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BIG NIGHT OUT AT THE LITTLE PALACE THEATRE by Sandi Toksvig
Songs by Dillie Keane
Venue: Watford Palace 2002
Musical Director: Russell Churney
Director: Lawrence Till



Cast
Grace Dillie Keane
Molly Sandi Toksvig
Jack Ken Bradshaw
Tom Freeman Simon Coulthard
Dick Hardy David Ashley
Harry Willis Russell Churney
Barbara Bonnie Langford

Review

Next month the Palace closes its doors for a much-needed refurbishment and artistic director Lawrence Till is planning community tours to fill the 14 month gap. Meanwhile, he bids farewell to his loyal audience with this mocking end of term romp, penned by Sandi Toksvig, with satiric and showbiz numbers by songsmith Dillie Keane.

Bonnie Langford joins the authors as a trio of disaffected usherettes anguishing behind the big screen of the Little Palace Cinema - a fleapit about to be torn down to make way for a multi-storey car park. There is a narrative of sorts. The manager (Ken Bradshaw) has put Langford's dishy young Barbara in the club and she accidentally stabs him to death during a rip-roaring rendering of Yo Ho Ho!, a pirate fantasia for the whole company. Ever resourceful, Toksvig's Molly manages to flush his body down the Thames through a stage trapdoor. But Bradshaw is speedily reincarnated as his vicar brother for a spooky a cappella number with Simon Coulthard, David Ashley and MD Russell Churney as torch-lit ghosts.

Mostly, the show is an opportunity for Toksvig to go into a breathless series of funny turns, groan-making gags, Riverdancing at Lughnasa and famous Hollywood moments - during which Keane mooches moodily around, puffs on ciggies and delivers cruel one-liners, only coming into her own in a final nostalgic number. But the showstopping rnoment, bringing the audience to its feet, is a terrific tap-dancing routine by Langford shared with Coulthard and Ashley as her boys and superbly choreographed by Jenny Sawyer.

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Article
The Dillie Keane Column

It is a strange feeling when a show comes to an end. Very occasionally it is a relief - now and then you just drift back to your usual life as if you never did the show at all - but mostly it is slightly dislocating. Currently, I am perversely happy to report that I feel thoroughly dislocated, which only goes to show how much I enjoyed doing Big Night Out at Watford Palace Theatre.

For a start - and this, I gather, is regarded as my most perverse emotion of all - I really liked Watford. No, that is not as daft as it sounds. At the beginning of rehearsals, when you arrive in a state of abject terror knowing no one, the town is your first friend - or not, as the case may be. Since you do not know who you like or who you naturally want to pair up with you set off for lunch alone with an airy wave and find yourself mooching around the town. Once you have located Boots the chemist, the starting point for a civilised life, you have a chance to see what else is on offer and frankly any town that can boast a branch of John Lewis is fine by me. It is 40 minutes from London, it has a fantastic Italian restaurant with very tolerant staff and two bookies within stumbling distance of the theatre foyer. What could be better?

Then there is the theatre itself. What a jewel. I have to say it does dispose one kindly towards the citizens of Watford when one realises the amazing civic pride that they feel for the building and the artistic programming. After all, it is one of the last theatres in this country that presents ten homegrown productions per year. This would not happen if the Watfordians did not trot out in sufficient numbers to support the venue. And what a thrill to think that in 14 months time it will be thoroughly restored to bright new glory.

Of course, the most dislocating feeling of all when a run ends is, the loss of the family that is the cast and crew. If a show is really going to fly, it has to become a family pretty bloody quickly. Virtual strangers see you in your underwear, or less, after a mere three weeks rehearsal, for heaven's sake. It is an intimacy not matched in any other sphere of life that I can think of. So it is not so much that I miss that moment of setting off at 5pm, or arriving in the dressing room to see the entire company sitting around drinking cups of tea and roaring at Sandi Toksvig's miraculous humour or hearing Bonnie Langford's mesmerising stories of an extraordinary life in the theatre. Nor is it that I merely miss the show itself. I just miss the whole family and the sheer untrammelled joy that was seven rather surprising weeks in Watford.