Currently my days are largely obsessed with the progress of MASCARA: we now have a publicity shot, thanks to Hen & Chickens beer garden and a sunny day. I'm still overwhelmed by how much as a writer I can learn from these rehearsals as each scene is tried out in different ways ~ tenderness/anger, fun/thoughtfulness, momentum/stillness ~ to vary the light & shade and find the shape. "Don't give too much away too soon - surprise the audience sometimes," is one directorial guideline. Actors paraphrase their script to find the subtext, intentions are discussed and lines tweaked with scalpel efficiency. It's a fascinating insight into the process of bringing a play off the page into performance, exhausting as well as exhilarating.

And turning elsewhere: Tim Clare brought his touring show How to be a Leader to the monthly Word of Mouth event in BOV Basement. There as six rules, apparently, from the satirically plausible to the sublimely ridiculous, all wittily expounded by Tim with ruthless certainty and powerpoint presentation. I especially liked the Margaret Thatcher rap ("Iron lay-dee? ~ do your own fucking ironing...")
Over in Bath, it was interesting for Rosie & I to see Alliance at the Rondo, since this set of 6 short plays were all penned by the Bath scriptwriting group, curated by David Lassman and directed by Hannah Drake. The quandary set was "co-operation in the 21st Century - is it possible?" and writers' responses ranged from competition between job interviewees to survival instincts afloat after a shipwreck. Some fantastically strong acting ~ step forward Oliver Millingham ~ provided plenty of laughs in several of the pieces and I especially enjoyed the story of the unstable Occupy undercover agent.

Terrific hiphop dancing in the Egg foyer before the night's performance of DNA. Hull Truck has Arts funding and writer Dennis Kelly has won awards, so I’m confident they'll easily withstand carping so.... for me the first few words (“Dead! uttered repeatedly like the opening expletive of Four Weddings & a Funeral) were the highlight of the show. It's a tale of school bullying off even the Daily Mail scale, resulting in an apparent murder and a complex evasion, provided by a morose and munching mute with a mind worthy of Miss Marple, which leads to The Cops fingering an innocent fat postman. The plot fails the first credibility test (ie what happens when suspect produces alibi and gives a description of the missing boy's associates who foistered the fake evidence on him), but more importantly the characters are neither credible nor empathetic, and the torrential banality of the dialogue made the Revenger's Tragedy seem like a haiku. Quite well performed, though, and striking set.

Still in Bath, something really good to end with: Sarah Ruhl's play In The Next Room, the third in director Laurence Boswell's American season at the Ustinov, is inspired by early medical treatment for female hysteria.It's aptly subtitled The Vibrator Play and the equipment in question may look like a primitive dental drill but it's capable, sometimes with human intervention too, of delivering sexual ecstasy on the scale of Barbarella's pleasure machine. Everyone in the story is in some state of yearning and denial, and all in differently comical ways find relief with this scientific equipment, sometimes in hilarious tableaux of suppressed emotions. Engaging characters and great dialogue, as well as deeper emotional and social strands in the narrative, ensure this is so much more than a sexy farce, and the ending is bold, beautiful, and surprisingly touching. It's fabulously well acted, superbly dressed, and the splendid double-decker set is simply inspired. Two and a half hours of sheer enjoyment: five stars, at least.

With spring fingering the Cotswold hills, Farncombe Manor is a great location for a creative writing course along with eight participants in search of their inner author. Not that we had time for more than a quick caper through the silver birch groves and banks of golden daffodils, we we were all too engrossed, over breakfast, through coffee breaks, and in the bar till nearly pumpkin-time, with writing and talking about writing. I don't know if it was the mix of personalities, the fluent interaction, the quality of writing, or all three, but this course was an absolute delight. So, many thanks Mike, Brian, Carolann, Diana, Amanda, Rosanna, Ian and David, for much mirth, many mmm moments, and a modicum of miscreancy. Missing you already...

"May contain strong language and adult themes" advises the entry ticket for bOX oF fROgs. I'd expect nothing less at these excitedly-anticipated (by me anyway) Word of Mouth poetry performances in Bristol Old Vic basement. Amphibian line-up comprised local favourites Byron Vincent and Nathan Filer with two voices new to me: A F Harrold, who eats squirrels - he isn't my cup of tea but says he isn't his either - and hilarious surrealist Rob Auton who uses props like peppers & plastic toys & sycamore leaves, and has a complicated relationship with God ("mainly because I exist and he doesn't".) Byron's emceeing is always studded with gems, and Nathan was on exuberantly spiffing form with an amazing saga inspired by that octogenarian documentarian David Attenborough and a dramatic scene involving sponges, crills, and Stephen Fry. Brilliant stuff.

