Seeing “The Knight of the Burning Pestle” in London was really special: Mile End and the Strand are just across the river, a quick walk away. It’s thrilling hearing the characters calling for you to cheer for “the honour of the city and the citizens” when you are a Londoner sitting right in the heart of the city.
Last week I visited a weekly film club at the Jewish community centre in Hampstead, showing clips of Shylocks from four different “Merchant of Venice” productions. I was one of the only people under 65 in the room, and I was surprised by people’s reactions to the scene.
…which is kind of a problem because I don’t believe in hereditary monarchy. Princeps Civitatis (er hang on)!
Q: How do you come back accidentally tipsy from a haircut?
A: I don’t know, but I managed it!
The Gatehouse is a brilliant thing to have just up the road from me, an old coaching inn that’s now a good, cheap pub with a good, cheap fringe theatre upstairs. Hiraeth’s visceral, anarchic “Richard III” is a tight, macho production with strong acting and handsome shirtless men.
This year Ewan made a New Year’s resolution I’m very happy to be helping with, which is drinking in new cocktail bars. Unfortunately, rich hipster kids are really into cocktails these days, so a lot of skilled cocktail makers have moved into Shoreditch to hoover up the hard-inherited money of Beardy Skinnyjeans and Headband Circleskirt. The drinks are good, but the atmosphere remains annoying-to-punchable. Except for one shining light of relaxed, genuinely good bartending…
I saw it on a clear glassy September morning on the Stone Bridge in Prague in 2006. I had severely overspent in the euro countries, but I still had a budget of 200 koruna (around $9) a day, so I was looking forward to splashing out on a kebab or wurst instead of just chips or discounted fruit from a grocery store.
Bunratty Folk Park is a reconstructed traditional 19th-century Irish village in the same sense that the Queen’s Hamlet at Versailles is a reconstructed 18th-century French peasant home. It’s bright and very clean, and traditional musicians lurk around every corner, ready to leap out and polka at you.
I was ploughing through wet fields of Welsh sheep two days ago and trying to figure out why I was doing this for Shakespeare. Shakespeare! He’s a Dead White Guy – my least favourite category of White Guy! Is he really the Greatest Artist Of All Time (TGAOAT)? Is there even such a thing?