Shakespeare Production "Good" Shock

Yeh, I was offered A FREE TICKET to see Patrick Stewart as Macbeth at the Gielgud in London's West End, and bugger me if it wasn't a belter.

I'd go as far to say that I'd PAY to see it. V. Good Lady M in Kate Fleetwood.

Go see it.

Myanmar v. Burma

Yes, which name will the press choose?

The BBC stays with the traditional Burma.

The Economist says Myanmar.

The Guardian STARTED with Myanmar, but is now switching to the trend of using Burma.

Why not MURMA? Byanmur? Ryanair? Murlingus?

Anyway, whatever the place is called, that's some ANGRY monks they've got out there.

Adieu Monsieur Marceau

I understand that following the death of mime artist Marcel Marceau, the French will pay tribute tonight by watching television with the sound down.

Jet Black: Ice Cream Mogul

Imagine my joy, on reading the Wikipedia entry of The Stranglers' drummer:

Black was a successful businessman up until the mid 1970s, owning a fleet of ice cream vans, and an off-licence in Guildford, called 'The Jackpot'.

Now we know where the phrase, "do you want some gin on your 99?" came from.

Au Revoir Les Enfants

Imagine my discomfort on seeing this coming through my letterbox, as part of a "French Tuition" flyer advertising a local language teacher.

What form the Reservoir Dogs Parle Francais takes I don't know.

I guess you'd need the following:

Oreille n. Ear

Couteau n. Knife

To Sever n. Couper

(I think she has a butcher's cleaver in her left hand)

Fat-Free Fast Food Of The Future

OK; this is the future of the fat-free fast food outlet:

To get to the counter, customers will encounter a moving pavement, like that at an airport; only this will be working against the flow, forcing them to run to up to the attendant, and then to hold a steady jog in order to maintain their position whilst ordering their meal.

On receiving the order, (wrapped in a lettuce leaf) they will sit on exercise bicycles and consume the meal whilst pedalling, and thus generating the energy with which the premises is powered.

And, yes, those fries were made from potatoes fertilized by the compost collected from the washrooms!

Get used to it, it will come.

My Chelsea Creche Nightmare.

In 1976 I saw the Who at The Valley, a gig that was allegedly measured as the loudest ever, but I personally never remembered it being that loud. In 1977 The Damned left my ears ringing for days after playing the Village Bowl, a large concrete bunker below Bournemouth. Three years earlier I had had to abandon an attempt to watch Canadian rockers Montrose, due to unnecessarily excessive decibels, as they supported The Sensational Alex Harvey Band.

(Younger viewers may like to note that amplification was still in the developmental stage back then, and most of the volume produced was in the form of pure noise. One would be rendered deaf after most gigs, and some bands sought to invalid its audience for life.)

Anyway, I mention the above only in passing as I have other things to discuss, namely Chelsea in West London, and the experience of having spent the morning with being deafened by the children therein.

My partner and I were on our way to the Chelsea Physic Garden, and decided to treat ourselves to breakfast in the restaurant atop Peter Jones in Sloane Square. The restaurant is large and airy, and boasts magnificent views through it's large glass north facing wall, with a vista that can appear curiously meditarranean in aspect.

However, the restaurant also appears to be infested with every under-five in West London.

It was remarkable, it became apparent that the toffs of Chelsea have claimed Peter Jones as the venue for their sunday morning with the kids. There were hundreds of them, and they were all screaming at the top of their infant lungs in the vain bid to get their parents attention, which was no doubt distracted by the continuing bad news regarding sub-prime lending Stateside.

And they kept on coming: everytime the lift opened, it disgorged yet another buggy pushed by more rich, disinterested parents and their squealing offspring.

And as my ears rang in submission at the kindergarten cacophony, I was not only convinced that the volume was greater than that of any gig I had ever attended, but I wondered if the place was actually in breach of EU health & safety regulations regarding noise at work. Was my hearing in danger? And what of that of the staff?

I actually work in a loud environment, on the cusp of the requirement for ear-defenders, and yet this was far in excess of that. What about school playgrounds? Are people that have to work in that environment asked to wear ear-plugs? Or is this aspect of noise pollution completely ignored because no-one wants to point the finger at a) small children's appauling behaviour or b) their parents inadequate parenting skills, or c) what has become of our apathetic society.

Bring back the command "SHUT UP! NO-ONE WANTS TO HEAR IT!" and the concommitant smacking.

Better still, turn back the clock and keep the children at home until they've learnt how to behave.

Meanwhile, let's have more adult friendly environments. (Symbol: a red circle with red diagonal stripe across a small child).

Anyway, the gardens, as ever, were a child-free delight.

Osama: Play-In-A Day Organ Tutor

Nessum Dorma?

And so the task of supporting the coffin of super-heavyweight tenor Luciano Pavrotti has to be undertaken.

The Shoebox has heard that the Italian authorities have resorted to selecting the unlucky few by imposing the draft.

"It's the fairest way to do it", commented Modena haulage consultant Enzo Terminado, "somebody has to carry the coffin, and let's face it: no-one wants to see a fork-lift at a funeral!"

Cat Medium Sleeping in Tongues

I'm not usually one for A) the supernatural, or B) websites about pets, BUT:

This evening, I entered the bedroom to find that the cats of the house had already reserved their places, with the smaller girl cat on the bed, and the larger tomcat asleep on my (and now his) favourite jumper on the floor.

As I stopped momentarily to pat the smaller cat on the head, and receiving an appreciative purr, there occurred what could only be called "a phenomena".

The tomcat is not known for his verbosity. He never miaows. Very occasionally, when frustrated, he may look up at you and utter a disapproving "ma", but only very occasionally. Neither is he particularly demonic, and the when the vet described him "the perfect witches cat" , she was merely commenting on his jet black appearance and sinuous nature.

Imagine my surprise therefore when, whilst petting the other cat, the supine tomcat began with a "Maaah!" followed by a "Meeeeeooooowwahwaaheeooowahwah!", and despite the considerable volume, he failed to wake himself. It was a though he was unwittingly channelling some whole OTHER cat, and I half expected his big tomcat head to explode and reveal and entirely new demon feline emerging in his wake.

And it wasn't just me who got spooked. The smaller cat spent most of rest of the evening sitting to attention, staring at the sleeping spiritualist, as though awaiting the appearance of the whole OTHER cat. She certainly wasn't going to risk going to sleep in his presence.

Obviously, I'm keeping him under observation, and sleeping with cricket bat by my pillow, just in case.

Nazism? Send In The Clowns!

Back in the 1930s, the British Foreign Office was approached by the German Nazi Party, who were complaining about the work of cartoonist David Low. Uncomprehending about the democratic notion of a free press, the Nazis insisted that Low's ridicule of the fuhrer and his chums was detrimental to Anglo-German relations, and expected something to be done about it.

Actually, it was remarkable that Low's masters at the right-leaning, aristocracy-loving Evening Standard encouraged him to continue. And what he continued to do was to portray Hitler and his henchmen as buffoons and incompetents, in the belief that it was essential to prick the bubble of their sense of self-importance.

How appropriate, therefore, to see a similar approach emerging in present-day Knoxville, where the KKK have been belittled by Clown Power.

And so the Jackboot of intolerance is stamped out by the Giant Shoe of irreverence.

(With thanks to Titivil)

A Glass and a Half

I'm neither a fan of Phil Collins or Advertising; but when we changed channel the other night and stumbled into this, it left us both smiling.

Six Feet Under The Influence

In South Africa, hearse-thiefs need a stiff drink, according to the BBC