Greenwich Night Pageant (5) Act IV

And so the final act of the biggest Am-Dram Greenwich has ever seen (and will probably ever see.) We've sat through Acts One, Two, Three and Four of The Greenwich Night Pageant and now I'm on the edge of my seat for the final, riveting scenes and the Grand Finale. We start with the funeral of Admiral Lord Nelson...

Everyone who hasn't had a part yet, gets to slum it in this section as the light comes up over a waiting crowd "of the roughest native English type, horse dealers, pickpockets, vendors of milk, buns and every miscellany, even of rat-traps; chimney sweepers and draymen, mingling with the more repurable citizens." At last the door is flung open and they are allowed to file past Nelson's coffin.

I'm snuffling away - if the death of General Wolfe hadn't had me in floods, this would have got me. It gets worse, as, to the strains of Dead March in Saul the funeral procession, led by the Lady Mayoress, walks down to the King's Steps and away to London. The man behind me hisses at me to shut up. I give him A Look.

Nelson's barge leaves Greenwich and I give my nose one last blow.

Phew. What I really need after all that is a good shanty to cheer me up. It's almost as if Arthur Bryant's heard me as a douty chorus of jolly jack tars sing what has to be every shanty known to seaman. We are treated to Barnacle Bill, Spanish Ladies, Blow the Man Down (complete with blown-down man) Nancy Lee... I join in lustily, feeling much better.

You know, I had assumed that we'd already had the Obligatory Surreal Moment every amateur show produces when you really don't have a clue what's going on, so perhaps the next bit, depicting The Great War, is the Obligatory Creepy Moment instead. Amongst 'ominous flames and shadows' comes a battalion of Robot Soldiers. Their leader is Death. There is an Unpleasant Moment and then all Hell lets loose...

To be honest there isn't really a satisfctory ending to this bit - a single figure in Naval uniform stands at the top of the steps and blows a bugle, instantly ceasing the racket of machine gun fire and bombs. It's all very symbolic; I'm just not sure what it's symbolic of, given the whole history-thing.

The Grand Finale is a cavalcade of historic figures re-enacting the best bits from each of their scenes, to the tune of Sir Henry Wood's Fantasy on British Sea Songs, but I can't really hear any of it, I'm cheering so much. It's all been fantastic.


A sonorous chord sounds long and loud and we all stand to attention for The King. What a night. What a crowd. And what a coup for Vice Admiral Sir Barry Domville, CB, CMG, President of The Royal Naval College. A shame really, how he turned out. But that's for another day...

Greenwich Night Pageant (4) Act III

When George in pudding-time came o'er

And moderate men looked big, Sir

My politics I changed once more

And so became a Whig, Sir...

"Psst! What's pudding time?" I stage-whisper to the man behind me.

"Sssh!"

I bet he's cross 'cause he doesn't know. I'll check it in the library when I get home.* In the meanwhile the promised puddings don't seem to have materialised in Act III of 1933's glorious Greenwich Night Pageant. Instead we get two bunches of richly-dressed nobles in a face-off. Whigs and Torys apparently. The Torys are fed up because the Whigs have brought Hanoverian King George I across.

And sure enough, George I and his gang bowl up along the steps of the river and he plants the Royal Backside into the Royal Sedan Chair to the strains of Purcell's Trumpet Voluntary. My own backside is beginning to remind me that this show's going on a bit and we're only about two thirds of the way through. These fireworks for the king's birthday had better be good.

Flash! Whoosh! Bang!

Hmm. Not bad. But what's this? A whole troop of ballet dancers dressed as swans? Well, I guess it's making as much sense as much of this spectacle. Bring 'em on. They twinkle about the stage. We all applaud politely. I'm getting bumache here.

Hang on. Things are looking up. It's the interlude, and the heroic life of General Wolfe!

We see him leaving his house in Greenwich, saying farewell to his dad and girlfriend, then we are treated to a thrilling series of tableaux depicting his life. We see "Red Indian sharp shooters" with feathers and tomahawks. We see lots of firing of muskets and cannon, loads of smoke and the daring assault on Quebec, to the rousing music of Handel's Occasional Overture.

It's all very exciting. "The French start to shoot before the English in fierce, ragged volleys; then at a word of command, the latter raise their muskets to their shoulders and fire with drill-like precision," my programme tells me. Hurrah! The English have won the day without breaking a sweat! The gunfire and smoke fade to darkness.

But hold. What is this? Our Hero, lying wounded upon the ground, surrounded by his gallant men. "The frail figure lurches; then drops into the arms of his officers."

"Oh! Canada!"

As the spotlight holds upon the dying Wolfe, I'm sobbing so loudly that the man behind me kicks me in the cloak. I shoot him such a look. The man has no feeling at all.

The little group slowly rises to reveal the Flag of British Canada. I sob even more loudly. What a show.

Glancing ahead in my programme I get the horrible feeling that my tears aren't over yet. I have to take a break while I search my pockets for a fresh hanky, for the final Act tomorrow, "Nelson Goes Home..."

