This is the collection of poems that made up the Death & Life of the Hippodrome theatrical tour, which ran during 2019. The poems are 11 syllables per line (except for one) and were all inspired by stories of the actors who have played there and the ghost stories associated with the building, including that of a woman in black, whose photo was captured by my good friend and paranormal business partner Jeff Bentley-Astor.
Look at the left-of-the-centre of the upper circle - there is a very clear figure in black standing there (ignore the white shapes - those are just refraction from the lights). This was taken after a dark shadows were spotted flitting accross the circle
I know the photo is real, because I was there, with three other people on the stage when it was taken. There was nobody else in the building at the time - a fact which we have verified.
Gladys Lopato as Hettie King
Where ghosts of the stage are reputed to roam
Where drama and tears and the heady love trysts
Are performed for the show, then cease to exist.
Except for those actors, who make it their home
Forever entombed in this old Hippodrome
You might spot them tonight - as we tour this place
And you may even meet a ghost, face-to-face,
But there’s nothing to fear, if spooks are unreal
Decide for yourself as our tales are revealed…
When the Hippo was built; eighteen-eighty-three
This foyer was only for folks without fleas
The smellier classes were sent round the side
So well-heeled and penniless wouldn’t collide.
Now, just for tonight, we’ll throw caution aside
Common and toff, can partake side-by-side
But that doesn’t give leave for a noisy crowd
In fact, till the stage, there’s no talking allowed
So follow me in, we’ll get this tour started
Be warned, it is dark and not for faint-hearted.
Gladys Lopato as Hettie King
From Victorian times, a gothic passion;
Chatting with ghosts, after tea, was in fashion
A table was set and the candles were lit
Then guests of high status were bidden to sit
In chintzed private parlours exchanges began
With clairvoyants who, through the holding of hands
Would rouse up dead sons from the fields of the war
Using tricks and devices to make voices soar
Moving musical instruments all aglow
With strontium paint so the punters would know
That the ghosts were afoot and spirits abound
With rapping on tables and other strange sounds
Then, brought to the masses, presented on stage
The public séance of the spiritist age
Endorsed in secret by men like Churchill
Debunked by Houdini who named them all shills
And talking of Harry, beneath this stage floor
Are pulleys he used for his getaway door.
Played by Jeffrey Bentley-Astor
Now, a different and malevolent ghost…
Todd Slaughter was known as an actor of most
Villainous parts played with unrestrained vigour
On stage he portrayed dark ominous figures
Owning Sweeney Todd first on stage, then on screen
With a grave-yard chuckle that stole every scene
But a legend can’t last and if tales are true
Todd’s last show was here - the next day he was through
Now, he’s craving the screams of his faithful fans
Hoping to scare you with his icy-cold hands
Eagerly haunting in the wings of the stage
The best pantomime baddie of yesterdays.
A stage hand was lost in a most horrid way
Indeed his whole body departed this earth
But the cause of his death could cause little mirth
You see, he was shifting some scenery down
His hand got caught up and he hung off the ground
Then slowly and painfully, screaming for aid
His hand got detached and he couldn’t be saved
Diny van Kleeff as The Victorian Woman
A formless outline
Of a former time
Lurks in the gods
At odds
With the scenes
And electric screens
Mourning the stage
Of her vaudeville age
Haunting the air
With heady despair
Constantly there
Ready to scare
Your wandering gaze
On performance days
Susan Thacker as Marrie Lloyd
Theatre patrons, staff and actors alike
Have reported they’ve caught a startling sight
A lady in gowns of Victorian style
Who lingers and watches, then wanders a while
Her presence - a question, existence - a doubt
But ghost hunter groups have been hanging about
Hoping to spot her, their sport vindicated
Though mostly, they find their vigil is wasted
However, for one, their time was rewarded
A film of the lady, perhaps, was recorded
A mobile-phone film of the dark, gloomy stalls
They panned it across from the stage to the walls
And there at the bottom, just seconds are seen
Of a ghostly woman in black on the screen
Right there, in the seats just below where we stand
A possible ghost - or a hoax that was planned?
……But move it along, there is nothing to see
We’ve plenty more tales from our long history……
It was commonly known that sailors in need
Of earning some money, were sure to succeed
To gain a small income from pulling the ropes
At local playhouses, not far from their boats
These sailors-come fly men with knowledge of knots
Were charged with the up and down scenery drops
The hemp ropes were hefty, with no counterweights
Entanglement risks were a constant headache
Many a keen sailor was killed on the job
And one of those deaths was a flyman named Bob
Who in between working would like to stay fit
Installing these hoops as gymnasium kit
But sadly one evening the ropes caught him tight
Bob the-flyman took flight at a lofty height
With no axe to save him by cutting the ropes
The poor man was hanging without any hope
He now haunts the flyfloor before every play
You’ll know that he’s here when his hoops start to sway!
--
Now - an interesting fact; the flymen devised
A whistling code to commune from on high
A clever system, with one fatal pitfall
The errant whistles from folk in the stalls
So, rumour was spread that a whistle would trigger
A string of bad luck to each hapless sinner
Played by Saffron Fielder-van Kleeff
While father was busy controlling the stage
Young Emily Fogath would spend happy days
Admiring the actresses powder and groom
Her beloved place was in this dressing room
But poor Emily’s heart was weakened and frail
Eastbourne’s bracing sea air had failed to curtail
A bronchial wheezing that wracked her young frame
And just twelve years old - such a terrible shame
Well, somehow her spirit has clung to these walls
Roaming forlornly down the dressing-room halls
And if some poor actress is suffering nerves
Her sweet spirit presence contentedly serves
To alleviate stress with her calming glow
Still helping performers prepare for their shows
I’m TRANSPARENT, I’m DEAD! Turned into a ghost
But who could have done it? While I was engrossed?
In reading this new script of most heinous crime
Somebody slipped in and stabbed me in my prime
A rogue in the theatre, who could it be?
They must have a serious grievance ‘gainst me
Perhaps it was Mabel, the Manager’s wife?
I told her old man she was out of his life
She’s gone with the boss of the Devonshire’s stage
In hopes he would offer her more than a wage
And then there’s Marie Lloyd – I’m ending her show
A woman’s no use when her loveliness goes
Or possibly Slaughter, whose wage I have cut
Or maybe the staff who got wind we could shut…
Well, the Stage Manager’s ghost resurrected
And though his murder was not unexpected
His spirit can join this cadaverous crew
In silent surveillance of all that is new
With those of us who played our parts in this place
This music hall built with Victorian grace
She’s been through tough times, sometimes barely survived
Those opera days that could not be revived
As rivalrous venues popped up all around
And shows had to halt for that hellish sound
Of bombs all around her, the worst on the coast
In Hellfire Corner the damage struck most
But the bombs barely damaged the architraves
Our oldest theatre (by a year) was saved
Then time took its toll and our status declined
Punters for shows became harder to find
This end of the town was sorely neglected
Our future was dead, our past unprotected
Now recently spirits have started to raise
Our Hippo’s reclaiming her glorious days.
All poems copyright © Diny van Kleeff 2019
Not to be used or reproduced without written permission from
the author