Buh-da-da-dum (snap snap). Buh-da-da-dum (snap, snap). You are never going to guess which school musical I went to three times last week.
Full Disclosure, which also happens to be the name of one of the best songs in The Addams Family, I went multiple times because my twin daughters were sharing a part in their school’s production. They were playing worm-eating, full-of-woe Wednesday.
The director couldn’t decide which one should get the part, so, perhaps concerned that choosing one daughter over the other would cause a Beckham-style family estrangement, they ended up sharing the role.
Like the Beckham “feud”, this school production of The Addams Family arrived at the perfect time, a gloriously gruesome distraction from the month that will never end.
January seems to be lasting an awfully long time this year. It’s like an annoying house guest who won’t leave and has stolen all your money and eaten every bit of food in the house. I know the St Brigid’s Bank Holiday is fast approaching, but it still feels remote, at least seven years away.
When I asked one friend for his thoughts on why this month has been so painful, he couldn’t help at all because he’d had “a f**king spectacular” January.
He spent most of it dog-sitting in Rome, sending pictures to our food-related WhatsApp group of giant artichokes he’d picked up for a euro each at the market. At one point he posted a brace of quail that he had feasted on “like Caligula”. I was happy for him. Happy/Sad which happens to be another song from The Addams Family.
Thank Gomez for that musical escape. My daughters were playing Wednesday for two nights each, which meant we were contractually obliged to go at least twice.
One daughter was Wednesday on Tuesday, the other was Wednesday on Wednesday, then the first one was Wednesday on Thursday and finally the other one closed out the show as Wednesday on Friday. I ended up going three times because it temporarily lifted me out of my January blues.
We might have been biased, but everyone agreed the show was a triumph, as good as something you’d see in the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre. The talent on display was exceptional, the actors playing Gomez and Morticia were Broadway standard, Paul Mescals and Jessie Buckleys in the making. (Both of the Wednesdays were incredible, too. Contractually obliged etc.)
If there are any school musicals on near you in the next few days, I recommend nabbing a ticket. There are few experiences more uplifting. I’ve watched a lot of them and even starred in some over the years. I played a daughter in Fiddler on the Roof and, improbably, a nun in The Sound of Music.
You don’t have to know anyone in the cast. You don’t even have to like musicals. The energy created by the shared endeavour of teenagers and all that youthful exuberance is exhilarating and at this time of year, like the endless memes of what Victoria Beckham might have looked like while dancing at her son’s wedding, is endlessly distracting.
The only downside to the musical has been how it brought out my Stage Mammy tendencies. Apparently, all the feedback that’s required from a mother with daughters in a musical is a simple “you were fantastic darling, simply wonderful. I could not be prouder. Five stars”.
Offspring in a musical do not want parental “notes” or detailed thoughts on how their performances could be improved. Just in case you were ever wondering.
As I deal with the nuclear fallout of that parental faux pas, I comfort myself that St Brigid and her cloak will be here soon to herald in longer days and daffodils, rendering this interminable January a dank and distant memory.
I will be in Las Palmas in Gran Canaria this weekend celebrating Brigid by drinking non-alcoholic sangria and playing many games of that traditional pagan ritual Padel.
I will be admiring the palm trees and cobbled streets of the tiny mountain village of Santa Brigida, named after the Kildare goddess/saint, where my friend Cilian is organising a powerful event in the local church to honour the links between Ireland and the island.
Working with locals, Cilian has revived the story of how the cult of St Brigid travelled through Spain and to Las Palmas with the conquistadors. For years people wrongly thought that the devotion originated with Santa Brigid of Sweden; a local historian has established that it was our own Santa Brigida de Irlanda who inspired the naming of the village in the late 15th century.
Around 10,000 Irish people visit Gran Canaria a month, most of them heading to the resorts in the south. Irish expats are well aware of the pressures of mass tourism on the island, and the St Brigid’s events that have been running for the last few years establish a deeper connection.
This year will see even more participation from the people of Santa Brigida. The village choir will be singing at a ceremonial mass. There’ll be local craft beer – Brigid famously loved a pint – a lecture and a cross-making workshop.
Whatever you have planned, enjoy the St Brigid’s Bank Hollier. And in the meantime: Buh-da-da-dum (snap snap).