Kiri Pritchard-McLean "Peacock", Oran Mor, Glasgow. Sunday 8th September, 2024.

I do not like Oran Mor. As a venue, it's seating sucks. They are too small, too close together and are very uncomfortable. Fidgeting is compulsory unless you don't mind getting bed sores on your bum. Tonight was no different, even though this was my first time in the upstairs venue.

I arrived early, not knowing how early. There was an ambiguity. The ticket stated 7.30pm, and the website said 6.30pm, neither making it clear if the indicated time was for doors opening or showtime. I arrived at 6.15pm to be safe. This is what I saw.

No queue

It turns out, though, that I was at the wrong door. I should have been standing here.

Still no queue

By 6.30pm, a few people had gathered, and we all traipsed up the winding stone stairs. The venue was beautifully laid out, with rows of the aforementioned torture devices. I selected a seat in the third row, fourth from the middle aisle. I wanted to sit at an angle in case the person in front had a tall upper body, a massive perm, or had come in a full Marge Simpson costume. This was a Kiri Pritchard-Mclean gig. Anything was possible. 

The front row filled up, as did many others further back, but there were empty seats to my left and right. An overweight woman forthrightly asked me if the seats were taken. I said no, and she plopped herself down right beside me despite there being a more appropriate choice one further over. She had a drink in one hand and a coat over her other arm, a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. She couldn't get comfortable. I got the impression that she thought this was my fault as I did not budge over to allow her the space she required. 

She got up and moved to the row in front. Shifting the seat back four inches to give herself more legroom (eating into my row), she placed her bag and coat on the seat in front of me. She reclined, crossing her leg over her knee, her white flat-soled trainers revealing a partial tattoo on her inner left foot. She finished her drink and then took out a hardback book, "The Best Way to Bury Your Husband" by Alexia Casale, which she read for a time.  

I detect that the music playing is all by female-fronted Welsh artists, such as Duffy, Catatonia, Marina and the Diamonds, and The Joy Formidable. Then, I hear Propellerheads. Are they Welsh, I wonder? I look it up. They are from Bath. Then Shirley Bassey appeared on vocals, and I realised no mistake had occurred. 

We're nearly at showtime, and the woman in front decides to get up. She places the open book face down on her seat and covers it with her jacket. She tells the people beside her not to let anyone take her seat. It's a bold move this close to the start. Is it deliberate, I ask myself, but she returns with another drink before Kiri begins. Settling in again, she pulls forward the chair again so it is in line with the one beside. 

Kiri performs her own warmup for about ten minutes to ease her nerves, she says, because she really wants to nail her show right from the off. She's very proud of it. Then she introduces her support act, Ruth Hunter, a bisexual Dubliner living in Glasgow, who also happens to be six months pregnant. I'm not her demographic, but she did have some lines I found funny.

Then, after an interval, Kiri returns to the stage, now attired in her Peacock jumpsuit, like a Welsh Elvis but with more sequins. As she starts her show—about fostering—I find the man behind me has a laugh so strong I can feel it on the back of my neck. And I don't just mean from the spray coming from his wet mouth. His guffaws are like a cold, repetitive draught. I lean forward, wishing I'd worn a scarf. Don't get me started on the volume of his clapping.   

The show itself is funny, heartfelt, and wicked. Kiri's journey to become a foster parent deserves to be a sitcom, one that could break your heart as much as split your sides. It opened my eyes to the possibility of becoming a non-biological parent.  An idea I quickly shut down and thought, Don't be a silly fecker. You're about to retire. You don't need the stress, regardless of how rewarding fostering might be emotionally and financially. The show itself would have benefitted from being held in a more intimate venue, like The Stand. The high ceiling did somewhat suck away the sound.  

At the end of the show, Kiri indicated she would wait behind to meet anyone who wanted a photo or a chat. I decided against it. I'd been picking up Baby Reindeer vibes from the girl in front after her empty cup fell onto the floor, and she turned around and smiled at me. I did not want to engage with her in any shape or form. You can see how far back her seating position was by the end of the show. 

The space between our rows at the end

Instead, I headed for the car and made my getaway. If she turns up at my place of business and requests a 'private consultation', I'll demand a witness chaperone. Fortunately, I don't have a bus stop within viewing distance of my home. Such is the power of television on my imagination.  

On the way back, I listened to Scarlet Rebels' new album, 'Where the Colours Meet'. It seemed appropriate, given their country of origin.

Ticket Price: £16 plus £2 service fee = £18 from Ticketweb.