Sir Tom ...

I never used to be a fan of Tom Jones – I think it was the gyrating – I found it a little disturbing.  Nevertheless, I didn’t take much persuading when asked to accompany sister Paula and mate Andrea to see him perform at Scarborough’s Open Air Theatre.  Andrea – a serious groupie – was making the journey from Burnley so it would have been churlish not to make the effort to simply pop down the road.  And anyway, I’d never been to the Open Air Theatre…

Time I did, I thought, happily forking out seventy-five quid for the ‘not quite’ VIP seats.

We arrived only a little late, to avoid the queues, and joined the enthusiastic throng of fans, being ushered along, exceedingly and surprisingly efficiently, by exceedingly and surprisingly pleasant staff.

Being ladies of a certain age we were relieved to see loos-a-plenty and delighted to see a number of conveniently placed bars.   Could this get any better?

Right, time to find our seats.  Ask one of those pleasant staff.

No, that can’t be right, cried Andrea in horror as a guide pointed to where we were to be seated.   I booked seats at the front!

To be fair, the seats were at the front – not part of the fixed seats of the auditorium, but stackable chairs placed almost on the grass just by the lake.  We were to be in row two of three.   The problem, as Andrea zealously pointed out, was the view – a fully side-on view of the stage, not a full-frontal view – not at all what she was expecting.   At this point the hapless official was set upon by another group of equally disappointed folk, all of whom were tactfully directed towards the ticket office.

Andrea, clutching the evidence of the misleading diagram of the theatre layout; the very thing that had duped her into booking these hopelessly inadequate seats, lead the way.

Meanwhile, Paula and I sat in those seats, sipped our wine, and waited for a couple of giants to come along and sit right in front of us.

I’m always polite when I complain, said Andrea on her return, or it doesn’t get you anywhere.  So I was very polite.

And where did it get you?

Nowhere.

Ah well, no matter, we can see the wonderful ‘goings on’, illuminating the backdrop behind the performers, on the big screen.  And anyway, this is a good spot for dancing!  Or so we thought.

By this time the first act was over and the second was in full swing.  They were good.  The wine was good.  A comb-over and a perm, both of only average height were now seated before us in the front row.  All was well.  Won’t be long now.

The second act had finished.  People were starting to fidget.  Excitement was building, moving swiftly through the theatre like mice through a meadow.  Just got time to wee and stock up on wine.  Don’t want to miss the main event.  I’ll go, I said.

Had there been a roof, the resounding roar that bellowed from five and a half thousand pairs of lungs would most certainly have raised it.

Ah, it would appear that Sir Tom has appeared, I thought, as I sat, peeing in a port-a-loo. 

Furious at missing the opening song, I dashed back to the strains of ‘Mama told me not to come.’  Managing to regain my seat but not my composure, I clapped along, like a hard-of-hearing seal, out of sync with both the audience and the melody.  

And there he was, Sir Tom Jones!  That distinctive halo of silver hair shimmering in the searing heat of Scarborough’s setting sun.   

That’s a complete lie – it was drizzling.   And cold.

There was no keeping Andrea in her place once Tom started belting out ‘Sex Bomb’, her boundless exuberance finally overwhelming the weary official, who gave up trying to redirect her to her seat after three attempts.

Having said that, the continued efforts of the valiant staff eventually shamed us into occupying the space in front of our chairs.  But who can remain seated on such a night?  Fearful of offending the good people behind us, we happily gave up our most unsatisfactory seats, swapping with them to occupy the back row.  And so we jiggled and wiggled, swayed and sashayed all night long.  Even the weary official smiled.

As you would expect from such a consummate professional, Tom performed brilliantly, captivating his audience with songs old and new, his voice as vibrant and powerful as it ever was.

There must have been many hundreds of fans in that audience, who, like Andrea, have faithfully followed Mr Jones for many years.  And there would have been just as many, like Paula and me, who were newcomers to his talent – recognizing as he reaches his seventy-fifth year that he’s actually not at all bad.  In fact, pretty damned good.

So, Sir Tom, I salute you … I am now a fan!