I didn’t die or anything (unless we were all in a train crash and didn’t realize it, like the Narnia kids – in which case, cool), and I’ve heard that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but it was tough walking through a stuffy museum and then sitting through a play with a snuffling headache. I don’t care one little bit now – haha, up yours, Past Ryan – but at the time . . . well, at the time it was just another first world problem. At the very least, I’m self-aware.
I’d been fighting the flu for the past few days now, and Wednesday night’s performance of Bound probably didn’t help a whole lot. The play was a fringe show, based on the lives of half a dozen herring fishermen in a hard fix who go out for one last catch, unknowingly into a rising storm. It was set off the coast of Devon, but it could just as easily have been off the coast of Trinity.
I said that the play didn’t help my flu, because it was performed in the tiny Southwark Playhouse, which is literally a slightly mouldy vault under a bridge. It didn’t help my flu, but it was the most powerful show we’ve seen yet – I’d take a sick day for that one.
First off, the dude who wrote the play, Jesse Briton, was only 23 when he penned it. That doesn’t mean I went into it with a sympathetic, condescending “he’s-practically-my-age-so-it-can’t-be-that-good-but-it’s-nice-that-he’s-trying” attitude. At least, I hope I didn’t – if I did, that changed as soon as I realized how good the show was, in and of itself.
First off, there were next to no props, other than a table, chairs, and a hanging light bulb. The six actors managed to convince you, however, that they were out on the ocean, hauling in nets with brute force and swaying with the waves. The show opened in darkness, with an a cappella rendition of “Last of the Great Whales” (the Irish Descendant do a nice version) – the b’ys were wicked musicians, and all the scene changes had snatches of traditional songs, many of which have trickled into the Newfoundland canon as well. I’d go see them in concert, no problem.
The show itself was serious and funny, tragic and fantastic. The actors played believable characters, and touched on some believable issues. It had something of a Perfect Storm feel to it, and with the dampness in the room and the traffic overhead making noises like waves against the walls, it felt pretty genuine, too.
Killer for a head cold, though.
I had all but decided against going to Cambridge in the morning, but when my alarm went off, I got up and figured I was good for it. The trip in took about as long as it takes to get to London, the train running in the opposite direction. Rainy when we got there, so we grabbed a few cabs to the Cambridge Arts Theatre. We were there a few hours before the box office opened; we had planned to see some of the city on foot, but the weather made that a pretty crappy idea. Instead, we walked to the Fitzwilliam Museum.
The museum was pretty cool, combining a gallery and a collection of relics from the past, like a toned-down version of the British Museum. Except that the staff were against us from the beginning – when we walked in, we got the “are you a group?” interrogation, for which question the wrong answer was yes. You’d think we made a bomb joke going through airport security. Jaysus, we got rapped on the knuckles for not booking earlier (although if we had of just walked in off the street, it would have been cool), and had to “divide” into two groups of ten, and leave all our bags locked away downstairs.
A couple of years back, I went Christmas shopping with my dad in St. John’s, and he was getting a Playstation for my brother. The Playstation came with a free game . . . of which they were out of. Somehow. Well, couldn’t we just get another game for free, or a discount at least? Seems reasonable . . . except that the minimum wage employee wasn’t about to let that happen. I thought that the earth was going to be ripped asunder with the cataclysmic scene that unfolded next. Anyway, the reason I bring that up is because when Mary Walsh was told she couldn’t bring her purse with her through the museum, it was just a natural reaction to brace myself and hold on to something solid. Déjà vu all over again.
"What do you mean, NO PHOTOGRAPHY?!?!"
I guess I’m a bit museum-ed out for the time being. I slipped out a bit before our play and wandered through some of the colleges that were part of Cambridge University. These are some old buildings with some really cool gardens, and the River Cam running right through King's College.
The weather had cleared up a bit by mid-afternoon, so it made for a nice stroll through the grounds. I also checked out an open-air market, which had some good fresh-squeezed orange juice, as well as a lot of music (including a Great Big Sea CD – little slice of home). It was convocation day in Cambridge, so literally everyone I passed was smarter than me.
The show was The Madnessof George III, a historical comedy. Before the lights went down, I saw the crowd . . . and there were a lot of grey heads. Uh oh. We were the youngest there by about 102 years. The show itself could have been decent – it’s been kicking for 20 years, and getting good reviews, but I just wasn’t in the mood. I spent the whole first half nodding off at every scene, which makes it tough to understand what’s going on. My Canadian naivety reared its head in my lack of appreciation for British humour or political history – after the first half, I was convinced that this was the most boring story ever, set in the most boring historical period ever. In hindsight, that might have been a little bit harsh.
At the train station, we lost about half our group, who were headed to catch a boat that would take them to Amsterdam, for a wholesome weekend. I had an early night last night – watched less than half of a movie, and then was out like a light for 12 hours. It’s a nice afternoon here in Harlow, and a nice chance to do nothing for the first time in a long time. Went for a run through the park just as school was getting out, passing huge mobs of British school children and feeling like I was a part of "Another Brick in the Wall." If they'd started chanting, I may have had a heart attack.
Either way, right now I’m feeling a hell of a lot better. We’ve got a birthday supper in an hour’s time, and after that it might be another relaxing night, since I’m planning (if the weather’s good) on heading into London decently early tomorrow afternoon, to do a bit of going around before living the teenage dream at the O2 Arena.
Ohhh yeah – I remember sitting in my room in St. John’s, reading Rolling Stone, and coming to the blurb on Katy Perry’s new tour. My tickets for her London show, October 15, were booked that same day. Apparently the show has some smell-o-vision aspects to it – hopefully my stuffed-up nose is healed by tomorrow night.
Cheers,
rb
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