Float your boat? Then show it... Mark Ravenhill's Dick Whittington at the Barbican, London. Photograph: Tristram Kenton
I've just realised: the best thing about being a grown-up at a pantomime isn't the Tony Blair impressions from the baddie, nor the asides about the dame's "dry passage". It's the screaming.
At Dick Whittington last night, the kids went absolutely mental.
There was a boy sitting in the front row who kept calling dame Roger Lloyd Pack forward and pointing apoplectically in the direction of the green monster - reminding me of nothing so much as a miniature football manager screaming from the sidelines. The third time she headed off in the wrong direction, he practically whipped off his cap and jumped on it. And when a four-year-old in stripy tights was left standing forlornly on stage, he and his mob of substitutes bellowed: "Give her some chocolate!" I was only surprised he didn't preface it with, "Oi, ref!"
On my left I had the irrepressible Jacob - we discovered his moniker after Lazy Jack inadvisedly asked another child, "And what's your name?" His decibels were astonishing. After King Rat announced that evil would win, Jacob led the entire audience with a rallying call of "Yay!" When Alice wanted to board the boat to China, he happily howled: "Give 'er a chance, mate." And proceeded to chant "chance, chance" at apt moments for the rest of the show. He alone was responsible for the noise from our side of the auditorium in the Barbican-can-can.
Naturally, in the scene where Dick is - as tradition dictates - framed for stealing, a small, clear voice floated into the momentary silence: "Look in his bag!" Lord Fitzwarren answered with a determinedly hearty, "It's 20 minutes before we get to that bit," but we all knew there was no retort. They couldn't have done it better at La Scala. And I felt a profound sympathy for our dedicated panto diarist Simon Swift at his silent Hackney Empire yesterday.
So there I was - alone, dressed in black, and clutching a gin and tonic. But I left with a grin and a fantasy: perhaps it's time for honesty in theatre. Next time I'm at a plodding production of Shakespeare, hemmed in by well-mannered theatregoers, I'm going to stand up at a key point and yell: "He's your brother!" You wouldn't mind that, would you?
