Critic Cal

A 1st of January oh-no-the-gym-is-closed early morning walk has become something of a tradition for me since writing this. It doesn't always rain. NEW YEAR'S DAY   At 6 a.m. on New Year's Day While next door's lengthy Hogmanay Was resolutely still in play I wearily arose. My brain was buzzing, anyway, Too much to much doze.  I dressed, and found an old cagoule (Remembering the forecast squall) And stuffed it — an ungainly ball — In my fleece pocket. Then crept down to the downstairs hall And made my exit.  The streets were dark; it felt like night The more so for the frequent sight Of homeward-headed revellers, tight And waxing verbal. One stopped, and asked me for a light For something ‘herbal’…  I drew the odd uncivil jest From trendy cliques in party best Who were distinctly unimpressed By my appearance; I scowled, and scorned “such shallowness " With silent vehemence.  Towards the centre of the town Were several nightclubs

There must have been evensong here long before the news of Christ. Surely for as long as there have been nights bad as this one---something to raise the possibility of another night that could actually, with love and cockcrows, light the path home, banish the Adversary, destroy the boundaries between our lands, our bodies, our stories, all false, about who we are: for the one night, leaving only the clear way home and the memory of the infant you saw, almost too frail, there's too much shit in these streets, camels and other beasts stir heavily outside, each hoof a chance to wipe him out, make him only another Messiah, and sure somebody's around already taking bets on that one, while here in this town the Jewish collaborators are selling useful gossip to Imperial Intelligence, and the local hookers are keeping the foreskinned invaders happy, charging whatever the traffic will bear, just like the innkeepers who're naturally delighted with this registration thing, and up in

’Twas two months before Christmas, and all through the land Not an outlet was stalling, not one minor brand; The gewgaws were hung in each window display In hopes to snare customers passing that way. With bauble and sequin the aisles were well-decked (The checkouts en-tinseled to crown the effect), While seasonal produce inveigled itself Onto every clothing rail, counter, and shelf. Sainsbury’s tailored their meal-deal selection Around turkey, and orangey-chocolate confection; All washed down with coke (though the marketers’ wisdom Says leave half a bottle for Donner or Blitzen). From snowflakey jumpers and star-studded socks, To novelty neckties and sparkly frocks; Whether Primark or Prada, the message was clear: To celebrate Christmas, you need the right gear. Pubs began mulling all manner of booze, Party menus appeared on the doors in the loos, And many a Friday night reveller, with valour, Adventured a Baileys on top of a Stella. T

Was reminded of this when trying to say whatever it was I was trying to say last time I tried to say something . I know, I know ... it's cheating to re-punctuate but it's the best I could manage so far. Who'd have thought a form with only five distinct lines could prove so problematical! I TRIED (a triolet) The whole world set to fighting; I tried to be the one who didn't. Envy, rivalry, back-biting – The whole world! Set to fighting It – contenting, quieting Myself – I found I was no different. The whole world set to. Fighting, I tried to be 'the one'. Who didn't?  Carolyn Whitnall, August 2014 "What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you? Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you? You desire and do not have, so you murder. You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel. You do not have, because you do not ask. You ask and do not receive, because you ask wrongly, to spe

I watched in spellbound horror as the fragile thread by which this turbulent, treacherous, tormented, temporal world precariously dangles ... -snapped- ... and the whole thing came crashing down in a pandemonium of light, glitter, smoke, leopard print, automatic gun-fire, luggage, canine skeletons, and virtuosic violining. And then we went to Wagamama's. Kneehigh  theatre company's  Dead Dog in a Suitcase (and Other Love Songs)  [1] is an immense tragicomic rollercoaster of satirical mayhem, beautifully crafted with a searing, seamlessly genre-fusing score (dubstep, ska, metal, classical, you name it), superb musical and theatrical performances, and all manner of impressive choreography, puppetry and set work. It charts the fate of a town embroiled in the self-serving schemes of wealthy pilchard magnate Peachum and his malevolent genius of a wife (an hilarious stage turn by scene-stealer Rina Fatania). Not that the inhabitants themselves are innocent victims -- most will

