The sick pussy and the Suffolk sociopath

14st 6lb; zero alcohol; 1,430; Aldeburgh.

If I were producing one of those Channel 4 compilation shows devoted to lousy excuses, I’d certainly rank the following as a very strong contender for the top ten: “We can’t come to Peter Grimes tonight because our cat’s sick”. But that was the message I received from my caravan-dwelling neighbours, occasioning another wasted morning trying to find two other people who might like to experience the finest production I have ever seen of this great opera. Unfortunately this resulted in a long and heated e-mail exchange with one of those short-sighted individuals who inexplicably fails to appreciate that it is a work of towering genius. He felt obliged to lob in a few aspersions on Britten’s sexuality and patriotism (lack thereof) as well as his alleged shortage of musical talent; responding to all of which proved very wearing as well as time-consuming.

I travelled to the theatre without last night’s ageing harem and found myself on the Metro from West Jesmond sniffing suspiciously, and casting worried glances at the stout woman seated next to me. She was reading a devotional work and holding in her free hand the sort of Baroque embroidered bookmark that probably drove several nuns blind or mad (or indeed both) in the course of its manufacture. Luckily the mystery of the strange aroma was solved when I alighted at Monument and a girl in front of me urged her acquaintances on the platform, “Don’t get on here, it stinks of piss!” Lovely. Now that I came to think of it, I am not at all sure that my seat wasn’t a bit on the damp side.

The first thing I saw when I entered the Theatre Royal’s circle bar was a clearly deranged neighbour of mine, charging around on crutches with a face like thunder, periodically barging into people and then lambasting them for being in her way. The next thing I noted was the Fat Bloke from last night, wearing the same three-piece suit (though it might have been a different bow tie). His watch chain was clearly under the same sort of strain as an aircraft carrier’s anchor in a hurricane, suggesting that he must have been at least two stone lighter when his waistcoat was commissioned. My diet might be a bit behind schedule, but the sight made me feel rather smug about my own avoirdupois.

As my replacement guests were two leading lights on the business desk of the region’s premier daily newspaper, with an absolutely unrivalled range of contacts, I naturally hoped that they would be able to solve the nagging mystery of this Bloke’s identity. But it turned out that they didn’t have a clue. However, they did point out that he had used an incredibly sensitive global positioning system to place himself in the highest traffic location at the dead centre of the bar, and was wearing a self-satisfied expression which proclaimed “Look at me, I’m a character!” They also observed that he was evidently hugely enjoying being stared at, after which we made a point of looking elsewhere.

The opera was every bit as wonderful as I had remembered from the performance I saw in December 2006. Jeffrey Lloyd-Roberts was reprising his superb performance in the title role, aided by a positively star-studded supporting cast. I spent a considerable amount of time musing which of the “Nieces” from the Boar Inn I would do if I were a Borough resident: the more conventionally attractive blonde or the strangely gawky, short-skirted, white-socked and Startrite-shoed redhead, whose occasional attempts at dancing suggested that she would go at it like a ferret in a sack. I eventually plumped for the latter.

We were fortunate to be joined for drinks at the second interval by the opera critic of another leading regional newspaper. He looked much more like a retired prize-fighter than an expert on music, but clearly knew what he was talking about as he confirmed my own views on the exceptional quality of both this and last night’s performance. Phyllida Lloyd’s production was a triumph, brilliantly capturing the essential features of the various Borough locations with the aid of little more than a few black-painted pallets and an enormous net. At the close, this was swayed back and forth by the company to create a noise eerily similar to that of the sea crashing on a beach. All in all, it was quite magical, and well deserving of the standing ovation it didn’t quite get. Once more I walked out of the theatre in a state of unqualified rapture. I’m not saying it was better than sex, but at least a night at the opera is rather simpler to arrange, even allowing for this morning’s difficulties. Cheaper, too. And no-one has yet turned me down for a shag on the grounds that their cat is sick, though come to think of it there have been one or two pussy-related excuses over the weary decades.