Month: March 2025

I went round my friend’s and they gave me cheese. I want to eat all of it because I feel sad tonight. Not for any logical reason. Just equinox and the last scratch of the dark. Plus I chose to open an old wound to send a little tape. I love playing complex people but it’s less fun being one. I’ve processed most of my ancient stuff but sometimes little memories of darkness creep in and my relationship with my dad was complicated and cut short. A touch of a memory of that in a simple little scene up in a tower block in Camden with Em.

We did the tape. I was gonna do it with my brother but… circumstances. My brother doesn’t have a backdrop and a bag full of cheese to give me anyway. Plus he’s not an actor. It’s only two lines but… better to have them delivered live. And cheese … cheese can’t wait. French cheese in particular. I once left a Mont d’Or in my car for two weeks in January. I still tried to eat it when I found it. It’s unpasteurised. It started singing to me in Danish. I had to get it out of my house. It tried to run but I tricked it with a riddle and got it out to the street. Now it lives three doors down and works in IT. Still stinks but nobody notices. Or was that a dream?

This cheese will be part of me long before such things happen. This cheese will go on Brian’s sourdough. Along with Bridget’s marmalade. I am doing very well for things that go on bread at the moment. I have excellent choices. If only I hadn’t worked my way through Alice’s honey. My friends are often skilled, often generous. Lucky me.

We went for Mexican food. Quesadillas. There’s a theme developing here. Quesa. Oh sweet comforter to the sad. In lockdown I used to eat my bodyweight in black bomber once a week.

This isn’t proper sad, I’ve already bounced out. This is just having to look at a shadow for a moment. I was tweaking a lot, sometimes I need to go and close the door for a while. Not often, but occasionally. I go walking round the block at parties if I think nobody will notice I’m gone. Used to anyway. Haven’t had a party like that for a while – cigarettes in the kitchen sink, sweat and make-up, someone you’ve never met puking on the carpet, who’s that in my bed?

I didn’t have time to sit in my sudden sadness cos the kitchen flooded. Then it flooded again. And then I flooded it. And then we realised that it wasn’t some random issue with the washing machine and then the dishwasher. The U-bend had popped undone. Any water out was gonna end up all over the floor. I’ll get a plumber in as it might have pressured itself out for some reason – there’s been a lot of weird pipey noise lately. Pressure build up or something perhaps. I’m no plumber. We fixed it for now. Bandaid? Or are Brian and I secretly the Super Mario Brothers? Time will tell.

And so I’m at the point of hunger where I could eat more but I’m pretty full. I ordered over £40 worth of pizza cos I had one of those one time codes where it immediately goes to 40% off. Also I’ve weirdly had this thing where I’ve been dreaming about pizza.  My personal dreamscape recently has done as much as Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles did for pizza delivery in the nineties. Sorry, Hero Turtles. Most of you don’t remember this but some idiot exec decided that Ninjas weren’t establishment and it is important to indocrinate people into establishment thinking, so we can’t call the turtles Ninjas we have to call them Heroes. Apparently heroes maintain the status quo. Nobody cares. I always preferred the idea of being a ninja to that of being a hero. I’ve ordered a pizza for the first time in ages. It feels like a disobedient act. Ninja pizza.

I’m home and wild. I’m warm, it is spring now. I get to be warm in my own home. And yeah, fuck it, I’ve had all this expensive dough taken to my door and I am going to eat it like I deserve it even though I don’t.

Today I went to Prangsta and we had a fitting. There is nowhere like Prangsta. I’ve been many times. I almost certainly have been at a festival with whoever founded it. It provides powerfully expensive costumes to people who think that spend correlates with quality. It doesn’t mess about though. In terms of steampunk type hipster costume narratives they likely show up in parity with Angels in terms of cost. They specialise though. They fill that hipster niche better. I love them when I can afford them. I’ve seen so many trustafarians self consciously wearing one of their hats at Wilderness when we are all wondering if the bass is gonna drop in the valley. If the bass drops, we stop seeing the hats. It’s not practical, you can’t dance all night in this stuff (not that they ever drop the bass in the valley). But yeah, Curbet Richson-Generations likes their stuff, and so do I. It’s priced for Curbet though but the client wants it for this next event and it is always a deep and full costume. I’ve got a bag of old clock faces and gears. I’ve been thinking that I should just glue them to a top hat. I got the idea from Mel. “You should stick them to a hat and Prangsta it for a festival,” she said. You know you’ve arrived when you’ve become a verb.