Ovid's Metamorphoses, according to Pants on Fire , are as relevant to the modern world as to antiquity. Man is still violently destructive and continues to ignore the most elemental of all truths: that everything in the universe is made of the same 'stuff' and to destroy nature is to destroy ourselves. Setting the myths in the 1940s allows this classy production to contrast girly glamour with war-time action as metaphor for brutal destruction. Narcissus is a screen idol besotted with his own image, Echo a smitten usherette, and Theseus a shell-shocked soldier sent to slay a Guernica-like Minotaur made of crutches and gas-masks. Pants On Fire have been touring this slick production for eighteen months and it arrived at the Ustinov this week with a collection of awed reviews from both sides of the Atlantic: not surprising, with six dynamic performers, clever set, stylish costumes, and tales as witty and ingenious as they are poignantly provocative.

FairyMonsterGhost is Tim Crouch's trilogy of monologues ostensibly to clarify Shakespeare's plays for young audiences but the Bristol Old Vic studio was packed with a largely older audience all rapt as children for most of the three hours the triple performances require.
I, Peaseblossom, dressed for a muddy Glastonbury and sounding like Ab Fab's Bubbles, was the least gripping, but I, Caliban and I, Banquo were both fascinating interpretations impressively acted: Jimmy Whiteaker moving - and definitely cast against type - as the monster and Adam Peck powerful as the murdered Scot. Tim Crouch is bringing a fourth play in this series I, Malvolio to the theatre in the autumn - one to watch out for.

Back in Frome it's party time, and the erratic sun chose to shine all afternoon on Rosie Jackson's 60th birthday gathering, a wonderfully convivial event with live music and poetry performances. Rosie had invited me to join poets Rose Flint and Sue Boyle to reflect on this celebratory occasion with cronelike wit and wisdom, so we did our best and it all seemed to go down well.

And the weekend just keeps on going... Monday was a 'Word of Mouth' event at BOV featuring Dub Queen and Punk King aka Jean 'Binta' Breeze and Byron Vincent. Frequent droppers-in on this blog will know that I'd go a long way to hear Byron, who presents his achingly acute and witty life commentaries with a slightly baffled air as if he's got no idea where all these surreal similes came from or are heading, and then while we're still yelping with mirth he can silence us all with a seriously savage satire like Alchemy in Nowhere Town. Jean 'Binta' Breeze has a contrastive style, equally personal but with reggae rhythms and more specific political passion. She writes about soldiers dying in Iraq and Afghanistan with the same sad intensity as she speaks of the plight of Jamaica, yet somehow with a sense of enduring love for humanity. Sometimes I think there's nothing a play can do that poetry can't do better.
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"Thankyou for coming to this and not wandering around Bristol in a green felt hat, getting pissed in the name of St Patrick." This is Bristol Old Vic's Word of Mouth, about to prove once again that a poetry performance can move, amuse, and thrill every bit as dramatically as a play - and more succinctly & intimately too. Byron Vincent compèred with his usual enchanting dialectical dexterity, recalling a scary '80s childhood contending with waving gladioli, stranger-danger, and Mr Noseybonk.
First guest was World Slam Champ and BBC radio4 fave Elvis McGonagall who, having applauded our Paddy's day choice, metaphorically rolled up his tartan sleeves to give every aspect of modern culture a pasting - especially politics. Ferocity and wit in equal measure scythed through the coalition, banking, Cameron's Big Society ("how patronising is that? Enid Blyton meets George Orwell") and Operation Undying Conflict in Afghanistan.

Luke Wright has called his brilliant new show Cynical Ballads and performs his 'seven caustic tales from Broken Britain' as a powerpoint presentation with visuals ranging from Searle-like cartoons to quasi-lecture notes on the history of the ballad form. “Some poems work on the soul, some poems work on the funny bone” Luke says, but his do both: they're passionate and satirical, but every light jest has a dark shadow - as in his tale about The Luck of the Brungers which ends bleakly
If you’re wondering what the moral is, I’m afraid I’m wondering too.
Trolls like this will always win. And there’s nothing we can do.
Luke doesn't think Britain is really broken, he says, despite this collection of misfits and monsters, and he sees his show as a kind of angry nagging love-letter. And that's how it comes across, despite the yobs and the snobs and the drunks on the train - as a series of deeply felt and turbulent tales about the painful poignancy of human life.
Like Byron said at the start: “Everything’s ok really – well it isn’t, but it’s always been horrible, so that’s nearly the same.”

