My Hours

The audience applauds and friends of the cast whoop as we move backwards behind the closing red curtain. The lights go down briefly, providing a welcome break from the heat they generate. In an instant, the lights flare again, the curtain opens and as a company we take one final bow to the continuing applause.

The curtains close for a final time, there is a brief whoop of exultation from the cast borne of a combination of an excellent final show and the relief that it is all over and former lives can be reclaimed.

A cable tie that is partly responsible for holding the wig together digs into the side of my head and sweat falls freely down my forehead and into my eyes.

As is tradition, I shuffle out into the auditorium to wave good bye to the children and parties of old ladies that have sat through two hours of carefully choreographed anarchy. The sweat continues to pour down my face and back and after several conversations with the rapidly disappearing audience (who give most welcome positive comments), I hurry back to the dressing room and beg for assistance in removing the wig of death, my gold “bat wings” (which have Christmas lights rather ungainly strung round them), the dress and finally the most hideous bra you are ever likely to see.

The reflection in the mirror reveals a bald man in full make up – complete with large false glittering eyelashes - white t-shirt, stripey yellow tights, bright red bloomers and gold moon boots.

There’s excitement in the dressing room, the sooner we pack up and clear away everything, the sooner we can get down the pub and begin the banter and post-mortem. I peel the tights off, which is not a pleasant experience for me or the gathered people who witness the event. Disposing of the tights reveals my extensively bruised left leg, which has been repeatedly battered in the name of the comedy.

I peel the false eyelashes off, which after almost two weeks of service are ready to be disposed off. I try and pick the remainder of the glue from my eye. Finally, with a cleansing wipe in each hand, I scrub my face clean of the thick makeup which only a couple of hours earlier had been applied with such care.

My face stings from the combination of chemicals and rough treatment at my hands. It also gleams with the unwanted combination of sweat and moisture from the wipe and shows up my rapidly deteriorating complexion and the large bags that hang from eyes.

I pull on my jeans, t-shirt, socks and shoes and go to help the others clean and prepare the hall for the following days users. The Stage Manager’s power screwdriver whirrs away as he deftly removes the thrust from the stage. The chairs have all but been stacked and moved to the side and the floor has already had been swept clean of rubbish.

The Sound Engineer collects the microphones from the cast and disconnects the various floor and general coverage mics.

The Lighting Engineer does the same with the lights on the thrust.

I stop and look round the hall. It is only twenty minutes since the curtain closed for the last time and already all the obvious traces of what has gone on here tonight - and in the weeks and months preceding it - have been removed in a little over twenty minutes.

The set for the final scene remains on the main stage, defiant in the face of the hive of activity below, but its turn will come tomorrow as teccies and hard working society members systematically deconstruct it and – heartbreakingly – burn whatever can’t be stored.

An ignoble end for something that has stood so firm.

For three months we have been building to this decimation. Monday (and later, Wednesday) evenings and Sunday afternoons spent deciding where to stand and move to deliver a line. Hours refining that delivery and finding what intonation, what words to emphasise, what references to use, which accent will elicit more laughter?

Alongside that, hours spent painstakingly revising a great premise, poorly scripted with The Director, removing the filth and finding the funny.

Hours without remuneration, precious hours sacrificed with friends, family and a little seen daughter (who never complains once, indeed encouraging my absence so she can eventually tell her friends “Daddy wears a dress”) all in the name of entertaining nine audiences of varying levels of appreciation over seven days.

And these are only my hours. There are around another 50 versions of this tale, from the smallest child making their village hall stage debut to the seasoned campaigners who’ve done this twenty times or more, they’ve all given what time they were able.

Staggering then the collected hours sacrificed by so many people in building entertainment, only to see it torn down in under half an hour.

For some involved, no time to mourn the passing of performance as other projects loom on the horizon to distract and divert. For others - like myself - a welcome passage of time stretches in front of us, to reflect, remember and enjoy what has gone before, but more importantly, to be used to repay those who have unwaveringly propped us up throughout our prolonged absence and descent into double entendre, hooped skirts and glittering eyelashes.

Thanks to the cast, crew and everyone involved in Puss in Space Boots and also to my family and friends for coming along to show their support.

“Look how they shine for you”

                                                - Yellow by Coldplay