A Magnificent Confusion

I was not a member of The Magnificent Seven (theatre group) when they kidnapped a City Limits Magazine theatre reviewer and drove him blindfolded to the venue where they were performing that night.

Nor was I a member, or even present, when they stepped onto the stage at the Dolmar Warehouse Theatre during the interval of someone else’s show and held the audience hostage to publicise their own.

So if you are looking to sue me for either of these occasions think again.

And in their defence I heard them often say that the second was a “great mistake” and they were clearly very apologetic.

The fact that neither of these two events has lived to become theatre legend is a damming slur on the Mag 7’s name.

I became a de-facto member of the Mag 7 some time after when I started working with Alex who was either an original and founding member or else someone who happened to be standing next to the six when they debated their future name.

The fact that the name of the group never changed after my de-facto joining is a damming slur on my own contribution.

At their zenith the Mag 7 had a residency on Monday nights in a pub theatre on the King’s Road in Chelsea.

At their demise they were on stage in Freiburg, Germany doing a three and a half-hour show that was, honestly, brilliant but of which many said “too long”.

They also numbered 11and a half on stage, which frankly stretched the idea of “seven” somewhat.

The half was a drummer that Tony and Stodd, violinist and guitarist, had invited.

At its heart the Mag 7 was a collective of young and exciting theatrical possibility – the Monday Night residency was a chance for established double acts and solos to improvise, work together and try out new stuff, linked with a few solid numbers to justify any mistakes.

A typical evening began sometime in the afternoon when whoever turned up to the churchyard behind Covent Garden sat down and ran a few ideas.

We imagined ourselves to be Cid Cesar’ writing team reincarnated.

“I’ve got this idea for a postman sketch, where I’m the dog – who wants to be a postman?”
“I’ve got a rope”
“Where’s Andy?”
“Oh yes, he’ll be late but he’s bringing a friend who plays the bagpipes and he wants to improvise a series of Swedish jokes”
“Ok, let’s start with that and then….”
“But, he’s going to be late.”
“Tony and Stodd could play a number.”
“What’s their drummer’s name?”
“I’ve got a rope.”

Looking back it seems amazing the show got done.

But the raw energy on which it survived appealed to some who became regulars.

For a year it worked, although we never knew for certain who would turn up.

We knew it was time to stop when one of our regular audience members passed one of us in the street on Wednesday and remarked, “You had a great audience Monday” and we realised that none of us had been there.

One Friday night, in love and returning from San Francisco, Krissie and I wrote our first sketch together – a husband, a wife, a blue dress, bubblegum and a tablecloth routine to end all tablecloth routines.

We spent the Monday morning buying plates and china from the second-hand shops and stored it at the back of the stage.

Michael opened the evening with Mark – Krissie’s normal partner - in an improvised sketch about contraception, bobble hats and an argument.

That’s the problem with improvisation – you can’t plan.

When you start arguing, what is better than a pile of plates to smash – especially if no one has told you that the plates are part of the next sketch?

Backstage the arguement continued -"What were you thinking! They weren't your plates for god's sake!"
"Oh come on! They were on the stage!!"

Luckily at that moment Andy appeared breathless followed by an even more breathless man with bagpipes.

“Sorry I’m late, when am I on?”

We looked at each other.

“Now!”

Improvisation, we loved it!