Madame Galina's Doings Diary

...and Nicola Tranah fell over!

Pavlova would haul her art anywhere, and so will I. This week, I'm registering with National Rural Touring Forum members country-wide in the hope that they will put my shows on their menus for village hall committees to order.

In the 2005/6 season I had six gigs in North Devon, four in Cornwall, two in Oxfordshire...but...but...but...but...but in Hampshire - the Hog's Back is to me as Spain is to Don Giovanni - twenty!

Please, sir. I want some more!

I get to perform in villages where Agatha Christie adaptations are filmed, the fees are good, and I get ferry'd and fed by committee members.

True, I've asked how big the stage is and got the answer "what stage?". Is the heating fully on in the dressing room? "We've left a fan heater in the corridor next to the stool with the vanity mirror propped up on it". Will the piano be tuned? "Margaret's bringing in her daughter's Casio. The top octave doesn't work and she can't switch off whatever makes it harmonise with a chord in the bass two beats after you've played a note and gone on to another one".

But the atmosphere, the keyhole onto village life, and the home made quiche more than compensate.

One thing, though: the performers being offered to the villages on a menu tends to result in the same joke being repeated each time.

"We hope you'll enjoy being eaten by us this evening..."

Clearly, they don't watch enough porn to know what they're saying.

While I was sipping orange juice at my hosts for the evening somewhere in Hampshire, the phone rang and: “It’s Eric Tranah for you, Ben.”

It was Nicola Tranah’s father. Nicola, aka Nikya Tranahnovna, was coming to watch me that evening. It was a surprise. Well, it was before Ben told me. Ah, and that was why the name of the village was so familiar: Nicola got married there.

The stage in the hall was so raked and I so didn’t deal with it, she had to fall back at curtain down on saying how funny my patter had been and how gorgeous my arms and hands.

“You couldn’t have done fouettes up there. And who would want to see you try?”

Still, it made a change from her falling on the floor. Or sitting in the Royal Opera House canteen taking part in a how much hot chocolate can I scald you with competition with her mother, the Baroness. (For the record, the Baroness won by a completely doused left leg and partially stained right boob).

Weapon Of Mass Destruction

I so hope I get a gig at the village hall run by a woman who spoke at the recent Essex On Tour showcase. She was dressed head to foot in bright red. She had Enid Blyton hair, Dorothy's shoes and an Alf-Roberts look-alike husband. I missed the opening of her speech, but caught the part about acts she had booked.

"We've had everything through my hall. A disabled performer who we nicknamed Hattie Jacques In A Wheelchair. She was loved, apparently, by Yehudi Menhuin. And who will ever forget - sorry, my fellow councilors won't know I'm talking about, unless they do - the trio. One in a kilt, one in baggy stockings and the other just funny because he was so tall. They ended their playing of all sorts of things on all sorts of musical instruments with the funny one upside down, head in a goldfish bowl with a goldfish in it, playing his violin perfectly in front. Of course, they aren't a trio any more because he died earlier this year. The other two are carrying on, but that's a Duo, of course, and you may definitely want a trio and, as part of the nature of the scheme, you are entitled to that. Perfectly entitled to it."

I thought: in a minute she'll be calling for an exhumation to ensure you get the trio if you want it.

Imagine the Grand Finale now. The goldfish wouldn't forget that every three seconds.

Posted by Madame Galina2 at November 22, 2006 05:14 PM