You’d think, 2011 being a new year, and there being a change in the program editor at the Sydney Theatre Company, that there’d be reason for rejoicing, that finally a direction was to be set in a positive heading. You’d be wrong.
To try and encompass the utter mediocrity of this year’s programs – and when I say ‘mediocrity’ I worry that I use too many syllables and thus give the programs a phonic importance that they most certainly do not deserve – would be as impossible as trying to kill yourself with a banana (the less said the better, but there was one time after I perused one of these pathetic programs when, overcome with such a mortal despair and having only the overpriced fruit next to me, I tried to end it all, rather unsuccessfully and much to the surprise of the other commuters on the train, especially the man seated in front of me who was splattered with chunks of fruit-and-saliva as my choking reflex denied me my deathly wish). And so I will stick to the specifics.
The title page was okay. Next are some advertisements but we’ve no time for that, and the rest of the program would suffer in comparison, methinks. And then, a new feature (among many) this year, From the Artistic Directors:
As an innovation, I don’t mind this, don’t mind it at all, even if there’s a slight whiff of Moses bringing down the tablet from the mount. But it’s mildly intriguing, what they have to say, how they defend their choice, and so on. Of note:
“Unshackled from the iron fist of propriety, Orton’s characters teeter dangerously, deliciously on the knife-edge of morality and good taste.”
Say what? The people who robbed a bank are teetering on a knife edge of morality? Really? They haven’t already jumped off the cliff and plunged into the murky seas below? What more do they need to do before they’re no longer balanced on this cutlerial precipice? Kill everybody inside the bank? Rape an ATM? Make a deposit of a non-monetary kind in the vault?
And what does it say about the STC’s valiant artistic directors that, after reading the play, they still think the characters are teetering? After hearing this one expects that Mrs Blanchett might one day pump Sarin gas into one of the wharf theatres because she think’s it’s “edgy”, or for Mr Upton to decide to give the programs for Baal away for free as some sort of weird experiment, and instead of giving a refund to those noble season ticket holders who bought program vouchers at the start of the year for $9 each, thus saving $1 off the recommended (though lord knows who recommended it) retail price, instead of giving a full refund of $9, rather sent an email around informing all the season ticket holders that they could hand their program voucher in at the front desk and receive a drinks voucher entitling them to one free drink at any of the bars at STC venues?
No, wait, that actually happened.
I still have this drinks voucher, you know. The irony of giving out drinks vouchers at a play with no interval, thus giving the patrons very little opportunity to use said voucher at the same time as they see the play for which it was given (though the voucher can be used at other events)… And the malpractice, I tell you, the malpractice of giving out a drinks voucher that can put in a patron’s hand an overpriced wine that costs in the vicinity of $7 to $9 dollars, from memory, or, if, say, one of the patrons was an alcoholic, or a reviewer who doesn’t like to get tipsy at something he will later be writing about, or just a person in general who doesn’t want to drink alcohol for whatever reasons they may have, and therefore have to trade this drinks voucher for a soft drink or beverage of that ilk, a beverage that costs something along the lines of four to five dollars, the utter malpractice and malpractice isn’t even the word – more like fraudulent or evil or unbridled commercialism – of doing such a thing! I mean, what a great business model this is – it’s amazing no one’s ever tried it before. You sell vouchers worth $9 at the start of the year, then later on get people to redeem them for $5 worth of stuff! Why don’t I just give you money. Why don’t I just go up to the box office and say, “can I change this hundred dollar note for a fifty please?”.
And did you ever stop to think that maybe a poor writer might not want to waste his money on an overpriced drink at a theatre bar? That maybe he brings in his bag a bottle of water so he doesn’t have to spend his precious capital on something so frivolous? Did you ever stop to think that maybe this poor writer might just have a better idea of what he could do with nine dollars than spend it on wine? Like, say, buy one of those orange Penguin books, or use it to buy two return train tickets so he can see other cultural events in the city, or maybe even use it to sponsor a child in Africa for a fortnight?
I can see Mrs Blanchett now, pumping the Sarin gas into the theatre, eyes crazed, mouth grinning, a Cruella de Vil meets Silence of the Lambs, readying to harvest the jewellery and wallets and skins of the recently deceased and innocent middle-class theatregoers, screaming, “Fuck the starving Africans, I’m going to be rich!”
What does Adam want? A refund! When does he want it? Preferably before Mjumbe collapses from a lack of food and clean water!
But I digress.
Next we have a Director’s Anecdote, something I’ve never seen before:
It was rather interesting. Then, “Loot at the Sydney Theatre Company”, a look back to the 1988 production, with quotes from critics who loved the show:
How nice. And exactly why am I supposed to care?
Then we have a two page rundown of Orton’s Plays:
Because when you see King Lear you want to be reading about Hamlet and Titus Andronicus during the interval. Yep.
Next are ‘notes’ from the set designer, which are mildly interesting. Mildly.
And then, The Loot Experience:
Oh good lord. This is one of the new features for 2011 – telling us, the audience, what we should read, listen to, watch, visit, wear, look at, eat, etc, etc – and what a waste of space it is. Squirrels could be living in the trees that were felled to print this, you know. Of note:
Because the very next thing that I plan to do after exiting the theatre is travel to England. And what is the point of suggesting costumes to wear, such as the “liberty floral shirts”, when the only time when they’d be remotely relevant is in the theatre auditorium, and considering you couldn’t have read the program until you left the theatre and therefore have no opportunity to wear such apparel unless you want to be wearing it the next week while you’re in Woolworths shopping, scaring old ladies on the verge of dementia who worry they may have time travelled?
Then, Orton and His Era:
Oh my word, look, some context! Amazing. Of course, the essay is about six pages shorter than I’d like, as they always are, the STC audience apparently not smart enough to handle anything more than two pages in length. (“Gee, ma, that’s an awfully big lot of words there that they want me to read – it’s got like ten times more words than The Very Hungry Caterpillar!”)
And that’s that.
Either give me my money back or at least use the millions you rorted from your subscriber base – that is, your most loyal customers, because if you want to screw someone over, best to screw the people who support you the most – to set up some sort of Depression Hotline in conjunction with the usual box office call centre, so that people who are feeling suicidal after reading your programs have someone to talk to. You wouldn’t want them to blog about it or anything, would you?
Excited? Was I? Very. Very excited. Like a paedophile in a nursery. Idea for a play: scientists breeding sexual deviants in test tubes for psychological experimentation. Name: Paedo-phials.
