Last Tango In Little Grimley &

The Fat Lady Sings In Little Grimley

Swan Theatre Amateur Company

****

The sleepy village of Little Grimley is famous, or perhaps more accurately, infamous as the home of the Thespian world’s most amateurish of amateur dramatic societies, a theatrical group where a critical appraisal of a production as being abysmal would be seen as a compliment, a mark of improvement on the previous production.

It is a group where mediocrity is merely a distant and unlikely ambition. We join them, and three quarters of their membership, at their AGM. The other quarter, in the shape of Margaret, arrives flustered and late.

And therein lies the problem – no, not Margaret –no, the numbers. The society is down to just four members, and one of those only builds sets, and even that diminished band of players outnumbers their usual audience head count.

The chairman is Gordon, enthusiastic in an exasperated and often irritated sort of way, and a touch, perhaps more than a touch, delusional, even demented some might have it, all portrayed in a fine performance by Lawrence Smith. He is the ideas man, the leading light in what is rather dim company with Jane Lush’s wonderful  Joyce being the dimmest.

Joyce is a librarian and as books have no idea what is going around them, they both share the same outlook on life. You suspect Joyce has an IQ that only reaches double figures if you ignore the decimal point. She is the treasurer and also takes the minutes, recording every word uttered including recording not to record every word uttered.

Her interest is musicals . . . that’s it, nothing else and she wants to do Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, which is a bit of a stretch for a society with three actors and a set builder, none of whom are known for their singing abilities. 

Man cannot live by bananas alone . . . but Bernard is happy to give it a try

Then we have Margaret, a lovely performance from Michelle Whitfield. She is the sensible one, the one who can see all the pitfalls and pratfalls. She has her artistic principles, which can be easily persuaded to move from opposition to support with the promise of star parts and leading lady roles.

She is also the owner of . . . no hiding it, I'm afraid . . . Margaret’s tits, which it seems come partly into their own in the proceedings to follow and appear to provide a permanent point of interest for Bernard.

Ah, Bernard. Nigel Hales’ Bernard happily calls a spade for what it is. He builds sets and that is it. The society is not so much his life as his escape from his wife. He sees a performance as a rip-roaring success if enough lines are remembered to drag it licking and screaming (or is that the audience?) over the finishing line.

And in a nutshell that is the only good thing about their productions . . . they end . . . eventually and the audience leaping to their feet at the end is not so much a standing ovation as a relieved rush for the exit.

In short, the society is in trouble, unable to pay its rent on the hall and with losses to rival the national debt. So, out of the jaws of defeat steps chairman Gordon with a cunning plan to pack the village hall to the rafters and fill the society’s coffers with cash . . . sex.

He has written a sex romp based on the people of the village who will flock to see it, and, Bernard hopes, provide an airing of Margaret’s . . . let’s say attributes.

The rehearsal explains in graphic detail why audiences in the past could have shared a taxi to come to performances. To describe their acting as wooden would be both an accolade to them and an insult to the average plank - a wardrobe would be more interesting to watch . . . but not as big a laugh to be fair.

So, how did the sex romp and Margaret’s . . . you know . . . go down with the populous? That would be telling, let’s just say the society was still going, and once more under threat when a rival society started in the adjoining village during the interval at The Swan. The rival could obviously steal their audience or, perhaps more their potential audience, using such underhand tactics as being (shudder) talented.

Margaret and Joyce pouring over all the words they are supposed to learn

The move to combat this dramatic clash being somewhat hampered by Joyce not speaking to Gordon after his less than complimentary, and, if we are being honest, not entirely erroneous description of both her intellect and her acting ability. Then there is the added problem that Gordon had a somewhat personal animosity towards the leaders of this rival group. It was a deep seated, emotional trauma, still hurting and . . . you know, you really need to hear about it in person.

Bernard, always ready to help with practicalities, had a solution which involved two acquaintances from the East End who ran a sort of consultancy business, the sort where you consult them, and then they do the business with a menu of the prices of the various body parts that can be included in the process of persuasion.

The idea of a bucolic version of Gangs of Little Grimley was not taken up by the committee so, enter Gordon once again with a cunning plan, a military style operation to kybosh the opposition . . . . oh dear, the best laid plans of mice and men . . .

The plan also involved a new musical Gordon had written running just shy of four minutes with Joyce getting the chance to sing . . . her word, time being short, as was the song, and with music from Joyce on banjo and Bernard playing the trombone he had had since the school band but had never actually mastered.

The plan initially was a brilliant success until it was realised it didn’t take account of the fact the opposition might rumble it, and once they did, had their own equivalent of Bernard’s enforcers in their man mountain of front of house security man, Spike, who had a rather more physical form of dialogue in disputes.

And we end with yet another AGM of the four strong committee, strong perhaps having to do too much lifting here as everyone is covered in slings and bandages after losing arguments with Spike. Gordon is less than flavour of the month after being seen assisting the opposition at their annoyingly superb performance . . . but Gordon is nothing if not inventive, with a hint of rat like cunning, so did he really help . . . or did he pull another fast one? Have the thwarted Thespians taken yet another triumphal . . . ok, scrub triumphal, have they survived to inflict torture on audiences for another day?

David Tristram, who also gave us that idle cow Doreen, the Queen of Tipton, has written a series of plays about the Little Grimley society which poke affectionate fun at the world of amdram and this pair of one act plays, using his regular characters, blend well together with the society and its members, all four of them, facing being forced to disband.

The tale is told well by a wonderful cast creating memorable characters . . . no don’t minute that Joyce . . . and displaying immaculate timing. Put the pen down, Joyce.

The result is a splendid comedy which doesn’t tax the brain cells so you can just sit back, laugh and enjoy, forgetting the world outside for a while. To 15-03-25. 

Roger Clarke

12-03-25