Gunning The Curtain

I have recently been in some mild turmoil over the future of British theatre and, rather selfishly perhaps, the future for British playwrights in our native land.

Perhaps I'm worrying for nothing, but it seems to me and to many others in the business that the only plays that are getting put on centrally are either foreign or revivals whereas the provinces, slightly more daring though some may be, are generally relying on repetitive tours of The Best of the Eagles and amateur productions of Rodgers & Hammerstein musicals. Hardly what I, and other artistic snobs, consider to be real theatre. Those provincial houses that do produce tend to lead nowhere now, whereas once a transfer to the West End was almost always on the cards. Now there needs to be a clear runaway financial success before penny-pinching 'producers' will sit up and take notice.

And that right there is the problem. The plague of commercialism. Commercialism works for a lot of things - cinema, for example, because cinema is a popular convention that requirtes oodles of money to support. It does not, in my opinion, do anything for theatre - other than keeping the Mousetrap and Andrew Lloyd Webber in business. I think we all know the world would be better without Andrew Lloyd Webber's contribution to the theatre. Why has commercialism done this to the theatre? Why? Opera has managed to avoid it, but only by being viciously elitist. It seems to me that the theatre is being treated more and more like cinema, when it's not cinema. Cinema is big and bold and expensive. Theatre should be intimate, generally, and all about the art of it, rather than it's presentation. What it lacks in technical wizardry and awe-inspiring feats of the visual it ought to make up for in sheer craft and talent. But, alas, nowadays it does not. I largely blame modern 'producers'. These people have no interest in actual theatre. Typically they have money that they want to invest so they'll stick it in a theatre, force that theatre not to take risks and then they can also pretend they are cultured when, frankly, they're not. If we could just ensure the people in charge of theatres - the men with the money - had passion and courage for the art of the theatre. Then we'd see more varied plays, more exciting productions - who knows, it may make people once again interested in theatre, bringing in revenue other than old ladies who want to see yet another clairvoyant evening or night of 'entertainment' with Dominic Kirwan. It might give provincial theatres a new lease of life and make the high and mighty West End sit up and - pardon the pun - get its act together.

What I propose then is a new approach to theatre management. This is just an idea at the moment - I would need some kind of syndicate of playwrights or eccentric, rich, theatre-obsessed financial backers to make it reality - but what if one was to buy a theatre and adopt a laissez-faire approach to the finances. Let people put what they want on, when they want. The bare minimum is taken off ticket prices for the most basic maintenance of the actual building, and the rest goes straight to the artists. No vetting of content or censorship of subject matter. No elitism. No sort of traditional artistic director, who filters through the programme only what will sell to the public. Rather an artistic director who's only prejudice is against poor quality and the status quo. In short, a revolution - a return to the theatre of dreams. Let us give rebirth to post-war theatre and sire a new generation of Pinters, Ortons, Mamets, Albees and Stoppards. Let us give back to the theatre what we have denied it - freedom. In return, you can guarantee that theatre will take back the audiences that tv, cinema and Andrew Lloyd Webber have stolen if only she can have room enough to breathe.

Ribblemark

Goodbye, Goodbye, Goodbye

So, police are too stupid to catch criminals according to our top boffins. Not so, say I! I believe it is not that the police are too stupid – rather criminals have become too smart to evade capture. If only clever police are recruited, the numbers will be to thin. So a new solution is required. But what? And how?

Well. I’ll tell you. I’ll fill you in. Drop you clues. Get you with the program. With the agenda. Up the chips. Shuffle the potatoes. Eat the craps. Mind the business.

The solution is this:

If the police have reached their maximum for intellectual thinkery, then I say we find a new sort of professional to fight crime. The police people can go back to being ordinary police people of yore, instead of the variety of police who prevent crime we know today. Instead we must look to the boffinhood of our society. Clearly, we need a class of crime fighter with a bit of nouse. And I know just the sort.

Nobel Laureates.

That’s right. Only Nobel prize winners could possibly have the intellogical knowhow needed to catch the ingenious felons of today – what with their high-tech boy racer-mobiles and newfangled spray cans. With people like Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett, Winston Churchill, and their Nobel holding comrades tackling minor crimes then we can be assured that vandalism, teenage binge drinking, lighting fireworks after eleven hours post meridian and the illegal use of drugs in public places will be a thing of the past. I urge the thinky dinkers of government and the civil service bureaucrats and dogs to deeply consider my proposal. It will work. It has to work. It must work.

