Our House
Recently, I attended a performance of the musical “Our House” at the Cambridge Theatre in Covent Garden with some of my co-workers. The show was written by someone called Tim Firth - who is apparently quite a successful penner of TV and film scripts - and is based around the songs of the bannd Madness. The trip was inspired by my friend Chris, who is a Madness obsessive of the type who buys two of each souvenir band t-shirt (one to wear, one to stash in a small shrine – I imagine – in the corner of their bedroom where it can be accorded suitable reverence and possibly have live chimpanzees – or whatever - sacrificed in its honour).
I do not much patronise the arts of singing and dancing. A female colleague of mine recently asked me to accompany her to a lesson in something called “sarock”, which turned out to be a mixture of salsa and rock dance styles. I always like to think that I’ll give anything a try, but some hitherto unsuspected ingrained northerness - almost certainly contained in the package of genes I received from my father – caused me to stutter with some discomfort that I’m “not really a dancing person”.
So, despite the artificial courage afforded by a swiftly consumed pint of Olde Wifebeater, I entered the Cambridge Theatre with some edginess about my person, ready to make a dash for it if any dancing or other unwholesome activities should ooze unhygienically off the stage and into the audience.
As it happened, the show was quite enjoyable. However, I had a distinct feeling that my companions (and most of the audience) found it more exciting than me, and I struggled to nail down a reason why this should be the case. My four friends merrily did the “Madness Walk” for the camera as we left the theatre - and I joined in, but I did so half-heartedly as I wondered what had failed to inspire me. Why did this expensive show inspire emotions in me I can only describe as school play and pantomime? The script was cleverly written, the dances were beautifully choreographed (if not always perfectly executed) and the sets were cleverly designed. But somehow it was all overwhelmingly predictable.
It was something about the young stage school actors, bellowing their lines in faux North London accents. It was something about the utter inevitability of the unhappy middle bit leading to a happy ending and rousing singsong. It was something about the clever but tacky props, like the Volkswagen car that was driven round the stage balanced on sofa casters.
In the end, it didn’t really matter, because we went for some cheese-rich food and we drank expensive Cov Gard cocktails until I was assuring anyone who would listen (or couldn’t think of an excuse to edge away) that “Our House” was the best thing ever. And today at work I even found myself whistling “Baggy Trousers”.
In conclusion: worth going to for the tunes, which are only slightly damaged by the annoying kids performing them. If you’re a fan of beer, take a hip flask to avoid the ludicrous bar prices, and if you’re a fan of, uh, magnification, take a telescope to avoid paying 50p for use of the ineffective binoculars provided in the chair backs.