Rubbed up the wrong way: Chico and Toyah in Aladdin.
My panto purgatory is at an end. I finished with Aladdin at the Theatre Royal Brighton featuring X-Factor's Chico and Toyah Willcox, who the Midlands voted the sixth most glamorous woman in the region. I'll quickly gloss over this one except to say that Chico time is surely up.
I started this theatrical marathon a panto hater and I still shudder at certain elements - the village square dance routines, the constant topical references and all that talking in rhyme.
But my crash course in panto etiquette has been illuminating - will theatregoing ever be the same again? I've discovered it's the only theatrical genre where it's perfectly acceptable to turn up 10 minutes late waving a glowstick while finding your seat. If the play gets boring, it's OK scoff sweets noisily or simply start screaming until you're led from the theatre by a responsible adult. And you're positively encouraged to bellow at the actors.
I'm beginning to wonder if opera wouldn't be enlivened if I waved a super-sized foam mitt during the rousing numbers. Or if, just before the finale of, say, Madam Butterfly, a few members of the audience were allowed onstage to help sing a song - before trotting back to their seats with a goody bag. Surely this year's revival of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf would have been infinitely more bearable if we had all shouted "naughty, naughty" every time Kathleen Turner fixed herself another drink?
Panto audiences have got the right idea - when they go to the theatre they don't wait to be entertained, they entertain themselves. So if you're watching Macbeth and someone in the audience shouts: "Oh no it isn't," in response to "Is this a dagger?" it'll probably be me. Feel free to join in.
