Carlton Chronicle

GALA EVENING

Gala Evening a huge success

Charity Gala Evening - 3rd April 2004, by Lucie Morris

When you walk into a beautifully decorated, and ballooned Gothic style hall, to be greeted by certain Carlton male members looking like penguins in their black tie, you obviously get a sense something is not quite right. Infact, the classy atmosphere of the first Carlton Gala Ball came as quite a surprise to most of the normally half shaven, combat-trouser wearing, guests. But being the shallow social climbers we all are, and of course being highly talented actor types, everyone quickly acted with uppermost elegance and sophistication. Well, for the first few minutes anyway. It was only the sumptuous buffet, provided by catering queen Kate 'nigella' Mitchell and her helpers, which nearly turned the evening from black tie to black eye. Such was the desperate scramble for the endless plates of chicken, quiche and homemade puddings that all the formal niceties were laid well aside. It was clear everyone that night was religiously following the famous Carltonians diet; a potent mix of sweet and savoury all on one, overflowing, plate.

It was only when Carl 'Cygnet traitor' Whiteside and Katie 'blushing-bride-to-be' Hebbourn stepped on the stage, commanding the attention of the gobbling masses, becoming louder and prouder on their offy booze, the evening regained its initial high-class status. Despite sound failure (more of which later) the dubious duo, sorry, the dashing duo, launched into a Raw style 'do ron ron' rendition to present the evening's events. Although those at the back could not hear all of their witty ditties, (not such a bad thing apparently) the guests were soon left in no doubt why they had been invited to such a glittering Z list event. It was not just to see Carlton ladies in skimpy evening gowns, attempt to beat the buffet and to try and chat up directors for future roles. (Yes Dave, or rather Alfie, we all saw you tenderly stroking Val's hair behind Simon's back)

The assembled crowd were there to be well and truly fleeced. The doors were locked, men in black formed a ring around the room, there was no way out. Guests HAD to bid for the array of items in the auction OR ELSE. Quivering in their seats the stunned crowd sat mesmerised at the stage. Then, suddenly. out of nowhere Julia 'soon to be Derbyshire' Boggio, wearing a beautiful larger than life red gown, glided onto the stage. As the Kiss Me All Over star reached the line 'don't cry for me', the audience, too, had tears trickling down their faces. But they were sadly not tears of evita emotion, but the knowledge that if Julia's fiance got his way they would not be able to eat for a week. For James, the demon auction master of Victory Road, had plans. Plans to rob them into jellied submission. And they knew it.

Momentarily at least, Carlton's latest love-struck kissing addicts Paul and Arabella cheered up the guests with two cheering songs. One of them was even more homemade and tasty than the lemon creme pudding, (the same pudding which had earlier nearly started the first turf war ever seen in the normally tranquil streets of Wimbledon Village.) Uplifted, the audience were able to temporarily forget their bankruptcy fears when an array of Carlton's finest fishnet-clad legs were displayed, in a special near-as-naked rendition of Hey Big Spender. Many were not at all surprised to discover that one rather attractive singer in the group, wearing an immaculate face of make-up, was none other than Andrew 'the bra' Candish. That boy, it seems, has developed a certain perchant for dressing in ladies clothes ever since he donned my underwear as the evil step-mother in the Christmas panto.

Wonderful solos from James 'better dressed than Beckham' Grayston, and Kristen 'another bride to be' Bowditch thankfully seem to appear to rescue the evening from total depravity - until the clevage-bearing girls singing the cell-block tango shocked the hall with their boastful, and murdering ways.

During the interval the crowd had indeed parted with large sums of money, including raffle tickets. (Costing more than front row seats on Centre Court.) Luckily though everyone seemed drunkenly happy, even my innocent village neighbours, fleeced by the auction, were thrilled with their photograph session and spa day they had won in the auction. (no they will not take place at the same time you pervs)

Sadly the evening did end with one sad passing, which put an end to any dancing. Simon's overworked speakers finally gave up after years of playing favourite tunes from the Carlton hit parade. But too drunk to notice people still seemed to throw shapes until the end. There is now an extra £800 in the Carlton coffers to help fund this years rather exciting run of shows. The now exhausted organisers Kate and Ruth, plus their legions of helpers including Mike 'talented with a screw' Tierney, Mr and Mrs 'possibly divorcing over bloody Bennett' Graves, and Mike 'father-to-be' Ahmad on the piano, should be rightly proud. LM

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CARLTON UPDATE

the original sexed-up dossier

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Habeas Corpus

Rehearsals in full swing

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Death Behind The Scenes

by Toby Hardwood

Part VI - The Truth Will 'Out'

Our thrilling serial continues...

