Chapter 241: Return of THE GODZ

So here we were, my husband and I in the box, if not The Box, for an afternoon of boylesque comedy acrobatics. I’d already had quite a ride. London was in a heatwave and there I was, in a flimsy dress on the back of a bike, hearing my mother’s voice as clearly as when I was 18, warning me that my skimpy French-supermarket sundress would attract the wrong sort of attention.

“Safer on a bike than walking, Mum!” I’d blithely replied back then, before speeding down a hill without brakes, momentarily distracted by another driver approaching a roundabout, then clipping a kerb and catapulting over the handlebars. Within the hour, I was in an ambulance winging its way to A&E, my summer written off. I looked like a circus side show, John Hurt's Elephant Man, people in the street momentarily curious, then turning away, faces a blend of horror, disgust and pity. I turned down offers of a skin graft. These scars, long since faded, told a story after all, and it was only reading Katherine Dunn's "Geek Love" years later, narrated by Olympia, an albino hunchback dwarf, that I punched the air. She got it. 

This time round, in the second half of life, I play it safe. The double-black-diamond ski slopes are a thing of the past. I have more to lose as a mother of three, albeit with one already fledged and another on the verge of university. The point is though, that I understand the adrenaline-fuelled clowning around: the rush of speed, flying through the air, intentional or otherwise, the thin line of balancing acts, all set against calculated risk. It also explains why, even with the safest of bikers, I still wince whenever we weave through traffic or approach a kerb.

Round the corner from the Peacock Theatre stood a giant globe of a map. I posed for a photo. “She’s got the whole world in her hands…” popped into my head, the happy-clappy melody of my school days, educated by Southern Irish nuns. I gave thanks to my guardian angel and St Christopher, not to mention my blessed husband, for arriving safely. Now, though, it was time to park my religion, so I thought, along with the bike, and embrace the divine comedy of Greek deities.

From our vantage point in the gods, I watched a group of friends in full-on togas take their seats in the stalls, in high spirits. Clearly repeat visitors, their arrival signalled that we were in for a feel-good, irreverent ride that leaves audiences coming back for more, whoever or whatever they fancy. Head First Acrobats came to the Peacock trailing serious pedigree too, with multiple Fringe World, Adelaide Fringe and Melbourne Fringe awards behind them. This crowd knew exactly what they had come for.

The curtain rose on a pose of statuesque buff Godz: Dionysos (AJ Saltalamacchia), Apollo (Thomas Gorham) and their cousin Hercules (Cal Harris), with Cupid (Liam Dummer) completing the original four. The cast has now expanded to include Matt Piva’s Hermes, adding another god to the mischief.

What followed was a torrent of circus skills: pyramid acrobalances, Hermes basing Apollo with Cupid perched on top in a three-high; Dionysos rotating around the bar table in a high-octane juggling sequence, a flow I loved; and then another, with Apollo pouring Hercules a cup of wine while holding a one-handed inversion on a stand.

Then Hercules, gratifyingly, got his whip out.

The play with expectation was part of the trick: he extinguished a candle with expert timing, then let the audience in on the sleight of hand that had made it look so impressive. There was knife throwing, with Dionysos hurling blades at Apollo, and chair stacking, Cupid crouching high above the stage before winging his way back down. Then came the most ridiculous ladder act, Hercules balancing on top of a freestanding ladder before, bloody hell, performing a handstand on it. No trick there, just sheer tradecraft, undercut by the comedy of a saboteur waiting in the wings to steal his thunder.

“But what was it all about, Mum?” my youngest asked afterwards. What’s the story, morning glory?

That really kicked in during the second half. Dust sheets covered the statuesque Godz, and in came Hercules with a feather duster to give them a spring clean. Move over, Ken Dodd’s giggle stick. You can imagine the innuendo and flossing that followed as each was revealed, in turn, to be stark bollock naked, clutching a circular gold tray to protect his modesty, the only time I shall use that word in connection with these guys.

The tray, that is.

Overhead, Zeus thundered his outrage at the Homerotic monkeying around between the cousins and delivered his verdict: Hercules was to be dragged off to Hades for punishment. Somewhere amid this divine chaos came Apollo's aerial turn on a single-point dance trapeze. His outfit suggested a Percy Jackson hooded street look crossed with a hint of S&M, while the head-balancing, spins, speed and choreography were out of this world.

But Hades, Zeus decided, was not punishment enough. It was time to take matters a step further and pack Hercules off to Christian Hell.

At this point, he was tormented by three flying nuns, Rihanna’s “S&M” blaring, no less. Someone in wardrobe has a sense of humour and the costumes, by designer Chelsea Angell, deserve their own mention too: equal parts glitter, camp and precision. Hermes, in a leather harness and shorts, blended parkour with poi-style hellfire spinning, and it was insane. The heat was certainly rising to a crescendo.

You possibly need to be a cradle Catholic with a particularly dark sense of humour to appreciate the full force of the final punishment. I shall leave that to your imagination. But it did take me back to a school trip to Germany as a teenager, when I got chatting to some Turkish lads in Bonn who found us free tickets to a nightclub. Of course, the teachers came along too, and Mother Bernadine’s wimple lighting up under the UV lights struck us all as the perfect clubbing gear, long before I saw footage of Berliners getting into the habit at the KitKatClub.

For the finale, Cupid performed the most beautiful airborne turn in Pleasers. In stature and style, he reminded me of my favourite boylesquer, Danny Ash. See Shhh! Cabaret, Chapter 151 - click here . My heart soared again. It felt inclusive and joyful, putting the elatory and aleatory into celebratory.

I only wish I had access to the playlist for the show. It rocked. They really should put one on Spotify. 

Along with the music, I wish I could remember all the jokes. But while you may forget what someone says, you will never forget how they make you feel. What I remember is my cheeks and belly aching from laughter, and the joy of my husband whooping it up in the audience as much as I was. GODZ is one of those shows that knows exactly who it is flirting with, yet somehow makes everyone in the room, regardless of their persuasion, feel like the target audience.

Afterwards, Hermes was in the foyer, ready for a photo op, and of course I caught his eye and jumped right in to have an arm around me, while my husband, no fan of playing photographer, stepped up and snapped us anyway. Hermes had done his job and delivered the message: the Godz were smiling and watching over me.

I left with a huge grin, feeling protected, energised and convinced that life did not get much better than this.

Outside, the world shone that bit more brightly, and my husband announced that we’d take the scenic route home. Being Pride month, there was rainbow bunting through the streets and the embassies were all flying their flags, with a particularly large banner outside the Spanish Embassy making me especially proud of the language I teach.

So here's to joy, inclusivity and sex appeal for all. The colours of my life, as Barnum might say, and the greatest show on Earth.

And now that Christopher Nolan’s own epic saga has landed in cinemas, IMAX and all, I’d say GODZ was the essential foreplay: a Bodyssey before the Odyssey, the gods misbehaving in the flesh long before Matt Damon starts his ten-year trip home.