Swan Lake

I feel that it is first necessary to note that the nature of this review may be slightly affected by the previous night's events. It's a subtle alteration in tone, but worth mentioning.

Act 1 begins five minutes prior to the start of the performance and your narrator is in the Lyceum toilets trying and failing to make himself throw up. Someone decided that dry retching in the Lyceum toilets is a new cultural low, which is why Melvyn Bragg arrived to award me with a golden plaque and give me a three-part featurette on ITV4. After giving him a wedgie I left the Lyceum until the first interval, as they have some rule, guideline, whatever, whereby I can't stumble in half cut and holler stuff at the ushers. Political correctness GONE MAD.

Act 2 - I reckon that I can handle sitting in the Gods now, though this requires me to endure ULTIMATE VERTIGO, which would have been stomach turning enough were it not for the fact that all of the male cast wore extremely thin tights and nothing else. The limited denier of said garments meant in reality that my theatre experience involved looking at bare arse. For two hours. There wasn't even equal opportunity going on as NONE of the women wore peep-hole brassieres.

Act 3 - Look, the plot made no sense, the dancing was boring and the only enjoyment was to be had by watching the orchestra, who were, pretty good. Kudos to the cymbal bloke, he bashed those motherfuckers with the simple joy of a small child compressing two halves of a banana sandwich. Yes I was that child. Oh and the swan didn't die at the end, they changed it. They fucking Disneyfied the fuck out of it.

Portus verdict: PPPPP