Joke untranslatable. Wonder if text is translatable without losing effect, humour, nuance, wonder if text is using language to fullest if that is the case. Prose untranslatable is prose taking most advantage of a language? To wit – humour is… No punchline.
The style is different, yes. Been six months, more. Not that reviews haven’t been written, nursery – no, nosiree. Humbled by homophones. Homunculus hopelessly humming with hamartia. Sonic errors in a silent medium. Best kind of mediums there are, yes, those who keep their mouths shut, then you can’t predict what they’ll say, contradict them out of existence. No, they’d still think it. Blind them and they’d still see it coming. Coming? Come to a point.
Welcome! Well? I’m waiting… Ejaculated yet?
Been reading Ulysses, you’ll see. You’ll see and you’ll seize the day, hook the fish by the diem, whatever that is, sounds painful. Diem, diem, sense of deja vu – day, that’s it. Move on. Don’t want to be carping about it. One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead language. Dead more or less. Dedalus. Like that character. Joyce’s alter ego, so I’ve heard. An ego for special occasions. Keep it in the cupboard with the best china, only feed on it, off it, when needed.
Don’t understand most of what I’m reading, you’ll see, in Ulysses, but’ll parody it anyway. No, not parody – not parity, even, parity being too much to ask for, like hiring a limousine to go to the supermarket, though it would be good if you wanted to buy long fishing rods, but not much else. No, definitely not parity, with Joyce the genius and me the flea at sea, fleeing from the literary scene before I’ve arrived, not having done anything for over six months what I have been doing been not doing been wasting my time no not wasting just biding while I wait to be struck by the lightning of genius, but hard to be struck by creative electricity when biding time in a cave – can’t get through the earth, see? Got to put myself out there, out there in the world, can’t – don’t be rude, that’s not the language of a gentleman – cannot be sitting around in a square house. Joyce liked his puns, probably more than his buns, puns being his bread and butter. But hard to pick out the puns, yes? Puns in shorthand, it is. Probably used the longhand to hold the page while he wrote.
Ought to talk about Orton at some point, oughtn’t I? Fuck you.
Cunt – can’t – use language like that. Translates very easily.
Reviewing the reviews: got out of the habit, you’ll see. Deflowered all the nuns in the local convent as well – told the police I wanted to be conventional. Pretty poor advice, God had, on the subject. Go forth and multiply? Terrible instruction, it is. One must go forth, go back, go forth, go back, goforthgobackgoforthgobackgoOOoooooOOOOoooooohhh! Question: if one has sex with a nun in the confessional, must one confess afterwards, assuming the priest wasn’t there? Is that a horrible thought to think? Probably all the capitalism these days, one wanting to sin as efficiently as possible.
I AM A GENIUS. I keep repeating that in the hope that one day I’ll believe it. Confidence is the key.
Segue time: time for the segue. Be the homophone, no – hear the homophone. KeykeykeykeykeykeykeykeyQuay!
Circular Quay. Segue complete. Continue with train of thought after disembarking from the Train of Poor Government Funding. Walk to the Sydney Opera House. Been going there multiple times of late. The multiplicity of my trips to the Opera House is unparalleled. Now a music critic now an opera critic always a theatre critic. Culture coming out of my pores. They’ve probably got a cream for that.
I AM A GENIUS AND I AM FEEDING MY GENIUS WITH CULTURE. I AM NOT BIDING. Nope, don’t believe it. Lazier than someone who hires a servant to operate the television remote. Mustn’t waste talent, mustn’t. Must work hard. Can’t have sex if you don’t work hard. Bad pun if you have to italicise it. But working hard is important, is keykeykeykeykeyQuay.
Quay? At the Opera House already. Stream of consciousness lagging behind. Flagging behind.
And now, for a moment of respite, to both reassure and further seduce the reader who may or may not be alienated:
Is this as fun for you as it is for me, baby? You having a good time? Feeling pleasure in all the right spots, wanting to feel it in all the spots left as well? You like my style? Oh yeah, I know you do, baby. And trust me, I can go on like this all night long, and when I say long I mean long. Make you long for my schlong, I will, but not in a demeaning way. No, not in a demeaning way at all – I expect you to treat my penis with great respect. And I deserve respect. I’ve had nuns confuse me with God while I spurted my missionaries in them (“Oh God! Oh God! Oh Gooooooooood!”), and they’d know, wouldn’t they? So if you wanna, you know, wanna maybe ifyouwant maybe stroke it a bit? Stroke it and stroke it and
An idea for a literary parlour game for when I get famous and hang out with all the famous writers:
An idea that is probably offensive but I’ve had sex with nuns so what do I care:
The game is as follows:
You know, all this punctuation is reminding me to get a colonic. Grammar puns! I AM A GENIUS. No, nope… Continue with the game:
There is a pile of cards on the table, and on each card is a paragraph of seemingly nonsensical prose. Players choose a card, have thirty seconds to analyse it, and then must determine who wrote what was on the card. Name of the game: James Joyce or Stroke Victim?
Could’ve been more offensive, probably.
It’s Sunday afternoonevening as I write this. It wasn’t Sunday afternoonevening when I started writing this, but nor was it afternoon either, somewhere in between. Afternoonafternoonevening. Or Afternoonafternoonafternoonevening. Like minor points on a compass. I mention this because very soon I will have to make my way across the road and watch some fireworks. There’s fireworks in the oval, or there will be. I tell you this because I want you all to know that I love a good bang.
Biographers and academics will scour this mention of fireworks. Look for symbolism. None to be found.
I feel that I’m diluting, my stream of consciousness flooding, breaking its banks. Not gonna break the banks with writing like this, no. Lazy readers. Stick to shorthand, like applause after a bad performance. Much applause for Loot, though. Ought’ve mentioned Orton, mentioning Orton now. Orton, Joe, gay not in an Enid Blyton way. Gay he says as he watches rugby union on the television. Men and men with tight shorts and wide thighs but one is unperturbed, masculinity to be found in the unlikeliest of places. Hunters dragging women back to caves, non-hunters deploying testosterone-filled metaphors. Mmm, smell the pheromones in that simile. Ooh, you like my tongue? I know somewhere I could put it, demonstrate some of my literary techniques. Fuckitsaspidernojustafalsealarm. Wanna have a shower babe but there’s a moth in the bathroom. You make me so hot when you fumigate, now bend over and spray in those hard to reach places while I access the easy ones.
