I actually wrote this in December last year, never got round to putting it up though...
The idea sprang into my mind as I brushed away the cobwebs of a three-star hangover (in film review speak: there were moments where it asserted itself, but hardly memorable). It being a while since I had the time to do so, I indulged in all the essential pursuits of the lone hungover male (shuffling around in tracksuit bottoms, yesterday’s boxers and Moroccan slippers – check; copious scrotum scratching in front of Saturday Kitchen and Sky Sports News – check; bacon sarnie, cup of tea and, joy of joys, the discovery of a leftover microwaveable choccie pudding – check). Selflessness not being one of Eoghan’s greatest virtues, I was desperate to find something to take the place of Christmas shopping, so I was relieved to remind myself that I’d been meaning to have a poke around Wembley for some months.
The arch of the stadium dominates the skyline for miles around, but upon exiting the tube station one is confronted by the sleek, elegant behemoth of the structure itself. Corporate messages and pseudo-inspirational guff (Bobby Moore this, Beckham that) are everywhere, and the vast swathes of huge glass windows give an uncomfortable feeling that behind each one is a skipload of prawn sandwiches accompanying the signing of contracts with backs turned to the on-pitch action, but it’s an undeniably beautiful monster.
A 20 minute walk takes you into Wembley proper – which at first sight seems like any other north London suburb – all the usual suspects. Wandering down the high street, a human crosswind nearly blew me off my feet; I flailed around, grabbed onto a lamppost and managed to escape the tempest of bodies – which, from a safe distance, I ascertained was the swarm of locust-humans piling into the Woolworths closing down sale.
Death came even closer as I leapt unwisely in front of a bus en route to the haven of an Oxfam. A Jonathan Raban book on his travels in the Mississippi looks brilliant after only a few pages – and contains the phrase “inefficient pornography” which was worth the price alone. This was joined by a small Madhur Jaffrey compendium, a cocktail book and some Shakespeare (Twelfth Night). Then it was time to peruse the records, and with my digger hat on, I wondered what the casual observer would make of my haul which consisted of Tchaikovsky’s first piano concerto, a High Contrast drum & bass 12” and…Rick Astley. The shopkeeper remarked that there were more through the back and would I like to take a look; I nearly hugged him when I found the very un-chazza Urszula Dudziak’s Magic Lady (with “Samba Ulla”) for 59p, as well as Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis.
The real reason I was in the area was to visit Indian London. I had a vague idea – from past information gleaned from my friends Sanjiv and Paul and a short googling session – that Ealing Road was the place to go, so I sallied forth in that direction. The High Road meanders along, with pound shops and mobile fascia stores aplenty. I was impressed by the spectacularly vulgar suits sold in a local tailors; a gold tailcoat, I’m sure, would look fantastic on a pair of shoulders originating from the subcontinent, but the thought of one adorning the fragile frame of yours truly is just too horrific to bear. Although, I must say, I’m sorely tempted.
Wembley is, apparently, the most un-English area in London; more than half its residents were born outside the UK. I’m not an expert on the subcontinent, but from what I could glean from shopfronts and restaurants, there are a lot of Gujeratis and Sri Lankans around. It has a very different feel from, say, the Edgware Road. The latter has a romance about it – just by watching the groups of men chatting over shisha until 2am at the outside tables, you could easily imagine yourself drifting off to Beirut, whereas in Wembley one is still undoubtedly in London. In truth, wandering down the Ealing Road, I had expected the stretch of shops and restaurants to be larger, but contented myself to wandering back and forth along the street, taking in the sights, from the stunningly gorgeous girls behind the counters of the jewellery shops to the amusing sign over a shop proudly announcing Fireworks: Buy 1, Get 2 Free!
Food shops, however, were aplenty, and I visited several. Of course, I had to give the impression that I was on a buying mission and not a mere tourist, so I loaded myself up in each one. The first thing that surprised me was that Indian shops are not dominated by spices. In fact, although you can pick up enormous bags of fennel seeds, turmeric and cumin very easily, there were some spices conspicuous by their absence (I didn’t spot and mace or saffron, for example, all day). On the other hand, literally scores of different kinds of flour and ground pulses adorn the shelves of every place; First I entered a butchers. Staying true to my mantra to never pass a lamb’s heart without buying it, I also picked up some stewing mutton, and fennel seeds and garam masala which I later saw identical bags for half the price elsewhere. I drank a carton of a mango drink which slipped down nicely, although I’ve never been a massive fan of mango juice.
There are plenty of small shops and takaway joints selling both savoury and (especially) sweet snacks; when I saw a takeaway offering 3 dal wada for £1, my spirits rose. These were not dissimilar in texture to falafel, but had a delicious sweet, nutty, spiciness and I wolfed them down. Next up was a trip to one of the many cash-and-carries, where I emerged with cumin, whole coriander seeds, fenugreek and mustard seeds. I was thirsty again from the dal wada, and despite having an inherent dislike of coconut milk, was seduced by the thought of “when in Rome” and bought a can of the stuff, which had a little water and sugar thrown in to make a drink.
At the first sip, I was pleasantly surprised: it was pure and refreshing and, injecting myself with stereotypes and easing my imagination into fourth gear, I was able to imagine myself on a Goan beach, pouring the nectar down my throat. This reverie was cut short by the angry snarl of an old woman with numerous shopping bags, whose path I blocked. Sadly, the drink rapidly lost its appeal and the sudden appearance of lumps with the texture of feta almost made me deposit the aforementioned bacon sandwich, pudding and dal wada into the gutter.
