The experience was similar to having one's head boiled in a large tub of chip pan fat while an evil dwarf repeatedly stabs your legs with a rusty coat hangar, all the while your least favourite songs are being pumped into your brain at dangerous volumes and the skin from your back is being slowly peeled off by an angry monkey and salt is gently dabbed onto the wounds while they are still fresh. The interval was like a type of liberation that I can barely describe. It is probably the closest I have ever come to experiencing "bliss" in its purest, most true form. However this feeling was smeared with the sheer horror of the impending act 2, and the devastation of having to head back to the chair for another hour of cultural torture was more than I could bear.
But I am a warrior. I am a survivor of the panto experience. I'm sure that in the fullness of time, I will learn to understand the strange ways that this experience has enriched me, strengthened me, heightened my sense of self-awareness and bolstered my tolerance to the lowest art form. At least, dear reader, this is the hope that I now live by. The alternative is, of course, that the experience will leave me scarred and traumatized, weakening my resolve in life and resulting in a total collapse of sanity and mental breakdown. There is an old saying that "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger". But, after this evening's vile experience, I am starting to wonder if a type of "living death" is possible, and pondering my future as I feel doomed to roam the underbelly of entertainment hell for all eternity.
Mind you, it did have a few funny moments and the beer was nice.
