venta

This summer, ChrisC went off to the Fringe in Edinburgh while I went to Whitby. Despite properly packing in the shows for five days, he still managed to miss a few things he wanted to see and we are slowly hoovering them up as they come to London.

At least, that was the plan. And it worked for me. ChrisC decided instead to be ill, and for two out of three I had to draft in an emergency replacement. (Thanks to Ebee, who heroically threw herself into the breach despite me being completely unable to tell her anything about the shows whatsoever.)

( Ahir Shah @ Soho Theatre (Downstairs) )

( Mae Martin @ Soho Theatre (Downstairs) )

( Dolly Would @ Camden People's Theatre )

Whew, it's been busy round these parts. And I have things to report upon, and no coherent strategy for doing so.

In my usual capacity as a cultural vacuum, who only goes to the theatre when prodded, I was booked to go to The Globe with snow_leopard to see Blue Stockings. In the event, she couldn't make it, so I bravely went along anyway (realising that beyond the title, and beyond it being something Snow_Leopard recommended), I knew nothing about it.

Anyway, it turned out to be a very enjoyable play about the female students at Girton College, Cambridge at the end of the nineteenth century. They were battling to be admitted as full members of the university, and to be permitted to actually take degrees.

The Globe does odd things to people, I think. The standing-space of the yard where people mill around, eating hog roast and cracking nuts, lends itself well to the sort of raucous participation that we're all led to believe Shakespeare's audiences expected as a matter of course. So when the play opened with a speech explaining why women were completely unfit to be scholars, the speaker found himself boo'd and hiss'd like a pantomime villain. I like it. Theatre should be more raucous and participatory.

Last weekend was the annual weekend away with a bunch of university friends, where we rent a "cottage" big enough to sleep 20+ and eat too much. My weekend was slightly confused by my having to run away all day Saturday and inflict rapper dancing on the good people of Shrewsbury, but apart from that it was lovely to catch up with people and meet the new crop of offspring that's arrived since last year.

The logistics of trying to do a fry-up for nearly thirty people remain complex, but with long practice and two kitchens we've got it down. The pressing problem this year seemed to be how to arrange the toast... separating white and brown? That's toast apartheid, that is. Alternating slices? Well, that might look like integration but really it's just another form of racism. Arranging it in the order it came out of the toaster? Why do you think toast ageism is any better? The debate raged fiercely and was eventually won by a small (and hitherto unsuspected) cell of white toast supremacists...

Last January sort of time I went to the Soho Theatre to see Midsummer (a play with songs). I now can't find the write-up of it I thought I did at the time, so perhaps that part only happened in my head.

Anyway, it's on again at the Tricycle Theatre in Kilburn until January 29th.

Right. If you don't live in London, I'll let you off. If you do live in London, you very likely have absolutely no excuse: go and see it. It's bloody marvellous. Ignore the blurb on the Tricycle's page, I don't think it really gives a good sense of what the play's like. It is a romantic comedy only in the sense that it concerns the relationship between two people, and it made me laugh. Anyone calling it a romantic comedy, however, is doing it a grave disservice. It's wry, and cynical, and hilarious. It's clever, and self-referential and a bit meta in places. It was a huge hit at the Edinburgh Fringe a couple of years ago, and is still performed by the same two-person cast. Their timing is immaculate (as it needs to be, for a lot of the dialogue) and the energy between them is amazing. Sitting in the theatre watching the story unfold (even though I knew what was coming) made me enormously happy.

Oh, and the songs are written by some chap called Gordon McIntyre, whom the smart money will immediately recognise as Mr Ballboy. And if you're not the smart money, get on the case because Ballboy are fabulous anyway.

Don't go and see Midsummer if you think that "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck" is not a valid line of dialogue. Or indeed if people saying "fuck" offends you.

I have heard a mildly unsubstantiated rumour that booking tickets over the phone and quoting "January promotion" will get you tickets for £9. (It worked for us[*], but I had previously thought the January sale ended today). A further rumour suggests that Gordon McIntyre has offered a personal money-back guarantee if you don't like it.

[*] I stand corrected: apparently we quoted "january sales", and that offer runs til Saturday. We are unsure whether this "january promotion" is a different one, or just someone getting their facts wonky.

So, as mentioned in the previous post, last week I was eating Monster Munch for tea...

( The Book of Job: The Musical )