shoes to his chest week on week during Over The Rainbow was a step too far, but all in all, I have a lot of time for him and his jaunty musicals; not least, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor (a registered trademark, apparently) Dreamcoat, currently showing at The Lowry.

Last time I saw this I think I was about ten, when I went on a school trip that I remember little about other than having an ice-cream at half time, and having to sit next to a horrid mean girl who I didn't like. So I had completely forgotten that not only is Joseph a musical, it is ALL MUSICAL - no pesky talky bits at all, just good, honest, over-enunciated singing. My traitorous friend, it turned out, had been secretly rehearsing for weeks with the aid of a Joseph soundtrack CD played on repeat in her car, and was therefore ready to sing along with everything, whereas it emerged that I only really knew the chorus of most songs, thus limiting me somewhat; for example "go go go Joseph, um, tra la la la la..."

No matter. We were sat right at the front, practically straddling the man with the electric piano (who sensibly had enormous headphones on, presumably to block out the unpleasantness of audience sing-along) and in serious danger of being blinded by Craig Chalmers' unfeasibly white teeth. He came fifth in the Any Dream Will Do show, and there is rather a whiff of cheese about him, with his orange glow and a thatch of yellow hair that would do nicely for a whole row of country cottages in need of a roof. Still, apart from the slow songs, which came across rather nasal, he did a decent enough job, although his Scottish accent did rather throw the aforementioned friend - her CD was mostly delivered in Australian, on account of it being the Jason Donovan version (serves her right).

The show itself? Just perfect - beautifully choreographed and performed (particularly by the eleven men playing Joseph's brothers), and with lovely aah-aah-aahs on Any Dream Will Do courtesy of a fleet of cute children from a school in Chester. Sadly the run ends tomorrow, or I would be pestering to go again; as it is, since I got home from the show last night I have communicated with my increasingly annoyed husband and cat entirely through the medium of song.

- The Lowry can be contacted on 0843 208 6000, or via their website at www.thelowry.com.

Review of Glengarry Glen Ross at The Library

Always be cautious when going to see a play that appears to have had universal acclaim heaped upon it. David Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross won a Pulitzer Prize and was made into a film with a ludicrously starry cast (Kevin Spacey, Al Pacino, Alec Baldwin blah blah blah), and its reputation seemed initially to get the better of the cast at The Library last night.

To be fair, this is the risk you take for buying cheap preview tickets early in the run of any play, but the first half of the performance was nervy and stuttering. Four Chicago salesmen are getting increasingly desperate to sell real estate, squabbling over who gets the best leads and using a selection of four letter words to express their increasing frustration at their jobs and at each other. Slimy Richard Roma is currently in the top spot on the sales board, in line for a Cadillac; ageing Shelley Levene is at the bottom and in line for the sack.

The first half of the play is set in a restaurant, with the main characters introduced in pairs through three short scenes. Mercifully, the performance improved immeasurably in the second half, one long scene set in the sales office in the aftermath of a robbery where most of the sales leads have been stolen; the half-time talk must have been rousing as the cast were superb, particularly David Fleeshman as the washed up Shelley Levene and Richard Dormer as oily Ricky Roma, and the pace of the production found a far more natural rhythm.

The play is on until 3rd April 2010, and is definitely worth a visit based on the second half performance. Full details at http://www.librarytheatre.com.

What's On at The Lowry May - August 2010

It's that time of year again: the sun has shone for three days running, people are wearing shorts, and the new Lowry Theatre brochure is landing on doorsteps everywhere. This is always an exciting day, albeit a hideously expensive one, and this season's selection of productions is as tempting as ever.

I have caved to my inner craving for low-brow entertainment and booked tickets for, um, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (say it quickly and it doesn't seem so bad) in July. Obviously we don't get actual Lee Meade, who is busy being famous and having babies with impartial judges; indeed, the brochure fails to specify who exactly will be donning the famous coat. I don't care; I know ALL the words to ALL the songs and am not afraid to use them.

To redress the academic balance a little I have also booked for Northern Broadsides' version of The Canterbury Tales in May. Don't be put off of Chaucer by the fact that you were forced to do it for your English Lit A-level; The Canterbury Tales is an epic work of great magnificence, by turns funny, moralising and moving, and everything touched by Northern Broadsides is brilliant - this will be witty and exuberant and will allow you to feel smug about seeing something smart that you actually enjoyed.

Finally, I have been bullied into booking to see Dirk Benedict in Columbo - this means absolutely nothing to me, but my husband's hopeful face was too much to bear and I caved. This is on in June and I have been promised ice-cream as consolation.

Other productions include Les Miserables and Evita - visit www.thelowry.com for the full programme and start saving now.

(Confused) Review of Andersen's English at The Library, Manchester

Well I'll start with dinner; I'm on safe ground there. Tickets to see a play at The Library Theatre in central Manchester always mean dinner at one of two places - Livebait if my husband isn't with me (fish-phobic), Brasserie Gerard if he is. As the carnivorous one was indeed my theatre date, we went to the latter.

Brasserie Gerard is unremarkable but pleasant company - a cheerful French bistro, although I'm fairly certain it's not remotely authentic as French people are generally thin and certainly would not be if they ate here regularly. Still, the welcome is always warm, and they always give you the best table available rather than save the booths for some better, imaginary customers who might perhaps turn up later.

Last night's gut-buster consisted of pate for starters and then burger with frites for main; they really do extremely good frites here, although the burgers are a touch drier than at Grinch. I also had a large glass of red wine, a foolish move for someone who was already half-asleep, and this may possibly explain my confusion over the play that followed.

Andersen's English is a new play by award-winning novelist Sebastian Barry, and is on at The Library until tomorrow night. It tells the story of Hans Christian Andersen's visit to Charles Dickens and his family in Kent, and incorporates the following elements to a greater or lesser degree:
- huge hilarity at funny foreign man's attempt to speak English
- huge pathos at funny foreign man's great love for Charles Dickens, despite great success of own work
- huge dramatic irony at funny foreign man's supposed failure to see the cracks in the Dickens household - son being sent to war, wife going mad, young floozy actress waiting in wings, pregnant housemaid etc etc.

It's not that the play is bad, exactly; it is enjoyable enough, and the cast are largely impressive, particularly Niamh Cusack as Mrs Dickens and David Rintoul as the great novelist himself. Whilst enjoying the traditional interval occupation of browsing the programme to see how many members of the cast have been in The Bill, I learned that Rintoul played Mr Darcy! In the TV adaptation of Pride and Prejudice! Oh no wait, the 1980 TV adaptation... how he must HATE Colin Firth.

What else? Well, there are scary life-size dolls instead of real live child actors, and the set is cleverly designed, and the songs are good. But is it set to become a classic? Maybe, but somehow I doubt it.