Down In Pantoland
“Let’s go to the panto!” I suggested to my Mum several months ago, knowing how she had loved the twenty-five years she had worked between the Bradford Alhambra Theatre and St George’s Hall.
“I’ve seen all the best shows!” she would say, more like one of Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s inner circle than the lady with the flash lamp, melting ice creams and directions to the loo.
These two iconic buildings are testaments to a different age. They are also separated by another, the beautiful old Town Hall, currently – some may say – of far less relevance.
Throw in the old Odeon, to be reborn next Autumn, and you might wonder what is not to like about Bradford city centre.
She readily agreed to the trip, which was a good job as she was paying via the gift vouchers she’d amassed like a secret hedge fund over several Christmas Days.
The lovely lady in the Box Office remembered her well; we were assured a warm welcome. I suggested it would be my first visit but my Mum was insistent we had been before.
“You were bored and sulking because you wanted to be out on the bloody cricket field!”
As it was the depths of winter then most likely I had missed a muddy game of footie, rugby or golf. Dear old Brownie, the groundsman, would have turned up the following day shaking his head.
Contending with the early stages of dementia – or a bit of forgetfulness depending on your take on these matters – she may need to be reminded what day it is. But she can instantly recall the inner workings of the Alhambra to the minutest detail.
For the big day she also had a brand new skirt. On a recent trip, when she stood up to get ready, her skirt simply fell to the floor like a stage curtain collapsing. Typically she just stood there perplexed before telling me to “bugger off downstairs and get me a pin!”
The Big Day
The big day arrived and, although a touch chilly – “it’s winter you dope…did I really drop you on your head as a baby?” – she was ready to go.
We were “nicely perched” as she described, sat in the stalls as the lovely old place started to fill up. If Boris and his cronies could party, Bradford, so in need of cheer, was not going to be denied.
Mercifully, the doors closed and it was on with the show as one more inane announcement by two local DJs would have done for me; when did silence go out of fashion?
The show was quite brilliant and much more than a one-man crusade, albeit Billy Pearce has made this his home for about as long as my Mum. The humour was raw, old-fashioned and uniquely British; all wokes please leave by the exit.
The supporting cast from the spectacular dancing troupe to the small band of characters were also clearly up for it. Kids and adults alike lapped it up.
Come the interval, the old warrior was quick to note the “slow” arrival of the ice cream. “They should be in position before the curtain comes down!” she muttered, although nobody went without before Billy & Co returned.
Encore!
The plot may be thin but who gives a stuff as some of the exchanges are comedy genius. There are plenty of well-understood and well-received barbed references to the beleaguered Boris too.
When the final curtain came there was genuine emotion from the cast and huge appreciation in return from the packed seats. This was what these guys live to do, be it the West End or simply the Bradford panto.
Needless to say they got a well-deserved ovation.
I had one more surprise. Having walked little further than the driveway back home in the last year, she was insistent that I would not bring the car back to the rear doors, despite having parked some way around the corner. “I’m bloody walking it!” she said and wobbled her first steps unconvincingly.
But she made it – somehow – with the same inimitable determination shared by many of her generation.
She grew up not far from the car park. I wondered if I let go, if some distant memory would kick in and she would be wandering the grounds of the University looking for the old back-to-backs.
There might not be much room left in the memory banks for such a wonderful day but I know she had had a cracker – and would she sleep!
Happy Christmas to you all.