Annie Matthews and Timothy Weston exchanged glances, not for the first time that day. The old church hall's kitchen was warming slowly thanks to the large NAAFI kettle, ignored but bubbling quietly away on the ancient, council installed gas stove, steam billowing from its spout, condensation misting the dirty, frosted windows.

Annie sat compassionately forward on an old, paint flaked wooden bench, a tender arm round the sobbing shoulders of the young, dark haired man who sat next to her. Timothy sat opposite on a wooden chair that had seen almost as many years as the bench. It wobbled alarmingly whenever he shifted his weight but such concerns were miles away. In each of his great hands, he cradled a mug of cold tea, one full the other partially drunk. He watched both the rocking man and Annie passively, scarcely aware of the discarded beverages, but his eyes were sharp, clear and focused, indicative of the immense attention he awarded both of them.

"There, there," Annie cooed softly, over and over, feeling vaguely silly but powerless to say anything else, the enormity of the young man's grief engulfed her. Her look to Timothy was not so much a conveyance of exasperation, but an appeal for assistance. Timothy felt equally overwhelmed by the situation. As much as he would like to have taken command in front of her, it was in fact the vague, nagging awareness that Sergeant Smythe would soon return from berating the young constable and ordering the brightly coloured forensic team about, that compelled him to speak. Timothy knew, that as soon as the Sergeant returned, his insensitivity would not just destroy a very private moment, but any chance they had of learning the mystery of the handsome, yet distraught young man.

His eyes nodded and he leant gently forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm Timothy and this is Annie. Are you a friend of Anthony's?"

The young man softly wailed and sobbed louder. His shoulders shook in jerky, spasmodic movements and finally, with great effort, he nodded his head, but left his face cradled in his hands.

"We..." he glanced hesitantly at Annie once again, "are..." she silently encouraged him to continue, "friends of Anthony's too. From the drama society. Perhaps he mentioned us?" The young man slowly raised his head but kept his hands out in front of him, palms open in loose, tear-strewn prayer. In slow deliberate movements, as if he heard Timothy's words ensconced in gauze, he turned to face Annie and then returned his gaze to Timothy. Encouraged, he clumsily continued. "How did you know him?"

The young man suddenly howled, throwing his hands up to cover his eyes, as if to blindly beseech the ceiling to end his grief. "I am his lover!" he cried and slumped forward once again to rest heavily on his knees.

They were stunned, not by what the young man said but the depth of his emotion, and yet for some reason Annie picked the young man's rolling 'r' and his heavy accent through all that emotional turmoil. As the thought dawned, she noticed his olive skin for the first time. He was not just well groomed but stylishly dressed, confirming her impression. She shot Timothy a cautionary look.

"Are... are you Italian?" she asked softly.

The young man sat up, chocked back a sob and shook his head. "No... I am Espanola... Spanish."

Annie nodded. "What's your name?"

"Hosé Stephano Peredes."

"Hosé - I can call you Hosé can't I?" Annie asked tentatively.

The young man sniffed, and then fished a dainty lace handkerchief from his pocket. "Stephano," he said hoarsely. "Only my mother causes me Hosé."

"Stephano," Annie nodded slowly. "Stephano, you know the Sergeant's going to want to ask you a lot of questions don't you?"

"Let the pig, I don't care! Anthony never liked him!" The young man's candour shocked them.

An uncomfortable silence followed, broken only by Stephano's soft sobs. Annie and Timothy sat looking at each other, pondering the situation. Eventually Timothy shifted in his creaky chair and took a deep breath.

"Stephano, "he gently cleared his throat. "We truly liked Anthony. He was a good man and we counted him as a friend." Stephano slowly raised his head and looked up through tear filled eyes. "Please," Timothy continued. "Please accept our sincerest condolences."

Stephano looked from Timothy to Annie and back again, forcing a forlorn smile. "Thank you," he murmured. "I feel you are very kind."

There was a clatter beyond the servery, and a sudden crescendo in voices behind the kitchen door. Annie looked up with concern. Timothy maintained his steady gaze on the young man who seemed lost in thoughts of his own and oblivious of the activities in the main hall.

