Theatre review: This House (Minerva, Chichester Festival Theatre)
Yesterday I joined an old pal, a man of extensive property interests, for lunch in a hotel restaurant in Chichester. He was holed up there after doing a spot of business in the morning which had seemingly gone particularly well, for as I arrived he announced that we were to be served a bottle of the finest champagne ‘on the house’ and that – for once – we were to treat ourselves to the most expensive items we could find on the a la carte menu.
As an impoverished senior citizen these days I needed no further encouragement. A plate of what I can only describe as a foie gras orgy accompanied by brioche, salad leaves and oysters, a main course of the piece de resistance ‘special’ (roast duck breast a l’orange drizzled with a compote of more foe gras, accompanied by pappadoms, mango chutney and the chef’s signature spicy croutons) together with a bottle of the finest white – plus two of red – wines on the list later and it would be fair to say we had not only put the world to rights with considerable panache but were also ready to do bare knuckle battle with the hardest nutters that Pompey football club could field on a Wednesday afternoon in this famous West Sussex Cathedral city.
Spilling out into the street, however, we soon decided that, with my old Falklands war wound and his pacemaker playing up, we would probably benefit from some fresh air followed by a quiet bench on which to have forty winks. Finding ourselves joining a crocodile file of pensioners making their way to the Minerva at Chichester’s estimable Festival Theatre, we nipped to the box office and bought what were possibly the last two seats ‘up in the gods’ to see an offering called This House by one James Graham.
I’m a great fan of the Minerva because its seats are some of the most comfortable I’ve ever come across in my experience of UK theatre-land. No sooner had we fought our way to ours yesterday than the lights went down and it became a straight contest between us to see who could nod off first.
That’s all I can remember about the first half of the performance, well apart from a small incident involving the couple sitting to my right after I had apparently leaned over and inadvertently used the lady next to me’s ample bosom as a pillow, whereupon her companion took serious exception and – as I was gleefully later advised by my co-conspirator – the performance was brought to a temporary halt by our little altercation which my protests of innocence had done little to mollify.
Having been removed from the auditorium by a member of the staff, I was reduced to the humiliation of having to spend the bulk of the afternoon sitting solo in the downstairs foyer whilst my pal, whom I noted had earlier denied all knowledge or association with me, presumably dozed through the second stanza to his great benefit and satisfaction.
Afterwards, as we went our separate ways by our respective pre-booked chauffeur driven limousines, I was left to reflect upon my part in yet another theatrical ‘what might have been’.