Undeterred, I found my way into another shop where I filled up with all kinds of junk with which to clutter up the kitchen (any advice on what the hell to do with tamarind paste gratefully received). I was about to turn for home when on a hunch, I decided to explore a little further down the Ealing Road and, sure enough, the beating heart of Indian Wembley revealed itself past the houses. Vast cash-and-carries with rows of beautifully arranged fresh vegetables, street stalls selling sweet potato curry surrounded by youths consuming the same. There was no sign of either of the restaurants I was looking for as recommended by Paul and Sanjiv, though; any ideas, chaps? I plumped for the undisputed king of supermarkets, VB & Sons – a vast Lidlesque affair with row after row of sauces, pulses and spices. I emerged with some chapatti flour (no, I don’t know why either), cornflour, and dried coconut milk, the latter with an unpromising Nestle logo.
In VB, I’d say there were about 200 people shopping; I did a quick scout of each aisle and concluded that I was the only white face. London it might be, but this was another world. I was enlightened – the happiest I’d felt for a while. On the face of it, this was a walk around a grotty London suburb; for me, though, it was a micro-holiday, a few hours of forgetting everything else and getting lost in the atmosphere. The bus back to the tube station sailed past McDonalds and screaming police vans and my romantic blinkers were reluctantly ripped off.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Real British food: up with the best
The problem with comparing national cuisines is that too often people just miss the point. The great foods of the world aren’t the banquets; they’re not the restaurant dishes. Rather, they’re the peasant dishes, the street food, the things Mama made when you were small.
On that count, British food is up with the the best of anywhere. But you have to be selective with what you choose.
Ask your average Joe “what is the quintessential British dish?” and you’ll get “Roast Beef and Yorkshire pudding” trotted out time and time again. The problems with RB&YP are manifold. For a start, it’s not universally eaten. These days it’s more often served in pubs than at home (more on pub grub later); Yorkshire pudding isn’t always served (and when it is, its usually out of a packet); and it’s not particularly unique (Britain isn’t the only place roast meat is eaten). Far more importantly, perhaps, it’s just not a great dish. Yorkshire pudding itself is both unique and delicious, and therefore a British classic, but the most British aspect of a Sunday roast is, perhaps, the traditional appallingness of the vegetables. Putting RB&YP to one side and considering the “Sunday roast” more generally (a tired, middle-class tradition if ever there was one), apart from some accompaniments, there’s nothing British about it.
It’s the “veg” part of the “meat-and-two…” that strikes fear into the hearts of the Frenchies, and practically anyone else who drums up clichés of awful British cooking. Boiled carrot. Boiled sprouts. Boiled cabbage. Boiled peas. Boiled broccoli. You get the trend? All served with no seasoning whatsoever, cooked to within an inch of their lives and sitting, limply and sadly, swamped in gravy. Only the mighty roast potato can hold its own.
As a side note, the exception to the “boring roast” rule is Christmas dinner which is a world-class affair, but even then it thrives from occasion rather than cuisine. The sprouts-and-chestnuts combo perks things up, but it’s all a prelude to Christmas pudding (of which more later).
I swore to myself that when I wrote this I wouldn’t get bogged down with the Sunday roast, so instead I wanted to think about what THE great national dish would be. There are some criteria which I think are vital for something to be a truly national dish:
1. It must be unique to that country, or at least have an association so strong that when the name is mentioned, the country instantly leaps to mind.
2. It must be accessible. The ingredients have to be easily obtainable, not over-expensive, and perhaps most importantly, it must be easy for unskilled cooks to concoct.
3. It must be universal – geographically (not a speciality so regional that only a couple of counties consume it) and it must be something that’s eaten regularly by young and old, working class and middle class.
4. Ideally, it should be a dish to be proud of and worth celebrating.
There’s only one obvious answer that fits all these criteria, for me. It’s the BREAKFAST. Our true national dish is surely the fry, the “full English”, the all-day breakfast. It’s universal across Britain and Ireland, eaten regularly by all (the Breakfast transcends class divisions), easy to do at home, indeed it’s a highlight of many people’s weekend. Whether it’s (apologies in advance for resorting to clichés) working men in a caff having an all-day fry on their break from the site, or 2.4 children family having their breakfast with the Sunday papers, it remains an institution.
One of the great things about the Breakfast is that it can be as simple or elaborate as you like. The basics: bacon, fried eggs, toast (preferably white, and usually out of a packet…bread isn’t a British speciality) and a drink, normally tea; coffee just doesn’t go with grease.
Then there are the sundries, which it would insult the reader’s intelligence to go into in detail, but for the record must be listed. Sausages – unlikely to be of great quality, but the next-most-essential participant after bacon and eggs; fried mushrooms; grilled tomato; baked beans; black pudding (a truly magnificent dish on its own but sadly less common these days); hash browns; chips; orange juice.
I’m not well travelled at all, but when I go abroad what I like best is to ignore the flashy places, the tourist traps and the gourmet stuff, and head for the local joints and the market stalls. In Marrakech, my second favourite meal was at a market stall on the main square, the Jamaa el Fna. This square (it’ll be the one on the postcard from your sister) is heaving with stalls selling excellent ranges of meatballs, sausages and so on – but not a single Moroccan to be seen eating there. My girlfriend and I picked out a stall populated exclusively by Moroccan men – there were only two dishes on offer: a bowl of bean gruel, or cow’s head. I regret to report that neither of us had the stomach for the head and opted instead for the gruel – an uplifting, warming dish, served with the ubiquitous mint tea – which had a ratio of one large box of sugar cubes to every pot.
In a similar way, it’s the caffs of Britain where our culture really lies, and the Breakfast is the dish of choice there. My weak efforts are shameful in comparison to Russell Davies’s wonderful eggsbaconchipsandbeans blog which says all that has to be said. Whether chips have a place in a Breakfast is a mater of debate, but it’s a minor quibble with such a fantastic piece of work. It’s a labour of love and the enthusiasm he projects is something to die for.
The sandwich
Again, it ticks all the boxes: universal, accessible and definitely British. It’s so universal, in fact, that it’s easy to wolf one down without noticing that you’re eating it; I mean, when was the last time a sandwich was the highlight of your day? (I know the answer to that one actually – it was the last time I had a roast lamb sandwich, with Yorkshire pudding, roast spuds and mint sauce as well as various other trimmings, at Fuzzy's Grub).
