carltonChronicle

official newsletter of the Carlton Dramatic Society July / August 2004 'Informing the mob' Editor: Matthew Petty Free where sold Valid HTML

A TOTAL FARCE

Bennett blows us away

Habeas Corpus - 2-7 June 2004, by Ian Ward

Lingering in the corner of the New Wimbledon Studio in a manner akin to that of the local vagrants and their children ("trampettes"), the Habeas Corpus cast broke from their motivational huddle for the sixth and final time. "Remember - you're not as sh*t as everyone says you are", were the parting words from Director Jeffrey.

So began the end for this crew of jobbing amateur actors who came together in March 2004, disparate folk finding their way in the theatre world, binding together their MDF of talent with the glue of acting. "This is going to be farcical", said an unnamed local and how right Cindy was. Alan Bennett's play received the full treatment, much in the same way a murder victim does, and were Bennett dead, he would be turning in his grave. Seeing as he isn't, he's suing us.

You've all seen the play so I won't bore you again with the story, but what everyone is crying out to know is exactly what happened in the rehearsal rooms of 221b Community Centre Street, London. I am here to reveal everything, fortunately this time in a literary sense rather than the Carl-in-his-nappy/underpants sense. I will reveal who were the prima donnas and who were the prime donuts; how the Hebbourn breasts were really made; and why the Wicksteed house apparently had two front doors.

The cast soon realised that Sir Jeff, as he insisted on being called, would be a real taskmaster, one evening ordering us to be ready for a prompt 8pm start, only to arrive at 8.10pm himself. Talk about the blind leading the bland. It was during these ten minutes of downtime that Carl (Mr Shanks) showed us his newly acquired y-fronts. Actually, it took two seconds to show them and a further 9.58 for Alison's (Lady Rumpers) ambulance to arrive. "We never should have left Addis Ababa", she was heard to say just the once. Carl played the role of a seasoned breast fondler with a "fluency born of long practice" (Bennett's words, not mine), whilst Val (Mrs Wicksteed) hassled and harried him at every turn with a "fluency born of long practice" (Bennett's words, not mine).

Among the difficulties in the play was how to pretend to hang someone during each performance without the need for six different actors. Rory (Mr Purdue/Pardew) agreed to die on stage each evening, the rest of us doing so in a more tacit fashion. Fortunately, the ladder used by the back stage crew to hold the rope was not once seen during a performance. That's right isn't it, Aisling? In fact the back stage crew of the Ladder-Shower and Cindy were impeccable throughout, dispensing water, encouragement and really, really scary stares in equal measure.

Back on stage, Mike N-S (Mr Wicksteed) was perving, shouting and perving a bit more in equal measure, finding the time to expertly pace his closing speech to fit in with the 2004 white label remix of Bridge Over T-T-Troubled Water. Which musical note brings us on to Kirsty (Felicity Rumpers) and Andrew (Dennis Wicksteed) who made the hitherto virtually unknown Shuffle Off A Buffalo a hit amongst both cast and crew. Their use of key changes, often mid-note was inspirational, as was their innovative dance routine, all the moves apparently starting on the off-beat. They put me in mind of garden birds chirping and floating lightly on a summer's breeze.

Talking of Great Tits, Katy (Connie Wicksteed) nightly acquired fresh breasts, much to the delight of Mike T (Canon Throbbing), the disgust of Kate (Mrs Swabb) and the confusion of Steve (Her Fiancé). Having finally mastered arriving on stage about 30 minutes after her appendages, Katy strutted and thrust like a pro leaving Mike overjoyed, Kate unimpressed and Steve checking for open sores.

And so this band of souls went their separate ways, each taking something different from the show. Some memories, some immense pride; and some the hearts of my many fans out there, whom I thank with all my being. Mwah, mwah, mwah…

By the way, it's 01372. IW

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CARLTON UPDATE

the original sexed-up dossier

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Alfie

A Few Days To Go!

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Death Behind The Scenes

by Toby Hardwood

Part VII - A Sudden Thought

Our thrilling serial continues...

