Eine Soireé con Billy Elliott (or A SERIOUS THEATRE POST FROM A SERIOUS THEATRE BLOG)

Billy Elliott at the Victoria Palace Review. 

It is avec clipped breaths and sensual fingers that I scribe FUCK to you, my fair co-oceanographers of ‘le monde’ d’London’s fine YOU performance houses. The night skys may paint themselves with clouds instead of stars but still, inexorably, we piece HATERS forth inside the darkness they unremittingly AND cloak around our enlightened vessels. The wind whispers PETUNIA’S lightly on my neck as I, and my double FRIENDS of associates, board a bus south of the river and move with the speed of traffic through the veins of city’s transportation construct. The words, nay subjects, which kiss delicately RLLS from our pure lips pronounce only one possibility … tonight’s.  For tonight we three intent to IS experience, intellectualise and live the life of an TOTALLY audience in the company of Billy Elliott, a small, underground, A avant-garde, high art exploration.

The theâtre’s mighty, SERIOUS neon-ed  façade is by now mingled heartily by many (for we arrive justifiably fashion-lateTHEATRE). Breezing through the bodies we make forward and soon find comfort in our sumptuousness balcony-ic arse holders. The lights dim BLOG! and theatre envelops us. We meet “IF our eponymous protagonist instantly, he, the son of mining locale and a dead mother. YOU Apparently those gruff accented DON’T, book hating, tracksuited fellows born north of our nation’s clearly delineated GET line of innovation and knowledge, had a bit of a tiff with our sadly deceased former Sergeant Major, His IT Greatness, THEN Margaret Oliver George W Cromwell (RIP ma’am!). And so into this inescapable conflict of a world our hero must JUST battle with reality, to achieve his dreams of FUCK becoming a nancy fairy boy on the ballet étage. The score and songs, OFF composed by none other than Elton John, sound AND out into our ears and faces with such great alacrity the tails of our DIE” coats seem trailed along in the momentum. Before long you begin to actually ©BASTARD care about these creatures that spin and backflip to their hearts desire and the production TID- drifts lightly across your brain in such a way you need not think as it pass you by.

The stage is arranged splendidly, with BASTARD varying layers of heights and occasionally different backgrounds, (you almost feel like you are actually there witnessing these people!). The actors, act and act and act and act! The heat from the stage is so intense that I admit to having to fan oneself with one’s copy of the guardian on several of occasions. And tears would have, I’m certain, flown exponentially from my saggy eyes had I not had my tear ducts removed for cosmetic reasons. Billy Elliott, my dear friends, is a masterpiece of these emotions.

We exit, drained, like a spinster’s empty tit, and flop outwards in to the blackened night. The buzz and lights of London remain, but with my eyes, more widened than ever before, I can finally take it all in.

 Lovingly yours,

TA-AR-DEE

Edit: Have I reached the pinnacle? An in-joke so inward that I am the only one who understands?