Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Thursday, September 18, 2003

This One's Dedicated to Zbornak...

Basking in the afterglow of my birthday, one could only be more surprised when my lovely wife managed to get me tickets to Bea Arthur at the Savoy on Tuesday as a little post-celebration celebration.

I must say that she’s come in for a critical savaging in the tabloids of late (the only one I’ve come across was in the Evening Standard, which I don’t read unless it’s over someone’s shoulder. Well, it’s infuriating - it was trying to tell off Soho for having too many bars last night, for goodness’ sake) and I think it’s a little unfair. Yes, it was a little over-rehearsed in places, but it was good fun. And her attitude to singing was to take a run-up into a song by speaking the first verse, and then coming in with a note that may or may not be close to the sheet music for the chorus. But if you delight in seeing an 80-year-old lady saying ‘fuck’ and singing about oral sex, then the two hours she was on stage will whiz by.

Indeed, it did have the air of when an elderly aunt gets drunk and starts to tell familiar stories at a family get together. And I was further charmed by the fact that she looked like Jon Pertwee in every angle but profile, with this remarkable throbbing vein on her right temple of such a size that it appeared to be picking up taxi signals when one drove past.

Still. If you want a night out surrounded by hundreds of clapping, whooping queens, hanging on the every word of some glamorous chanteuse who may or may not keel over at any point, come out for a drink with myself. If you want the same, but with Angela Lansbury referred to as ‘that foul-mouthed truck-driver Angie’, do go to the Savoy. They do serve a marvellous quiche.

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