It had been a welcome, but subdued drink. The widow Annie Matthews pinched her swizzle stick loosely between her delicately long fingers and thumb. The ice had long since melted, but with her thoughts elsewhere, coaxing the lonely slice of lemon around the watery gin felt like a valid expenditure of time. The burly, square jawed but innately gentle Timothy Weston sat silently opposite her, his drink fairing little better. Normally Timothy enjoyed his daily pint of Speckled Hen and on any other occasion would have relished a quiet drink in the company of the lovely Annie Matthews, away from the prying eyes and waggling tongues of the amateur dramatic society. Instead, preoccupied with the events of the afternoon, he was barely aware of her presence let alone the remnants of the beer matt he unconsciously sifted through his fingers.

Annie shifted irritably in her chair, replaying the final scene at the church hall over in her mind. Her fury had long dissipated but as she recalled Sergeant Smythe's pompous declaration she felt a surge of anger. "Bastard!" she exclaimed. Timothy looked up with a start. He hadn't quiet heard what she'd said but he knew her well enough to recognise her tone.

"Oh I'm sorry Annie, can I get you another drink?" he moved hurriedly to find his wallet in his heavy woollen coat. Annie blinked at him momentarily and then it dawned on her what the gentle man had meant and she smiled warmly. "Not you, you big Baloo, that blasted Clarence fancy pants Smythe!" She spoke his name with force it made Timothy want to smile, but he also knew her well enough to do so on the inside. He relaxed his search and nodded sadly. "I guess he was just doing his job."

"Do his job!" Annie flared. "There's doing his job and there's doing his job. Who does he suppose he is? Taggert? Inspector Frost? Arnold bloody Schwarzenegger?" Timothy finally couldn't resist, but managed to keep the smile sad at least. He knew the feelings the feisty woman before him stirred were in appropriate in view of the tragedy that had engulfed them both, but he relished her company so that the emotion welled up inside like a roaring fire. "I suspect somehow he does," he mused softly, maintaining a solemn dignity befitting the occasion.

"He'd make a better Grenville than a Frost that I can tell you!" Annie insisted, stabbing the hapless lemon in the process. "I'll never vote for him again. In fact I've a good mind to run for Society Chairman just to spite him..." Timothy raised his pint to his lips lest she thought he was laughing at her but "Ugh!" he swallowed hurriedly at the foul taste. Annie stopped short and looked at him with concern. He sighed and placed the glass on the table. "I'm sorry Annie. I just never thought there would be a day when I would find a Greene King tasteless. I seem to have something bitter in my mouth."

She smiled gently. "It's quiet alright. It's been an eventful day and I'm not in the mood for drink either." She looked across the table at him. Had she ever noticed how blue his eyes were she wondered? And what was it about a man of his age that kept the whites of his eyes so white? Timothy held her gaze, usually so quick with life and intelligence, but today studying him with sadness, warmth and contemplation all rolled into one.

If it was a moment, or a minute, neither really noticed. The fact that a moody backpacker still with a hangover collected their glasses went unnoticed, despite the fact that neither had finished their drink. Annie stirred first. "I think perhaps, Mr Weston, that you should walk me home" she said quietly maintaining his gaze.

Timothy nodded and they both stood in silence, only breaking the look to wrap their coats about them in tight anticipation of the winter chill outside. It greeted them with gusto as they left the warmth of the old Rose and Thorn. It was dark now, cold enough to snow but mercifully not raining. Annie shivered. First at the invading chill then with tiny prickles of pleasure as the unfamiliar yet welcome arm of Timothy Weston linked hers in a tender embrace. They walked on in silence. Despite the foul weather neither hurried.

By the High Street corner, outside the second hand bookstore with its mock Tudor and lead-lined windows, Annie felt compelled to look through the gloomy windows. Shadows stirred thoughts and memories barely a few hours old. She shivered and sighed involuntarily.

"Are you all right there Mrs Matthews?" Timothy bent his large frame nearer, partly to hear her over the noise of the wind and the occasional car, but mostly to re-enforce the intoxicating sense of closeness he felt.

Annie hesitated and looked wistfully ahead. "I'm sorry Timothy. I just can't stop thinking about poor Mr Tollington." Timothy gently unthreaded his arm and placed it comfortingly around her shoulders. She found herself, against her instilled sense of propriety, nestling close to his hulking torso. "It must have been a horrible sight," he whispered.

"Yes it was a shock," she admitted. "But it's the senselessness of the situation that I can't shake. It is so absurd. I admit I wasn't close to Antony, but I knew him well enough to get a sense of his character. He's just not the suicide type."