I partly think I should try and get something made for these events going forwards. This is an event that will go over the Christmas period. Multiple prangsta rentals will be way too much. Way better to make the stuff and even if Lou is too busy being serious and important in the West End she has a line I never had before to humans who know how to make the things we wear to look sexy. If the price is right, the thing can be brought into being from nothing. I love her world, so precise and measured, so different from mine but aligned. I’m a lucky boy.

Today I just went to a fitting for a client. Game on.

My car is once again full of other people’s crap.

The bulk of it is Vic. She’s ace, she’s put up with some serious shit, she’s mum and mum and mum and she’s also trying to keep a business afloat in changing times. I helped her chuck a load of crap out, I refused to chuck some of it, I sold bits and researched other bits. I gave her the value and then gave up on the absolute crap. I figured she’d never really mind about the fact I couldn’t be bothered to sell the rest of the stuff on her behalf when the hourly rate wouldn’t balance the profit. Turns out she was still holding attachment, so its just as well I didn’t just charity shop the lot. “Oh my God, you don’t know where that candle holder is? But it’s an ANTIQUE candle holder it could be worth loads.” It’s worth fuckedytuesday, sorry babes that’s the world, hi. I’ve told her sister I’ll donate £20 if she manages to sell it for more than £40, just as I know she won’t and I hope it’ll be some sort of a teaching moment.

I’ve given it all back, the stuff, apart from the couple of boxes I’ll drop off tomorrow, and now … I’ve got a bit more room in my home. The fewer random boxes the better. She’s found an eBay reseller who will definitely take more than I did and good luck to them, it wasn’t worth it for me to sell on the basis I was selling where I basically gave the entire value to Vic. I did it initially after she gave me some employment hauling junk. But I’m not a fucking charity.  I

Still I realised there were still some Nest Thermostats, about the only saleable bit of tech. The reseller will get something for them at least. Everything else is tits. There’s some slightly good bits of security equipment but they have no wires. Inexplicably she sorted all the gadgets into one pile and all the wires into another, long before I got involved, but effectively ruining the resale chances of most of her tech that isn’t standalone like the thermostats. The wires are lost for the rest. There’s no means of telling of they’re working or not.

That aside, I went to see an old mate of mum’s. She’s 80. That’s the way to do it. Still brilliant. I absolutely loved seeing her. It’s what might have been. How did mum go so soon? This fucking world.

It is Anna Maria’s fiftieth birthday today, her daughter. We were under parental pressure to like each other growing up. We both dealt with it differently, perhaps. Mum dying when I was young led me to a clarity about mum’s desires for me, and a happy understanding where I could follow my own needs but acknowledge where they differed from mum’s. I think with her mum still alive she’s still in “screw you mum I don’t like him” mode, which is hard when all I’m offering is friendship. Last I saw her she was at pains to make sure I knew her friends were more important. It was a temporary social thing, but spoke of something deeper and I just rolled with it. The bruise of a lost mother is painful all over and I know legacy matters so perhaps a friendship between us could be a legacy of sorts. I wish we could find that. I have fewer and fewer connections to that wonderful maniac mumfriend who brought me up and then died.

On we go though. And today some good news about work. Cessa.

Quite an excursion today around London, but at least I was spared a return trip to Brighton that I had tentatively promised. Lou needed ferrying around London. All the way up in Walthamstow in a street full of stolen phones for cheap there are fabric shops. She’s buying for a theatre maker friend, this is the best place on a theatre budget. Secondary is Goldhawk Road. Been there a few times with Lou already. They’ve caught on, being near The Bush Theatre and all. Range is still good but price is more than it should be now. I wonder where else in the country you can get things like that though? Even I knew about Goldhawk for fabric. They know they’re known.

It’s tiring, driving through the suburbs. It’s easier on the circular where traffic has a predictable flow. Up towards Walthamstow they all look forwards only and there are no rules. It’s dog eat dog and if you try to be polite you probably cause a crash as it is so rare. It’s worse in South East London, that’s the shittest place to drive in this town. But it’s pretty grim up the ‘stow. We don’t call it Mordor for nothing.

We got all the things we needed, and stopped for vegetarian thali in Hammersmith. It was excellent and I came out stuffed. Lou got a train back home and I got to come home and wind out the traffic.

