As I was saying before …

Before what? Before when?

Why did I come into the kitchen? What am I doing here?

Well, as I was saying …

What was I saying? Something about … er …

Hell, let’s start again.

There’s this problem I’m having with memory. I hear mention of such terms as

YouTube has a lot to answer for when more and more truly worthwhile causes are failing for lack of funds while a semi-literate 24-year-old accrues instant wealth from acting the idiot in his bedroom.

Like thousands of immature youths before him, Joe Sugg found it amusing to film his gawkish ramblings and upload them to YouTube.  A tidal wave of unthinking followers now replay his videos to such an extent that in next to no time he has become obscenely rich.

OK, it’s not YouTube’s direct fault that Sugg (who, you might well have asked) is raking in a fortune while thousands of far more genuinely deserving causes go penniless. But it is only through its existence that such skewing of society’s priorities has become possible.

In a matter of months, Sugg, a roof thatcher in an English village, has jumped from scraping by on an apprentice wage to estimated earnings of £500,000 a year. And that’s only for starters. The inevitable book deal, documentary and ticketed live appearances that accompany such nonentities ensure this is merely a base figure.

The foundation of Sugg’s obscene income (far more than the Prime Minister’s or that of innumerable people with taxing, responsible, even life-affecting jobs) is the revenue from the advertisements that accompany YouTube’s videos. With an estimated “audience” of  5.2 million he is creaming it – and so is YouTube.

And it all comes from acting like a right dick and mouthing the sort of unthinking, random thoughts that tend to fester so many young heads.  Plus the equally unthinking support of millions just like him.

If only all this support – and, more especially, money – could be channelled into some meaningful, useful, deserving, positive purpose.  Every day there comes news of an individual, an organisation, a cause, a project that is facing failure or closure (even death) through lack of funding.

Many such would welcome even as little as one per cent of Sugg’s income in order to struggle on, to survive.

There is, however, little hope of that happening.  After all, this cynically dressed and groomed peacock has an admirable example to emulate in the form of his slightly older sister, Zoe, who is categorised as “an internet sensation” famously known – like so many instant identities – by a single moniker: Zoella.

Big sister is even more ridiculously rich for doing little that contributes an iota of benefit to the welfare or wellbeing of our  impoverished society.

One cannot help but think society is being suckered (or is it Suggered?) by Joe, Zoe, their imitators and their followers.

Sadly, there is no answer; no remedy. Unless, of course, these mindless parasites have a Eureka moment and decide to turn all their preening and prancing to some philanthropic and purposeful use.

And, yes, pigs might one day fly.

It’s completely mad, totally ridiculous and one of the best evenings of sheer fun you will have in many a night at the theatre. It is, of course, the zany psuedo musical comedy Spamalot, playing all this week at the Hall for Cornwall.
Created by Eric Idle it is, as the programme proudly states, a show “lovingly ripped off from Monty Python and the Holy Grail” which, as Idle informs us, became the “endearingly silly” film upon which much of this creation is based. For many it will be highly familiar territory enjoyably revisted as they journey with King Arthur and his shambolic knights on their search for the holy grail. All the known hazards are there – the grotesque French, the killer rabbit, the knights who say …. and the brave foe to whom the loss of legs and arms is just a flesh wound.
The dancing is hilariously energetic; the songs are zestful and laugh-along funny. And the many send-ups of the musical comedy genre fire several accurate barbs at pop divas and the numbers they scream across the footlights.
It is an ensemble show in which everyone excels but special mention has to be made of showbiz legends Bonnie Langford as The Lady of the Lake and Todd Carty as the loyally loveable Patsy, as well as multi-talented comedian Marcus Brigstocke as King Arthur.
They and they rest of the cast had the audience totally on side from beginning to end, sharing many a laugh with them along the way.
It’s a rollicking, uproarious fun night out that Tuesday night’s audience so clearly enjoyed and needed no prompting to join in singing the moment that Patsy launched into that song.