Suddenlysuddenly an idea. Have sex. Can’t be fucked. Suddenlysuddenly a better idea. Stream of consciousness or waterfall of consciousness yes that sounds better I like that idea even though I know Joyce did one big sentence at the end I think can’t know for sure don’t want spoilers but I haven’t read that far but the idea of waterfall of excess of pure unadulterated not in the ten commandment way but unadulterated thought thought thought thought I’m thinking nothing I can hear the air conditioner conditioning the air not the hair that’s a gel in the bathroom where there isn’t a moth at least I hope not who needs sex just get a wife who’s an entomologist and then you want for nothing in this world air conditioner whooshing whooshing suddenlysuddenly matchmaking advertisement on television could be coincidence could be evidence of a deity depends on perspective didn’t have the best of that when I saw Loot not sitting in the front row or anywhere near the front row even though got a season ticket at the yearstart that’s a good word saves on syllables much more efficient that way crappy movie is back on television but it’s on mute makes it hard to concentrate if I uhh-uhh-uhh-uhh-uhh-uhh-think-uhh-uhh-uhh concentrate on uhh-uhh pretty girl on television with gun wouldn’t want her shooting in the bathroom though and probably hard to hit moth with gun shoot moth with gun I mean hitting it’s not as hard one guesses though should never assume really should talk about the play reader probably getting bored bored when will this guy talk about the play my god why am I still reading the review of a nun-fucker a joke yes here’s a joke to keep you happy what do you call a ninja who has sex with women of god well what do you call them I’ll tell you you call them a nunchucker nunfucker now wait for laugh no laugh they probably thought that too offensive the conservative bastards like those in the audience and the guy next to me with the terrible body odour like having a picnic at the doors of hell wished he would’ve washed or something I mean you expect a better class of person at the theatre the-ah-tre you know yes the-ah-tre yes that sounds gay in a Joe Orton way gonna get murdered in my sleep now by a crazy boyfriend because that’s karma for you isn’t it getting murdered by a boyfriend you didn’t even know you had and didn’t get to have sex with not that I swing that way not that I’ve been doing much swinging at all except on the playground not in a paedophile way already done a joke about that try not to rehash stuff Adam because it bores the reader and now I’m really hungry I think I’m going to get myself some dinner maybe think over the play a bit more maybe think think haven’t done much thinking lately blinking lately tinkling lately no I did just go to the toilet and there was no moth take that fate you bastard I managed to pee in peace what if you could pee in pieces now that’d be interesting I wonder how that would work maybe I could make that my new year’s resolution and worry about it after the yearstart yearstart see that’s a good word I think I’m going to keep using it make it catch on you know enter a word into the language like Shakespeare did oh god Shakespeare always used a liberal amount of punctuation what am I doing all the readers will be going gotta cut the cord Adam can’t give a damn about the readers but what’s the point if there’s no readers like felling a tree in a forest and not making any noise or a table out of it I am a genius Iamageniusgeniusgenius god am I hungry airconditioner whooshing getting cold body running out of fuel to keep itself warm what if we ran on petrol then we’d really be fucked what with global warming oh no global warming oh no world getting hotter oh no water running out oh no no more waterfall of consciousness what a shame.
Loot. Flute. Butanol. Cute. Mute. Loot. Nothing much to say really. Enjoying the punctuation again, though. Good stuff, punctuation. Helps out sometimes. Colonical, it is. Want another punctuation joke? You’ll like this one. Thought of it while masticating. Dinner was lovely, thanks for asking. Turn the airconditioner off now. And here’s the joke:
I present to you, the life of a woman:
Funny, right? Where’s everyone going what about my sex. Fuck.
Academics will count the number of full stops to see if there’s symbols in that. There isn’t. Get a life. No wonder Patrick White was bemused by it all.
I AM A GENIUS still not working.
Suddenlysuddenly this isn’t anything like Ulysses. Why do Ulysses when talking about Loot? Nothing in common with each other. Common cold. Ever have a high-class cold? The Royal Flu. The Royal Tissue Holder. Blow, Your Majesty. I’m not going to blow your majesty. Wait not a republic yet. Okay, prince, unzip. Eww.
I like this idea of reviewing. Be critical of everything but the play. Don’t even mention play. Saves having to think. What if one outsourced thinking. Simple. Everyone would think in an Indian accent. Not racist if it’s true. Nigger. White boy. Quite a few women in orchestras. Everyone’s white, though. Indian guy at the Sydney Symphony on Friday. Good concert. Dvorak’s New World Symphony. Lalala. Can’t remember the theme. Themes.
Loot. Fucked that up, mentioned it.
Caroline Craig in the play. Knew of her from Blue Heelers. Actress. Director. Bon vivant. Kicked her and the entire cast she was rehearsing with from a rehearsal room once. True story. Inadvertently. Not mean, I am. Average. Though same thing depending on your definition. Why is there no dinosaur called a thesaurus? Why do Joyce’s characters think so eloquently? Formula One on the tellie. Gentlemen prefer blondes and abbreviations. Acronyms for sissies but let’s not get talking about sisters and nuns again. Drivers don’t look like they know about chemistry. Typical. Craig’s a weird last name. Or is it? Never met a Craig. Talked to her once. Passing by to apologise for delay as she cleared out of the rehearsal room. Is that bias? Buy us a bus and go fuck yourself. Said the id to the ego. Get asked for a passport and give someone your soul. Modernism about finding your soul up your ass, it is. Back to the colon again. Life is punctuation. Comma-comma-comma-chameleon.
Josh McConville too. He’s good news, winkwinknudgenudge PunchBuggy blue. Good news in a wake up to him in the weekend supplement of the local newspaper feature article seems interesting kind of way, be all Enid Blyton about it not Joe Orton. Did I hear a noise at the door? Still scared of the dark sometimes. Not around streets but late at night in the house just before going to bed when walking down a dark hallway to the only light coming from my bedroom and feel the void at your back. Should wire the house so there’s a second light switch for each light in my bedroom, can turn them all out when I close the door, that’d work. Extra button to summon the bug killer. Should wire the telegram the letter the why don’t I send a fan letter to Tom Stoppard for writing Travesties – same director Richard Cottrell – same actor William Zappa, make for a good bug killer he would. Or a feminelectrosadomasochist. Introduce that word after the yearstart.
Can’t believe that guy with the body odour. Should bottle it and use it as a weapon. The Manhattan Project. All by myself at the theatre. Probably best not to take a date, wouldn’t want date thinking I smelt. Smelt bad. Can’t afford the ticket anyway. No ticket to England either. Stoppard’s there. Like a limbless leopard, Stoppard. Halt Tom. Need his autograph before he dies. Tricky business at a graveyard if I have to get it after he says hello to God. Probably meet a few nuns I know up there. If heaven is a sin-free place does that allow for gossip? What’s the goss, boss?