Apparently the weather is about to jump up. This freezing fucking arctic wind that has given the lie to all the sun we’ve had, it is gonna wind out for a bit and we’ll feel the difference. Thank the lord. My dreams have been scattered with old memories and friends. Last night was a particularly broken sleep though so even though I’m thinking of loads of old friends I dreamt of last night I’m not getting in touch as I’ve barely got the energy in this cold to move myself from A to B.

I’m trying to cook up my big plan. Make a screenplay? Or good god I would love to book a bit of theatre at the mo – even have an audition to be honest much as I hate the things. Nothing since the pretending to be a chauffeur gig which felt cosmically right enough that the universe had to blow it up to prove that nothing is ever that simple.

Time. Time. Time. I can still relax, and smile and say that my last two jobs were enough validation for a lifetime, but there’s parsnips needeth buttering. Plus I am more and more feeling the pull of the wild again. If I knew I had something coming up… …

Onwards.

The Affordable Art Fair is a relative thing. Cap was originally 3 grand and back then It was like “That’s not affordable.” Now they cap it at 10 but there are some smart galleries that bring their new artist. One place has sold 18 originals by a new artist, all miniatures of South West London things, all for under £600. Because people come there wanting to leave with art, but they don’t want to blow two grand plus. I certainly don’t want to blow more than a grand, and honestly less than that now I’ve learnt that art doesn’t resale like I’d been led to believe. I have written before about the myth that art appreciates in value. “Art is the safest investment you can make,” some friend of my dad said in the eighties and it stuck with child Al. It made sense of the prices. Maybe I’m selling through the wrong channels, but I’ve been knocked back too many times and by too much to even dream that there’s a smidgen of truth in that. And I’ve tried multiple channels. Art crashes as fast as a new car, as far as I’ve experienced. Get it if you like it. If it’s too much it’s too much. But for the fêted few, and you know who they are off the bat these days as the machine isn’t there to look after the practitioners, it just oils itself. And as a result they’ll all tank when the next generation comes in as everyone is just blowing bubbles. My friend’s grandpa had crazy prices on all of it. Slowly, perhaps, and with a gallery. But like antiques, you won’t get the price you want without your own shop and enough time for the right buyer to show up.

Nonetheless I enjoyed looking at what was a very good and wide selection of curious tactile works. I would have spewed money if I had it to spew. I’d have bought one of Damilola’s and one of Stephane Gautier’s.

Post fair I went home and bought a chicken instead. Practical spending. Roasted it.

—

I’ve had a bag of nuts in my pocket for the last week and I’m worried. I transfer it from coat to coat.

I’ve been looking after the local crows at this time of year for a while now. It’s not an easy time, the natural world breeds little food. There have been bold and brilliant crows here for longer than people, and they keep out the rats and mice while having strong personalities.

There’s a building site over the road. Also they can get into the bins if some idiot leaves them out overnight. The foxes will make the mess in the wee hours, but the crows will fearlessly take advantage of the mess in daylight hours when stupid people walk the world thinkingn it’s them filthy crows wot did it etc etc

I haven’t seen a crow for over a week. Coming on a fortnight. I know it cos the nuts never last this long in my pocket.

I dread to say it, but I think someone has exterminated the local crows. My army! I’m gonna go on a proper search in the next day or two, and I might get in touch with the RSPB if no sign. People in cities can be extremely dumb and short sighted.

I might make use of the lady who howls for her dachsund every morning. “ZOLTAN” she cries (although in fact it’s called Mocha and she’s Canadian and we misheard). She will have a good sense of the crows and their ways. I hope they’re okay. Nuts won’t be so relevant soon, coming into spring. But I’ll keep holding them in the hope they have just been foraging far from home. I miss the crows.

I’m gradually assembling equipment for my next long walk. I’ve got this mad idea that I’m gonna try and record it beautifully and put it out there as a kinda “this is what it might be about” type thing. This is partly driven by my ADHD and partly driven by the idea that, if I’m gonna take so much time out of the possibility of earning in order to pursue spiritual things, perhaps it makes sense for me to be “generating content” in the hopes that occasionally people click the button that says “buy me a sausage”.

Today I got the software up and running for my drone. It took me hours, but I think it’s done now. It can now talk to my iPad and to my phone. I’ve only ever flown it inside the flat at the moment which doesn’t play to full capability. It’s a hell of a bit of kit even indoors.

