The Edwardian theatre shouted out promises of the way theatre should be. Elegant entrance hall with chandeliers and embellished ceilings. Winding wooden stairs leading to the first, the second and the third floors of seats. Old royal boxes overlooking the sides of the stage. Big billowing musty curtains hanging down the sides. Exposed brick walls and renovated intricate angels over top of the proscenium arch. They even have a live band!

Thoughts of Shakespeare and his company came to mind. Pantomime would just be a throw back to Shakespeare’s time, really, I rolled back a century to my high school teachers hammering away into our heads the difference between live theatre today and of the yesteryears – damning the numbed patrons of today and their lackadaisacal television-watching ways.  Back then, Shakespeare would perform to raucous crowds of hundreds on their feet, shouting back at him and the actors. Men dressed as women was also classically true to form – just like tonight’s show would be. This is how theatre should be! I grinned at myself as I nestled into the back row with the optional 50p rented binoculars hanging there tempting me to shove some coins into.

Pantomime has it right.

The butterflies entering my stomach told me that I had been missing out, that my teachers were right; that apathetic Americans sitting in their comfortable reclining chairs barely noticed that what they were witnessing would never ever be witnessed by another human being again. For every single live show is exceptional, new and tailored for that night’s performance. Theatre isn’t cinema, and shouldn’t be treated as such. Where is the interaction? I couldn’t wait for the curtains to be opened and for the audience to start shouting back at the actors!

No wonder the English are the true thespians, was another thought as the heat from the other bodies slowly started to warm up the massive hall.

Children high on Christmas sweets eagerly pulled their overfed teenage parents hands to quickly get to their seats. Four mentally ill patients yelled, bounced about and finally threw themselves next to Jock. Oh, this was going to be entertaining alright!

The live orchestra begins. The curtain raises….

Oh, did I mention we were watching Aladdin? We are. We are watching Aladdin – so perhaps my expectations should have been a bit lower. Gay robotic Aladdin enters to an alarmingly old equally brittle Princess Yasmin. Doesn’t matter. Voices are excellent, and high school dancers enter the stage to create the illusion that the other cast members can move.

It’s not that I was completely expecting Shakespeare, but, let’s face it, I was expecting Shakespeare.

Once I got over the camp bad jokes, the inserted modern pop song adaptations and really low budget special effects, I was in. The actors weren’t taking this all too seriously, so why should I? Just jump on board and scream as many times as possible! The guys next to Jock certainly were…and kicking the chair in front, and standing up and throwing things!

“When I say ‘Well In gang,” you say “Well in Wishee,” screams the over the top, but hilarious, pot bellied ex-soap actor Michael Starke as the character Wishee Washey. I had to ask Jock what he was saying. Still no clue what “Well in” means, but hey, I went along with it.

“If you see a ghost, make sure you scream really loudly to let us know he’s here,” bellows the John Waters’ Divine-wannabe in his/her eighth costume change.”BOOOOOOOOOOOO” screams all when the villain enters. “It’s behind you!” “One, Two, Three!” “Hankey Twankey!” – all various things we trumpeted at the top of our lungs at different parts of the show.

Ice cream during intermission another unknown tradition to me being introduced.

It wasn’t Shakespeare, but would I go again? Yeah. Definitely. I wonder what Pamela Anderson has to offer in the West End’s production of Aladdin…