If Carlsberg Made Ballets

On hearing the chain of words,  “Russian Ballet and Siberian Orchestra” I imagined an eclectic collage of fluffy, husky hats, a nip of vodka, bearded men playing fiddles, a slight chill in the air and a single, bony, aristocratic ballet dancer pirouetting on a rustic shack-like stage.

I was convinced that the ballet would be a Cultural Feast.

Spine tingling.



Attended by refined cultural types.

Not  an avalanche of seven year olds in tutus.

Entering the theatre would be like stepping into the Box of Delights.

Not like getting trapped inside a gaudy wind up music box from Poundland.

There would be no sugar coated extravaganza of peppermint green nylon with a bit of organza thrown in.

And it would certainly NOT feel like we were witnessing a pre-madonna’s ponced up exercise class with massive audience peer pressure to applaud after every painful workout.

That’s all I have to say about the Russian State Ballet and Siberian Orchestra. Apart from this…

1. I will never watch a ballet again.

2. I have no idea why anyone would want to watch one.

3. The only two things that were mildly engaging about this was the bizarre way that the dancers tottered around on their toes (which reminded me of Chinese foot binding). And secondly, the Nutcracker’s bottom. Both things stopped me from running out within ten minutes but neither were enthralling enough to keep us from legging it during the interval.


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