And I’ll take a Nobel prize for that slice of advice, thank you your righteous Maj. Good ole Lizzy 2, I always say. She knows which side her doner kebab’s buttered on and no mistake!

Rudolph Narnach

The greatest folk singer in the former Soviet Republic is on his way to Bognor. Be prepared for the greatest folk rock event of the decade.

Recently acquitted for regicide, folk singer Rudolph Narnach had this message for his fans:

“It is great to be able to visit West Germany again without being shot, but, at the end of the day, I miss the Cold War. I think my songs reflect that sentiment.”

Songs he’ll be singing are:

“Put The Wall Back Up”
“Nazis Deserve Death”
And his all time hit “Capitalist Cats Eat My Crap”

Diary Of A Handsome Egyptian Prince (Part 1)

So, total power invested in me by my people. Sounds good, yes? But, oy, the responsibility. When you’re not oppressing the Jews into building pyramids, you’re trying desperately to get a coherent agricultural policy off the ground. Irrigation, as my mother once said, is the key. Of course, she was on about her colon, but I thought, hey, why not give it a try on the Nile, and what do you know? It works!

That’s great, I think to my regal self, I’ve got a long term agricultural policy that, in turn, will develop my economy, allowing more money to be invested into oppressing the Jews and beating the rest of the world to building amazing architectural wonders. Until the Romans show up.

God damn Romans, they spoil everything with their broken bloody noses and their straight roads everywhere. And poor defenceless Egypt gets invaded. As if they have any right! So I rush to the Carthaginians, don’t I? But this guy, Hannibal, he don’t want to know. So I goes crying, cap in hand, to the Byzantines, and what do you know, this Byzantine broad’s on the Romans side. By Anubis, this woman’s a pain! So what do I do?

I tell you what I do! I get every man, woman and child a weapon and go over there and smash their damn countries into dust, and engulf their sorry borders into Egyptian rule.

Then it’s off to bed, only to get woken in the night by a downright social revolution. Turns out, the leading courtiers all want a piece of the Egyptian action. What’s a pharaoh to do, I ask myself, but let the people have what the people want? So I give them all a nice feudal society, and have all the first born children massacred. Easy peasy – I’m still in charge and everyone’s got more or less what they wanted. Back to bed for a lie in until eleven, then off to work, to teach those Carthaginian bastards that when Egypt asks for some help you God damn give it to ‘em!

Night, night.

The Diary of Graham Perve (Part 2)

It took some time but I finally escaped from Evad’s house. Rather than find critically needed food or water after so many days in captivity, I decided to get to the nearest internet café and update my diary.

Yeah, turns out Evad’s a casual killer, so I was lucky to get out. I’m going to develop the pictures I took for evidence as and when I can and I’ll post them here.

This new revelation about Evad’s extremely dangerous masculinity is very intriguing. I may have to go and sit outside his house for a bit and think about that.

The Diary Of Graham Perve (Part One)

I came across Evad today. He didn’t see me, because I was concealed behind a wall and he was in his house. He was having breakfast and it was toast with marmalade. I think he may like marmalade a tad too much, verging on a marmalade obsession. At the moment this is conjecture. I will have to investigate his love for marmalade further before I make any firm judgements.

After sitting outside his house behind the wall for about three hours, I made my way into town for an appointment with doctor Munk (pictured).




Doctor Munk said that he thought I was becoming worse in my condition and needed heavier medication. I told Doctor Munk that I had suffered another nightmare about him in which he killed me with a barometer. Doctor Munk sighed when I told him this and proceeded to stroke my inner thigh. I don’t understand why he does that. After the appointment I followed Doctor Munk to his home, though he did not see me because I was disguised as a pantomime camel. When I got to his house I took another picture of him without him noticing and went home to develop them in the attic.

Dr Munk’s private parts look very small in the photograph I took at his house, but then he was in a bath of ice. He has a lot of welts on his back and legs.

I returned to Evad’s house and sat behind the wall. Evad was covered in paint again. Presumably he is painting his whole house red. While he was in a back room I crept up towards the front of the house and took note of the layout of drainpipes and upstairs windows in readiness for my plan on Monday (5th September), when I know he will be out for a meeting. I must remember to buy some new film for my camera before Monday.