The twin pillars upon which the reputation of the sandwich stands are the ham sandwich and the cheese. Not being a huge Cheddar fan, cheese sandwiches have never appealed to me personally – but I’ll never underestimate their importance. Throw in a bit of pickle, and you have the Ploughman’s. The ham sandwich has become terribly debased but a good thick slice of ham with a touch of mustard – sandwich heaven.
Spare a thought for a couple of sandwich oddities: the cucumber – part of that bastion of the bourgeoisie, Afternoon Tea, of which more later – and the jam sandwich, sadly a dying breed.
Then, of course, let’s not forget the bacon sandwich. As Nigel Slater points out, you need white bread from a packet for this one. Margarine, bacon, a small squirt of ketchup or brown sauce and there you go. It’s a distant cousin of the Breakfast. The all-day-breakfast-sandwich is a bit contrived for me and gets marked with a big Fail.
Britain is a country that loves carbs in general in serious quantities. In Ireland it’s the same with an even heavier slant towards the potato, but this side of the water, we get through a load of bread, rice, pasta, and potatoes in various forms. The execrable boiled, the glorious roasted, mash (especially with sausages), and of course chips. Fish and chips isn’t a dish eaten at home but is an institution. Crunchy fluffy chips, light batter on the fish, please. Oh, and can I have mine from Edinburgh, with sauce. If you don’t know what I mean, then get up to Edinburgh. But I’m at the risk of drifting into regional specialities here. Whilst on the subject of carbs, another fatty way to get our calorific intake is through…
The pie
The pub classic. Now pub grub is a relatively recent phenomenon; pubs used to be for drinking (and smoking) in, and if you could get hold of a pickled egg or packet of pork scratchings you were doing just fine. For better or for worse (better, I reckon) you can get a meal in most pubs, although most places reckon they can get away with charging restaurant prices for distinctly under-par food. Central to pub food is the pie & pint. Meat pies are as English as you can get – everything from the Cornish pasty through to the pork pie. All are gluttonously decadent. None are healthy. All are enjoyable. A special mention to something which I’ve never tried but is next on my list – the classic East End “pie & mash” with liquor on the side. Manze is acknowledged as the best place in London to get your pie & mash – need to take a trip there soon.
Dessert
Many countries don’t “do” desserts. The Italians manage pannacotta and panettone. The Germans have various tasty pancake things. Even the French struggle, with tarte tatin, crème brulee and a handful of others. But I don’t think any cuisine celebrates sweet things as much as British. Puddings! Cakes! Pies! Sweetmeats! Visions of tea parties and picnics, of jelly-and-ice-cream birthdays, of chocolate decadence. British desserts are simple and delectable. The plain cake is the cornerstone of our desserts: good old-fashioned Victoria sponge, from which so many good things stem. Then there’s apple pie. Scones with jam and clotted cream. Talking of cream, there’s strawberries and aforementioned. Bakewell tart. Lemon meringue pie. The list goes on, and on, and on. Other countries may think that cheese is a sophisticated end to a meal, but that’s only because their desserts are rubbish. Long live the British dessert.
What of other classics? Many are bastardised versions of foreign dishes. Our huge immigrant population makes this country one of the most exciting places to live in the world, but sadly our acceptance for low standards means that those immigrants don’t always produce great food themselves. Tikka masala may be hailed as “the true national dish” but ultimately tikka, Chinese takeaways and rubbery pizzas are just poor imitations of great dishes from elsewhere. Debased versions of foreign cuisine are not British cooking at its finest. Rather, the old traditional dishes, the universal home-comfort favourites, are timeless and on a par with any bouillabaisse or paella.
On that count, British food is up with the the best of anywhere. But you have to be selective with what you choose.
Ask your average Joe “what is the quintessential British dish?” and you’ll get “Roast Beef and Yorkshire pudding” trotted out time and time again. The problems with RB&YP are manifold. For a start, it’s not universally eaten. These days it’s more often served in pubs than at home (more on pub grub later); Yorkshire pudding isn’t always served (and when it is, its usually out of a packet); and it’s not particularly unique (Britain isn’t the only place roast meat is eaten). Far more importantly, perhaps, it’s just not a great dish. Yorkshire pudding itself is both unique and delicious, and therefore a British classic, but the most British aspect of a Sunday roast is, perhaps, the traditional appallingness of the vegetables. Putting RB&YP to one side and considering the “Sunday roast” more generally (a tired, middle-class tradition if ever there was one), apart from some accompaniments, there’s nothing British about it.
It’s the “veg” part of the “meat-and-two…” that strikes fear into the hearts of the Frenchies, and practically anyone else who drums up clichés of awful British cooking. Boiled carrot. Boiled sprouts. Boiled cabbage. Boiled peas. Boiled broccoli. You get the trend? All served with no seasoning whatsoever, cooked to within an inch of their lives and sitting, limply and sadly, swamped in gravy. Only the mighty roast potato can hold its own.
As a side note, the exception to the “boring roast” rule is Christmas dinner which is a world-class affair, but even then it thrives from occasion rather than cuisine. The sprouts-and-chestnuts combo perks things up, but it’s all a prelude to Christmas pudding (of which more later).
I swore to myself that when I wrote this I wouldn’t get bogged down with the Sunday roast, so instead I wanted to think about what THE great national dish would be. There are some criteria which I think are vital for something to be a truly national dish:
1. It must be unique to that country, or at least have an association so strong that when the name is mentioned, the country instantly leaps to mind.
2. It must be accessible. The ingredients have to be easily obtainable, not over-expensive, and perhaps most importantly, it must be easy for unskilled cooks to concoct.
3. It must be universal – geographically (not a speciality so regional that only a couple of counties consume it) and it must be something that’s eaten regularly by young and old, working class and middle class.