Coffins, eh? Quite a lot of coughing in the theatre, rather large coffin too. Always good to have an excuse for a pun, fun it is, puns. Coffin centre stage then off then on then off then on then I didn’t keep track. Only off and on once actually. Shut up the reader won’t notice.
Play wasn’t as good as Travesties. Enjoyable enough. Travesties the high watermark not that theatre is drowning.
Wake up. Stop dreaming. The cars will be here soon. A second wife would be an impossibility. Polygamy quite the faux pas. Not very Enid Blyton. Stop using that joke it’s wearing thin like some of your socks not that anyone knows. Now everyone does. But keep them in the shoes and everything’ll be fine. Don’t go to houses where you have to take shoes off, right. I’ve got personal property in there, say. Try to keep a straight face. Try not to corpse.
Not going to go through the whole play like that. Bonus points for those who picked up what was happening. Bonus points to the director and actors, the only ones who would know.
Was at the fireworks alone. Sitting on the grass alone. A lone blade of grass next to me, surrounded by a million other loner blades of grass. Nature’s nerds. Bang bang bang sex. Duck duck goose. Fuck fuck floozy everybody wins and gets herpes. Break out in joy. Why is Joy the name of a girl but not Misery. Never met a Joy. Met a lot of misery. Empathise, reader, empathise.
Robin Goldsworthy. Sounds like a con artist jeweller. Darren Gilshenan. Getting sick of him. See him in every second play it seems. Definitely every minute play. The White Guard, and I thought I was racist. Elling emming lemming. Suicide the myth of the rock pusher cock crusher barely use it anyway.
Second half better than the first. Never exactly a half, though, like the midpoint of… Wonder how to determine the midpoint of a life. Too much information.
Stately, plump Adam came from the stairhead, bearing a satchel of undefined colour on which his hand and hip pocket lay crossed. A grey jumper, girdled, was sustained on his body by the perfectly-climate-controlled Opera House air. He held his ticket aloft and intoned:
Halted, he peered down the dark straight stairs and called up coarsely, then stopped before noise came out. He felt as if he was about to plagiarise, and so stopped himself again. I’ll be consoling myself if I’m needed. And be careful what I talk about in front of the dead. Joyce was catholic, right? Seemed to have a healthy obsession with it otherwise. How many great writers of fiction were atheists, I wonder. The militant kind. The kind that thinks they know. Knowing is the unattainable. Herpes, on the other lip, is easily contracted. Don’t even have to pay overtime. Play only went two hours, not two hours and five as stated in Program Standard Time. Women get pissed when I tell them about PST. Misinformation the Accidental Evil. Intentional evil a lot more fun, much less guilt ridden.
Rode through the first act, funny not hilarious not ha-ha can’t breathe having an asthma attack get me a puffer. One Man, Two Guvnors, streamed via voodoo from the National Theatre in England ready to fellate your highness once more no that was a dream no that was a Freudian joke no I didn’t tell you that – bless you. Achoo! Politer if you get it in beforehand. That’s what she said, said the nun to the bishop. Moving diagonally down the row of seats, at interval, one sees Kevin Jackson. Twice now I’ve mentioned him in a review. Only four more times getting a stamp on my loyalty card and I officially become a stalker! Wonder what he thought. Wonder what I thought. Still haven’t thought about that.
Formula One is coming to an end. Had a warmup lap. Could’ve come to a start if it wanted to. Premature ejaculation and all that. Come on, I’m only one man, one man and two guvnors, funny ha-ha asthma puffer, it was. Funnier than Loot. Bit of a disappointment, not that the play was bad. Had high expectations. Like a pregnancy on Mount Everest.
But it was enjoyable, the second imperfect-half – size wise not quality – was rather amusing, lathering me with comedy and sudsy fun to a scummy scene. Suddenlysuddenly would Joe Orton have had a blog?
I AM A GENIUS. Nope. Thought I’d snuck that in there, got caught, still have to use a condom, rubber, slack tensioned first half, many of the scenes felt a bit flat, something like that, not shiny but matte, less top hat more bat, seemed fast not that I was hungry, had lunch on the train, thankfully no rain, much less pain with much more gain, sadomasochism out of fashion unless you’re an old actor.
Three laps remaining. Fap-fap-fap. Premature ejaculation isn’t a problem, biologically wonderful, in and out with little fuss, here comes baby. Formula One has nothing to do with Loot, neither does Ulysses, nothing does most of this review. Who cares. Writer’s enjoying himself. Or herself. I’m a man but my alter ego is equal opportunity. Maybe if it has a vagina I can take it on a date, only have to pay for the one seat. Buy one glass of wine get two people drunk. Probably weird kissing a mirror. On the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? Me and I need a tan but don’t want the cancer.
Woman next to me, not me, not my alter ego, apologised to someone, me perhaps, maybe a husband, maybe the audience in general, apologising only in passing, apologising for cackling like an extra in Macbeth. Sniffed the body odour but no apologetic aroma.
Hello good morning konichiwa cheerleaders on television. Korean. Wonder if they have bogans in Korea. Still no moths.
Everyone kept their clothes on in the play. Except the mannequin. Good to have them get their kit off sometimes. Like in The Mysteries: Genesis. Crappy play but good to have a squiz, see how the other half lives, no chance to jizz, and so it comes – comes – back to sex, the procreative recreative palliative ever-active non-radioactive
Waste of champagne, on the podium at the Formula One. Think of the Ethiopians who want for Brut. Moet for Mozambique. Bubbly for Botswana. Looty brutey, brutes abound around the stage off the page Hal and Dennis the unconsummated Bly without the ton, can play chess as white or black, know what I mean. Fay the nurse the hearse the lorry the fraud the broad the breasts and the rest the cross and cross
I AM A GENIUS. Believing it less as time goes onandonandonandonandon
Suddenlysuddenly do I need a synopsis? Fuck it. Inter-genre I am. Have sex with any kind of literature. Like the expensive modernists, roll around the ink-pulp with a thriller if needs be. No one will understand what’s going on anyway, no need for synopsis.
And another thing. I forget.
