Park Bench poetry: North vs South London

Madam Miaow with Park Bench genii Stephen and Charlotte

Noel not reading his short story

South London victory

Last night saw the North versus South slam-dunk poetry playoff between Norf and Sarf London at the ingenious Park Bench installation in an empty shop in Camden Town.

Inspired by Anthony Gormley's Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square which is proving wrist-slittingly boring (surely we can do better that this, people!), Camden's Park Bench is an inspiring chance to get up and do something. Anything! Express yourself and make it amusing. Or not. Hey, it's Art.

Madam Miaow held up North London's end in her mistressful hands by reading her epic Wreath Lecture nice and early when she was fresh as a daisy, and later reciting a slurry Anna May Wong Must Die! following Becks, Dunkerton's Perry, and K cider (8.5%!!!).

South London deserved their easy win by producing several spoken word talents for the occasion. Award-winning Clarissa Pabi (18) and Raphael Blake excelled in their delivery and sharp poetry. I'll be remembering Clarissa's eensy-weensy spiders that, being American, were obese and not so fleet-footed when climbing drains, for a long time to come.

There was also a cheeky put-down of all things Camden, based on John Cooper-Clarke's Chicken Town, by another of their compadres, Anthony Shuster, who was hilarious.

So much talent in such a tiny space.

Only two more days to go. it comes down tomorrow so hurry-up!

C22, 22 Chalk Farm Road opposite the Stables Market. More pix and info here

Thanks to Stephen and Charlotte. More like this, please.



Madam Miaow and Charles Shaar Murray

All's Well That Ends Well at the National Theatre: review

Parolles and Helena

This is one of the rarely-staged Shakespeare plays that has eluded me thus far but I'm glad I got to see this three-hour production at the National Theatre Olivier auditorium at long last thanks to their £10 Travelex scheme.

All's Well That End's Well is a light romcom with an ironic punch hinted at in the title that's driven home in the final flash-photography horrorstruck pose from our loving couple, Helena and Bertram.

Blond handsome Bertram (George Rainsford), son of the recently widowed Countess of Rossillion (Clare Higgins) really is a dick with his floppy hair and slappable boyish charm. It's a wonder that the perky Helena wants him in the first place, but then I never found Hugh Grant a dish, either.

Played by Michelle Terry, who does a great job of filling in the spaces within the text with her appealing effervescence and would make a terrific Dr Who assistant, Helena is the orphaned daughter of the late Count's physician and has fallen in love with the brat. The Countess has taken her under her wing and facilitates her introduction at court where she treats the King of France (Oliver Ford Davies) who's been ill with a fistula.

Even though the King gives us a clue as to what a fistula is by clenching his hand into a claw (I had images of certain exotic activities hopping into my smutty mind), I just had to search and got " ... an abnormal connection or passageway between two epithelium-lined organs or vessels that normally do not connect."

None the wiser, I'll accept the hand job.

Anyhow, fist unclenched, we know that Helena has cured this powerful dude and now claims her reward. A lesser being would have demanded title, treasure, a palace or three, but values they are a changin'. Helena keeps it real in a society that now has room for romance and asks for marriage to Bertram.

Shallow and spoilt, he rejects her for being common, and goes off to war to avoid consummation, stating that should she manage to get his magnificent ring, handed down through generations, and fall pregnant with a child of his, he'll fulfill his duty.

There follows a comedy of mistaken identity and subterfuge wherein men are revealed to be treacherous snakes in the grass, cowardly liars and deeply closeted. It leaves you wondering why any fabulous woman would spend so much time and suffering in order to lock themselves into a lifelong relationship with them.

Duh! Oh, yeah, I geddit. Money and power, romance being but the superstructural offspring of the economic base. And this, comrades, is why capitalism (OK, the last days of feudalism where aristos are being displaced by merchants and professionals) distorts the human soul.

The burgeoning bourgeoisie has triumphed and secured its position but at what cost?

If that makes it sound like a flat polemic, it wasn't. That's just me cutting to the chase of what it was about. This production is actually a lot of fun and a special mention goes to Parolles (Falstaff lite played by Conleth Hill), a hilarious vain repository of everything sluggish and snailish in the male of the species dressed up as a superannuated heavy metal peacock who gets his humiliating comeuppance at the hands of his brother soldiers.

Of course, female ingenuity, wit and solidarity win out with a midnight tryst and Helena swapping identities with Diana, a great beauty who Bertram is crazy for. Helena fulfills Bertram's demands and wedlock can now ensue with celebrations and a wedding photographer to freeze the cast in a succession of telling tableaux.

All's Well That Ends Well, except for that very last shot ...

Bertram defies the King of France

All's Well That Ends Well at the National Theatre: review

Parolles and Helena

This is one of the rarely-staged Shakespeare plays that has eluded me thus far but I'm glad I got to see this three-hour production at the National Theatre Olivier auditorium at long last thanks to their £10 Travelex scheme.

All's Well That End's Well is a light romcom with an ironic punch hinted at in the title that's driven home in the final flash-photography horrorstruck pose from our loving couple, Helena and Bertram.

