Brian Viner: Three cheers for the Royal Variety Performance

On Monday evening I had the privilege of attending the Royal Variety Performance at the Dominion Theatre, London, which was recorded for transmission last night on ITV. And I use the word privilege almost entirely unironically, even though I am aware that there are some folk for whom sitting through the Royal Variety Performance sounds less like a privilege than a penance. Most readers of The Independent, for example, not to mention the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh.

It is true that the tradition of an annual "command" performance – which began in 1912 in front of George V and Queen Mary, doubtless with Tarby as compere – is increasingly anachronistic, and I confess that when Sir Elton John led three "hurrahs" for the Queen on Monday night, there was, in row N, seat 42, just a small degree of squirming.

But a pox on the houses of those who would abolish this venerable jamboree. For one thing, it seems only fair that on one night of the year we should give the royals a variety show, when for the other 364 days they give us one, a consistently entertaining affair featuring clowns (Prince Edward wearing his absurd television producer's hat), acrobats (Prince Charles bending over backwards to accommodate his lover without offending his mother), and a speciality act (the Queen Mum, still drawing breath at 101).

Moreover, wherever else would you get to see Vinnie Jones sharing a stage with Donny Osmond, or Julian Clary sharing a stage with a posse of Chelsea Pensioners, or 58-year-old Cilla Black in fishnet stockings and a saucy basque, with flashing lights pinpointing her erogenous zones as if to guide home a Boeing 747 descending in the dark? These are surreal sights which add considerably to the gaiety of the nation.

There was also the fabulous spectacle of Cher clumsily miming her way through a song while attempting to dance with what appeared to be a nasty hernia condition. Perhaps she was preoccupied with the thought that all those plastic implants might start melting under the glare of the stage lighting. Whatever, it seemed apt that since so little of her is real any more, she should deny us even her voice.

The act that attracted most subsequent publicity, though, was the Full Monty routine, which climaxed with six men, one or two of whom were not so much at the peak of physical fitness as well on their way back to base camp, whipping off their thongs. Apparently, the Dominion's back lighting was intended to shroud their tackle in gloom and spare the audience's blushes, but this procedure didn't quite work. I got an eyeful from row N of the circle, so there must have been a clear, unambiguous view from the royal box. If Mary Whitehouse hadn't already departed for the ultimate moral high ground, this would have finished her off.

Amid the ensuing consternation, however, it was revealed that Buckingham Palace had been approached beforehand about the Full Monty routine, and that the message had come back: "It's OK, she's game for it".

This begs some irresistible questions. For instance, who was given the tricky job of asking the Queen whether she would like to see six penises? A peek at some of the more arcane job titles in the royal household throws up some possibilities.

It was probably not the responsibility of the Yeoman of the Pantry, but might the task have fallen to the Clerk of the Closet, or to one of the two individuals blessed with the imposing designation Gold Stick? And if so, did Gold Stick, while wondering how the delicate question might best be phrased, consult Black Rod? The mind truly boggles. And I'm all for things that boggle the mind. So three cheers for the Royal Variety Performance – hurrah, hurrah, hurrah – and long may it continue to thrive.

b.viner@independent.co.uk