May the farce be with you...
Today, I'm on the quest to get 'cultural'. I resist the temptation of Oxford Street (the force is strong in this one) - as enticing as it is - for a traipse to the other side of the Thames. The weather is all over the place so it's ideal to keep indoors, or close to somewhere indoors, for most of it.
I finally make it out to Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. Second time lucky. It's therapeutic returning to the works of the Bard, and I realise how much I have missed studying his canon over the last few years.
Next up, Tate Modern. It's big. It's brown. And textured. Which makes it sound like something else. Let's not go there. There's a special exhibition on Global Cities which is so Reading The City (a unit I teach) perfect that it is just fate... or a case of City Studies-flavour-of-the-decade (everybody's doing it darling). As for the rest of the gallery, there's a lot of utter bollocks in tandem to some absolute classics and what should be classics.
For instance, I include a piece - the name I cannot recall. But let me describe. Sausage rising from a tin of baked beans in a corner display. Sausage then submerges back into tin of baked beans, only to rise again about a minute later. Now I'm not sure exactly what it means, but I'll bet it's something ... profound.
When I step out of Tate Modern at 5pm, it's overcast but warm. Halfway across the Millennium Bridge - it's a whole different story. The wind picks up and it starts to piss down. My jean bottoms are drenched. I dread to think of what else lurks in the muddy water. I make a bee-line straight for St Paul's, if for nothing else than to seek refuge from the deluge. It's shut. I'm reminded of Danny Bhoy's rendition of a television evangelist: "Today, you have sinned!". Maybe it wasn't today. Maybe it was me being crabby before I left home and karma has come around to bite me in the ass...
The drowned rat dines in Chinatown.
And the crème de la crème of 'cultural' experiences... Charles Ross' One Man Star Wars Trilogy. It's like old times. Storm Trooper is in the foyer ushering in the patrons. My theory that Charles Ross - one-man extraordinaire does it all, including play Storm Trooper, goes out the window when the (one) man himself comes out - no doubt from rehearsal because he's drenched in sweat. I refrain from rugby tackling the man. Apparently by day, our Storm Trooper is a scientist. Which goes to show that those types really are all geeks. God bless the Star Wars nut.
I do the groupie thing at the end of the night to get Charles' autograph and picture. 'Groupie' consists of me, a 10 year old kid and his dad. It was weird. I have to make it clear to Charlie that I am not with 10 year old kid and his dad. The guy has spunk. Which goes to show, humour is the most attractive thing about a man (as well as his looks, and his personality, and his profession, and the clothes he wears, and ... oh I'll just stop).
I finally make it out to Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. Second time lucky. It's therapeutic returning to the works of the Bard, and I realise how much I have missed studying his canon over the last few years.Next up, Tate Modern. It's big. It's brown. And textured. Which makes it sound like something else. Let's not go there. There's a special exhibition on Global Cities which is so Reading The City (a unit I teach) perfect that it is just fate... or a case of City Studies-flavour-of-the-decade (everybody's doing it darling). As for the rest of the gallery, there's a lot of utter bollocks in tandem to some absolute classics and what should be classics.
For instance, I include a piece - the name I cannot recall. But let me describe. Sausage rising from a tin of baked beans in a corner display. Sausage then submerges back into tin of baked beans, only to rise again about a minute later. Now I'm not sure exactly what it means, but I'll bet it's something ... profound.When I step out of Tate Modern at 5pm, it's overcast but warm. Halfway across the Millennium Bridge - it's a whole different story. The wind picks up and it starts to piss down. My jean bottoms are drenched. I dread to think of what else lurks in the muddy water. I make a bee-line straight for St Paul's, if for nothing else than to seek refuge from the deluge. It's shut. I'm reminded of Danny Bhoy's rendition of a television evangelist: "Today, you have sinned!". Maybe it wasn't today. Maybe it was me being crabby before I left home and karma has come around to bite me in the ass...
The drowned rat dines in Chinatown.
And the crème de la crème of 'cultural' experiences... Charles Ross' One Man Star Wars Trilogy. It's like old times. Storm Trooper is in the foyer ushering in the patrons. My theory that Charles Ross - one-man extraordinaire does it all, including play Storm Trooper, goes out the window when the (one) man himself comes out - no doubt from rehearsal because he's drenched in sweat. I refrain from rugby tackling the man. Apparently by day, our Storm Trooper is a scientist. Which goes to show that those types really are all geeks. God bless the Star Wars nut.
I do the groupie thing at the end of the night to get Charles' autograph and picture. 'Groupie' consists of me, a 10 year old kid and his dad. It was weird. I have to make it clear to Charlie that I am not with 10 year old kid and his dad. The guy has spunk. Which goes to show, humour is the most attractive thing about a man (as well as his looks, and his personality, and his profession, and the clothes he wears, and ... oh I'll just stop).
posted by Christina at 11:58 PM
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