An incitement to smash some fucking shit up
This blog post has been partly written in German and Estonian.
Dieser Blogeintrag wurde teilweise in deutscher und estnischer Sprache geschrieben.
See blogi on osaliselt kirjutatud saksa ja eesti keeles.
I was supposed to go to see Babel last night. I’d bought the ticket about a million years ago because everyone in theatre still had a massive boner for Michael Sheen’s Passion thing in Port Talbot and I thought I’d see what these Wildworks guys were all about. I watched the documentary about the Port Talbot Passion recently and it looked like an actual real-life outreach triumph, even if I did hear of the involvement of (shudder) “community groups” and “local people”. (Excuse me - think I was just a bit sick in my mouth.) I would’ve gone along to Babel quite happily; enjoyed the knitted cityscapes and tree-dwellers and shit, but then Three Kingdoms happened.
I don’t really pay attention to what proper theatres do with proper scripts and actors these days. I’ve got too little money to waste it on sitting in a dark room without either a) guaranteed glitter cannons and mass tap-dancing, or b) someone basically asking me to be in the show with them, but then all these people on twitter started going HAAAAAAAAA THREE KINGDOMS WTF WAS THAT AMAZING AMAZING AMAZING and pictures of women wearing nighties and DEER HEADS started appearing and I was all like “I really can’t be fucked with Simon Stephens but, well, look at all the women in the fucking DEER HEADS” so I sacked Babel off and went to that instead.
I have never been so stimulated in all my life (ex-boyfriends, I’m looking at you).
So there were these two detectives, Iggy and Beardy, and they were investigating the murder of a woman whose head was covered in jizz then sawn off and dumped in the Thames. They followed this porn/sex slavery ring to Germany and then Estonia but none of that really matters. What matters is ALL THE STUFF THAT WAS GOING ON. They say that you shouldn’t really notice a show’s direction but Three Kingdoms was directed to fuck. Guys would just leap over walls and run into things and throw chairs. Throw suitcases through windows. There was the dude who re-enacted Rocky Racoon by The Beatles and the other guy with a bale of hay on his head and teine mees, kes tembeldatakse kurgi viilud and the other guy who masturbated a foot-long strap on dildo and the guy who wrapped the whole set in hazard tape and the guy who said “fuck you you piece of fuck” and die Frau, die sich ergab einen Schwamm Bad and the bit where everyone clinged to one wall as if the whole place was tipping over nagu hukku laeva and every so often everything would come together in the most beautiful fucked-up musical bit with a guy singing or half-singing or mumbling maybe and Glitter an den richtigen Stellen and shadows in the right places and it was just really really really BEAUTIFUL to watch.
It was like hyperreality. Like, why do we all insist on just fucking meandering through life when we can leap-frog through it and walk up walls and wear a fuck-off great-big dildo under our clothes? I’m writing this in a coffee shop near Victoria Station right now and when I pay my bill I’m going to flash the waitress then hurl the empty tea pot right through the fucking window.
LASST UNS GEHEN UND TATSÄCHLICH LEBEN MEIE FUCKING ELU
