THE BOYS ARE ON THE WAGON
THE GIRLS ARE ON THE SHELF
THEIR COMMON PROBLEM IS
...THAT THEY'RE NOT SOMEONE ELSE
THE DIRT BLOWS OUT
THE DUST BLOWS IN
YOU CAN'T KEEP IT NEAT
IT'S A FULLY FURNISHED DUSTBIN
...SIXTEEN BEASLEY STREET
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| Festival Hall has the cleaners in - great view from Baylis Terrace |
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| The Shed at The National |
Was an interesting week last week, only just catching up. Started Friday night with tickets for The Shed to see Mission Drift, a fabulous musical about money and America - great performances, brilliant music. The Shed itself is a big red box with 'legs' sticking up, for all the world like a giants' table knocked over in a gust of wind. I'd been curious about it but also decidedly uncertain as it appears to be a small windowless box whenever I catch sight of it from Waterloo Bridge on my way home on the 59 bus. Not a fan of enclosed spaces, me. Then I read an interesting piece about the architecture that piqued my curiosity and soon after an email offered cut price tickets - had to be a sign. I was completely bowled over by it once I got inside, it has the extraordinary sense of being ten times as big inside as it appears to be on the outside, and wonderful with it.
The show started at 7 so we joined a few others at the tables dotted about on the Baylis Terrace for homemade ham sandwiches and a glass of wine from the bar. It was cold but not freezing - there was actual late afternoon sunshine - and is probably the most summer like thing we've done this year...
Late Sunday afternoon treat of slow roast pork with salads - I persist in the notion that it's summer! Great meal before going out and plenty for lunches in the week.
Sunday night we had tickets for the Palladium, a thrill in itself, to see a comedy evening headlined by John Cooper Clarke, a wordsmith I have loved for decades. I first saw him in Sydney about 30 years ago, playing the Trade Union Club in Surrey Hills, he was just stood on the floor with the crowd around him, spouting the most extraordinary poetry at a million words a second. He was beyond stick thin - I swear my wrists were thicker than his thighs, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt, and an enormous head of spiked black hair. Impenetrably dark ray bans completed the look. I was completely blown away by his brilliance, his use of language was like nothing I had ever heard, a great spume of nasty and bitter and funny in a totally foreign accent. I left the club that night giddy with the thrill of it.
I've seen him a few times since, often as I get the chance, initially convinced he'd be dead in no time from the out of control drug habit.
But somehow that didn't come to pass, instead he cleaned up, having starred in an ad for Sugar Puffs with the honey monster a few years before that happened - a notion that is as bizarre as it sounds.
He's gained all kinds of recognition over time, as students who loved his every word went on to be teachers, with enough influence to get his poetry into schools, even Twat made it on to the curriculum for GCSE. Mr Gove, it's for you.
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| In the Shed |
The show started at 7 so we joined a few others at the tables dotted about on the Baylis Terrace for homemade ham sandwiches and a glass of wine from the bar. It was cold but not freezing - there was actual late afternoon sunshine - and is probably the most summer like thing we've done this year...
Sunday night we had tickets for the Palladium, a thrill in itself, to see a comedy evening headlined by John Cooper Clarke, a wordsmith I have loved for decades. I first saw him in Sydney about 30 years ago, playing the Trade Union Club in Surrey Hills, he was just stood on the floor with the crowd around him, spouting the most extraordinary poetry at a million words a second. He was beyond stick thin - I swear my wrists were thicker than his thighs, dressed in a black suit with a white shirt, and an enormous head of spiked black hair. Impenetrably dark ray bans completed the look. I was completely blown away by his brilliance, his use of language was like nothing I had ever heard, a great spume of nasty and bitter and funny in a totally foreign accent. I left the club that night giddy with the thrill of it.
I've seen him a few times since, often as I get the chance, initially convinced he'd be dead in no time from the out of control drug habit.
But somehow that didn't come to pass, instead he cleaned up, having starred in an ad for Sugar Puffs with the honey monster a few years before that happened - a notion that is as bizarre as it sounds.
 |
| Been there... |
He's gained all kinds of recognition over time, as students who loved his every word went on to be teachers, with enough influence to get his poetry into schools, even Twat made it on to the curriculum for GCSE. Mr Gove, it's for you.
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