It has been 3D printed, and the rotors are protected in the body of the drone, which is definitely for the best as I’ve already crashed it into a few plants and conked it into the ceiling. It makes a heck of a noise too. There’ll be no stealth with it. But in the right context it’ll be glorious for aerial shots and the like. I’ve paired it with my iPad so I can cut and twiddle with iMovie – that lets me narrate after the fact so I can blither on about this and that while getting a good view of the path or whatever.

They are already extremely regulated though. I can only fly it indoors at home, if I was to put it out the window there are people whose job it is to fine me for it. I’m right by a major heliport, a main road and the river Thames. Fannying about with a drone here would get me into trouble very quickly so I’m just gonna make sense of it here and in the fullness of time I can experiment with the other modes. Also when I flew it into a dark room it immediately just landed itself. It’s temperamental, and I haven’t learnt its ways.

It can do clever things like follow you or match your speed as you walk towards it, or rocket upwards from you, or Hitchcock itself out and up. I can’t imagine it will be possible to build live sound into the shots, just because the buzzing is always gonna get picked up, so it’s not gonna be a dolly but it is gonna allow for some fun stuff with sound done in post. Combine it with my gopro glasses and once I’ve got enough space on my devices to edit everything together I reckon I’ve got my suite of gadgets pretty together. And an AI music maker perhaps, to avoid the pitfalls of accidentally using copywritten music on a video about some prat wandering around in the hills and eating fish.

I’m gonna keep saving up for now, I’m a bit worried about cashflow right now. But before long I wanna do a deep dive into something spiritual in nature. Got a couple of ideas in my head, it’ll come down to plane fares and accommodation.

A pub theatre. I kinda love a pub theatre. Rarely if ever are the actors being paid though. Exploitation abounds. “It’ll be good experience,” says Victor as he puts his hand on your arse. “Industry people will come,” says Norbert who will have someone he knows come to celebrate his play about a man very like him who just happens to be irresistible to all women. “You’ll deepen your craft,” says Nick just before he starts shitting his ego into your face for months and months in the freezing cold with no money just so he can work out some ancient trauma about Brecht and hate you in the process. “The director is connected,” says Grognak, who knows they’ll never work with you again because they don’t want to be associated with “free” actors.

So yeah, I’ve got a friend with actors they know who want audience for a show in a pub theatre. Poor fuckers. I’m game. “What’s the show?”

It’s Jacobean.

Oh lord.

There are some things you start to notice after a while. Gestural things, inflection things, things that actors do when they aren’t sure what they mean. Lack of target, downflection. Holding two stale scones out to the side. Slapping your own side with both hands at the same time. Little meaningless steps back and forth. Pronoun abuse, self pointing like nobody knows who you mean when you say “I”. Many more. I saw them all tonight. All and more.

Not my first rodeo though. “I have a car coming for me at 4am. Ridiculously early start to the shoot and I really need to drill my lines before bed so I might not make the second half. Said that before the start to someone who knows the actors.

LIES.

They blacked the lights out after Act One and everyone had their coats half on before we realised there would be at least one more blackout before the interval. These are five act plays and usually there’s no cutting when it’s a showcase, so everyone gets a crack. Ugh.

Some of them will still be actors in twenty years. Maybe two, hopefully. That’s not bitchy, that’s just a realistic view of the attrition rate in this game.

I went with an old collaborator, and we both worked at that level back in the day. We both had hope and determination, we both wanted to learn by doing, we both did. Nobody comes out fully formed. I take my hat off to them for throwing it out, learning all that stuff, making sense of it. Likely there wasn’t time or money for the people tonight to really understand why they were saying all that stuff. They can do that in retrospect if they’re still here in twenty years, and if they aren’t they can think “I did that better” when they watch a good production and hearken back to those heady youthful hopeful days, looking through a glass darkly. My God I murdered some Shakespeare when I was at Reading…

Verse though. Christ, you really help us listen if you know where you are in the verse. You don’t have to be a robot about it, but a vague fucking clue would be throwing us a bone. This was mangle mangle one two three.

Still, I’m happy I saw half of it. No programme though, as far as I could tell. Even if I wanted to employ one of those people I’d have to work to find them.

