BLUE POOTLE MAY 06

By Aliya Whiteley

On The Big O

Through an unlikely series of events starting with a teenage desire to take the path of least resistance and ending with an abiding affection for seaside towns, the Blue Pootle knows a lot about theatrical practices in medieval times.

I use the word ‘theatrical’ in its loosest sense, because there weren’t actually any theatres back then, probably because of the lack of shiny material necessary to create stunning costumes, and the fact that nobody could hop on to the motorway to get there due to a lack of cars and, indeed, motorways (I did say from the outset that I know a lot about theatrical practices, not a lot about medieval times, so I’m just guessing about the state of play, as such). No, instead of a theatre, there was a cart.

Probably quite a dressy cart, with flowers and dangly thingies made of hay, and maybe a horsey with fetlocks. After all, these are luvvies we’re talking about, even if they were medieval. For, indeed, there were thespians back then, oh yes; men who toured the county in their trusty aforementioned cart, and they were probably the kind of men who didn’t fit well into traditional village roles: too weedy to shovel poo, too clever to get into the tanning business, too handsome for village idiot. Maybe they could play the recorder or the paper and comb, or whatever it was that passed for a musical instrument back then. Possibly one could do a soft shoe shuffle (were there shoes?) or balance an egg on his head. Basically, if you were a bit of a misfit with a talent and a pair of testicles, you got to be an actor.

If you were a misfit with a talent and a vagina, you got burned as a witch, but that’s a digression. Back to the cart/theatre.

So I’ve established that there were actors and capering and blowing of horns. It was pretty much like modern theatre, except for one major difference which, never fear, I’m about to reveal.

There was only one play.

The play was called Everyman. Everyman was basically about a bloke on a journey, and on the way he meets some good people and some bad people, and then he dies. It was pretty much your bog-standard Saturday night TV fare, I’d imagine: better than watching cow muck dry or peeing on the village idiot for kicks. It must have had something going for it, because it lasted for a good long time, and lasting along with it is the idea of the Everyman – the man who represents us all.

Back in medieval times (and this is for the last time, I promise) Everyman, or Mr Average, was probably three foot six with four and a half teeth, five and a quarter children and a life expectancy of nineteen. But who would best represent us all in the modern age? Who, out of all the little bodies on this rock (talking about the Western World in particular – apologies to everybody else on the planet, but I expect you’re used to it by now), is our Everyman?

I thought long and hard about it. And in the end there could really only be one person.

Roy Orbison.

I have evidence, you unbeliever. Take a gander at these hard facts:

• He wore glasses.

96 million people in the United States alone wear glasses. 9 million people in the teeny-tiny Netherlands wear glasses. We’re all wearing glasses. At least, enough of us are wearing glasses to mean our Everyman should.

• He was married twice and had two children.

That’s a pretty standard amount of marriages and kiddies nowadays. I haven’t looked it up, but don’t you know a lot of people who fall into that category?

• People made stuff up about him.

The man was a magnet for myths. No, he wasn’t an albino. And no, he wasn’t nearly blind without his glasses. Ain’t that modern life all over? People are constantly making up those kind of rumours about me. And you too, I’ll bet. Although the gossip is probably more along the lines of ‘You won’t believe what he/she did last night after seven gin and tonics,’ rather than, ‘See him/her over there? He/she is a blind albino. Oh yes. I’ve read The Da Vinci Code and I know the signs.’ Correct me if I’m wrong.

• He wasn’t quite Elvis.

And this is the crux of the matter. We’re all not quite Elvis. Not quite as good looking to begin with, not quite as corpulent and drug-ridden at the end. Not climbing the highest mountain and reaching the bottom of the lowest lake without the benefit of Scuba gear.

It seems to me that modern life is all about trying to be Elvis: working endlessly on the sneer, the hair, the dance, the drawl, and never twigging that we all look ridiculous. Although the Big O pulled it off more successfully than the type of person who pops up on Stars In Their Eyes or subjects the karaoke crowd to Wooden Heart for the fifteenth time in one night. But, you know, right to the end, I get the feeling that he knew he was second choice for the record buying public, and that had to hurt.

That’s the final reason why he is our Everyman – the man of our age. On the outside, he was singing his songs, entertaining the crowd, keeping his dark glasses polished for public appearances, but on the inside, he was just like the rest of us.

Crying.

Word of the Day: Jumentous. Smelling of horse urine.

Go here to provide the Pootle with feedback, start a discussion about the burning issues addressed above or simply to say hi.