"I don't think the Police think it was suicide," Timothy too found his mind returning to issues that had plagued his thoughts for the last few hours. "They arrested Stephano for murder."

Annie almost snorted in contempt. "That's even more preposterous! You saw how distraught he was. Was that the reaction of a murderer?"

Timothy shook his head. "The answers certainly don't fit the questions. Could he be a psychopath perhaps? Or could he be a better actor than the entire society put together?"

Annie stopped suddenly, turning to look intently into his face. "And these are just questions of character Timothy! I have a thousand more on the practicality of the whole ridiculous scenario," she said with fire in her, the fires that so fuelled Timothy's passion.

He was momentarily taken back by the forcefulness of her outburst, but she mistook his adulation for surprise. "I'm sorry Timothy here I go again," Annie softened, resting her hand tenderly on his arm. "I don't mean to take it out on you. I just can't figure out how you're supposed to murder someone, even if you wanted to, if they're locked in a church hall from the inside."

This very thought had been weighing on Timothy's mind. It had nagged and irritated him like an itch he couldn't scratch since the Sergeant's outrageous display of insensitivity. He shook his head and they turned to walk the last few yards to Annie's Close in silence. As they left the High Street, the sodium street light glow dimmed, the wind dropped and they were engulfed in a comforting, silent darkness.

Annie's house was a simple, neat, terrace house midway down a quaint, residential parking only, Close. The brickwork was well kept, its paintwork lovingly done, and a light and her cat sat on the front room windowsill, one vigilantly bathing the five foot of cobbled yard in a warm hazy light, the other expecting his evening meal. Annie pushed open her wrought iron-gate, something Timothy could have easily have stepped over in one single stride, without comment, smiling at the cat's sudden interest in her activities. At the door she turned, conscious that Timothy had followed her so far inside her private domain. He stood patiently while she self-consciously found her keys amongst the debris in her bag and, retrieving them, she looked up at him, the stoop negating some of his height so that she could look him directly in the eye. She smiled encouragingly. The only sound was their breathing, soft, shallow and synchronised, a fine mist issuing from their moist lips that glistened softly like a fine ocean spray before being swallowed by the darkness.

Annie squeezed her bag as she realised the warm and gentle thumping rising in her ears was the sound of her heart pumping faster and faster as the seconds past, blood circulating through her extremities like a surging tide. Timothy loomed closer and closer in a slow sweeping arc of ever increasing proximity, ever so slowly, ever so gently, but ever so determined. Annie soaked up ever muscle movement, ever twitch and stir as he neared. She felt hot and slightly faint; giddy with anticipation, succumbing to the desire to feel his touch. She tilted her head back gently and opened her mouth hungrily. She sensed the warm breath of the hulking man before her caress her cheek, her eye lids suddenly heavy, a compulsively flutter tingling her lashes as he bore down on her… and stopped.

Timothy's expression suddenly changed. His eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped. His head jerked back and he looked up, above and beyond Annie to somewhere else, far, far away.

"Timothy," Annie whispered breathlessly. "Is everything alright?"

Timothy grasped her hand and suddenly pulled her from the stoop. "Come on Annie!" he half turned to face her as he ran, eyes alight with an excited intensity, half dragging her across the tiny yard and through the gate. "I've just thought of a way to get out of a locked church hall!"

Gasp! Tune in next time for more thrills!

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What did you think of Habeas Corpus?

What a romp (or should I say Rumpers!) it was. But the boys definitely need to improve their underwear. Not that I was looking that closely - honest! It kills me to say that I liked it almost more than Jeff's inaugural full scale production, "Trivial Pursuit" - and I was in it!

How long have you been a Carlton member?

I'm a Carlton teenager - I joined 14 years ago! It's changed a lot since then but, like a good wine - it gets better by the year! (Mind you , I am prone to feel bilious on one glass of the vino , so the analogy doesn't work that well...)

Were you in theatre before the Carlton?

Ahem. Je suis une Reine Dramatique! Yes, I took part on a local joint grammar schools production. Had crush on male lead, Dave Sidwick. He had a pet chinchilla fetish - so probably a good job he did not like chubby 15 year old girls!!
Have a terrible tape recording from a music hall production at Birmingham University and the photos from Peter Schaffer's "Black Comedy" from the same year are a glorious reminder of Eighties fashions...

