To the annoyance of my daughter, I call them McFlurry. Actually, they rejoice in the name, McFly: a once-boyish band sporting hairstyles beloved by comedy icon Robin Askwith. By accident, I heard lyrics to their song, and my blood ran cold: “Grey hairs found in the shower; tattoos fade by the hour. Feels like time’s not on your side,” warbled the McFly men. The song, The Ballad of Paul K, is an epistle of lost youth and the unsteady trek to "muddle-age".
Questioning whether the male menopause is myth or mirth sparks fierce debate. Not least with my daughter, who maintains I evince irreversible signs of PMS: Prickly Muddle-Age Syndrome. It’s no joke. The body, once a close ally, assails you from all quarters. Legs, arms, shoulders and back conspire to incapacitate you. The past is no longer a foreign country, the present is.
To offset this Maxine pledged to mark my 48th birthday with a journey into musical innovation. For voyage, read ABBA Voyage. My descent into a hellscape. Voulez-Vous, Stupor Trooper, and ABBA’s assorted tunes, are anathema to me. In the London venue, multi-coloured lights raked the purpose-built auditorium. I nodded mournfully to other blokes shanghaied by their female "influencers". Squeals erupted from near-darkness, while papier-mâché heads were held up like holy relics, and glitter sticks exploded inches from my ass. Eurotrash was strongly represented by the array of shiny suits and permatans in this tightly-packed throng. It transpired ABBA were, themselves, in absentia. They appeared as avatars. This disconcerted me. They were ageless. Immune from time’s remorseless ambush. While my arches ached and my head throbbed from the thunderous volume.
In reprisal, I insisted we go see Guys and Dolls. A choice immediately denounced, by Maxine, as “gaudy chorus girls and cartoon crapshooters”. She has the temerity to dismiss Damon Runyon as broken-down burlesque?
I’d no idea the faddists had taken hold of this production, promising an "immersive experience". Did they mean tricks and gimmicks on a par with Abba avatars?
Rather than being seated, we were corralled into enclosures where stage lights blinded me, and plastic cups spilled wine over my wingtips. All that was missing was the cattle prod.
Twice I almost lost my footing, when the crowd forcibly surged me during Fugue for Tinhorns.
Worse was awaiting me in the wings. When Miss Adelaide began singing her sultry injunction to Take Back Your Mink, the set rolled back, and tables were raised from the ground like Lazarus.
I heard a cast member advise the actress: “Go after the shaven-headed guy. It’s fun watching a bald head sweat.” Go after me she did.
Miss Adeliade removed my bifocals, breathing on them, while toying with my tie. Her ample bosom inched closer to my face. Oh, I understand now. I’m picked as the comic foil? The "rude mechanical", as Shakespeare scholars call it.
Backing out of the spotlight, I sought respite in the theatre bar. I "immersed" myself in a birthday whisky, bidding modernity a none-too-fond farewell.
Brian McGeachan is an author and playwright
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