So, I let vent the other day about the way that cinemas sanitise death for a family audience. This got me thinking -- though I just about managed to restrain myself from throwing it all in to one particularly extended and rambling discourse -- about the other aspects of human existence you do and don't expect to see in a 12A. One obvious no-no is, understandably, graphic sex -- cue lots of suggestive cut-aways just at the moment of hand-buttock contact, or of one foot leaving the floor, or of a directional transition towards the horizontal... (Basically, any of the various happenings they warn you about in those start-of-term Christian Union pep talks). But, as with death, sex can be cheapened even while it is not being explicitly depicted -- and that's what I think happens when it's treated as 'no big deal'. Of course it alienates me terribly to say so, because 'no big deal' is, in most cases, the widely agreed-upon standard of healthy sexuality that w

I wanted it to be  The Avengers  really .  Or that one  the other day with the sardonic raccoon and the slow-witted tree and the mixtapes. It was a bit optimistic, but -- too tired after an intense weekend cocktail of cleaning and serious reading to move or to try to think deeply -- I talked myself into  Captain America: The Winter Soldier . It was ... decent. Some nice thoughtful touches about the Information Age and the tensions between security and freedom, leadership and egalitarianism. And they have managed to make Steve Rogers a far more appealing and nuanced character than the all-American cliché I was apprehending. But ... it lacked the energy of the aforementioned Marvelous ensembles, and I did find myself a little fidgety at having surrendered my mental energies for two straight hours to moving images and noises that were only ... decent. It also re-raised, for me, another, far more significant objection. I am increasingly unimpressed by this idea that -- as long as it

Nah then, Freddy: look wh' y' gowin, deah. […] Theres menners f' yer! Te-oo banches o voylets trod into the mad. […] Ow, eez ye-ooa san, is e? Wal, fewd dan y' de-ooty bawmz a mather should, eed now bettern to spawl a pore gel's flahrzn than ran awy athaht pyin. Will ye-oo py me f'them?  (Eliza Doolittle in Pygmalion , Act I, George Bernard Shaw, 1912) Forget boxsets -- after-dinner read-throughs are the height of domestic entertainment. The latest production chez Whitnall was George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion (named after the sculptor from Greek mythology whose most beautiful statue awakens to life).   In the play, a Professor of phonetics, Henry Higgins, accepts a bet to inculcate 'common', comically Cockney flower girl Eliza Doolittle with such refined speech and deportment that she is able to pass for a duchess in upper-class society. [1] As forewarned by his mother and his housekeeper, the success of this undertaking lands Eliza in somethi

Been absorbing myself in the poetry and theodicy of  Job  lately (with the friendly companionship of John Goldingay's Job for Everyone  study guide). I'm struck by how much, and yet how little, human experience has changed since Job's day [1]. Inspired by chapter 28 (and, in part, Isaiah 40-45 ), as well as everybody's favourite application of blockchain technology... (N.B This is highly unlikely to be without technical error. So, if you don't know about Bitcoin or chip production, please assume I am wrong somewhere; if you do, please forgive me, and tell me where...) The Bible (particularly in Isaiah and the other books of the prophets) has a lot to say about the foolishness of trusting things which we invent or construct ourselves. Such 'idols' will not satisfy, nor rescue and protect. Wisdom as a treasure to be searched for diligently is a recurring motif, especially (unsurprisingly) in the  'wisdom' literature  books of the Old Test

There's stuff that you can say in dance that you just can't say with words. 'Course, when I say "you" I mean "humankind as a whole"; I can't speak for you personally, and for myself, there's nothing much that  I can say in dance, full stop. My attempts on that front are best compared with those of a unilingual Brit in a foreign country -- "no hablo español". Although, just as the accent and pronunciation of said Brit act as case-in-point, so a terpsichoreal rendering would doubtless lend my own confession the more conviction. "Je ne ne peux pas parler danser" indeed. Anyways, I digress. Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake , as well as being a beautifully impressive feat of skill and art, was also engagingly emotionally expressive. The story (much as it seems a shame to, after all, translate it into words) is of a young prince floundering under the weight of expectation and obligation accompanying his privileged birthright. He