What Carlton productions have you been involved in?

How long have you got? Quite a few in 14 years - but sod it, "mature roles" are still jolly interesting! Happily no type casting - a Welsh woman in "The Sea" by Edward Bond, a socialite in Agatha Christie's "The Hollow", Mrs Drudge in "The Real Inspector Hound",Olivia in "Twelfth Night"; Ariel (one third of one) in "The Tempest"; Liverpudlian Carol in John Godber's "Shakers"; a clairvoyant, a German murderess in "Witness for the Prosecution"; a Russian Clairvoyant, Madame Xenia, in "The Killing of Sister George"; and playing lots of wives in Mehmet Idbuzack's productions "The visit" and "The Hypo"; "84 Charing Cross Rd" and lots of workshops.

Which was your favourite?

That's not fair to any of the directors! But I love accents so Sister George was fun. Oh, and my first trip out as director of an excerpt from "The Graduate". My first stage snog with Jeff in "Chorus of Disapproval" (and the reprise in "Blood Wedding"!) - great camaraderie in the cast! Plus whacking Carl in the cheek as his cuckolded wife, Roz, in Trivial Pursuits. Oh - the Audience gasp on the Saturday!!
And I have loved inventing the Carlton Oscars - the Netties!

What was your most embarrassing theatre moment?

Watching members of the audience from the local care home wander onto the set of "Triv" at the Saturday matinee when they thought the food and drink props were real food! Also going "off piste" in the middle of a big monologue in "A Woman of No Importance" and watching the horror on the cast's faces!

Are you rehearsing at the moment? What for?

Yes - as Siddie in "Alfie" - one of a number of the London lad's floosies! We have all enjoyed boosting his purchase of lip salve!

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

Think , don't act (thank you,Mehmet and Mike A!)

What are you wearing right now?

Don't you mean what WAS I wearing?...

So, anything planned for the weekend?

Alfie, Alfie and more Alfie (plus a wedding romp. One of 5 this year. None of them mine - boo hoo!)

What do you do for a living?

I'm a Major gifts Trusts fundraiser for the NSPCC. Brilliant cause, lovely colleagues. We have something called the Eight Steps of Solicitation as part of our training - talk to me if you want to know more! But the rule is .. If you don't ask, you don't get!

What's your tipple?

Bacardi and Coke (I'm ashamed to say). Or a good Merlot! Otherwise - mine's a cranberry and Orange J2O!!

What was the last film you saw?

A fortnight ago."I'm Not Scared" - a fantastic Italian film by Gabriele Salvatore, director of Mediterraneo - about a 10 year old boy who is shaken when he discovers his father is a kidnapper and after discovering and bravely befriending the kidnapped boy. Brilliant.

What was the first album you bought?

Okay , okay - probably Abba's "Abba Gold"!! Or maybe something by the Christians (remember them?)

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

An unknown with potential - which is what I think I am!!

What cartoon character do you most resemble?

Betty Boo. Or maybe a younger version of the Grandma character in "Belleville Rendezvous" (you MUST see it - it was on telly last Xmas) who pushes up her glasses on her nose like me in the most hysterical way!

Do you have any dreams, hopes, aspirations?

Being a true and honest mate to all - and that includes you, me Carlton "farmily"! To keep dreaming, hoping and aspiring. Without that - we're dead from the neck down.

Thanks very much Netty! More probing next prog...send in your nominations now!
*descriptions charged at the following rates: Honest=free; Tactful=£5; Glowing=£10

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My Bizarre Double Life

by Dawn Raid

Dave O'Sullivan likes a curry. Have you ever seen him in an Indian restaurant? He has a deeper understanding of the menu than most and will frequently ask the waiters details about dishes, speaking Hindi, Gujarati or Bengali, in which he is fluent.

Two nations that do amazing things with potatoes are Ireland and India. Dave O'Sullivan was brought up in an Irish family where potatoes were the staple. Breakfast, lunch and supper - all contained King Spud in some form or other. What with helping his dad grow them in the garden and helping his mum prepare and cook them, by the age of 12 there was little that Dave didn't know about potatoes. They held no glamour for him at that time though, being the bland, starchy feature of all his meals.

