It is always a pleasure when one of those spooky,
abusive missives from Barry Humphries lands on my
desk. Imagine my delight when he invited me to partake
of a little evening’s intercourse with himself and a
few dingo mates. I am inclined to be besotted with
Barry, but despite having stopped off true journo
style for a fortifying noggin or three in a hostelry
en route to Drury Lane, I must confess that the
foreplay was dragged out far too long before the main
event could be enjoyed.
In this case it was threeplay. First to jump aboard
was Ozzie cultural attaché Sir Lesley Colin Patterson,
who also seemed to have assisted the local taverns in
making an honest bob, and who slavered and flailed,
rubicund, about the stage, seized in a private
paroxysm of mirth. His penchant for audience
participation swung underway. He selected his victim:
”Her face is like a half-sucked mango. Last time I saw
a head like that it had a hook in it”, he guffawed
laughing. Then “Come and look at this tart”, he
advised the backstage crew who did just that.
He was succeeded by the stringy, whispering cineaste
Phil Philby and Melbourne ‘returned serviceman and
revenant’ Alexander Horace Stone, a spook who
sat amongst the dust and cobweb festooned reminders of
his former life. Neither creation, though worked
terribly well as a vehicle for biting satire: one felt
that when it comes to reflecting upon life down under
the Dame has said it all.
In a skilled marketing exercise, unrivalled even by
Soho, Barry had thoughtfully placed a number of
‘aids to intercourse’ on sale in the foyer. Clutching
a few brown- paper wrapped goodies I returned after
the break to see the gilded and ornate theatre
transformed to the intimacy of a pillow talk exchange
by the honey-lipped matronly megastar, Dame Edna
Everage. The occupants of the boxes were greeted as
“bidet dwellers” and those in the gods were frequently
hailed with the cry, “Hello paupers”.
Perhaps the most striking aspect of the skilled comic
performance which followed was the Dame’s ability to
surprise; just when all her aces seemed to have been
played, she would turn, eyes glinting, to unveil
another smasher. She is, however, showing signs of
suffering from the Ken Dodd syndrome – not knowing
when to leave the stage.