Misplaced outrage

I think my favourite story of the day concerned the theatre-goers at Stratford-upon-Avon who were outraged that the play they had just seen contained considerable amounts of sex, violence and depravity.

The play was Marat/Sade. You’d think the “Sade” bit might have given them a bit of a clue, wouldn’t you? It’s a bit like me marching back to Blockbusters with my copy of Lesbian Lavatory Lust complaining that it consisted of little more than ninety minutes of rug munching and a particularly grotesque scene with a toilet duck.

It would be too much to expect these theatre goers to have had an awareness of this old warhorse of a sixties play. Theatre has become such a comfortable bourgeois past-time, a displacement activity for cooking Tuscan Lamb with gratinated fennel.

I think we need a few more shockers on the stage: someone should do a revival of Peter Handke’s stuff, especially that play where the cast simply shout abuse at the audience and then follow them home, still abusing them.

Anyway, a short blog today because the leccy is about to be cut off for the third time in three months. Renationalise Now!