Life was tough in the O'Sullivan's London household - a tin bath in front of the fire once a week, holes in his boots going to school, the whole family (and they were no exception to the papal edict that declared all Irish families must have loads of children) having to share one chamber pot. But people in the 60s and 70s were happy with what they had and any adult would be quick with a reminder of the potato famine; the war and rationing (and a punch in the gob) if any young upstart expressed dissatisfaction.

On maturing, Dave decided to better himself and thrilled his parents by getting a place at the LSE studying 19th century geopolitical semantic morphology. He was a star student but became bored and dropped out, moved into a squat and soon lost touch with everyone he had known, including his family. From here it was a short step to the world of acid trips, magic mushrooms and smoking toads' venom for its hallucinogenic properties.

Luckily, it was a step that Dave didn't take. He found answers to the philosophical mysteries that plagued his young mind in eastern religion. He experimented with Taoism, Sufi Islam and Buddhism. In 1979 he sold all of his possessions and hitch-hiked his way to Nepal - a mind-expanding experience in itself. Once there, he found a guru and learned a new way of life and of thinking. He learned quickly that all animate life forms - even insects - have souls and are re-incarnations of other life forms; maybe humans; possibly one's own ancestors; and might even become one's own descendants. From that day he has been vegetarian and nowadays, if he should accidentally kill a beetle he will make an offering at his 'Shrine-in-a-Briefcase' portable pop-up altar which he always has near at hand. Having dipped in to most of the eastern philosophies, Dave feels no allegiance to one religion and has no qualms about mixing and matching the best behavioural traditions from each, and weaving them together into his own philosophy for life. One such element he has adopted is the Hindu tenet that everyone should be self-supporting and that it is no sin to earn a good living, even to amass a pile of money: Christian memories are the healthy brake that prevent him drowning in materialism.

Over the years in the Buddhist monastery preparing meals for the priests, Dave became known for turning the most meagre ingredients into tasty, nourishing meals. On a week-long pilgrimage to a holy place Dave and the monks would be given gifts of rice by faithful but desperately poor farmers. Dave would disappear into the woods and emerge with an armload of roots and leaves. In an hour all the priests would be full, happy and invigorated thanks to Dave's marvellous facility with ingredients.

After a few years of orange-robed celibacy Dave experienced a repeat of the ennui that drove him away from his degree course. Back in London he ended up cooking in a vegetarian restaurant. He noticed branches of Spudulike had appeared all over London. A bit of digging led him to the crucial information that the world potato market was depressed by a glut, even more so in Europe where the common agricultural policy paid farmers to grow crops that were in surplus. Potatoes were so cheap that there were mountains of them, rotting away.

In just three years Dave knew the catering business well enough that he felt it was time to bring to life the dream he had nurtured for so long. In 1986 he opened Bombay Mick's, the popular Irish-Indian fusion restaurant in Kilburn. As you might expect, all the food was hot and spicy. But there was no rice. Instead, the menu boasted twelve different ways with potatoes. Blarney Biryani; Bangalore Galore; chapatis and poppadoms made from potato flour; Bombay Boxty replaced Bombay Aloo. There was even soda bread naan. Dave's was the boldest, most innovative menu that London had seen for a decade. The restaurant received brilliant reviews in all the trendy media and was packed every night. Life was sweet. Dave developed a taste for fast women, fast cars, cuban heels and cuban cigars. Dave was hot property. He still has a framed copy of The Sunday Times Supplement feature of him as a rising entrepreneur and 'Mr Tomorrow'. However, ambition is a heady draught: the wise sup warily and the wary wise up.

Too often, the self made man is his own undoing. Dave, increasingly uncomfortable with the big money that graft and good fortune now threw at him, felt the need to off-load some of it into a new venture. Britain's densest Irish community, 'The County Kilburn' had served him well. Though Soho's moist finger beckoned, Dave wanted to give something back to the emerald isle: mother of his bastard child. The depressed economy of Northern Ireland seemed the most deserving spot for ever-nurturing Dave to make ghee from Kerrygold. And so it was.