4. Ideally, it should be a dish to be proud of and worth celebrating.
There’s only one obvious answer that fits all these criteria, for me. It’s the BREAKFAST. Our true national dish is surely the fry, the “full English”, the all-day breakfast. It’s universal across Britain and Ireland, eaten regularly by all (the Breakfast transcends class divisions), easy to do at home, indeed it’s a highlight of many people’s weekend. Whether it’s (apologies in advance for resorting to clichés) working men in a caff having an all-day fry on their break from the site, or 2.4 children family having their breakfast with the Sunday papers, it remains an institution.
One of the great things about the Breakfast is that it can be as simple or elaborate as you like. The basics: bacon, fried eggs, toast (preferably white, and usually out of a packet…bread isn’t a British speciality) and a drink, normally tea; coffee just doesn’t go with grease.
Then there are the sundries, which it would insult the reader’s intelligence to go into in detail, but for the record must be listed. Sausages – unlikely to be of great quality, but the next-most-essential participant after bacon and eggs; fried mushrooms; grilled tomato; baked beans; black pudding (a truly magnificent dish on its own but sadly less common these days); hash browns; chips; orange juice.
I’m not well travelled at all, but when I go abroad what I like best is to ignore the flashy places, the tourist traps and the gourmet stuff, and head for the local joints and the market stalls. In Marrakech, my second favourite meal was at a market stall on the main square, the Jamaa el Fna. This square (it’ll be the one on the postcard from your sister) is heaving with stalls selling excellent ranges of meatballs, sausages and so on – but not a single Moroccan to be seen eating there. My girlfriend and I picked out a stall populated exclusively by Moroccan men – there were only two dishes on offer: a bowl of bean gruel, or cow’s head. I regret to report that neither of us had the stomach for the head and opted instead for the gruel – an uplifting, warming dish, served with the ubiquitous mint tea – which had a ratio of one large box of sugar cubes to every pot.
In a similar way, it’s the caffs of Britain where our culture really lies, and the Breakfast is the dish of choice there. My weak efforts are shameful in comparison to Russell Davies’s wonderful eggsbaconchipsandbeans blog which says all that has to be said. Whether chips have a place in a Breakfast is a mater of debate, but it’s a minor quibble with such a fantastic piece of work. It’s a labour of love and the enthusiasm he projects is something to die for.
The sandwich
Again, it ticks all the boxes: universal, accessible and definitely British. It’s so universal, in fact, that it’s easy to wolf one down without noticing that you’re eating it; I mean, when was the last time a sandwich was the highlight of your day? (I know the answer to that one actually – it was the last time I had a roast lamb sandwich, with Yorkshire pudding, roast spuds and mint sauce as well as various other trimmings, at Fuzzy's Grub).
The twin pillars upon which the reputation of the sandwich stands are the ham sandwich and the cheese. Not being a huge Cheddar fan, cheese sandwiches have never appealed to me personally – but I’ll never underestimate their importance. Throw in a bit of pickle, and you have the Ploughman’s. The ham sandwich has become terribly debased but a good thick slice of ham with a touch of mustard – sandwich heaven.
Spare a thought for a couple of sandwich oddities: the cucumber – part of that bastion of the bourgeoisie, Afternoon Tea, of which more later – and the jam sandwich, sadly a dying breed.
Then, of course, let’s not forget the bacon sandwich. As Nigel Slater points out, you need white bread from a packet for this one. Margarine, bacon, a small squirt of ketchup or brown sauce and there you go. It’s a distant cousin of the Breakfast. The all-day-breakfast-sandwich is a bit contrived for me and gets marked with a big Fail.
Britain is a country that loves carbs in general in serious quantities. In Ireland it’s the same with an even heavier slant towards the potato, but this side of the water, we get through a load of bread, rice, pasta, and potatoes in various forms. The execrable boiled, the glorious roasted, mash (especially with sausages), and of course chips. Fish and chips isn’t a dish eaten at home but is an institution. Crunchy fluffy chips, light batter on the fish, please. Oh, and can I have mine from Edinburgh, with sauce. If you don’t know what I mean, then get up to Edinburgh. But I’m at the risk of drifting into regional specialities here. Whilst on the subject of carbs, another fatty way to get our calorific intake is through…
The pie
The pub classic. Now pub grub is a relatively recent phenomenon; pubs used to be for drinking (and smoking) in, and if you could get hold of a pickled egg or packet of pork scratchings you were doing just fine. For better or for worse (better, I reckon) you can get a meal in most pubs, although most places reckon they can get away with charging restaurant prices for distinctly under-par food. Central to pub food is the pie & pint. Meat pies are as English as you can get – everything from the Cornish pasty through to the pork pie. All are gluttonously decadent. None are healthy. All are enjoyable. A special mention to something which I’ve never tried but is next on my list – the classic East End “pie & mash” with liquor on the side. Manze is acknowledged as the best place in London to get your pie & mash – need to take a trip there soon.
Dessert
Many countries don’t “do” desserts. The Italians manage pannacotta and panettone. The Germans have various tasty pancake things. Even the French struggle, with tarte tatin, crème brulee and a handful of others. But I don’t think any cuisine celebrates sweet things as much as British. Puddings! Cakes! Pies! Sweetmeats! Visions of tea parties and picnics, of jelly-and-ice-cream birthdays, of chocolate decadence. British desserts are simple and delectable. The plain cake is the cornerstone of our desserts: good old-fashioned Victoria sponge, from which so many good things stem. Then there’s apple pie. Scones with jam and clotted cream. Talking of cream, there’s strawberries and aforementioned. Bakewell tart. Lemon meringue pie. The list goes on, and on, and on. Other countries may think that cheese is a sophisticated end to a meal, but that’s only because their desserts are rubbish. Long live the British dessert.
