It's Panto Season!.... Oh Yes it Is.

Hello, hello, hello, my precious little soarkles! Oh, what a thrill, what a tingle, to be here with you today, discussing one of the great cultural achievements of the Western world — no, not my wardrobe, though thank you for noticing — I’m talking about that glitter encrusted, thigh slapping, gender confusing miracle we call the pantomime.

Now,sparkles, I know some of you are sophisticated. Some of you have been to Paris. Some of you have even been to Milton Keynes. But nothing  and I mean nothing, prepares the human spirit for the sheer emotional rollercoaster of a British panto. It’s like Shakespeare, but with better legs and worse diction.

You see, pantomime is the only theatrical form where a grown man can put on a frock, a wig, and a bosom the size of two overinflated space hoppers, and the audience applauds as if he’s performing Hamlet. And frankly, I think that’s beautiful. It’s democracy in action. It’s gender studies with glitter. It’s sociology with sequins. It’s the United Nations, but with jokes about sausages.

And the audience, bless them  oh, they’re part of the show, aren’t they? You can’t get away with sitting quietly in a panto. No, no, no. You must shout, you must boo, you must hiss, you must scream “HE’S BEHIND YOU!” like a deranged banshee who’s just spotted a clearance sale at Marks & Spencer. It’s the only time in British life where people are encouraged to express emotion without first consuming three pints of lager.

And the children  oh, the children! They sit there, wide‑eyed, sugar‑fuelled, vibrating like tiny kettles about to boil. They don’t know what’s happening, but they know it’s loud, colourful, and morally uncomplicated. There’s a villain who looks like he’s been dressed by a blindfolded drag queen with a grudge. There’s a hero who’s usually a woman in tights so tight they could be used to strain soup. And there’s a fairy who floats in, covered in enough sparkle to blind a passing aircraft.

And then there’s the Dame. The Dame is the beating heart of the panto, the glamorous glue that holds the whole chaotic mess together. She’s motherly, she’s monstrous, she’s magnificent. She’s everything I would be if I’d made slightly different life choices and had access to a larger millinery budget.

But the real magic of pantomime, is that it brings everyone together. Families, friends, strangers, people who haven’t been to the theatre since the last time someone gave them free tickets. It’s a communal experience, like a wedding, but with fewer arguments and better lighting. It’s the one time of year when grandparents, toddlers, and that uncle who smells faintly of petrol can all sit together and laugh at the same joke about custard.

And let’s not forget the moral lessons. Every panto has them. “Be kind.” “Be brave.” “Don’t trust a man with a moustache who laughs like a malfunctioning kettle.” Important life guidance! And all delivered with the subtlety of a glitter cannon fired directly into your face.

So, next time you find yourself at a pantomime  clutching your programme, dodging flying sweets, trying not to make eye contact with the man in the front row who’s clearly had too much mulled wine  remember this: you are participating in a grand, noble, utterly ridiculous tradition. A tradition older than some of the jokes, and younger than some of the performers.

And I say this with love: long may it continue. Because without pantomime, Britain would be a darker, drearier, less sparkly place. And heaven knows you don’t need that in December.

Now give yourselves a round of applause you’ve been marvellous.