Such wit, such humour – read a few of his plays before, but this the first I’ve seen, didn’t read it beforehand, nor afterhand, might give it a go sometime, life busy and all that. Joyce and Orton, seem like interesting people, interesting to have as friends, talk to. Their personas, anyway. Literature is seduction, literature is comehithermadamnowbendover. Why comedy needs time to warm up lube up justproceduremadam oooh doctor.
Literature is competition. Survival of the fittest. Not in the short term, perhaps, but over the ages. Books above the legal drinking age subject to natural selection. Congratulations, you can have sex, you can drink, you can die. Got to foist it up there, go digital. Back to the punctuation. Dotdotdotdashdashdashdotdotdot clearly one has nothing to say. One is pretentious. One must inspect their sphincter. Sniff sniff hello puppy.
Sydney Theatre Company. Should mention them at some point. Cate Blanchett and the husband. Nun’s don’t act. Rich, though. Is stage money like Monopoly money, or is it real? Need cash get smashed be brash.
Litter-litter-litter-ah-too-er, prise open those eternal doors, be Nobel about it. Edible swedes. I AM A give up. You hear Dedalus you hear Joyce on Shakespeare? Rattle the weapons prepare for battle-attle-attle-hey! Tralalala impossible to remember music impossible to remember the set. Memory’s not what it used to be – news to me. Update up-to-date. Who took out the number? Seven ate nine.
Procreate, recreate, fragmentate. Frag-men-tate. Break up but I’m already single, sitting on that grass alone that lonely seat that plusoneminusone symphony. No accomplices, then. Steal the stage money. Out of the coffin the casket the pockets – the pockets? no – the floor off the floor could throw it into the audience keep it between these three walls good line that. Lines like a shot to the heart, the epigrammatic epipen, ought to tell them that. Orton good for that, notsomuch withstanding murder. Everyone fails at something. Hard to fail at life when you’re never tested. Need examinations to pass existence. Pass the chips, I’m hungry.
Crunch munch time for brunch had a sleep midway through don’t you know. All an illusion, elision, ll n llsn. Remove your bowel from the premises, good sir, let us axiomate from some finer smelling origins. He really stank, that guy – assume it was a guy, don’t get many broads flaunting their stench, at least not natural smells. Gag-de-cologne. Eau-de-gag. Homophone humour. Waft of aftershave. Sqsch-sqsch mist.
Demystify the play, Adam. Don’t bore the reader. Don’t let the excess fluid in the brain cavity escape. Excess fluid? Said the nun to the bishop. Move diagonally. Done that. Your move. Religion a tricky topic. Piss off and you get blown up. Always best to go in the toilet, don’t let anyone else see. Unless you’re into that, said the aristocrats. Royally fucked I was getting into the theatre. Trackwork on the line, don’t you know. Take the bus, rub against the busts of the general unwashed. Germ, germ, Captain Hygiene not to the rescue he’s on holidays at the moment can I take a message? Stay calm, sir, please, panicking is helping no one. You say what is crawling all over you? You can’t see them but you know they’re there. I see, sir. Seen them under the microscope, you say? Have you thought of soap? Sudsy, sudsy suddenlysuddenly the play, the play, look boss, the play!
Laughter’s a lot like crying. No it isn’t.
I AM A GENIUS and will never amount to anything. Cash register with no plus key. Keykeykeyquay why is it called Circular what’s so geometrical about it. Geometry in everything, they say. No one listens. More truths than science, what. And these lights, and the lights of the laptop, the screen, glowing, glowingflowinggoinggone. Have to replace the battery at some point. Refill ammo. Ten bullets. Twenty bullets. Thirty – do they come in ten – forty fifty sixty sixties set in the sixties it was how about that. Don’t know about the sixties, wasn’t born then thank god because
I AM A GENIUS who has been born in the age of the internet, saw it from when I was little, saw the internet rise, surely what I write will be important because the times are important. Yes. No. Yes. No. Schizoid parallelogram. Often thought I’m an artist without a civilization. Greeks don’t make anything worthwhile now, do they? Can’t even run a country. But back when powerful Euripides Sophocles Aeschylus wonder if they’re all Greek it’s all Greek to me least I didn’t say Chekhov that’d make me look stupid.
David Williamson! Makes one wish euthanasia was legal.
No civilisation in Australia, no power, best country to live in they say, survey after survey, sometimes, possibly made that up, but not powerful. Need to be American-Chinese one of them going to be the winner but maybe not, maybe civilisation is now the internet, maybe I reflect the internet I give up. Life too complicated I just need to steal my way through hide the money back to the play.
Slowly gradually crawling stepbystepbystep hop jump skip convinced that this will be the worst review written. Makes sense to me, but only sense, not cents, not dollars, sigh. Psychiatrist better than a diary perhaps. Tell them about myself. Have a whinge a whine a nice long warm complaint with bubbles. Tell me about the play. Well, Marcia – that’s her name – I don’t know what was wrong, just too fast or something, illtimed in the first act but second act good welltimed no scene change but sudden difference.
Suddenlysuddenly what if I was an undertaker. Should fire an undertaker, see if they’ve got the balls to feel grief. Undertakers probably good with bugs, worms at least. McConville, sounds Scottish, got a bit of that in me too. And Danish. Both the pastry and the nationality ethnicality ethnicity that’s it.
God how I wish I was at school, able to make up words in essays. Said that in another review most likely. Damn. Hell. Wouldn’t do well in hell, not swell at all. Too hot, my skin would burn. Don’t want to get cancer now. Gotta have some sense.
Because it all makes sense to me. One wonders if I’m doing the same as Joyce, except without story. Story holds it all together. Like a vice grip trip dip rip sip thirsty. The homophonic slide glide tried and true what do you do when the modernists have done everything. Can’t run back, won’t get anywhere that way. Can’t shock, people done that. No shock to the Orton, either, would’ve been back then, maybe. Sydney Symphony Tea and Symphony complimentary tea that’s free as well auditorium and foyer filled with octogenarians that would’ve been shocked maybe. Should do sex on stage, pay to see that, long as I could get a concession Under 30 something like that. Idea for a play, name: Conception. Enough said.
But still I ramble. But I say nothing. But I think everything. But, but, be a lot of them on stage, yespleasemadam porn is nice. Religion the opiate of the masses porn the handjob. Wanna see bits wanna see tits wanna see slits and a surprising lack of sex for a play that was meant to shock, what?
