I think sexual intercourse is in order, Gilbert.

And so to the theatre. Readers may recall the film 'A Private Function' from thirty odd years ago, featuring a pig-napping of the sort which often appear in P.G. Wodehouse's Blandings novels. The film has particular resonance with this blog because the screenplay was written by one of our heroes, the thankfully still very much alive Alan Bennett; because much of it was filmed in Ilkley, the epicentre of wargaming in lower Wharfedale; and because the most sympathetic character, played by another of our heroes, the sadly no longer with us Richard Griffiths, is an accountant. I have now been to see the stage musical version, 'Betty Blue Eyes'.

I'm not really, despite what the lady in the kitchen shop may think, much of a fan of musical theatre, but I have to say that I enjoyed it enormously. In translation from the big screen to the stage and from comedy to musical some things have been added and some lost. It's a while since I have seen the film, but I don't recall dancing girls (and I mean full-on Moulin Rouge style dancing girls) appearing in anyone's front room, nor indeed cameo appearances from Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip.  And, spoiler alert, the fate of the pig has been, how shall we say, made more suitable for family audiences. But it all hurtles along nicely, there are still references to Lady Macbeth for the the intellectually inclined and fart jokes for everyone else, and the cast gave it their all.

Star of the show is the animatronic pig - how could it be otherwise - which is better behaved than one assumes a real one would be. Indeed there are stories of Dame Maggie Smith being chased round a kitchen by one of those used in the film. The pretend pig followed the script perfectly until right at the end when, after taking its bow, it suddenly careered into the scenery and knocked one of its ears off. They should have stuck to that old showbiz rule: never work with children or radio-controlled animals.

Warning - no wargaming content whatsoever

Let's talk about social class. I am proud, though slightly surprised, that the BBC's online class calculator has identified me as 'traditional working class'. I have always agreed with John Prescott's definition i.e. that one retains the class of one's parents. And as someone who grew up in Bethnal Green in a house with an outside toilet and no bathroom I am not sure what else I could be.

A chap with a beard

The interactive version of Charles Booth's poverty maps of London (in the Museum of London - well worth visiting) identify the house in which I grew up as Dark Blue or "Casual earnings, very poor. The labourers do not get as much as three days work a week, but it is doubtful if many could or would work full time for long together if they had the opportunity. Class B is not one in which men are born and live and die so much as a deposit of those who from mental, moral and physical reasons are incapable of better work." Now we had clearly come up somewhat in the world by the time I arrived (at least my mother's family; my father's family never did) and might even have been as high as Pink at that point. But one is what one is. The university degrees, accountancy qualification, opera going, waterside apartment living are mere veneer.

You can put lipstick on a Pink, but it's still a Pink