*I'm still having problems working out what pudding time is. From what I can gather the phrase (from the political song The Vicar of Bray) refers to a time of life - i.e. the sweet time, that one has been waiting for - the Whigs had bided their time, waiting for the political tide to turn) but I'm not betting on it. Other interpretations will be gratefully received.

Greenwich Night Pageant (3) Act II

Phew. Just squeaked back into my seat in time, bag of boiled sweets in one hand, cup of Mazawattee in the other. The guy behind me gave me a black look as I squeezed in. I offered him a sherbet lemon. He declined. Huh. Some people...

So. We've been feasting our senses here tonight at the Greenwich Night Pageant, having travelled back in time to 1933. We've hugely enjoyed the pomp and glory of Act I and we're just waiting for the next tableau to roll out before our eyes. This one looks a bit grim. It's entitled The Tragic King, so I'm not expecting much in the way of laughs. Hope it doesn't go on too long.

Ah - here we go. The announcer's speaking...

"Somber and rich, the skies
Great glooms and starry plains
Gently the night wind sights
Else a vast silence reigns" etc. etc.

Aha, here come Charles I and his lady wife, attended by multiple gentlemen and ladies of the court. They have young Charles II with them and all is lovely. But what's this? A ballet! And The Tempest at that. Stormy times are ahead and no mistake, guv'nor. Cavaliers and roundheads march about the stage while the band plays Cavalier songs.

I root around the bag for a rhubarb & custard. The man behind me coughs in an annoyed fashion. A grim bell starts to toll and the announcer speak sonorously:

That thence the Royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn
While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands" etc. etc.

Cor. I shuffle forward in my seat to get a better view, but they're not going to actually show the royal decapitation. We just get a bunch of women in black and a snow effect. What a swizz. A horseman gallops into view and announces the king's death. A woman faints, clearly enjoying her fifteen seconds of fame.

Sundry psalms are sung while The Bad Guys^TM ransack the palace.

I don't quite get what happens next. The urchins of the town gradually take over the roundheads singing rousing Cavalier songs until they take over. There's a slightly muddled bit where all the people who haven't had parts yet mill around, playing tinkers, peddlers, jugglers, merry-andrews (whatever they are) and "all the wandering gipsy crowd..."

Comedy stuff goes on. All very colourful and great fun. I suck three acid drops and a bullseye. I'm not getting this at all, but it doesn't seem to matter.

We are treated to a marvellous morris dance, which sets the scene for that inexplicable character General Monk. For the purposes of this pageant, he's a Royalist through and through and saves the day. We're treated to lots of marching and silhouetted pikemen.

Huzzah! Huzzah! King Charles II is back! And history seems to be back on course.

That bullseye was a mistake. Now everything tastes of aniseed. I'm going to nip out and get a cup of tea to try to clear my mouth.

Act III is intriguingly called 'Pudding Time.' If I'm going to manage pudding on top of all that whitebait, tea and sweeties, I'll need to psych-up. Try to contain your excitement. See you tomorrow for a fete galante, a trumpet voluntary and George II's birthday...

Greenwich Night Pageant (2) Act 1

I've been waiting here for ages and my backside's going to sleep. I mean it's all very festive and the atmosphere's fantastic, but it's costing me a fortune. I guess it's my own fault. I paid 10/6 for a front row seat, (couldn't really stretch to a guinea for a place next to the Royal Box) so I decided I might as well have a total blowout. I parked the Phantom Motorcycle in the temporary car park in Greenwich Park for a shilling, then scoffed a whitebait dinner at 5/6 in the Dining Hall of the Royal Hospital Building and washed it down with a glass or two of Seagers Gin. Who says programme advertising doesn't work?

I should have lingered longer over the whitebait as I've been sitting on this bench for hours now. I've read my programme (1/-) so many times I could recite the occupants of the Royal Box on the separate nights from memory. In fact, I will:

!6th June - His Majesty's Government.

17th June - The President and Council of the Royal Society

19th June - HRH The Princess Royal

2oth June - HRH Prince George

21st June - The Board of the Admiralty

22nd June - The Lord Mayor of London and other Civic Dignitaries

23rd June - HRH The Prince of Wales

24th June - Past Presidents of the RNC

I bet their sixpenny cushions are thicker than mine...

A man behind me asks me to remove my tricorn hat. I stash it under my seat next to a giant bag of boiled sweets bought specially for the show.

Hold on - there's twitching behind the curtain. The orchestra has stopped warming up and the shuffling and rustling comes to an expectant halt. I check my pocket watch, and look up at the sky. Yes. Ten of the clock and all is dusk...

A rousing overture of Naval Might heralds The Prelude. Then, in the almost-darkness, a little group shuffles onstage. Huzzah! It's the Naval Pensioners, played by elderly gentlemen of the town. I've heard that at least one of them's totally blind, but this isn't going to stop him from hobbling around on one leg, crutch under arm, chewing, spitting and smoking with the rest of them. After wandering around the stage for a bit, they all sit on benches by the stage and fall asleep. The rest of the Pageant will be their dream.