Decorum must be maintained. And what is decorum? Latin for interior design, probably. Oh, darling, I mean, this place is caveat emptor fabulous est e pluribus unum. Whoever your decorumer is you must simply give me his name, I’ll have one of the slaves sent round for him. Vogue, darling, vogue, dahling. Got you these dahlias darling. Good flowers on the stage, floral arrangements. Love a good floral arrangment. Forall. Frallo. Lolfar. Splendiferous. Sounds like a tree that grows cryptic internal organs. Got wood? Just for you, babe. Forall.
Milk it forall it’s worth. Not enough milking, maybe, maybe that’s why. The comedy. Who knows. Easy to write a review when you don’t know anything. Expect to go through life – the first time, at least – knowing nothing. Hope there’ll be a second, probably never know. Christianity not much for reincarnation of the masses. Only the boss gets the privileges. Executive suite, skimpy women and edge pools above the penthouse could write sitting next to one of those the edge pools not the women though I’ve never really tried both.
Must write must write can’t stop must write must must write write tango tango no that’s not it how about a waltz must-write-write must-write-write must-write-write must-write-write. Wish I could see Vienna. Europe. Her breasts. My point in life. The direction one must go, must flow, must write, must fight for what right?
Is this a review or a eulogy.
Had an idea once. Wrote it down because I don’t have many. The idea:
The idea that I had once:
The idea that I wrote down because I don’t have many:
Get famous writers, put them all in one room. Dinner party partay hey hey! Shakespeare. Chekhov. Ibsen. Proust. Kafka.
Talk to Shakespeare all night. Chekhov and Ibsen and Proust and Kakfa don’t speak English.
Get successful writers, put them all in one room. David Williamson. Joanna Murray-Smith. Fill the room with water.
No your honour, what I wrote on my blog was meant for comedic purposes only. I had no idea Mr Williamson was drowned in his bathtub.
Art is the saving grace saving face and my party trick is to defecate jelly beans. Not enough fibre in the diet. Been fasting. Farcing. What a farce it was. Wrote a farce once. Almost finished it. Probably no good. First real attempt at a play. Only written one full length play. Tragedy. Both senses of the word. Full length and by that I mean full length not your no-interval nonsense, got to be long, like certain other things in life, longlonglongshortshortshortlonglonglong anyone else in distress? Ready and waiting. Waiting for the play to start. Waiting for everyone to take their seats. Don’t know where they’re going with them, usher should probably put a stop to that. Ticket ripper ticket stripper. I’d like to buy a concession return to the naughty line. Make it a single, feeling lucky. Roll the dice then wait, writing. Roll and never know. Always waiting. Waiting for the audience. Should observe. Should characterise. Now’s the chance for characterisation fuckit.
Take a fucking shower, dude. Too old to be a dude. Half the problem. Cease your cesspool.
I’m young. I smell nice. Nouveau aromatique. Should start a movement. When walking down the road of life, stop and smell the roses. But that is literature, isn’t it? The good stuff. Not the destination but the trip drip drip drip journey. Who cares about the two roads lets play in the yellow wood. Genius diverges or does it.
But I’m young. Fresh. I have time. But do I? Two and a half, three hours most likely. Entertain, make them forget their own lives, think of another’s. You only live in your world, but when you walk through those doors, when you get your ticket ripped stripped by that usher… You only live in your world, it’s in my world that you feel. Two hours, three hours, all that I ask. Come in, come in, finish having sex then sit down. Stop living start feeling. My world – the universe in an hourglass.
Orton was young, had time, but didn’t. Axe to the hourglass. Mustwritemustwritemust
Light! An idea. Gone. Snuffed. Coffin. Casket. Internal organs. Commode. Chair. Window. Door. Closet. Bed. Mannequin. Pouffe. Portrait. Chair. Mirror. Chair. Blind. Curtain. Oh and don’t forget to get milk while you’re there, dear. That’s a good boy.
Not a boy I AM A GENIUS God help me. This ambition this condition this perdition. Roll the dice then suffer. Put it all on black and wait for the wheel to never stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop slowingslowing nope stopstopstop…
To be at peace to pee in pieces to compartmentalise the desires the urging the tears the existence.
Oh to be a shepherd. Oh to be a shepherd. Oh to subsist, assist, persist, then desist. Me? A writer?
An idea not involving punctuation:
The Arts Council Asylum for Artists Afflicted with Eternity.
Creativity as a mental illness. Electroshocktherapy. That was in another play. Butlers.
But when will it all stop? Hope: Shakespeare retired. Diverging nothing but an opportunity to converge. Consubstantiality with the aether that artists mine. Joyce used it. Choice. Boisterous audience. Air your tawdry laundry with four hundred others so anonymous. Police have no sketch. The Library Book Defacer of ’56. Efface. Efficacious. Structure. Organisation.
A boy caught dog. Elephant fondled giraffe. Hi, I’m Joe. Knitting knapsack killed – killed – lately. Must not opine. Perhaps Queen rescues societal tracker under view. Welcome X-Ray, you’ll…you’ll… Zed. Get some sleep, lesson over.
I AM. I AM what? Not as good as him, him, him, better than her, not a sexist but a sexer. The pantheon of literature past, masturbation of literature future, genius of literature now, now, me, please be me, praying not much help probably. Pee in pieces but peace of mind.
He, the third person, watched saw laughed tittered giggled left. Smelt of metal. Poured liquid gold from his pores, the Midas of the Middleground Twiddleground Riddleground.
Oh my god did I tell you about the time I saw that play that play whatsit the name hang on yes Loot, that’s it, yes Loot, saw it oh like the other day week can’t remember now isn’t that funny how life passes you by like that just goes whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosh.
The air conditioner cools the tear the nothing the lachrymal lack. In the house of remembrance and remember the house of constructed reality, the shell, the landmark. Always look up.
Hello? Hello? Oh. Yes. I’m calling from Australia. I found your number in the phone book. This is Mr Stoppard? Just wanted to say I’m a big fan.
Big fan, reason I got into theatre, you. I-I-I…you’ve heard of me? Like my work? Oh Mr Stoppard Mr Stoppard how lachrymose you make me! Yes I’d love to meet. That sounds great. Okay. Okay. See you then.
Whoooooooosh. The seduction of dreams. Siren of the subconscious. Grab at the ethereal.
Grab that rehearsal room. Already met Caroline Craig. Did meet a Craig. Nurse Fay.
But what is the motive. Won’t make me happy, doubt it. Satisfied but sad. Unaimed ambition like peeing while blind. Splatter splatter abstract masterpiece! Yellow name in the eternal snow. Swirl underneath. Make it unique. But more importantly, sirs, madams, transvestites and undefined, do eunuchs make art?
