Glum night out

Melissa Kite Ten minutes into Les Miserables my boyfriend turned to me and whispered, 'Is it just me or is this Charlie Rap?' As the thunderous clatter of a large prop being unceremoniously dropped backstage reverberated around the mournfully tatty Queen's Theatre, I concurred that the legendary musical was indeed a load of Mr Charles. It was also Kieron Dyer. And downright Pete Tong.

Despite everything that has ever been written about it stating the exact opposite, it seemed embarrassingly obvious to me that for some bizarre reason, perhaps for one night only, the plot was stupid, the music was awful and most of those on stage could neither sing, act, dance or move around without bumping into each other, dropping things or coughing. The entire cast rushed through its lines as if panic-stricken that they'd left the iron on.

My boyfriend and I had come to experience 'one of the best musicals of all time' as part of a carefully planned programme of cultural clear-up. That is to say, we want to see all the famous shows we have never seen for taste reasons. We figure that our recreational snobbery has left us with huge gaps in our social education, that we ought to bite the bullet and see what all the fuss is about.

But with the best will in the world, I am at a loss to know how we were supposed to cope with what occurred on stage at the Queen's. It's not as if I am totally naive when it comes to West End entertainment. I accept that a certain cheesiness lies at the heart of all such enterprises. But I do draw the line at applauding a number where the words 'duke' and 'puke' are the best that can be accomplished by way of rhyme.

And from the orchestra pit? The disorientating sound of a Yamaha as it used to be played by Rowland Rivron of the band Raw Sex. I imagined him down there, pint balanced on the keyboard, fag hanging out of his mouth, stabbing at the keys with one finger of each hand.

I scrunched so far into my seat that my head was practically on my lap. I shut my eyes. I prayed to God to help me in my hour of need. I blocked my ears when the character known as Fantine enticed bats out of the belfry of a church somewhere in Sussex.

It wasn't just me being a snob. The woman on my left sat with her arms folded throughout. The girls in front of me were giggling (apparently it's not a comedy). There were people three or four rows behind loudly discussing their day at work.

So, why the conspiracy of silence? Why does no one tell you Les Mis refers to the state of mind of the less resilient members of the audience?

It's the same with so many things that are universally proclaimed to be wonderful and are, in fact, not. A sort of collective denial kicks in whereby everyone who experiences the disappointment becomes complicit in the lie, as if to admit that something was not all it was billed to be would somehow reflect badly on you.

Well, Tony Blair got away with running Britain for ten years that way, and I refuse to be complicit in the lying any longer.

I've been doing some serious soul-searching and have come up with a list of things they never tell you are rubbish, things which I should have admitted my dislike of years ago. It's extremely long but here are the highlights: Sicily. Not idyllic and charming but an island of extreme poverty, where hotels frown on unmarried couples and the coastline is awash with oil refineries belching fire and smoke.

Tchaikovsky. When he first tried to inflict his ballet music on the world, people rightly pointed out that it was over-emotional and too complicated. But we persevered and decided to make ourselves like it. Why?

Apple Mac computers. Officially the world's best invention. Nobody ever complains that the mouse is designed for people with hands that are fixed to their wrists side ways. Which is not an awful lot of people. CDs. It has still not been properly admitted that they were never capable of being played more than twice without incurring a thousand scratches which rendered them useless. And we gave up vinyl for them. I know the wrong can never be righted. All I want is for the facts to be acknowledged. At a truth and reconciliation commission.

Meanwhile, next on my cultural awareness programme: We Will Rock You, Billy Elliot and Wicked.

On the other hand, I could just take myself off to St Martin-in-the-Fields to hear Mozart's Requiem. Life is short, after all.

Melissa Kite is deputy political editor of the Sunday Telegraph.