Shakespeare Sunday??

What a way to spend sunday: wake at noon to a delicious breakfast made by Director Boy. The new edition of Vogue to peruse. We made a Gingerbread house, and at 4:00pm treated to some open air Shakespeare in the rookery on Streatham Common.

I am ashamed to say we left at the interval. The second show this year I have walked out of. My defense to the first is that I was drunk. My defense to the second, that I still have both sanity and integrity. I am appalled to say that it was the worse production I have seen this year!! So bad that I am prepared to retract my previous opinions, and announce to the world that 'Beauty and the Beast' was amazing* and that Northern Broadsides are the best Shakespeare company that could ever tread the boards**.

I have no more to say on the subject.

Only that to emphasise how bad it was, it was Director Boy who decided we should leave.



* It was not.
** It most certainly isn't!

Lists, Lists, Lists

I look over to the bedside table, open the sleek draw to find my diary sitting under a copy of 'I Capture the Castle'. "Aha" I exclaim, gleefully lifting the heavy flock cover to reveal a scrawled list of theatre events. Here it is, my list of live theatre that I've seen in 2007 so far.

Reading down the list I realise that after the 7th April there are no more entries for theatre, and even then, the other entries are Director Boy's movements on tour.

So I search deep into the draw that seems bottomless, as I find more items that haven't seen daylight in a couple of months.

Making mental notes on missing theatre trips I start to BlogLog* them in chronological order. Reminiscing over each one as I carefully type in the date, production and place. From Opera to Ballet, Shakespeare to Eric Idle, they all speak to me with such beautiful language. Quotes and scenes flood back to my memory like a dam wall bursting with the rapids only having one direction home.

I type, remember, and cling to savouring feelings that each production left me with. Whether good or bad, nothing can compare to live theatre. Not even Vogue!




* To 'BlogLog', lists specifically on a blog page. I.E. Theatre, Other Blogs, Events, E.T.C...

The Morning After The Night Before The Rest Of My Life...

The new orientation of the bed gives me an uneasy nights sleep, not to mention the alcohol content from the leaving cocktails, which certainly were leaving their mark. I check the time, 7:26, “O.K.” I think to myself, “time to get up, it’s time to go”.
Today is the day I leave for London. Again. Last time was somewhat eventful. This time will be equally as eventful but this time I’m setting up home with my fiancée.

The morning flies by with boxes and bags stacked high, too high, then being re-stacked in an attempt not to kill myself before I’ve even left. Then boxes and bags being carried downstairs and dropped with such aplomb that a suitcase full of vogue* would be proud of. Needless to say that the suitcase itself is an event, ergo backing up my theory that this time round would be eventful. After moving my worldly possessions from what was my bedroom to what was my living room, I need a bath, and drugs. Lots of drugs.

Before Man-with-a-van turns up, I rush out to buy cat supplies for her new living arrangements. By ‘supplies’ I mean Evian as this is one snobby cat. And by ‘new living arrangements’ I mean with Director Boy and me.

I return home from Angry Fence’s** to find HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED, sorry J.K., glaring at me with eye’s only he can give. With a face as red as skin rash and veins the size of hose pipe’s popping out of most surface area’s, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED bellows like Brian Blessed in panto and stamps his foot. All I want to give him is E5 cream to calm the redness. And I, as usual when this fiend appears, am the cause of every possible problem on the planet, from him losing his keys, cracks in ceilings, cracks in tiles- behind sinks that are boxed in so are naturally my fault, to the starving in Africa!*** Today I am determined not to be stressed out, also the drugs are kicking in and I’m somewhat sedate, so I laugh at him to piss him off further. Just as I hear the thermometer burst, Man-with-a-van turns up.

This might be a good point to mention that all the advice given by mother’s and police everywhere has gone out of the window, as a man I’ve never met is about to transport me in a white Transit van on a journey that inevitably takes 6 hours. I can hear the NSPCC gathering their petitions and pickets.

Tea is made, HE WHO SHALL NOT BE NAMED leaves, the van is loaded and off we go!!

Conversation is surprisingly relaxed and easy in the front of the van-with-a-man, mostly revolving around theatre and singing two part harmonies accapella from the ‘Wicked” soundtrack.

Six hours later we arrive in the capital to be alerted that security levels have risen.

Now who told the Home Office about my arrival??





*The suitcase in question is a very large silver, plastic one, that contains only two years supply of vogue, and ironically all my clothes are in black bags.

**A.K.A. Cross Gates Shopping Centre.

***Not really, although it would be if he actually cared about real issues

A moment of religious reflecton

Last Night I went to church. I walked up through the churchyard, pulled open the large wooden doors and sat at the back. The nave was full, which completely surprised me. I'm not religious, although I wear a crucifix. I was given one by my mum when I first moved to London, it was stolen from my suitcase on a train back to Leeds so I've subsequently replaced it. Also, very surprisingly, I feel a sense of duty to my grandfather. I never had the pleasure of his company except a couple of times when I was about 7 of which I dont really remember, he died when I was about 15 and that has been the only funeral i've been to, but it's had a huge impact on me. My grandfather was a very deep, devout Catholic.
The church itself had fanastic architecture and the atmosphere was serene and mystical. The service was the one for Lent, a rather moving service with some genuinely good advice and politics. Everytime I've graced a church, it always makes me feel something spiritual and in within 10 minutes of being there I can completely see how and why these people devote themselves to an order beyond our understanding.

BUT: I also couldn't help but note that to me, it was all just a fantastic act in a very beautiful theatre.

The service was choreographed and over rehearsed, if I could ever say that! The principal was well trained. Deliverance deserved an Olivier. It was on a stage, they had parcans* for Christ's sake, pun intended. The relevant props were in place, similarly relevant set pieces were on rigs, ready to be flown in when needed. I.E. The font. This is south London, less than 5 mins walk from Arts Ed.** I couldn't help but wonder whether or not the Alter servers and Choristers were all undergraduates? How ever I feel when I'm in a church, whatever the service and however beautiful, I never fail to see past the theatricals. Maybe I'm just ignorant.
I'm never offended by people with such strong faiths, more jealous. I know the Catholic church isn't for me, but I also know that every so often in my life I'll find myself sitting at the back of one asking for forgiveness.

I'm thanking my grandfather for allowing me to be serviced to God, but sadly my Jesus will always be Glenn Carter, my church will always be an actual theatre and my Holy Book will always be Vogue.

This is just an early morning rant, I hope no-one is offended.

* A type of stage light. They're the big ones used at gigs.
** A theatre school trying to re-live 'Fame'. LITERALLY! But thats a whole new rant/blog.