A mighty fanfare blasts, then twinkles into the sweet strains of Greensleeves. We are being transported back to the days of Good King Hal. Anne Boleyn has just given birth to a bouncing baby girl. Sundry citizens, ushers, City & Guilds men, merchants, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen all troop onstage and are joined by the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, "wrapped in a mantle of purple velvet and carried beneath a canopy of gold upheld by Earls." This is more like it. The Announcer is very excited.

"This Royal Infant

Though in her cradle, yet now promises

Upon this land a thousand blessings...." etc. etc.

The drums roll, and gunfire bursts from behind us - beyond the river, even. We all look round, so are actually surprised by a torchlit procession coming from the left colonnade instead. The Yeomen of the Guard are here to escort the parade of gifts brought to the tiny princess.

A splendid speech wishing the princess well is greeted by trumpets and "the crowd, with a great shout, leap up cheering." I can't help joining in. Cor. This is my kind of show. The man behind me asks me to sit down.

Then there's a boring bit where the announcer tells us that lots goes on and the princess is growing up and turning into a queen. I unwrap myself a boiled sweet and pass them down the row. The man behind me tells me to 'ssh.' I tell him to 'ssh' himself and it nearly comes to blows.

Oh - but hold on- I've been waiting for this next bit. In the programme it promises me that I'll get Merry Merry Milkmaids, but it just turns out to be the name of the tune the band's playing. No matter - we're getting to see the Golden Hind in silhouette. It's a model ship on a track behind a giant curtain, lit from behind, so that it looks enormous.

Everyone onstage cheers - there's a lot of cheering - and Francis Drake swaggers onstage, He kneels before the Queen (played by Olive Greig. There's been all kinds of ribald rumours going round as to how she landed the best part in the show, but one look at her now explains it all. She's scary. No one was brave enough to say 'no...') She takes the Chamberlain's sword "with which she knights her kneeling pirate Admiral." More cheers.

There's a whole section about the Armada, which in this case means bowls-and-beacons-a-go-go. It's all fantastic, especially when the place fills with smoke and the sounds of battle rage about us. Then the Queen allows Sir Walter Raleigh to lay his cloak down for her in the mud, makes a short speech and "all pass out together."

Blimey. I'm exhausted. And it's only the end of Act I. There's no interval, but I've run out of boiled sweets. I'm going to slip out now and get some more from the usherette, while they change the scenes backstage. See you tomorrow for Act II...

Greenwich Night Pageant (1)

Roll up, roll up, for the most exciting night of your life! Thrills! Spills! Milkmaids! Jolly Jack Tars! Sea Shanties! Ballets! Admiral Lord Nelson and Good Queen Bess! In fact every good thing your imagination can dream up, all in nine spectacular nights of theatrical bliss. The Pageant is coming to town!

The year is 1933, the date - well June 16th, actually. Germany may be slipping into fascism but here in Britain the good burghers of Greenwich are slipping into tights. The curtain will go up at dusk on the One Am-Dram To Rule Them All, The Greenwich Night Pageant.

Exactly 75 years to the day, we mark the culmination of a dream dreamed by the frankly-rather-odd President of the Royal Naval College at the time, Vice-Admiral Barry Domville, C.B, C.M.G (about whom more later...) He decided that what Greenwich really needed was a giant gang show, to be performed by military and local people of Greenwich alike, depicting the history of the town, with all the rubbish bits cut out.

Everyone fell on the idea - especially the Lady Mayoress, who immediately cast herself in the role of Nelson's chief mourner - but there were parts for all. An incredibly ambitious piece, it would involve 2,500 performers and the stage covered roughly the area that that marquee the Ark Charity built for their shindig last week. The stands (which seated 12,000) covered the bit of lawn where the statue of George II sits. Here's a plan, in delightfully 1930s-style (as usual, click on the image to make it bigger)



Seats ranged from 1/6 through to a whopping 21/- (if you wanted to hob-nob with the nobs in the row next to the Royal Box) but with that many performers - and even more people behind the scenes - just the relatives of those involved must have put a fair few bums on seats.

The pageant was devised by Arthur Bryant - who you may have heard of if you're a Pepys fan - he wrote several books about the diarist (mainly the naval aspects of his career.) He very wisely realised that sundry council officials, naval bigwigs and local ladies-who-lunch were unlikely to do anything in the way of actually learning lines. So he made sure it was 98% spectacle so that all the VIP actors had to do was shuffle on in costume and wave their arms around. Rousing music from the Blackheath Conservatoire's String Orchestra and the Band of the Royal Marines, massive backdrops with coloured lights and exciting silhouettes would be co-ordinated from backstage and narrated by a fabulously pompous "announcer," whose resonant voice would guide the audience through two hours (no interval) of sumptuous eye-feast.

So, as a tribute, 75 years on, let's relive the event, blow-by-thrilling-blow. Pray, allow The Phantom to be your guide as we watch the spectacle unfold. The orchestra is tuning up, the Lady Mayoress is in her finery and the splendid ladies-of-the-town behind the scenes make the final preparations (see below).

Enjoy your whitebait supper provided by MacFisheries, and a cup of char supplied by sponsor Mazawattee, pick up a sixpenny cushion for the relief of your rapidly numbing backside, and wait with me for dusk to fall and the curtain to rise. Next instalment tomorrow...