September 30, 2011
If you love musical theatre (and are not a gay man) chances are it won’t enhance your love life. Much has been made of the effect of Disney on girls’ expectations of romance, but what of the good old fashioned musical?
Watching too many musicals when you’re small and impressionable will slowly indoctrinate you into a world of serenades, serendipitous timing and females who just win at life (while delivering some killer soprano.)
Rationally, you know that men aren’t going to walk up and down your street singing about how much they love doing that (My Fair Lady), be your next smokin’ hot but complicated employer (The Sound of Music) or drop all of their friends and debauchery to be your perfect man (Grease/Guys and Dolls).
But equally, you are left with a lingering disappointment when they don’t spend an evening dedicated to repeatedly singing your name (West Side Story), ditch the blonde cheerleader for the weirdo outcast (Wicked) or love you despite the impending doom of your mutual AIDS diagnosis (Rent).
Avenue Q came too late for me – blokes are infinitely more likely to hand you a confusing mixed-tape or freak out about you morphing into a giant bride monster. But too little too late, musicals – you injected me with beautifully-sung romance and I had no shot at a clear perspective.
The social scene that comes with London theatre is also a weird sci-fi experience, as if a sparkly dictator simply weeded out all of the straight men in a hetero-intolerant parallel universe. Catch a guy’s eye across the stalls bar? He may have a dreamy tan and impeccable shoes, but he’s not looking for a
leading lady. It’s getting so I actually have to schedule designated ‘straight man’ social events to avoid spending my golden years as a fag-hag spinster with two mangy cats called Lloyd and Webber.
Now I’m off to wait for a handsome aristocrat and a sewer-dwelling musical genius to start fighting over me. Have a fabulous anniversary weekend, Phantom fans