What of other classics? Many are bastardised versions of foreign dishes. Our huge immigrant population makes this country one of the most exciting places to live in the world, but sadly our acceptance for low standards means that those immigrants don’t always produce great food themselves. Tikka masala may be hailed as “the true national dish” but ultimately tikka, Chinese takeaways and rubbery pizzas are just poor imitations of great dishes from elsewhere. Debased versions of foreign cuisine are not British cooking at its finest. Rather, the old traditional dishes, the universal home-comfort favourites, are timeless and on a par with any bouillabaisse or paella.
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Hype, masters at work and bleak brilliance: three West End blockbusters
Hamlet (RSC, dir Gregory Doran, Novello Theatre) **
Waiting for Godot (Theatre Royal Haymarket, dir Sean Mathias) *****
Hamlet (Donmar Warehouse productions, dir Michael Grandage, Wyndham’s Theatre) ****
2009 has been the year of the classic megaproduction. Rarely can there have been so much anticipation surrounding a Hamlet, let alone a Godot. Would the productions themselves withstand such hype and scrutiny?
The RSC Hamlet (**) , perhaps better known as the David tennant Hamlet, was perhaps the most eagerly anticipated Shakespeare production EVER – certainly in my lifetime. Tickets sold out for the entire London run in a matter of hours. As a result, I found myself queuing one freezing January morning at 5am on Aldwych, for one of the day seats that were held back.
Queuing for returns and day seats is a particularly British pastime and one which always brings the same characters together, time after time. There was the woman at the front, with picnic hamper and shooting stick, who had sat on her own for four hours until the second person in line arrived. There was the bright American student, who prattled on, brightly, about nothing in particular in a loud voice which had just the right tone to pierce whatever defences I attempted to put up as I made manful efforts to sleep on my haunches. It was an incessant noise and I would have pleaded manslaughter on the grounds of both self defence and diminished responsibility. There was the silent, anorexic male, reading Dostoyevsky. There was the matronly type, offering tea and sandwiches to all around her. There was the plummy type in her sixties, who discussed all things theatrical with her neighbours, until at one point she came out with “Oh reaaaaaly? What an absolute fucking bastard.”
Workers, clubbers and homeless alike looked on, wondering why such a motley crew of middle class (mostly) fiftysomethings would sit in freezing drizzle at the crack of dawn. There is little to keep one amused. Sandwich delivery vans, all from firms with punnish monikers (“The Well Bread Sandwich” and the like), provided the bulk of the entertainment. Apart from that it is a long, hard slog to 10am.
These were the hottest tickets in town. Seeing the Doctor Who Hamlet was like getting tickets to the Governor’s Ball after the Oscars. This was real deal gold-dust business. But what of the performance itself? On paper it was an embarrassment of riches. Not just Tennant, but Patrick Stewart too; and the kitemark of an RSC production. Surely nothing could go wrong.
Personally, I was sorely disappointed, but it must be said that I was in the minority. First things first, let’s get Tennant out of the way. He hammed everything up, he leapt and gurned, contorting his face in his trademark way. He was never Hamlet; he was always David Tennant doing Hamlet. He has the misfortune of a very distinctive style, and thus it is always hard to shake off the feeling of watching the actor rather than the part. He was not helped by a production that attempted to inject humour at the most inappropriate places while missing obvious jokes in the text; as a result, is had a disjointed, uncomfortable feel, while making Tennant look as if he was going for cheap laughs half the time. The second half picked up well as the action intensified, but I still came away slightly short-changed (as the day seats were a fiver, perhaps an inappropriate choice of phrase).
The supporting cast were mixed. Patrick Stewart, as the Ghost and Claudius, was understated and had suitable grandeur without being spectacular. Penny Downie as Gertrude was majestic; she was terrifyingly powerful and the bedroom scene with Hamlet was electric. Also of particular note was Edward Bennett as Laertes.
As soon as word went around that the two veteran giants of the Shakespeare-Hollywood crossover, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen, were joining forces to do Waiting for Godot (*****), there was only one word in my head: unmissable. Of course, like the rest of the world I had seen them together for a few fleeting moments in the X Men films, and despite the CGI that was enough to make me realise that the two of them had the potential to create something very, very special together.
Never having seen Godot before, I went with a light heart: I knew that it might well be something that I wouldn’t enjoy, but I also knew that if these two couldn’t make it work, then it could simply be written off as a piece for which I don’t have the intellectual capacity.
McKellen and Stewart were, simply brilliant by virtue of the fact that they managed to put the real star of the show to the fore: Beckett himself. Their considerable acting skills and Sean Mathias’ directing ensured that far from being a play consisting
of two old men talking about nothing, it became a wonderfully uplifting journey through static - or cyclical, depending on which way you look at it – time. Simon Callow’s brutal and grotesque Pozzo provided horror and light relief in equal quantities, while the bizarre Lucky (Ronald Pickup) was distressing to watch. As for the leads themselves: they eked humour out of every line. It was a production full of pathos, but ultimately uplifting: two men in the twilight of their lives, watching time tick by, but making the most of every second of their lives by enjoying each other’s company. A better depiction of friendship I have never seen before. The production also seemed to emphasise just how Irish the play is: men talking about nothing, for days on end, and yet remaining stoically upbeat about the future (with lashings of healthy cynicism thrown in). The best was left until last: the vaudeville curtain call, with bowler hats the stars of the show, was a wonderful way to leave this magnificent production.
Michael Grandage is without doubt the director du jour and having seen his Donmar-on-West-End-residency productions of Ivanov and Twelfth Night, as well as his superb Othello last year, I had high hopes for his Hamlet (****). For those who hadn’t been to the RSC version, there was a feeling of going off to Bristol University having missed out on Cambridge: probably a decent experience, but not the unforgettable, lifechanging affair that seeing David Tennant might have been.
By contrast to the RSC’s patchy effort, this
was a simpler affair: a Jude Law tour de force. Law, a much underrated Hollywood actor in my opinion (his performance in Closer is the highlight of a superb film), covered a vast range of emotions and philosophies throughout, but always emphasising the confusion and self-doubt that the Prince feels. Whether berating those around him for their moral flimsiness or demonstrating Shakespeare’s exquisite existentialist soliloquies, Law engaged with the audience from the word go and never let up.