Still, I’m a bad human. I waved a random piece of paper at the box office lady and walked past her with confidence, instead of buying a ticket. That sixteen quid I didn’t spend would have been almost two quid per actor. Bad bad bad. But … I’m glad I didn’t pay. If I had to pay for everything I watched I wouldn’t eat. These guys probably can’t eat right now and I’m not helping, but… the rollercoaster has to start somewhere. Most of them will fly off the sides. One or two, like me, will still somehow be on the ride, clinging desperately to the others like them, squealing “More! More!” as if it has been fun all this time. The ones that fell off will be looking on from their great big houses made of money, holding hands with the kids, rolling their eyes at us. “They’ll never learn.”

Or did we get it right? Who fucking knows. There’s nothing to hold onto in the rollercoaster so we just have to hold onto each other as best we can and hope. Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!!

And aye I’m in North London. I don’t need to think outside my face. I’ve got a huge great big mess of a pussycat. I’m literally watching where he shits.

I know this cat very well. You know him too, oh best beloved. We took this cat in when things were crazy, back the autumn before last.

A film producer had booked some people I love who make events. She had gone on to make them feel inadequate by playing status games. Rather than resist, my friend had totally bought into the status games and by the time I got onto the job they were already popping out. They had brought a close friend of mine into it and all three of them inexplicably ganged up on me. I let them do it when perhaps I should have held my ground. I wanted things to go as well as possible, but they absolutely treated me like shit and in retrospect I should have made it clear to them they were disrespectful and largely, wrongheaded. Even my friend bought into a horrible shared narrative against me. Of course they’ve left events now, that shit never tracks. I think my friend had inadvertently inherited the idea that events have heirarchy. You know the “I’m in charge” vocal tricks? They were doing them. All of them while talking to me. Bizarre.

It was tricky as I could see they were being manipulated by a producer who worked out they weren’t specialists and held every error against them. They responded by making everything shit for everyone, needlessly throwing their weight around because they’d been found out, going AWAY from trust instead of towards it. They had allies in the room, they alienated them. They couldn’t just go “yeah, we make events. that’s like a film set. What do you need?” The producer gave them too much fear of the unknown. They reacted largely by attacking people down the notional chain which worked out as me. It was supposed to be my “area of expertise” as far as they were concerned. I think that’s how they justified it. She was a Hollywood producer so to her mind all actors are shitmushrooms.

So they pitched cluelessly, gave me a vague job and then when they didn’t know the extent of what they had to do they outsourced their blame to me. I blogged some of it here. Was trying to be discreet. I don’t think they ever read it. If they did then it makes it even more egregious I was treated like I was treated and it was fucked. So many people in the crew saw it. I let myself be the whipping boy. Never got thanked for taking it for the team.

Boy moved in with me briefly during that job. I picked him up just before I went to Aberdeen and left him with Frank. I was treated like shit for the whole job and then the same people took a huge fee out of me and from the person who introduced me to them for every day I was at Paris Olympics even though it was nothing to do with them. I worked with people who did fuck all and were being paid twice as much as me on that job. It’s the wrong way round, they didn’t introduce me to kes. Sure they employed me in Aberdeen but they were absolute fuckers to me to disguise their own insecurity.

John I love. That’s the only reason I’ve never kicked off formally for the thousands they have taken in finders fee when kes is the one who found me. But… thinking about that job, some time ago – the wrong people were on it live. That’s all. Back end tried to come to live event. It doesn’t work. I’m kinda glad my friend has gone back to photography as for her own sanity and that of the live crew, events basically… didn’t suit them.

I’ve had a couple of people ask for someone and I’ve given them Ffion like a shot cos well, cos Ffion is excellent but also cos no massive howling insecurity. There’s no room for that shit in events. Events can carry a wide angle of people but bring in hierarchy or self importance and you’re basically just fucked. I’m sure they’ve learnt that now. But I suspect it was a hard lesson.

Ok. Good.

I’m feeling pretty chill. Lou is here tonight, I’m here now, it is cold but I’ve switched off the heating. March innit. I have to have rules like that as otherwise I’ll just plough every penny I earn into not being cold.

Driving again today. Picked up a work of art from a gallery, took it back to the artist’s place. “The woman running the gallery is very eccentric,” she said. The woman running the gallery is a total wanker. Rude as fuck to my friend. What an arse. In the spirit of experimentation I played her boundaries. “Only £450 for that, it’s beautiful. Oh it’s a print,” I ejaculated. “Do you have any originals?” Immediately she was on a different tack to a potential buyer, but still remained a dick to my friend the artist. She was even giving me secret looks, flirting. That gallery woman? I’ll be setting the crows on her.