"Stephano," said Annie with a sudden sense of urgency, and she shifted side ways on the bench so as to face him better. "Did Anthony seem... sad to you lately?"

He turned to her, as if trying to register the implication of her question. "Sad?" he sniffed.

"Yes," said Timothy catching her drift. "Sad, as in down or depressed?"

Stephano shot him a withering glance. "No! Anthony and I were very, very happy."

"Yes, yes we thought so too," Timothy hurriedly continued. "Which is why this has all come as a shock to us."

"Did...did he have anything on his mind?" asked Annie tentatively.

Stephano wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and reflected for a moment. "He was worried. But not sad, never sad."

"Worried?" Timothy echoed.

"Worried about what?" probed Annie, her caution temporarily suspended by the revelation and a sense of rising excitement.

"I don't know," wailed Stephano, tears bursting as his grief grimace screwed up his eyes. "He wouldn't..."

The kitchen door slammed open with an echoing crash. Annie looked up in horror at the sudden, nosey interruption. Timothy swivelled in his chair with such speed that the cold tea slopped on his trousers.

Framed in the doorway, flanked by the young constable and a man in a cheap Moss Brother's suit, was Sergeant Smythe. He stood military style, one foot rigidly aligned to the other, and his left arm stretched stiff from the top of his shoulder to his white knuckled grasp of the door.

"Hosé Stephano Peredes," Sergeant Smythe annunciated Stephano's name with a dramatic staccato.

"Sergeant Smythe!" Annie exclaimed.

"Clarence for pity's sake!" spluttered Timothy but the Sergeant ignored them both.

"Hosé Stephano Peredes," he continued with a puffed, theatrical self-importance. "I'm arresting you on conspiracy to fraud... and suspicion of murder!"

Gasp! Tune in next time for more thrills!

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The Chronicle spoke to Dave as he wound down in the pub after a session with his Drama Workshop students.

What did you think of the workshops tonight?

I enjoyed them very much. The guys were a gushing wellspring of inspiration.

How long have you been a Carlton member?

Twelve and a half inches.

Were you in theatre before the Carlton?

Yes, in various guises. I did a panto at RAF Northolt once, called 'The Land Without Music'. The kids thought a large box on stage held their Christmas presents. So when I opened it, they thought Santa had arrived. So I had 65 paratrooper's children rushing the stage, and me.

What Carlton productions have you been involved in?

I've had roles in The Hypochondriac, Dr & Mrs Faustus, 'Tis Pity She's A Whore, various Workshops, and of course the a dame and a dwarf in Christmas Pantos.

Which was your favourite?

The next thing is always my favourite. I've just been cast in the title role in Alfie!

Congratulations! What was your most embarrassing theatre moment?

When I was 13, I was in the crew for a variety show at my local school. The 6th Form girls were halfway through their jazz dance routine, when someone miscued me, and I went on stage, with my broom, to sweep the stage for the next piece.

Did you join in with your broom, like in Stomp?

I froze, there was much tittering, then I tried to join in. Then I heard the Director's voice hissing from the wings, "F***ing get off, O'Sullivan you tit!".

Are you rehearsing at the moment? What for?

I haven't started rehearsing for Alfie yet, but I am cramming for the part - it's a biggie!

Do you have any tips you've picked up about acting?

Always have a driver out the back with the engine running. You never know.

What are you wearing right now?

A shimmering wisp of gossamer over my nethers.

So, er, anything planned for the weekend?

More gossamer, then I will be reprising my role as the Ice-cream Man at Sunday's picnic. Two flavours this year! And chocolates for good boys and girls.

What do you do for a living?

I recently got a new job as a lecturer in Disability for Sutton.

Congrats on that too! What's yout tipple?

Gotta be Guiness. [This said while nervously sipping Carlsberg shandy - Ed.]

What was the last film you saw?

Matchstick Men.

Ah yes, with Nicholas Cage and Sam Rockwell. What was the first album you bought?

Some Girls by the Rolling Stones.

Who would you like to play you in the film of your life story?

Quentin Tarantino. Failing that, Gwyneth Paltrow.

What cartoon character do you most resemble?

Wile E Coyote.

Do you have any dreams, hopes, aspirations?

I dream of travelling round the world on a motorbike and sidecar. I hope that Popstars will still consider me one day. I aspire to be Mr Britney Spears.

Thanks very much Dave O'Sullivan! More probing next prog...