It occurred to me that perhaps Law was projecting a little of himself into the part; he has always been an enigma, with rumours of a cold heart where women are concerned and just the other day was pictured lashing out at a photographer. I wondered if he had managed to put himself not only in Hamlet’s shoes, but in his mind as well.
The production was based purely around highlighting the Prince’s inner turmoil. Action and humour were downplayed – indeed, this was a bleak, almost elegiac performance at times. Some of the action was inadequate; there was not enough tension towards the end (partly because Law’s titanic philosophical effort in the first half had been so exhausting) and of the supporting cast, only Matt Ryan as Horatio was convincing, providing a strident foil to Law for Hamlet at his most positive: in true Love.
Waiting for Godot (Theatre Royal Haymarket, dir Sean Mathias) *****
Hamlet (Donmar Warehouse productions, dir Michael Grandage, Wyndham’s Theatre) ****
2009 has been the year of the classic megaproduction. Rarely can there have been so much anticipation surrounding a Hamlet, let alone a Godot. Would the productions themselves withstand such hype and scrutiny?
The RSC Hamlet (**) , perhaps better known as the David tennant Hamlet, was perhaps the most eagerly anticipated Shakespeare production EVER – certainly in my lifetime. Tickets sold out for the entire London run in a matter of hours. As a result, I found myself queuing one freezing January morning at 5am on Aldwych, for one of the day seats that were held back.
Queuing for returns and day seats is a particularly British pastime and one which always brings the same characters together, time after time. There was the woman at the front, with picnic hamper and shooting stick, who had sat on her own for four hours until the second person in line arrived. There was the bright American student, who prattled on, brightly, about nothing in particular in a loud voice which had just the right tone to pierce whatever defences I attempted to put up as I made manful efforts to sleep on my haunches. It was an incessant noise and I would have pleaded manslaughter on the grounds of both self defence and diminished responsibility. There was the silent, anorexic male, reading Dostoyevsky. There was the matronly type, offering tea and sandwiches to all around her. There was the plummy type in her sixties, who discussed all things theatrical with her neighbours, until at one point she came out with “Oh reaaaaaly? What an absolute fucking bastard.”
Workers, clubbers and homeless alike looked on, wondering why such a motley crew of middle class (mostly) fiftysomethings would sit in freezing drizzle at the crack of dawn. There is little to keep one amused. Sandwich delivery vans, all from firms with punnish monikers (“The Well Bread Sandwich” and the like), provided the bulk of the entertainment. Apart from that it is a long, hard slog to 10am.
These were the hottest tickets in town. Seeing the Doctor Who Hamlet was like getting tickets to the Governor’s Ball after the Oscars. This was real deal gold-dust business. But what of the performance itself? On paper it was an embarrassment of riches. Not just Tennant, but Patrick Stewart too; and the kitemark of an RSC production. Surely nothing could go wrong.
Personally, I was sorely disappointed, but it must be said that I was in the minority. First things first, let’s get Tennant out of the way. He hammed everything up, he leapt and gurned, contorting his face in his trademark way. He was never Hamlet; he was always David Tennant doing Hamlet. He has the misfortune of a very distinctive style, and thus it is always hard to shake off the feeling of watching the actor rather than the part. He was not helped by a production that attempted to inject humour at the most inappropriate places while missing obvious jokes in the text; as a result, is had a disjointed, uncomfortable feel, while making Tennant look as if he was going for cheap laughs half the time. The second half picked up well as the action intensified, but I still came away slightly short-changed (as the day seats were a fiver, perhaps an inappropriate choice of phrase).
The supporting cast were mixed. Patrick Stewart, as the Ghost and Claudius, was understated and had suitable grandeur without being spectacular. Penny Downie as Gertrude was majestic; she was terrifyingly powerful and the bedroom scene with Hamlet was electric. Also of particular note was Edward Bennett as Laertes.
As soon as word went around that the two veteran giants of the Shakespeare-Hollywood crossover, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen, were joining forces to do Waiting for Godot (*****), there was only one word in my head: unmissable. Of course, like the rest of the world I had seen them together for a few fleeting moments in the X Men films, and despite the CGI that was enough to make me realise that the two of them had the potential to create something very, very special together.
Never having seen Godot before, I went with a light heart: I knew that it might well be something that I wouldn’t enjoy, but I also knew that if these two couldn’t make it work, then it could simply be written off as a piece for which I don’t have the intellectual capacity.
McKellen and Stewart were, simply brilliant by virtue of the fact that they managed to put the real star of the show to the fore: Beckett himself. Their considerable acting skills and Sean Mathias’ directing ensured that far from being a play consisting
of two old men talking about nothing, it became a wonderfully uplifting journey through static - or cyclical, depending on which way you look at it – time. Simon Callow’s brutal and grotesque Pozzo provided horror and light relief in equal quantities, while the bizarre Lucky (Ronald Pickup) was distressing to watch. As for the leads themselves: they eked humour out of every line. It was a production full of pathos, but ultimately uplifting: two men in the twilight of their lives, watching time tick by, but making the most of every second of their lives by enjoying each other’s company. A better depiction of friendship I have never seen before. The production also seemed to emphasise just how Irish the play is: men talking about nothing, for days on end, and yet remaining stoically upbeat about the future (with lashings of healthy cynicism thrown in). The best was left until last: the vaudeville curtain call, with bowler hats the stars of the show, was a wonderful way to leave this magnificent production.Michael Grandage is without doubt the director du jour and having seen his Donmar-on-West-End-residency productions of Ivanov and Twelfth Night, as well as his superb Othello last year, I had high hopes for his Hamlet (****). For those who hadn’t been to the RSC version, there was a feeling of going off to Bristol University having missed out on Cambridge: probably a decent experience, but not the unforgettable, lifechanging affair that seeing David Tennant might have been.