You’ve gotta laugh. No really, you do. You can’t help yourself. The show now running at the Hall for Cornwall is ridiculous, self-indulgent, nonsensical, lacking any point or reason and totally inane – but it provides as good an evening’s entertainment as we’ve had for quite some time.
Four members of the notoriously idiotic Spymonkey collective transform Oedipus, the greatest tragedy of all time, into two hours of high farce and slapstick. The jokes begin with its title, Oedipussy – a nod in the direction of the Bond movies – and they don’t get any better. In fact some of them are downright painful.
It is broad, knockabout comedy direct from the school of Buster Keaton, Laurel and Hardy and pantomime dames. Yet for all its faults and weaknesses it manages at least to entertain and raise many a laugh. It is raucous, rude, rustic and Rabelaisian, full-on and in-your-face and mostly succeeds thanks to the energy, comedic skills and sheer physical staying power of its four performers. And I’m sure the young man in the front row will long remember his night out and his confrontation with the female form.
Some judicial pruning wouldn’t go amiss and one or two flatter moments need improving or cutting.
It’s certainly not deep and meaningful but for a mostly hilarious evening it’s hard to beat.
Treat yourself to a chuckle or two. There are still two more nights to go.
Go on, you’ve gotta laugh … and you certainly will.

They don’t make them like that any more. Movie stars. I mean. Today’s so-called celebrities couldn’t hold a candle to the two grand dames of the silver screen who are portrayed bitching their way through life in a sublime two-hander at the Hall for Cornwall all this week.
Anita Dobson as Joan Crawford and Greta Scacchi as Bette Davis spar with barbs and scathing one-liners in Bette and Joan, a re-creation of what supposedly occurred on the backlot of Warner Bros studios in Hollywood as the two fading film stars came together in 1962 to reawaken their careers with What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?.
The occasion is cleverly crafted by playwright Anton Burge to encapsulate these two tempestuous careers and the shattering collision of their ego-driven personalities.
The dialogue is sharp and witty as the spotlight shifts between these two abrasive characters – one always determined to be a lady and the other claiming that her acting comes before all else; and each forever plotting to undermine the other.
In a way, both are sad and tragic figures yet they are survivors – two of a kind yet distinctly different. The triumph of the piece is that we laugh with them, rather than at them, as they relish their petty triumphs and recognise their failures and failings.
Another winner for HfC as proved by the rousing first night reception.

If only all history lessons could be as sparky, bright and entertaining as the English Touring Theatre’s production of Anne Boleyn, playing all this week at Hall For Cornwall. With minstrels in the gallery, a hugely talented all-singing all-dancing cast, a humdinger of a script and a marvellous brew of humour and drama this is a show not to be missed.
It is true ensemble theatre with many of the actors doubling, or even tripling, up. Their delivery and timing bring out all the best in Howard Brenton‘s sparkling lines, which provide a whole new perspective on the convoluted tale of Anne Boleyn’s tempestuous relationship with Henry VIII. It is theatre in which the silences and pauses are as telling and forceful as the words themselves.
To single out any actors in such a consistently strong cast seems almost unfair on the rest. But especial praise must go to Claire Bond, who provides a zesty, feisty Boleyn, whimsical, manipulative and courageously pugnacious in her unrelenting fight for religious freedom, and to James Garnon as the Tourette’s afflicted King James who almost steals the show with his madcap rantings and hilarious cavortings.
All in all, a wonderful night of theatre and a show not to be missed from its surprise beginning to its boisterous end.

