Blog Entry by Jack Morning-Newton
Dearest Anne, (this will be an interactive letter, with musical accompaniment, click on the youtube links to hear the mood music at each point.)
I am dreadfully sorry for the endless wait you must have suffered for my reply.
You must know your letter cheered me so. It sleeps under my pillow, and each morning I read it before a modest breakfast and a jolly stroll to my destination. This is a strange place.
You should scarcely believe your eyes at the marvels I have seen.
It will shock you to learn, (though it is much in keeping with my whimsical nature, (which you so rightly reprimand me for)) that I have joined a troupe of performers no less, with whom I am engaged in the creation of a new work of theatre!
They are a merry bunch of companions, whom I’m sure you would not allow in the house, for fear of fleas.
The ring leaders of our gang are a tall, handsome, and mysterious frenchman, who goes by the name of Bert, (and sports an earring, (no less!) which is rumoured to have belonged to his pirate father, less? No!), and keeping him in check is a kind and fiery English belle named Fi, whom all the young men of the company have become quite smitten with, (except, naturally for myself, who has eyes only for you, my darling.)
Among the band of merry players are several extraordinary Madams from all corners of the land; the delightfully conversational Ellen, the inspiringly aware Suzie, a playful vegetarian named Jess, Kat- “Lord of the Dances”, and the extraordinary multi-lingual Laura.
The Gentlemen, (an unfitting title for such rogues! no less!) include; Lascivious Luke, Mo’ Money Matt, Westward-facing Will, Trombone-FingersTom, and A-Boat-Shaped Ali.
The day which came before the one we’re in now, the one I’m in now, not the one you are in, you will receive this letter another day altogether. Oh how I wish there was a word for the day which happened yester. Lets not get caught up on that. “The day before today,” (how cumbersome, -not another mention.) The 12th of February 1814, we engaged in a number of seemingly frivolous and (somewhat scandalous), activities in preparation for the show we are attempting to create. (You would tell me, wouldn’t you dearest, if I used too many brackets (wouldn’t you dearest(my very dearest (can there be brackets inside brackets?(for surely there are thoughts in thoughts, (and hearts in hearts (like yours in mine.)))))) I know it is a sin to leave a bracket open, for then we become trapped inside a sentence, a purgatory of supplementary thought, with no hope of return to the real world. I will close a few more, just to make sure this fate is not yours.))))) Pheww.
oooohhg aahhhg. bwoow bwooow. e e e.
Accompanied by my skilled zoological colleague Suzie Jane-Tarzan, I walk into a room of monkeys.
They hide behind the curtains, under tables. As we enter the space they emerge, curious. A slender adolescent male cheekily snatches my bag of shopping, no doubt wishing to impress a potential mate with a trove of oatcakes, cream cheese and a half banana. As he lopes off with it, and investigates under the white board, I am sniffed by a great bull Gorilla, his partner lingering behind with a shy round eyed infant. A baboon flips a chair, and lurches gracefully onto a broken plastic table. They are all around me, some seem oblivious to my presence. Suzie has an instant rapport with them, feeding them from her hand and teaching them to how to gamble.
AAHHK!! BWOOO! BWOOO!
AHK AHK AHK!
Something has turned sour in the pack! The monkeys are squabbling! Snarls, curled lips! Growls! Screeching, Bellowing! Puffed chests being beaten; a scattering of the weak. Little monkeys being tossed about! “Don’t toss the little monkeys!” I plead, but no good, -they must be monkeys. I am petrified for my safety! Suzie tries to draw up a peace settlement , but they are having none of it! The little infant, lost of her mother, clings to my leg. I pat her head, and it makes me think of my own children, back in Sweden, with that slut.
End song 2.
The drama exercise ends. We are back in the humanities studio. Pheww. That acting was so convincing.
After the narrow escape of my jungle adventure, I return to London, England, Lesser Scotland.
Where the MPs either side of the dinner table squabble, their insults masked thinly. My noble friend. Learn’ed. Honourable member. Honourable gentleman. “Socialist!” -with a lot of ssss. 1979. I’m so sorry. Ohder Ohder! Pleb!
UK politics, absurd and real, and real in its absurdity, clashes around the table, Margaret Thatcher breaks a pen and falls off her seat. Blair spits across the table. Giggling. Alex Salmond adopts a scandinavian accent. Ed Balls proudly pronounces “Ed Balls.” Todays debate: How many squares can be fit on a piece of paper. It is raucous. