Friday, 24 August 2012

The most simultaneously silly and brilliant final bit of a play in, like, ooh, a while

All music is shit and all art is shit and all theatre is shit and all television is shit and all sport is shit and all cinema is shit. The food is shit and everything is fucking shit. The streets and the furniture and commuters and everybody is just stuck inside a vacuous vapid hole of just fear and horror and nasty fucking rancid vile shit. And there is no connection with anything and there is no future and all of the city is full of shit and there is waste everywhere and if I could I'd take all the waste that's gathered in the cities and put it into landfills and pour it onto the streets so that people can know what they have wasted every day and see the hundred million tons of shit every year put into the ground. You could make mountains of shit. You could sculpt the Alps out of shit. You could poison the seas with shit. Andy everybody wants a hopeful ending and there won't be one. We have a decade. And then everything will retract. Everybody wants a message and there is none. Everybody wants hope shining through the darkness and there isn't any. And we could take to the streets but it wouldn't change anything. We could form a protest movement and it won't change anything. We could stand on the street and give out fliers and it won't change anything. We could refuse to vote in the next election. We could all of us vote in the next election. We could burn down polling booths in the next election. We could smash in shop windows. We could repair all the shop windows. We could set fire to cars. We could repair all the burned-out cars. We could recycle. We could refuse to recycle. None of it will change anything. There is only terror. There is no hope.

Saturday, 4 August 2012

Maybe rather than making this a blog about theatre...

I can simply make it a litany of theatre related mishaps, that works for me. So anyway, I was in the Donmar Warehouse the other day, and at the interval Josie Rourke, its extremely talented artistic director, said 'hello' to me. I know exactly who she is and what she looks like, but we've never spoken before and while I assume she probably vaguely knows my name, I doubt she knows my face, and was presumably saying 'hello' to me out of politeness/because I was having a drink in the press area. The previous paragraph is essentially a word for word representation of the monologue going through my head as I stared blankly at her for about five seconds, wondering if we HAD met before, prior to my finally mustering a weirdly hostile sounding 'hello', which I knew sounded hostile because a fellow critic asked me if me and Josie Rourke had had some sort of previous falling out. I always think of myself as being quite normal and well adjusted compared to most of my peers, but I'm starting to wonder if possibly I'm not a shamblingly awkward oddball of some sort. Five minutes after leaving the play - WHICH WAS VERY GOOD AND I GAVE FOUR STARS TO, potential future bitter lunatics (see last post) - I realised I'd left my food shopping of a reduced price loaf of bread and a reduced price spicy bean pate in a plastic Waitrose bag and had to apologetically shove through the after party to get it. I don't think Josie Rourke saw me, fortunately.