A grammatical theory:
A theory off the cuff, ladies and gentlemen:
Art is cultural procreation. Children are the backup plan.
Did you hear Dedalus on Shakespeare? Survived. Alive. Meet him one day. Hear he’s bit of a recluse. Hell, so am I! Get along fine, we will. Get along get alone. Where’s the intelligentsia when you need them. Noses in books. Deface them maybe. The broken needs to be broken. Break the language. Tear asunder a sundry when’s the cricket coming back?
I AM A GENIUS. Break the language. Dismantle the grammar. Deodorise the imagery. Take a shower of words, syllables, phonics. The Phonic Tonic, For All Your Vocabularial Needs. To make the language do whatever you want. Make this sound, make this noise, make this tear this giggle this stunned silence. The power beneath the ink. Br ea k it u p.
‘Cause they want to hide this money, right. ‘Cause they put it in the coffin, right. ‘Cause they ’cause they oy vey synopses for the interested. Classics need no intro outro techno psycho. Asylum for the Never Good Enough. Palliative care for the souls with no talent. Rubber suits for those with the spark of genius. Never apologise for laughing for cackling you’re meant to. Nothing less serious than life. Laugh at Truscott, inspector extraordinaire. Why do critics insist on talking about the play? Cut the umbilical cord already. Tie the cord in the crib. Truss-cot. Punishable by no attention.
Father gets it in the end, ha-ha, slapstick all the way, ha-ha, choreographed to a tee, ha-ha, waltz and waltz with me, ha-ha.
There was character in Travesties, he told me. Smudged in this one, I think. The mind not as diverse a zoo. Who knows. Sontag knew nothing. Buy a racehorse name it Content. Look it up in the Form.
So she says to me, she says to me, right, she goes and says, yes, says I know can you believe it she actually went and said to me yes to me can you believe what she said? Belief. Faith. Gamble on yourself, do all you can to stack the odds. Stack ’em rack ’em track ’em. Talent nothing without
Just a kid you were you are. Instantaneous infant. Fluttering foetus. Stone of the womb. To be born to be birthed to be blessed to be dressed to be educated to be punished to be kissed to be loved to be respected to be cancered to be dead. From wombstone to tombstone. Life in the cracks.
Hngh. Hnghrh. Mooooe. Moooe oh mooe brrg. God oh god oh brrg. Hnghrhrhrh. Fieww viuee fieww viuee fieww viuee. Ha. Haa. Hee. Hoo. Hee. Hoo. The Despairing Existentialist, a sketch.
It is blank before me I see. The voided void, the blanked blank, the
And when one gets old, and when one finds oneself drinking tea copiously, and when one finds oneself doing the things they thought they’d never do, and when one finds oneself with no energy to hate, and when one finds oneself discarding envy and jealousy and all those verdant viruses, and when one finds oneself with their hand leaning on heaven’s door as they look on the horizon behind them, and when one finds oneself alone, and when one finds oneself bereft of the time that one thought would never run out, and when one finds oneself counting the minutes and not the years, and when one finds oneself thinking over the legacy and genetic remnants, and when one finds oneself unable to move from the pain, and when one finds oneself thinking on the love had rather than the love to come, and when one finds oneself content or angry or sad or ecstatic or all of them, and when one finds oneself presented with the record, and when one finds oneself tallying one’s accomplishments, and when one finds oneself remembering how long and how quick it all seemed, and when one finds oneself as a sixteen year old in an eightyfive year old body, and when one finds oneself and one’s youth looking through aged windows at the world, and when one finds oneself having made nothing left nothing been nothing, then think, think oh aged and neverold one, think: life is in the yearning. The False God of the Goalposts yields no miracles at the last.
So laugh at the bumbling crooks. Fumbling kooks. Crumbling stumbling tumbling. And one day in the mirror you’ll see your ancestors stare back at you and then existence will be but a memory.
Our Father who ought to be in heaven otherwise I’m going to be bloody pissed off I tell you what, hollowed be thy name if that’s the case and you’ve been leading me up the Eden path this whole time, thy kingdom better be there when I come, thy will be done though I didn’t know you had lawyers, in my house as it is in yours though you’ve probably got a better television. Give us this day our daily bread and chips and fruit and water and hell why not throw in a computer a car a helicopter while you’re at it, and forgive us our trespasses even if it was a shortcut and the police didn’t believe me, as we forgive those who trespass against us ha sure as hell not going to do that, and lead us not into temptation unless the prize behind door number three is really good, but deliver us from evil though not through the local post because you wouldn’t believe how slow they are takes them two weeks to send out a stamp. For thine is the kingdom what with your name on the front and all, and the power probably more efficient up there with the solar cells closer to the sun, and the glory glory hallelujah, for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and breathe and, Amen.
Because art is a shroud over death, and as shrouds go this was a proud one loud two.
Toot its own horn, Loot. Toot-toot.
Train homeward bound. Trip just a round. Bus too with that damn cratk no rtkca no trackwork. Ought to mention Orton done that body odour done that female laughing done that play good done that what else. Keep mentioning. Mention the unmentionables. Statistically thirty women in the audience were menstruating at the time. Statistically twenty five males were planning to fertilise them. Can’t see the trees for the pheromones. Hairamoans. Whore’o’moans.
You there, you there sir with the discriminating taste, I value your opinion, that’s why I read you, did you know? That’s why I read (reed) sorry read (red) you, you know? Haven’t posted for some time, though, from what I can see.
Because life ends not with a bang but a bit of shoosh and quiet please I’m trying to think.
Went to a modernist tea party once where they only served coffee.
The Importance of Being Earnest is the thing. There’s plenty of time for detachment when you’re six feet underground on the train the tunnels going by whoosh like the air conditioner quite chilly but I don’t mind, the cold increases the solitude. Plenty of that in the coffin when the dummy isn’t wonder if it was mistreated by an actor wink wink blink blink didn’t see a thing don’t know what you’re talking about. Tried batting my eyelashes once and scored a six.
Did the play, they did, in the year of our Lord though not yours nineteeneightyeight. Was one with the world then. Quarterlife ago. Wonder what’ll happen after yearstart. Catching on.
Really don’t know what the problem was, just know there was one. Don’t need to be an expert to know the table’s a bit wonky said John to his son. And they laughed and laughed and then disappeared like everyone will. The judgement will come. Every day is judgement day for the critic, huzzah! For thine is the power, thine is the talent, thine is the body odour.
