Whisky Galore, the musical, is playing at Pitlochry Theatre. Dawn was one of the first to snaffle up tickets for the first night when they went on sale.
“It’s absolutely marvellous,” she says when she invites me as her guest, together with Jeanette and Gordon.
“It was here three years ago, and I saw it twice.” She plans to see it twice during this run too. Next weekend she has invited her old pal, Jimmy.
“He’s never ever been to the theatre!” she says. “Fancy that!
“So I haven’t told him what we are doing in case he won’t come. I’ve just said to dress up smartly.”
Jeanette, Gordon and I are quick to take the hint.
“I’ve told Gordon he’s to wear a tie and jacket,” says Jeanette. We are standing in their shed, admiring the work of Gordon and their son Stuart to restore an antique Wolseley car. They are in work gear, looking oily and dishevelled, but revelling in their painstaking work to bring back to its former glory this ancient vehicle, one of only 160 ever to be made.
Stuart is fanatical about Wolseleys and is planning to write a book about them. I think my grandfather owned one and I have promised to see if our family albums can yield any photographs. This beauty he had shipped from California. Claims that it was one of the Duke of Gloucester’s fleet turned out to be spurious, but it has not dampened his enthusiasm for its restoration.
I marvel at the original headlamps which look like something the Gestapo might have turned on enemy agents to winkle out their secrets; the wooden indicators – yellow at the front, red at the back; the enormous horn that sits proudly next the headlamps; and the original spare tin of oil, nestled in its holder under the bonnet. I look fondly at the running board, remembering as a child that this was a feature I particularly liked about cars.
Gordon, childlike, can’t resist winding out the windscreen.
“A unique way of getting fresh air, and letting in the rain!” he says. Ah, they don’t make them like this anymore.
Jeanette has plans to hire out the Wolseley to take brides to church. She is already in demand as a celebrant.
“We can do the whole package. Gordon will drive the bridal party to church. I’ll take the service. We’ll have a marquee on the lawn and they can rent your cottage for their honeymoon!”
As the Wolseley is still largely in pieces, with no seats or roof, some rotten wood beams and ironwork that need replacing and the bodywork variously painted green, blue or replaced with new parts, I think the wedding venture is a little way off.
Gordon duly scrubs up and appears, handsome in his tie, to drive us to the theatre in his not quite so grand Land Rover.
Whisky Galore is quintessentially Scottish. I know this before the curtain rises because my program contains an extensive glossary of Gaelic terms. Everything from: “Halo, de an t-ainm a tha oirbh?” (Hello, what’s your name?) to “An lamb a bheir, ‘s i a gheibh” (The hand that gives is the hand that gets). Fortunately, I am a regular opera-goer so I am used to watching performances where I understand not one word.
It is set on a remote Scottish island during World War Two. The crux of the story is that the island has run out of whisky, which is of course a drama in itself, and the effects of this take up most of Act I. But then – just before interval – a ship runs aground with several cases of Uisge beatha (water of life, aka whisky). During Act II the islanders smuggle the whisky all over the island and take pains to avoid the Excise man discovering their contraband. There are various love interest sub-plots for any teetotallers or minors in the audience.
The business rattles along at a fair pace. The actors are a multi-talented lot – they each sing, dance and play traditional instruments. Father MacAlister, aside from swigging back a lot of hooch to the traditional Gaelic toast of ‘Slainte mhath’ (pronounced slangjeevar), plays the saxophone, whistle, flute, bodhran, guitar, mandolin, jaw harp and finally – when we thought there could be no more evidence of the man’s talents – the bagpipes.
The only slight hiccough to the production is that many of the leading men are short. Not just a little short. But really quite short short.
Captain Waggett struts convincingly about, reminding one of that famous height-challenged comedian Ronnie Corbett. But it takes some imagination to truly believe that tall, buxom Catriona MacLeod will really fall for diminutive George Campbell who hardly reaches her shoulder. For their final passionate embrace he stands on a case of whisky. At least the director has a sense of humour.
“Do you think Jimmy will enjoy it?” asks Dawn.
If his Gaelic is up to snuff, I feel he will love every whisky-soaked moment.
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