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My Bizarre Double Life

by Binky Tuppence

At the Edinburgh 'Fringe' Festival, (as everyone called it during my first visit, in 1983) people don't just hand out leaflets - they try to be whacky. Having your perception of reality challenged on every street corner quickly becomes tiresome and one longs to be asked the time; witness a stabbing; anything except another piece of surreal, improvised theatre.

As I tried to look unapproachable my attention was caught by a dwarf woman in east European costume dancing on an upturned milk crate to Romany music coming from a cassette player. How could any adult, even a dwarf be 15" tall? (This was long before I had seen Austin Powers and 'Mini Me'.) It dawned on me that it wasn't actually a woman but an astonishingly realistic puppet. A rough framework and black curtain concealed the puppeteer - linked to this tiny effigy by barely-visible fishing line. What skilful hands could make the doll dance in so lifelike a way? I was transfixed by the performance. Then, the black cloth, milk crate and tape player - as one structure - waddled towards me. The whole puppet theatre reeled around, driving me against a building. Trapped in a shop doorway, I was treated to a personal show. In recent years, having viewed lap dancers (in a documentary on Channel 5, not the real thing!) the whole Edinburgh episode flooded back and I now realise there is nothing quite like being at liberty to leave and yet not pushing past, just to be polite - so quintessentially British. Isn't it this state of mind which makes our nation so tolerant? The puppet jigged herself into a frenzy and on the last note of the music she sank into a deep bow. A curtain flicked open higher up and the young woman behind it said

"Please come to our show!".

'Well, how could I do otherwise?' my inner self asked itself. And then she broke the spell. She jabbed me with the ubiquitous, cheaply photocopied leaflet detailing where, when and coldly, how much.

That night, as if it was my duty, I went along to Piper's Puppet Peregrinations. The publicity must have been working because, unusually for Edinburgh, there were several people watching the show. There was lots of Yiddish klesma music and dolls controlled by several puppeteers performing fastidiously synchronised formation dancing; there was a breathtaking version of Swan Lake with such exquisite ballet that some audience members sobbed; there was even a western adventure including gun fights and a cowboy leaping onto a burning wagon to save his sweetheart. The show was a feast of quality puppetry which left me wanting more. After the show I spoke to the woman who had given me the leaflet. She was aloof but I winkled out of her that her name was Annette and that she was a student indulging in her hobby in her Summer break but then she clammed up. The woman who said so much through her puppets was saying nothing. I had to know more; to find out what made anyone want so much to make dolls dance that they would perform to a church hall with 5 people in the audience. I had a brainwave. I would return the next night and claim I was a reviewer for an alternative entertainment fanzine.

I settled down to watch a repeat of the previous night's brilliance but it was different. The characters were not recognisable from the world of drama, literature and film - they seemed to be ordinary people. Stories were enacted of ordinary lives. It wasn't until the interval that it dawned on me what was going on. The puppets on the stage resembled the eight people in the audience! When the curtain opened again I recognised a version of my clothes, probably scraps of fabric and safety pins but it was me, even down to my rucksack. Looking to my left and right I saw the other audience members had already cottoned on to the game and were glued to their on-stage selves. The puppeteers must have been checking us out as we queued for our tickets and then dressed appropriate sized puppets in hastily assembled costumes. I watched myself in an improvised 'Coronation Street' type episode as an argumentative shop assistant; in a UFO thriller as a space alien; as a matriarch elephant in a wildlife documentary; and as a contestant in 'Mr & Mrs' (back in the days when it was good).

After the show I went again in search of the crew and found them packing away, silently, meditatively. They were a serious bunch. I broke the silence by saying I was writing them up and would one of them give me an interview. After a long wait Annette exasperatedly agreed to talk to me. It did not go well. My never having done an interview didn't help; likewise, her monosyllabic answers made me feel she was marking time until I gave up. My final, desperate question was

"Why were you so keen to publicise this show in the street yesterday but will not now co-operate to allow an article on your work to appear in a festival fanzine?"

Her eyes burned with passion as she said 

"It's over. Well nearly. Tomorrow night is our last show."

"I know, it said on your leaflet. But you'll be moving on to perform somewhere else. And you're bound to come back here next year. You could do with the publicity", I said.

"No. IT'S OVER. No more puppet shows, ever. After tomorrow night's performance we torch the puppets, costumes, props, the lot. So we don't need publicity. Thank you for coming to see the show. Good night."

"Hang on" I said "Why end it all? You lot were absolutely brilliant both nights. The show is a work of genius. With the right backing it could be enormous."

