West Side in Mosside.

Been off to see TomMouse in his Uni’s production of West Side Story. Ah it takes me back. Uni. I’m reminded that the one good thing about undergad girls it’s they have tits, and any young woman who has managed to attain a couple of A to C’s should not wear a bra. Only D’s and above need structural stabilisation, and below that they need to breath to remain perky. I know it’s a right of passage when you’re 13 but no one wants to see your finest assets reduced to a pair of shapeless mounds. It’s like putting puppies in sacks in preparation for drowning. Michelangelo's David would not look the same in underpants, would he? Mammaries apart the production was excellent. Unfortunately the band taking up half the stage hampered the exuberant dancing. I imagine there was many an injury in the wings from flying arabesque exits meeting stationary avinarest cast. Tom played Chino, the emasculated, downtrodden cohort of Bernardo who can’t live up to his luck of being handed the best chick in the place on an arranged plate. And when he finally does manage to strap on a pair and exit the shadows he shoots the hero. Lets face it, this is a no win part. It’s the thespian equivalent of being handed the black spot. But Tom played it well. In fact there was no perceptible weakness in the whole thirty strong cast. Well perhaps one. In every production I’ve ever seen, including the film, Tony can’t sing. It’s not that singing dancing actors can’t be found, it’s that the part requires him to be tall. Maybe it’s the extra elongation of the neck during puberty causes the larynx to become over stretched, but tall guys can’t sing. Five-ten plus, forget it, be a bass player. Bernstein’s single mistake in this masterpiece was to write tunes for a delicately framed five footer to be played by a six footer. Next time Lenny, don’t write soprano parts for the lead bassoon, OK. But even Tony didn’t let the side down, so well done all of you! 
We decide to take a different route home, down the A6 and across to Stony Middleton. The Tomtom didn’t like this. Fair doos though, he never complains. He began insisting we turn round, “In 200 yards turn left, then turn left.” Yes we know that little game. Mothermouse nestles him on her knee, “No sweetheart, we’re not going that way.” Do you ever feel the need to appease your TomTom? Ours is Irish so I’m always expecting him to blurt out, “Bejesus Mother-o-God, what do you think you’re playin’ at?” or, “I know Frank McGuinness you know.” He finally lost it near Carver. After multiple route recalculations he placed us in the middle of a field with not a road in sight; a strange sensation when one’s own visual sensors indicate one is on tarmac doing 50mph.