Blond handsome Bertram (George Rainsford), son of the recently widowed Countess of Rossillion (Clare Higgins) really is a dick with his floppy hair and slappable boyish charm. It's a wonder that the perky Helena wants him in the first place, but then I never found Hugh Grant a dish, either.

Played by Michelle Terry, who does a great job of filling in the spaces within the text with her appealing effervescence and would make a terrific Dr Who assistant, Helena is the orphaned daughter of the late Count's physician and has fallen in love with the brat. The Countess has taken her under her wing and facilitates her introduction at court where she treats the King of France (Oliver Ford Davies) who's been ill with a fistula.

Even though the King gives us a clue as to what a fistula is by clenching his hand into a claw (I had images of certain exotic activities hopping into my smutty mind), I just had to search and got " ... an abnormal connection or passageway between two epithelium-lined organs or vessels that normally do not connect."

None the wiser, I'll accept the hand job.

Anyhow, fist unclenched, we know that Helena has cured this powerful dude and now claims her reward. A lesser being would have demanded title, treasure, a palace or three, but values they are a changin'. Helena keeps it real in a society that now has room for romance and asks for marriage to Bertram.

Shallow and spoilt, he rejects her for being common, and goes off to war to avoid consummation, stating that should she manage to get his magnificent ring, handed down through generations, and fall pregnant with a child of his, he'll fulfill his duty.

There follows a comedy of mistaken identity and subterfuge wherein men are revealed to be treacherous snakes in the grass, cowardly liars and deeply closeted. It leaves you wondering why any fabulous woman would spend so much time and suffering in order to lock themselves into a lifelong relationship with them.

Duh! Oh, yeah, I geddit. Money and power, romance being but the superstructural offspring of the economic base. And this, comrades, is why capitalism (OK, the last days of feudalism where aristos are being displaced by merchants and professionals) distorts the human soul.

The burgeoning bourgeoisie has triumphed and secured its position but at what cost?

If that makes it sound like a flat polemic, it wasn't. That's just me cutting to the chase of what it was about. This production is actually a lot of fun and a special mention goes to Parolles (Falstaff lite played by Conleth Hill), a hilarious vain repository of everything sluggish and snailish in the male of the species dressed up as a superannuated heavy metal peacock who gets his humiliating comeuppance at the hands of his brother soldiers.

Of course, female ingenuity, wit and solidarity win out with a midnight tryst and Helena swapping identities with Diana, a great beauty who Bertram is crazy for. Helena fulfills Bertram's demands and wedlock can now ensue with celebrations and a wedding photographer to freeze the cast in a succession of telling tableaux.

All's Well That Ends Well, except for that very last shot ...

Bertram defies the King of France

Web addict killed by rehab counsellors

Well, that's one way of dealing with it. In the absence of proven technique, method, rhyme or reason, rehab staff in Nanning, China, beat to death a fifteen year old who wouldn't get off his computer. Allegedly. As internet horror stories go, that's an effective one.

I'd say the milk of human kindness has curdled in a big withered worldwide teat and may not be flowing for a while yet.

They said I had to go to rehab, I said, FOR GOD'S SAKE, NO-O-O! NO-O-O-O! AAARGH!

Web addict killed by rehab counsellors

Well, that's one way of dealing with it. In the absence of proven technique, method, rhyme or reason, rehab staff in Nanning, China, beat to death a fifteen year old who wouldn't get off his computer. Allegedly. As internet horror stories go, that's an effective one.

I'd say the milk of human kindness has curdled in a big withered worldwide teat and may not be flowing for a while yet.

They said I had to go to rehab, I said, FOR GOD'S SAKE, NO-O-O! NO-O-O-O! AAARGH!

Police Support the Troops badges: bring them home or support the war?

With the news that Metropolitan police are to be allowed to wear Union flag badges supporting British troops currently on action in Afghanistan, I was surprised to hear Eddie Mair on yesterday's BBC Radio 4's PM programme taking a hostile stance towards Stop The War's spokesperson, Chris Nineham.

Chris did a stolid job if a bit spluttery and tiresomely "Um" laden (brother of Bin) when taken by surprise by Mair's interview which consisted of "Who says!", cutting off his sentences, and ignoring his points of logic. I was baffled by the utter denial that "Support The Troops" is read by most people to mean support for the war.

Indeed, what does happen when police wear their opposing politics on their lapels at anti-war demonstration, perhaps in place of their ID numbers which some of them are so fond of leaving off? Wearing these "Support The Troops" badges, according to the police spokesman in terms reminiscent of something out of Kipling, does not compromise their independence, neither do previous badges supporting RUC widows and orphans, or the union flag itself which is "the symbol of our country". Some might question exactly who in this country the Union Jack represents: the policeman seemed to think it meant Her Majesty and all who sail in her.

Wrong-footed by Mair, I wish Chris had stuck to his strongest point which he only seemed to stumble across in the course of the interview: Fine, if the key issue is support for the troops and not the war, then will police on duty be allowed to support the troops by wearing Troops Out badges calling for our boys and girls to be brought back home to safety?