In 1990 Dave left Bombay Mick's in the hands of his most trusted lieutenant while he went to Northern Ireland and opened 'Londondelhi' in Derry City; 'Ballybalti' in Ballymena; and soon after, 'The Newry Tandoori'. As an incomer from Britain, Dave's ventures qualified for huge government grants. Rather than import asians he employed only indigenous locals whom he schooled in the art of spud and wok. Dave hoped that by skirting around Belfast he would avoid trouble. All he wanted to do was share his good fortune with the neediest part of the land of his forebears. Where better to sell curry and potatoes than in a nation infatuated with drinking alcohol and eating potatoes? The writing (as is so often the case in Northern Ireland) was on the wall. Dave had big launches and the locals took to the O'Sullivan formula instantly. Trade was brisk and once more, Dave sniffed success.

In Northern Ireland, the opposing sides in 'the troubles' have for years financed their private armies with money from smuggling contraband, selling drugs and extortion. Predictably, within a few weeks of opening, all of Dave's restaurants were visited by threatening men demanding protection money. Dave's principles stood as firm as Dave himself: he told the police about the blackmail immediately. Within a week the thugs had smashed his windows. Once repaired, he had a bin full of pig swill sprayed around one restaurant during peak business on a Saturday night; another had a swarm of rats set free in the kitchen on the day the environmental health inspector was visiting; the third had its gas supply turned off when a 'worried customer' reported a leak. Dave's philosophical foundations are strong. Why spend years searching the mystical East for the path of righteousness, only to crack under the weight of a challenge such as this? He and his staff had group meditations and prayers were offered in church by his regular customers. Next came four men in ski masks who smashed the tables and chairs to matchwood with baseball bats in front of his petrified diners. This made trade dwindle but Dave was surviving, offering two-for-one promotional deals and opening for longer hours. However, few businesses can survive being burned out. Dave closed all three of his Northern Ireland restaurants when they were all torched on the same night in 1991. Mercifully, no one was harmed physically.

Burnt fingers are the jewellery of the sage. Dave went home to lick his wounds, depressed and disillusioned. An upbringing in an enclave does not prepare a second generation immigrant for his first visit to the fatherland. Back in Kilburn, things had been allowed to deteriorate. The Guinness was flat and warm and the cabbage and turnip tikka masala - Bombay Mick's' signature dish - had become very bland under Declan Kelly who had been left minding the shop. Reduced takings had been forcing him to buy ingredients on the cheap; dishes had fallen in quality; consequently, so had custom. Bombay Mick's was spiralling doomwards. The cheap potato bonanza had ended - Spudulike had spotted that and they had taken the money and had run. Dave, who knows slightly less about the potato market than he does about destiny, karma and the destructive and regenerative cycles of existence stood back and allowed Bombay Mick's to splutter and die over 8 sorry months until, in 1992 it went bankrupt. It mutated into a Sue Ryder charity shop (who is Sue Ryder?); then an amusement arcade and is presently a pound shop. Dave knows that some day - maybe not in his current lifetime - that, after it has lived many lives and died many deaths, 472 Kilburn High Road will rise from the ashes (not another literal fire, let's hope!) and serve good vegetarian food to appreciative diners once more.

Dave is not, in fact, naturally bald but has a healthy growth of hair on his whole scalp. He shaves his head every day, as he did when he was a postulate monk, to re-affirm that vanity is futile and distracts the pupil from walking life's path of purity. Ironically, Dave's daily tonsure-sculpting causes him to spend more time gazing in the mirror than most of us. Consider: here is a man who knows himself.

Nine years ago, Dave and a publisher-appointed ghost writer shaped his rags-to-riches-to-suburban-normality story into a fascinating memoir. Unfortunately, his publisher refused to launch it with any title other than 'The Rice and Phall of my Rogan Empire'. Once again, Dave stuck to his principles, pointing out the obvious fact - as much as he loves rice he never served a grain at any of his outlets. Another curry moghul's life story has now been published using this title and the last time Dave pulled his manuscript from under the wobbly wardrobe it props up, he noticed that much of it had been eaten away by insects so he put it back straight away.

As the star of Alfie, he has to play a man who is rude to people, treats women with contempt and thinks only of himself, conflicting sharply with the way Dave has lived his life. Modest Dave has always shunned the limelight but he leapt at this chance to play the big lead because he saw some virtue in Alfie and wanted to portray him as 'good underneath'. By the way, if you see a little lump in Dave's pocket while he's on the stage it's only his lucky potato.

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

Put these dates in your diary NOW.

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

THE MASTER PLAN

An overview of the next few weeks

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