By contrast to the RSC’s patchy effort, this
was a simpler affair: a Jude Law tour de force. Law, a much underrated Hollywood actor in my opinion (his performance in Closer is the highlight of a superb film), covered a vast range of emotions and philosophies throughout, but always emphasising the confusion and self-doubt that the Prince feels. Whether berating those around him for their moral flimsiness or demonstrating Shakespeare’s exquisite existentialist soliloquies, Law engaged with the audience from the word go and never let up.It occurred to me that perhaps Law was projecting a little of himself into the part; he has always been an enigma, with rumours of a cold heart where women are concerned and just the other day was pictured lashing out at a photographer. I wondered if he had managed to put himself not only in Hamlet’s shoes, but in his mind as well.
The production was based purely around highlighting the Prince’s inner turmoil. Action and humour were downplayed – indeed, this was a bleak, almost elegiac performance at times. Some of the action was inadequate; there was not enough tension towards the end (partly because Law’s titanic philosophical effort in the first half had been so exhausting) and of the supporting cast, only Matt Ryan as Horatio was convincing, providing a strident foil to Law for Hamlet at his most positive: in true Love.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
A Ryanair Reverie
“In the event of an emergency, oxygen masks will drop from above your head. Insert 10 euro and breathe normally…”
With a turbulent bump, my daydream ended abruptly. Hostesses Kayleigh and Anna wandered listlessly by, clutching menus and scratchcards with expressions of hope rather than expectation, although I may have mistaken them for indifference. The Ryanair Experience was in full swing.
It begins at a grim park-and-ride in the middle of the rectum of the country which on polite maps calls itself Luton. Train tickets now do not automatically include the price of the 5-minute bus journey which follows; cue exasperated arguments between travellers and bus driver – the latter, in a rather Continental style, conducting his business with an elaborate shrug.
Luton Airport itself needs no further introduction. Suffice to say that the signs for “priority queue” amused me; one customs man sitting doing nothing while the other queue stretched ever longer. One does not pay pennies for a flight and then expect the kid glove treatment. Enforced discomfort is the norm.
A man with Beckham 7 England shirt was in the midst of an argument with Unsmiling Customs Official Number 3. The latter did not consider himself uptight, as Beckham 7 insinuated. At the fourth time of asking, Beckham 7 admitted that he “might” have told the previous androgynous official that he had a bomb in his luggage. Tongue-lashing taken and looking suitably chastened, he wandered through, muttering about “can’t take a joke” and “yerrhavinafackinlarff” in the same sentence, which seemed rather ironic to me.
The bag weighing ceremony is done with equal seriousness. Ryanair doling out arbitary meanness for no apparent reason, the weight limit is 15kg for checked in luggage as opposed to the customary 20 (Easyjet feels like comparative luxury) and even hand baggage is weighed – none of the usual “if you can lift it with one hand, then it’s hand baggage” malarkey, and at £10 a kilo outsize charges, it’s not surprising they pay close attention. Everything about the Ryanair Experience is about making money: hard squeezing, wrenching, sell-your-grandmother money making. From the moment one steps onto the plane itself, the sales attempts are persistent. Reports that there will soon be charges for toilets, wheelchairs and online check-in are depressing, amusing and unsurprising rolled into one.
Ryanair represents the New Ireland. 20th century Ireland was all about living up to the stereotypes of pot-holes in the road, subsistence economies, vague incompetence and general innocent niceness. The 21st century Ireland is a ruthless, profit making, beEuroed nation perfectly personified by Michael O’Leary’s behemoth company. This is a country where quality of life is now much better than the UK, according to a 2004 study. And yet if the country as a whole follows its leading airline, much of its soul will be lost.
Sladjana’s mesmerising dimple came close to tempting me to buying a scratchcard (for “charity” – presumably the Michael O’Leary Fund) and the smokeless cigarettes (“Are you desperate for a smoke?”) got me chuckling, but my hands stayed firmly in my pockets. And in truth, the cabin crew’s hearts were not in their work. Their expressions were neutral and resigned, immune to the whines of their customers. I wondered whether working as a flight attendant was like living as a woman under Sharia law – repressed, discouraged from displaying any personality or human nature, living as an object. Only at one point did the facade waver: when the woman next to me expressed outrage at a £5 charge for a single slice of pizza, Sladjana was apologetic and almost humble, branding the price “ridiculous”.
As for those customers, the British Holidaymaker Abroad was the order of the day. Aside from Beckham 7, there was the bloke in the fluorescent pink t-shirt, oh-so-trendy straw hat and bleached blond hair. Oh, and a bleached blond goatee, the accessory du jour of any self-respecting metrosexual. His clothes and hair were probably emitting enough radiation to power a two bedroom house. His girlfriend, meanwhile, had spent hours in the gym to achieve a fine pair of pins – her appearance sadly spoilt by poor genetics resulting in a prominent beak-like nose. A yummy mummy asked her daughter brightly "Can you see the fields, darling?" The child looked down over the fields. "No", she said, sweetly and happily. Most British of all was the sudden rush to the door as the flight was called. I sat comfortably in my seat, halfway through my chapter, for another 25 minutes until the doors were actually opened, “priority boarders” (both of them) took the pick of the seats (not a case of chicken or fish, but emergency exit or toilet) and run-of-the-mill Budgetites piled in behind. My own seat seemed the same as any others, but with the added satisfaction of the extra time not queueing.
On landing there was a fanfare and a plastic Scottish recorded voice (one of those clichéd “reassuring” ones proclaimed that once again we were on time. Since when a service provider actually providing adequate service merited a brass fanfare I don’t know, but O’Leary’s empire redefines doublethink and the bar is ever lowered as the British Holidaymaker Abroad lowers his standards likewise.
