Andrew is on sabbatical but Phil is soldiering on to help you decide between the Merlot and the Marlowe and generally putting London's West End theatre to rights
The art of whinging has been handed down through generations of Phil’s family courtesy of a matrilineage that, needless to say, ends abruptly and somewhat anti-climatically with Phil.
His mother, for example, never fails to moan on being put through to a call-centre, complaining she can’t understand what the people with “accents” are saying. Bells Are Ringing might just be the show for her. Read the rest of this entry »
There was a horrible inevitability that the Whingers would eventually make their West End stage debuts.
We are not counting our curtain call at Hair where we elbowed less able-bodied patrons out of the way to be first on the stage.
No, this was a more considered performance involving preparation: warm ups, vocal exercises and the necessity to eschew alcohol. Almost. Actually we did neck a pre-show glass of wine (strictly for Dutch Courage you understand) but you are not allowed take your drinks with you if you elect to purchase an on-stage seat at the Duchess Theatre.
No wine! Being a performer in the heady world of the West End doesn’t seem so glamorous now does it? How committed must we have been? Read the rest of this entry »
A West End Whinger 