One night we are swinging along with Vivaldi; the next we’re rocking with Steeleye Span . That’s the Hall for Cornwall for you – something for everyone and all top rate.
Serenissima regaled us on Thursday with vivacious and intricate melodies from three centuries ago; and on Friday Steeleye Span took us back to their beginnings more than three decades ago. Both were joyful performances by consummate musicians with the happy knack of projecting their enjoyment and enthusiasm across the footlights. And both were melodious weavings of musical patterns than ran deep below the surface with individual players bouncing off each other with seamless continuity.
For their pre-interval session Steeleye Span relied on their Now We Are Six compilation. In the second half they delved deep into their back catalogue before giving the hall full of faithful old rockers the inevitable All Around My Hat, performed on demand. without rehearsal and totally word perfect, which says much about Steeleye’s durability and popularity.
As ever, the band was led by the ageless Maddy Prior, her crystal clear voice almost unaffected by the years, its purity and clarity still a true toe-curler as it echoed around the hall. Now that, dear X Factor contestants, is singing.
All in all, another winning night for HfC.

Having been reared in recent years on a regular bravura diet of music from the sublime Australian Chamber Orchestra it was almost a case of deja vu to witness Serenissima‘s appearance at the Hall for Cornwall on Thursday night.
Here was another band of 14 young(ish) musos who discard the traditional orchestral format of evening dress and seated performance in favour of embroidered waistcoats and stand-up playing. Replicating ACO leader Richard Tognetti the Serenissima band had an equally likeable and rumpled leader in Adrian Chandler. And while the former is a surfie dude and living national treasure, the latter could well have wandered in from the farmyard to have a chat before showing his wizardry with fiddle and bow. Two characters who imbue the audience with their obvious love of music.
It was a gentle evening of gentle music – perhaps a bit too much on one level – but played with a vivacity and enjoyment that was ably transmitted to the audience. Chandler’s deft leadership took only a nod, a wink or a smile to gain the required immediate and willing response from his fellow players. And his chatty introductions helped combat the po-faced reputation often suffered by classical music.
Vivaldi formed the mainstay of the program, which also featured pieces by Baroque contemporaries Veracini, Corelli, Albinoni and Torelli. And while the performance lacked the edgy and spirited attack of the ACO it was a welcome and enjoyable excursion into quality classical music of the sort that – judging by Thursday night’s audience – should be making more frequent appearances at HfC.
Encore!

If you haven’t got a ticket for the final two performances of The Madness of George III at the Hall for Cornwall, rectify the situation right now. This is simply superb theatre. It is live performance of scintillating writing at its very best. From the impact of the opening scene to the rousing finale, there is not a dull or non-rivetting moment.
In modern parlance, it is the complete package – text, performance, staging, scenery, music all melded into the exquisite telling of a turbulent snippet of British history.
It ranges over the gamut of emotions from farce to tragedy with broad comedy leavening moments that are heart-rending in their depiction of how the medical profession once went about “curing” the mentally sick.
David Hare, as the “mad” king, gives a stellar, sustained and unrelenting interpretation of Alan Bennett‘s witty, perceptive and engaging script. He is supported by one of the largest casts gathered on the HfC stage for some time. And not one puts a step wrong. There are no weak links in this gripping chain of historical events.
It may be a drama set more than two centuries ago, but the events – and the observations of its participants – are as relevant now as they were back then.
Go on, get a ticket NOW. Satisfaction is guaranteed.

Two immensely funny guys kept a packed Hall for Cornwall laughing and applauding on Friday night with a show billed as brutally honest and frequently controversial. And it would have been no less funny or confronting if they had eliminated the excess of four letter words from their patter. It seems to have become obligatory among the huge army of stand-ups traipsing up and down the country to litter their lines with foul language that does nothing to enhance their performance.
On Friday, the urbane, laid-back and intensely likeable Reginald D Hunter rambled through topics ranging from the everyday and mundane to the intensely personal and prickly political. His delivery was equally diverse – from amiable to barbed and often thought-provoking.
His sidekick and warm-up man, gangly Australian Steve Hughes, was a headline act in its own right – sharp, satirical, biting and hugely funny but sadly let down by even wider and more frequent use of completely unnecessary obscene language than employed by the main man.
His punchy but foul-mouthed performance was a riotously subversive look at international politics, finance, global warming (inevitably) and his native land that left one wondering how long he will remain hiding in the shadows of Hunter.
All-in-all a real winner for HfC.