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!
