By Joan Vaughan-Taylor
Arts Councils in the eighties dispensed a grant or two
For culture in the country to see what they could do.
By holding competitions in spheres of interest
And handing out a trophy to those considered best.
Each district then selected a section near their hearts,
From music, pottery, painting, to all performing arts.
As I’d produced much drama in hectic teaching days,
They asked if I’d adjudicate the musicals and plays.
Some hammered out a chorus line, some found a modem play.
One killed the Prince of Denmark (no royalties to pay.)
While comedy was popular for putting bums on chairs,
It never won a trophy in Arts Festival affairs.
But once, I flew to Nubbo; we’d only just touched down
A little lady bustled up to drive me to the town.
‘You’re from Arts Council, aren’t you?’
She pounced on me with smiles.
Her little Mini Minor soon covered several miles.
We sped along the country road when suddenly she thought
That I didn’t sound as potty as a proper potter ought.
‘I thought I was to view a play,’ I started to explain.
She couldn’t turn round fast enough to drop me off again.
Eventually we sorted out the who and what and where.
I reached the hall a little late but thankful to be there.
This eager local drama group had thought it would be fine
To set a theatre restaurant right here in Danamine.
When I went in to judge the play with clipboard at the ready
We sat round tables stacked with grog, most looking quiet unsteady.
The cast had picked a tragedy, (they’d entered it before.)
But this familiar audience considered it a bore.
They laughed at every other word; they swigged a cup more wine,
Each actor struggled hopelessly to speak a solemn line.
The second act brought climax. We saw poor Charlie slain.
It really brought the house down, that spreading scarlet stain.
The final scene made mayhem. The jolting curtain fell.
The actors made a hasty bow (the murdered one as well.)
When I faced the audience to give my little spiel
I felt that I should remonstrate about their drunken zeal.
But as I was a sort of guest just there to see the show
I told them of the mishap, to soften up the blow.
How when the lady saw me, she thought I looked a lot
Like one who knew of wheel and glaze, and how to fire a pot.
How I’d been nearly whisked away to pots on grand display
Instead of to this village hall to view their tragic play.
A voice yelled from a back seat, ‘What would you have done
If you had landed in the clay, instead of all this fun?’
‘Why, judged the pottery of course,’ I shot back to his ear,
‘But the poor ceramics lady would not have lasted here!’
How could I say their slaughtered play, in merry mood that night
Plus liquid meal had no appeal without a pot in sight?
Next time the town presents a play they ought to choose a farce
For cakes and ale and comedy are truly in their class.
I’ve been to entertainment quite easy to forget
But Outback Theatre Restaurant stays in my memory yet.