Because these crooks just wanted to go on holidays, just wanted to go to Portugal was it? But you don’t, you don’t want a break, you want to work hard, but work hard at what you want to work hard at, not what society wants you to. Society. Scoff, damn you, scoff. And when one finds oneself old and no longer angry at the world, one will realise how little it meant, that art didn’t change the love didn’t change the good didn’t change the
World weary and young, you are, the second person and I am the first. All the world’s a stage and begob there’s a lot of bad theatre on it, but not this, but yet no exemplar. Just have to be a firework. Rocket up explode and be no more.
I AM A GENIUS hee hoo hee hoo. Be objective, sir, only deploy subjectivity when needed.
Bell, bell the ding-dong ring-ding bell the actor, the aged one, the youth inside the carcass, bell that bell, said that Shakespeare was one to sit in the corner, not one of the boisterous crowd. Bell said. Bell chimes and we all pay the toll. Shakespeare the corner-sitter corner-shitter, stooling on a stool as he absorbs the world around. Bell comes round with the receipt, fee, see? Shakespeare thinks it a load of crap. Fee? Call that a fee? Doesn’t matter.
She. She had romantic notions, she. Determined to express herself unmammarially, she took up the paper and the quill, the feather being the most romantic and representing the hoped flights of fancy. He looked from the keyboard, from the radiation, and dismissed it then couldn’t stop thinking about it. Such is the way, son, such is the way.
Art the equaliser. Art the money-can’t-buy.
Who are these people? Who are these souls that flit by? Cannibalise the figments, self-sustain through the art. Because the world is, the world is.
That Ulysses, eh, that Loot, eh, and what about that Shakespeare, knowwhatImean saynomore.
Makes you think, dunnit? Oi! Oi, you mate! Oi wot ya doin’ bro? Goin’ ta tha theer-tar? Well aren’t youse all ooh-la-la! And may I inquire, dear sir, as to what you will be spending your time doing this fine evening? Oi! Listen ta tha way he talks! I’m gonna be farking chicks mate, ooh yeah, ooh yeah, yeah, look at me go oh yeah gonna give her a little spankin’ little pain pull her hair as I fark her from behind right boys? Then I gonna wake up in da morning, fark her again, then get her ta make me breakky, yeah. This is da life, man, this is da life!
A life, one life.
No, Molly, no look I’m stuck in the house Lachlan’s got a cold and so I’m all at battle stations you know and then Billy’s got a friend over and they’re running outside and we haven’t got those safety mats installed on the trampoline yet so I keep having to scream at them every ten seconds and Doug’s not home from work yet and he was meant to be an hour ago and I can’t get him on the phone and dinner’s starting to burn let me just stir it and how’s your day been har-har, yes, yes, oh, I know, yes Billy Stay In The Middle How Many Times Do I Have To Tell You, sorry what, yes
Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, how they all fit in up there. Bunk beds probably. Militarial.
Loot, Loot, but the boot in haven’t got the heart haven’t got the sole. Nothing much to kick at flick at.
Because culture, culture is what separates us, culture is what separates us from the uncultured. Tautological, sounds like a pasta. Minister, forgive me, for I have sinned again and again and oh it felt so good, like shooting everybody on the bus and throwing them out, leaving just you and you alone, bus driver excepted, leaving you on your quest for a solitudinous life must get a wife get a rich one get a patron a matron no patron. All enquiries can be directed to my receptionist no wait. Get a sponsor for a receptionist, then ask for patronage. Do things the hard way.
The writer that wants to communicate without talking to anyone, sound familiar? Actors, on the other quill… To be awed either way.
And you just want to finish, just want to get it done, but if you do then you know there’s something else waiting, another person in the queue, another query in the line, another time for the mind, another find for the soul. Don’t make an assonance of yourself, no rhyme or reason to it through it chicken blew it. And where would we be without structure? Imagine if the architects went on strike. The world without form, content and discontent, convenient.
So you clap at the end get off the bus watch television wake up keep writing, and you enjoyed yourself, you did, yes, but there was no inspiration, and that’s a hard act to follow. Really shouldn’t stalk actors. Stage meetings and all that. Oh, fancy meeting you here and me with this pen and paper for you to autograph fancy that. No, could never do it, don’t think.
But talk about the play, just once, just mention it once, just ry.
I AM A GENIUS don’t need to. But have. And did. And isn’t.
Begin shutdown procedures. Passengers, please return to your seats, yes, you sir, please go back I know you you’re in N8 please make your way there now sir we’ll be landing shortly. Next stop. The train on platform gobbledigook. Now’s your chance. Now’s the time when you have to speak. Surely you have something to say? An aperitif. A bon mot. Some good dust, I trust.
And then there was only the memory. Feeble one at that.
Gather round children. Have some candy.
One day, one day there was a man, or maybe a boy, depending on how you look at it, and this man or boy decided to go to the theatre. Well! What a trouble he had getting there, what with the trains not being on time, what with the trackwork that meant he had to take a bus, what with the long walk to the Opera House on the rather hot day, can you imagine? And then there was the man in the theatre that he had to squash past, and then there was the woman who laughed, and then there was the man with the body odour who was probably the same man that he had to squash past, and then there was the little bit of a headache that he had but it wasn’t worth mentioning, and then the play started and he had rather a good time. But not the greatest time he’d ever had, no, no, not like getting presents at Christmas oh my goodness how exciting! But he enjoyed himself, this man or boy, enjoyed himself and was satisfied that he hadn’t wasted his money on a ticket. Then he had to leave, then he had to go home, walking back through the hot sun, riding all the way on the train, getting on the bus, driving himself home, and then when he got home, when he got home he just collapsed on the couch, just fell down right then and there he did, like a robot that’s run out of batteries! I know! And do you know what he did next, children, do you know what he did? He thought about his life, he thought about the play he’d just seen, he thought about so many things, and then, and then when he’d thought about all that but not for too long because he was very tired after all, and then when he’d thought about all of that, he turned the television on and began to watch it, then he thought again about the play, and thought about what he thought about before he saw the play, and he thought to himself, he thought to himself, was he excited? Was he excited now? And was he excited then? Well?
8/10. Loot by Joe Orton at the Drama Theatre, Sydney Opera House, until 23rd October. Directed by Richard Cottrell. With William Zappa, Caroline Craig, Robin Goldsworthy, Josh McConville, Darren Gilshenan, Lee Jones. Set designed by Victoria Lamb. Lighting by Gavan Swift. Sound by Jeremy Silver. Photos by Heidrun Lohr.