Four In A Bed has had its last outing - in Southsea, somewhat bizarrely, at The Cellars in Eastney. A great little pub venue, providing our actors for the first time with a stage & lighting to enhance their frolics. Performances peaked - great to end Nevertheless Productions short tour on such a high note.
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Freezing fog is both beautiful and unpleasant, a combination I think shared only by the word 'syphilis' which sounds like a flower fairy while actually meaning a disgusting degenerative disease causing dementia and death. That's about ten-out-of-ten in unpleasantness, whereas freezing fog is probably only a one-to-three, depending on whether you're walking through it or trapped on the motorway in it.

A poetic week, with a double dose on Wednesday. In Bath, lunchtime readings From Around The World at the BRLSI uni-verse, compèred - for the final time after her heroic 3 year stint - by Nikki Bennett. International in a very English way, the main theme was snow and the overall mood sombre. Rose Flint's celebration of winter lifted us finally:
This is ascension time -- sing!
Let the light hold you through the ice.

And in the evening, Frome's Garden Cafe hosted the annual festive season Poetry Cafe/Merlin tie-in event, with pantomime tickets for best poem on the theme of winter flights of fancy, as picked by Nikki Bennett, going to Margie McCallum and Carola Cooper. Fourteen performers gave us some wonderful fantasies, from a witty skit on aged Boy Band reminiscences by Muriel Lavender to Phillis Higgins' touching tribute to her personal superhero Peter-Panman. And for me the most surprising flight of fancy was Wendy Miller-Williams presenting me with a gift of gorgeous glasswear, from all the team, as a farewell present for my festival involvement. Completely & utterly unexpected, and I'm deeply appreciative.


Over in Bristol, Word of Mouth promised "a night of extraordinary urban voices" with 'achingly funny' Byron Vincent introducing 'mellifluous' Shagufta K Iqbal, 'charismatic, entertaining but thought-provoking' Ben Mellor, and Kate Tempest - 'without a doubt one of the best performance poets in the country.' Who could live up to hype like that? Well, each of these did, and then some. One of the best nights of poetry I've seen anywhere in the country, achingly funny and thought-provoking too. I couldn't put it better myself so I won't even try. Byron says there'll be another Word of Mouth event at the Bristol Old Vic basement in January - can't wait.

Bath's Oh What A Performance night - yes folks, that does make 4 poetry events attended in 3 days, the kind of excess that in Ireland prompts the question "catholic or careless?" - was actually more of a music night, with the rather wonderful Golden Eggs creating richly textured arrangements of familiar carols with cello, keyboard, guitar, percussion & trumpet that were quirky enough to charm even the most jaundiced listener with an allergic reaction to the seasonal C-word. Which is usually me. They were joined by Brian Madigan, better known in his solo persona as A Band Named Brian who promised and delivered a genuine 'folkclub first': four minutes of total silence as he recreated Cage against the Machine, the anti-X-Factor chart contender. Highlight of the evening for me though was his stunning performance, with Beth Porter, of the Pogues christmas classic Fairy Tales of New York - an absolute Live Lounge cover winner.

And finally... I can't let the week go by without homage to Corrie's 50th birthday celebrations, which went with a bang as the street exploded from the cobbles up, topped by a tumbling tram, cleverly contriving the climax of all its lingering loose-end storylines: the secret-lover baby, the secret-lover bride, the secret-lover body-burier stalker, the secret child at the pub, the secret chocolates at the Kabin... all the stuff of an ordinary suburban Soap Street in fact. Corrie is unsurpassable for its huge swings from melodrama to farce - even in the hour-long live episode with several residents bundled off to the morgue, mad Mary managed like the porter in Macbeth to interject surreal comedic notes - but it packs a profound emotional punch: there's a scene between Sally and Kevin in the darkness of their kitchen when she quietly reveals the terrible truth that Molly mouthed before she died, which is as good as any television drama I've seen and very much better than most.
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