As for the emergency oxygen, my theory was, fortunately, never tested. But should we make an “unlikely” landing on water (wasn’t the Hudson miracle just that, a miracle?) it will not surprise me if I am greeted in future at the emergency exit by Sladjana’s dimple inviting me to make a contribution upon exit.
With a turbulent bump, my daydream ended abruptly. Hostesses Kayleigh and Anna wandered listlessly by, clutching menus and scratchcards with expressions of hope rather than expectation, although I may have mistaken them for indifference. The Ryanair Experience was in full swing.
It begins at a grim park-and-ride in the middle of the rectum of the country which on polite maps calls itself Luton. Train tickets now do not automatically include the price of the 5-minute bus journey which follows; cue exasperated arguments between travellers and bus driver – the latter, in a rather Continental style, conducting his business with an elaborate shrug.
Luton Airport itself needs no further introduction. Suffice to say that the signs for “priority queue” amused me; one customs man sitting doing nothing while the other queue stretched ever longer. One does not pay pennies for a flight and then expect the kid glove treatment. Enforced discomfort is the norm.
A man with Beckham 7 England shirt was in the midst of an argument with Unsmiling Customs Official Number 3. The latter did not consider himself uptight, as Beckham 7 insinuated. At the fourth time of asking, Beckham 7 admitted that he “might” have told the previous androgynous official that he had a bomb in his luggage. Tongue-lashing taken and looking suitably chastened, he wandered through, muttering about “can’t take a joke” and “yerrhavinafackinlarff” in the same sentence, which seemed rather ironic to me.
The bag weighing ceremony is done with equal seriousness. Ryanair doling out arbitary meanness for no apparent reason, the weight limit is 15kg for checked in luggage as opposed to the customary 20 (Easyjet feels like comparative luxury) and even hand baggage is weighed – none of the usual “if you can lift it with one hand, then it’s hand baggage” malarkey, and at £10 a kilo outsize charges, it’s not surprising they pay close attention. Everything about the Ryanair Experience is about making money: hard squeezing, wrenching, sell-your-grandmother money making. From the moment one steps onto the plane itself, the sales attempts are persistent. Reports that there will soon be charges for toilets, wheelchairs and online check-in are depressing, amusing and unsurprising rolled into one.
Ryanair represents the New Ireland. 20th century Ireland was all about living up to the stereotypes of pot-holes in the road, subsistence economies, vague incompetence and general innocent niceness. The 21st century Ireland is a ruthless, profit making, beEuroed nation perfectly personified by Michael O’Leary’s behemoth company. This is a country where quality of life is now much better than the UK, according to a 2004 study. And yet if the country as a whole follows its leading airline, much of its soul will be lost.
Sladjana’s mesmerising dimple came close to tempting me to buying a scratchcard (for “charity” – presumably the Michael O’Leary Fund) and the smokeless cigarettes (“Are you desperate for a smoke?”) got me chuckling, but my hands stayed firmly in my pockets. And in truth, the cabin crew’s hearts were not in their work. Their expressions were neutral and resigned, immune to the whines of their customers. I wondered whether working as a flight attendant was like living as a woman under Sharia law – repressed, discouraged from displaying any personality or human nature, living as an object. Only at one point did the facade waver: when the woman next to me expressed outrage at a £5 charge for a single slice of pizza, Sladjana was apologetic and almost humble, branding the price “ridiculous”.
As for those customers, the British Holidaymaker Abroad was the order of the day. Aside from Beckham 7, there was the bloke in the fluorescent pink t-shirt, oh-so-trendy straw hat and bleached blond hair. Oh, and a bleached blond goatee, the accessory du jour of any self-respecting metrosexual. His clothes and hair were probably emitting enough radiation to power a two bedroom house. His girlfriend, meanwhile, had spent hours in the gym to achieve a fine pair of pins – her appearance sadly spoilt by poor genetics resulting in a prominent beak-like nose. A yummy mummy asked her daughter brightly "Can you see the fields, darling?" The child looked down over the fields. "No", she said, sweetly and happily. Most British of all was the sudden rush to the door as the flight was called. I sat comfortably in my seat, halfway through my chapter, for another 25 minutes until the doors were actually opened, “priority boarders” (both of them) took the pick of the seats (not a case of chicken or fish, but emergency exit or toilet) and run-of-the-mill Budgetites piled in behind. My own seat seemed the same as any others, but with the added satisfaction of the extra time not queueing.
On landing there was a fanfare and a plastic Scottish recorded voice (one of those clichéd “reassuring” ones proclaimed that once again we were on time. Since when a service provider actually providing adequate service merited a brass fanfare I don’t know, but O’Leary’s empire redefines doublethink and the bar is ever lowered as the British Holidaymaker Abroad lowers his standards likewise.
As for the emergency oxygen, my theory was, fortunately, never tested. But should we make an “unlikely” landing on water (wasn’t the Hudson miracle just that, a miracle?) it will not surprise me if I am greeted in future at the emergency exit by Sladjana’s dimple inviting me to make a contribution upon exit.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
getting started
This could be the start of a beautiful journey. Of course, I'll mostly be talking to myself, but there's nothing new there. For the man and his dog who might be reading this, expect sporadic ramblings on (in no particular order) politics, football, music (bits and pieces), theatre reviews, marketing, and the occasional essay on a day out doing nothing in particular. It'll be fun.
For instance - right now I'm in a political mood, with the European elections tomorrow; the Labour party is wilting (Gordon Brown seems like Canute at the moment) and the expenses row (what a horrible word "row" is) continues to dominate the news. What odds something startling happening? Mandelson in power? A deal with the Lib Dems? Electoral reform coming back onto the agenda? Who knows...
For instance - right now I'm in a political mood, with the European elections tomorrow; the Labour party is wilting (Gordon Brown seems like Canute at the moment) and the expenses row (what a horrible word "row" is) continues to dominate the news. What odds something startling happening? Mandelson in power? A deal with the Lib Dems? Electoral reform coming back onto the agenda? Who knows...
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