Rob Gilroy: Making A Stand #50
Gllanyando cfardui uno Weyls.
“Rob”, you’re probably saying, “Rob, I think you’ve fallen asleep on the keyboard again. You really need to stop this late night column writing.”
It’s a fair point, I suppose. I should stop writing columns late at night. It’s not good for my health, particularly the 3am Pro Plus comedown.
However, you’d be wrong to assume that the random assortment of letters at the start of this piece is the by-product of computer-induced narcolepsy.
In fact, I’d go one further and say that your wilful ignore to those words – and that’s what they are, words – is nothing short of racism. Because those words, my friend, are in fact Welsh. Welsh for “This week; I gigged in Wales.”*
This week saw my first ever performance in the valleys and I must say, it was a lovely gig. The nicest bunch of people you could ever hope to meet, despite what others say about them.
The gig itself was a new act competition and as such was like a Premier League line up of second division performers. Everyone was at the top of their current game and firing on more cylinders than a Dyson Vacu-suc.
Like those bodybuilding tournaments, competition was tough. And a bit greasy.
Initially, with the gig being west of the border, I was concerned that my material wouldn’t travel. I mean, I’ve never really performed to a foreign audience before.
Would they have the same references as me? Would they understand my accent? Would I face a great deal of resentment over the Great Leek Pillage of 1805?
I’d heard that European audience were tough, with the exception of Azerbijan which is supposed to be delightful, so I braced myself for the almighty of culture clashes.
I brought a bag of Haribo with me as a reminder of home. I didn’t eat it though, because I was car sharing. I’m not falling for that one.
The gig itself was at the Clwyd Theatr Cymru, which is Welshish for the Clewid Theatre Kaimeroo.
Let me tell you, it’s a classy looking place. The sort of place where Derek Jacobi might have done panto, or Olivier may have stopped off for a slash on his way down to Swansea.
It was rich with the theatrical history of Wales – photos of Michael Sheen and his father Mister, Richard Burton doing the bunny ears behind Anthony Hopkins. I’m pretty sure I saw Max Boyce manning the confectionary kiosk. From the moment I stepped in the door, I knew I was in good company. Particularly because I’d managed to shake off the rest of the carpool.
Despite the elegance in abundance, the theatre (or theatr) is based in Mold.
Not the most appealing place name, and one that leaves a constant fermented taste in the mouth. Although, that may well have been down to the water.
They say don’t drink it when you’re abroad but, ever the novice, I forgot. I had ice in my Pepsi Max.
Technically, the area is still classed as being part of Chester, the locals desperate to cling on to any last semblance of identity, either that or a complete cock up from when the Normans were writing the first ordinance survey.
My main concern with the gig was the language barrier, both metaphorically and literally. I was concerned that some of the subtle nuances of my wordplay would be lost in the transatlantic (or trans-M56-tic) gap between us.
Fortunately for me though, despite their propensity for smearing their road signs in consonants, the Welsh have a wonderful knack for speaking English. In fact; one person pulled me up on an improper use of the pronoun.
All in all, nothing was, to quote Bill Murray, ‘lost in translation’. I think it helped that I had someone signing along for me, just to pick up any strays.
The gig was lovely and any reservations I had about performing in another country were quickly extinguished. I didn’t even have to do an Eddie Izzard and go native.
I didn’t let my xenophobic leanings get in the way of entertaining a roomful of people. If I can put my biases to one side, then why can’t you? Save it for when it’s really needed – rugby matches.
So before you think that performing to another ethnicity is beneath you, think again. You may be pleasantly surprised. Or as the Welsh say; “Cwydll Mnpyddl gffnr clndghgft.”
*They’re not. Google Translate doesn’t cover the Welsh language, so I’ve had to improvise.
*Again, paraphrasing.
Rob can be seen next at Ribticklers 3rd Birthday at Flix Movie Café in Hartlepool on Friday 4 April, Comedy at the Queens in Tyldesley on Tuesday 8 April and Laugh in the Face of Hate in Bolton on Friday 11 April.
