by Cyril Ritchard
Cyril Ritchard's character is just coming to the end of his audition piece... 'La la la lala la la laa...' Casting director: 'No, no, no! that's terrible!' Auditionee: 'I beg your pardon, Mr. Gibbons?' Casting dirctor: 'It's terrible... and not the way you rehearsed it this morning.' Auditionee: 'Now, Mr Gibbons, I'm not used to being spoken to like that. After all...'
divider I'm the oldest chorus boy in London, I've been at it now since Chu-Chin-Chow. I'm no longer a youth and quite long in the tooth, But you're not going to get rid of me now. At auditions I got into all positions, At my splits the band had fits and yelled for more. Every manager shrieks as my old body creaks, Through my routine which ends on the floor. Mister Cochran pales and sends someone for a brandy, From a handy little dive, when I arrive. But I prance and I dance but I don't get a chance, They scream, 'Cyril, not you... Still alive?' Aside: 'Well, I may be a chorus boy but I've got my rights.' I was nearly demolished with Daly's. I was getting quite old in 'Nanette'. Though I'm due for a pension there's still, I would mention, A kick in the old camel, yet. Now I'm grand in the scenes about sports, In my dinky white flannels and blazer. But in shows where we have to wear shorts, I run over my knees with a razor. I try to have dignity, bearing and poise, In a line between nine other hideous boys. But my corsets create such a shattering noise, I'm Cyril the scourge of the stage, what a trooper, I'm Cyril the scourge of the stage. The peak of my Motley career, Was reached in Chicago, one year. They froze me up twice, in a large block of ice, When the glamour girl couldn't appear. How the pride in my bosum was surgin', When I once understudied in Leeds. But as far as lines go, I'm still virgin, 'Though I once neighed off stage with some steeds. You know, I dangled George Edwards, When young, on my knee. So, George Black isn't any too mad about me. And I poured Marie Kendall's first stage cup o' tea. I'm Cyril the scourge of the stage, what an artiste, I'm Cyril the scourge of the stage. After masses of serious flops, I was sold with the clothes and the props. I spent several nights in a box full of tights, And a fornight in second-hand shops. As my bod's not the acme of shapes, And my voice would split anyone's ear. I'm only permitted to traipse in the back-row, And well to the rear. I do tap, I do ballet, I do classic gavotte, I once carried Miss Pangette on her cot. With flags of all nations tied up in a knot. I'm Cyril the scourge of the stage... gosh, I'm old! I'm Cyril the scourge of the stage.
The end