My friend can be high maintenance, sure, but this woman deals with artists as a job. Sure she can sell, and she will sell as much as possible when it’s 40/60 and the picture is well priced. But I’m so bored of seeing people I respect being exploited by richer people. “oh it’s the world”. Well it needn’t be. Трамп is a good example of what happens when that goes too far.

I brokered a deal for a venue just recently. I asked for what I considered to be a reasonable sum for the work they want and the time it will take. I’ll be putting it through my company, and she will get 100% of the amount I asked for. No fucking about. I sent her screenshots of the exchanges.

Everyone should be so open, I think. It might mean I can’t make myself rich on the backs of other people. But if I start to be able to book people on big jobs, I can pay people properly. I’ve been enraged in the past about huge “finders” fees exacted by people who didn’t actually find me. Good people are worth what they are worth and as I transition towards being an employer, I’m gonna hold myself to the standard I secretly hold others to. Yeah so maybe I need to take a fee considering I’ve found something difficult for them. Maybe I’m messing up – I’ve in the past given corrupt people work and seen them try and take my place. Largely I’m happy to let them try. I’m careful to recommend, I stand by my recommendations, and if – hi – if they turn out to be a snake then … that’s mine to deal with too. Hope your grandma’s well.

I think I’d fall asleep now if I didn’t know Lou will be getting to Sloane Square shortly. I am in bed. Gonna have to get up and grab her. Then back down. I might have to put the blanket on. Spring heat as well as light please. This hail is bananas.

In the past I have been to festivals with Jethro. At those festivals I have deliberately consumed things that have significantly altered my perception of the world as it appears to be.

Jethro came to my flat this afternoon, to meet the cats perhaps? Certainly to say a very welcome greeting to an old friend. Then I went across town to The Coliseum to see The Little Prince, which Lou has been working with on and off for years.

I’m not writing off that this experience is akin to some of the experiences I have had at those festivals, in those sunny fields and woods. It’s either that or I’m in the middle of watching something quite extraordinarily whimsical, captivating, strange and beautiful.

If it is beautiful so it must be useful. Some years ago a woman at The New York Times was made apoplectic with rage about the fact that the images on this stage don’t match the ones she had in her head. I recognise that – I was pulled screaming and crying from The Neverending Story film by my parents, because they stopped it halfway through the book and anyway Bastion looked wrong. I was ten at the time. She is a professional reviewer with pedigree. I can excuse myself but I think she took a load of cheap shots for personal reasons. It almost sunk the show. This just reinforces the whole thing I maintain – fuck ’em if they’re nice, if you let that go to your head then they’ll fuck you when they’re nasty.

But it is like a fever dream. Like I’ve had some funny mushrooms.

The narrator speaks all the lines, in French, as the dancers jump and float. The soundscape lurches with the logic of dreams, and the whole show is projection mapped. The thing with that is you can’t really light the dancers without washing out the mapping so the show – not to its detriment – is in a sort of half light. Still the dancers are point perfect and if they aren’t I can’t tell. And rather than make the mapping a disadvantage they are playing with the beauty of how it adds its colour to the light and the costume. It’s a soft pallette for a vague tale. This ain’t about showtunes and punchy numbers, this is wistful dance about how we visit other people in their own worlds and about what might be beauty and what is life.

It’s so French as well. They tried to translate it in New York but they’ve learnt better now. I like the distancing it gives me to have to think about meaning when she speaks… There’s a surtitle board but it only serves to remind me I need to go to the optician and update my prescription.

Going back in for part 2…

—

Gorgeous show. I’ve been wondering what Lou has been up to, shuttling off to Saudi and Dubai and Sofia. Working hard washing sheep and roses it seems, and helping 14 performers, with a central turn from a vocally wonderful Frenchwoman of an age where this stupid industry often stops letting people work. That woman from the New York Times can go suck a pig, and you should go see this lovely show while it’s in London town. 2500 seats to fill? Owie ow. There’s a Gatsby musical up next. Art looks like Brian’s one but it’s not. Long run. Hard to sell… bold. This Little Prince, they should sustain a short run. The tale is loved and there’s a Cirque de Soleil connection – we all know the French specialise in “Body in Space” shows. This is one of those, and tasteful and kid friendly too.