"Aaaaagghhh!! That's just the trouble." said Annette "We do this because we are fascinated by mime, drama, ventriloquism and handicraft. Now we are at our biggest yet - eight is a good audience for a puppet show that's not on a beach - and we love it. The night before last, an impresario came backstage and offered to take our show on a tour of the USA which, he said, would make us millionaires. We were all horrified. This isn't about money. The takings don't even cover our bed and breakfast or the hall rental - I'm paying to be here. We've been doing this on and off for three years but after that guy swaggered around giving out business cards we all agreed it was only a matter of time before one of us got greedy and ran off with the idea to tour the world. Last night we all swore a pact that we would kill the show off after this run."

"But why", I said.

"The show will end up being stood on its head. We, the puppeteers will become the promoter's puppets. Do you see? Art should always be controlled by artists. Someone wants to make it viable. We knew that would kill the spirit of what we perform so we decided to kill it ourselves and bury it with dignity before some accountant-ghoul lynches it and dangles its stuffed corpses above a stage where the profiteer controls the puppeteer."

Then I understood the fierce passion that impels this woman towards her life's goals.

Annette or 'Netty' as I now call her became my dearest friend and confidante and we have shared much through our highs and lows of the past 20 years. Yes, she and the rest of the troupe did burn the puppet show the next night. Netty, however never lost her obsession with the feeling of controlling the behaviour of real people. Once she had seen 'Spitting Image' on TV, lampooning politicians and the Royal family, constructed a horde of puppets representing all her friends and family of the time.

It was me, of course that brought to Netty's attention the Australian stage show 'Puppetry of the Penis' when it was on in the West End a couple of years ago. She spent the whole show preoccupied with analysing choreography, directorial consistency, continuity of theme, etc. while the rest of the girls and I just thoroughly enjoyed the sights. Fwooarr! She still has the programme, covered in scribbled notes - bless! Afterwards, choked with tears she told me how she had never thought it really feasible to tour full-size theatres with a puppet show but now that she had seen it done - kind-of - and with some help from the bizarre, she wondered how different her life might have been, had she been less the principled, angry-young-woman and gone commercial all those years ago.

Today, Netty's puppet collection depicts - with frightening accuracy - the members of the Carlton Dramatic Society. I know these amateur actors, having watched most of their plays over the past 12 years or so and having been told about them by Netty. The effigies all take the forms of well known puppets from the stage and TV.

There is a Punch and Judy of Simon and Val with John Gargrave as the policeman and Vince as the crocodile; an Ian Ward Pinocchio; a Lord Charles ventriloquist's dummy with the face of Andrew Candish; Mehmet, Jane Lewis and Kate Rogers as Hector, Kiki and Zaza from Hector's House; a cardboard Captain Pugwash of Carl; Penny as Sooty and Michel de Dadelsen as Sweep; a Basil Brush resembling Robert Clay; a Nookie Bear of Mike Ahmad; an Emu of Sarah Hewitt and an Orville of Jeff Graves. James Derbyshire and Julia appear as Kermit and Miss Piggy from The Muppet Show along with Mike Tierney and Matt Petty as Statler and Waldorf and Rory as Gonzo. From Sesame Street Netty has represented Dave O'Sullivan as Big Bird and Paul Flannery as the Cookie Monster. Mike Norman-Smith features as Bagpuss and Aubs as Muffin the Mule.

Have you noticed how little spare time Netty seems to have? In fact she has as much as the rest of us but each night when Netty returns from a day's work at the NSPCC she pushes aside other commitments and makes time - with religious zeal - to enact a scene from a memorable Carlton moment using her puppets. It might be one of her favourite plays, an after show party or a big night out - her 40^th birthday party has been relived many times in her detail-perfect set of The Old Bank of England pub. Netty's most recent additions to her collection are Lady Penelope and Parker from Thunderbirds bearing a striking resemblance to Lucie Morris and James Grayston.

So, the next time you get the feeling that you are not in control of your actions or ask yourself 'Why did I just do that?' Remember: on another stage, Netty Piper may be pulling your strings.

More irrevent biography next time...

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Carlton Dramatic Society Information

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CARLTON CALENDAR

Your regular guide to what's up and what's on at the Carlton and elsewhere

Another month, another format. If there is anything missing from the calendar I do apologise - my clairvoyance is affected by hay fever. You'll have to help me out by emailing me any items you would like to see included.

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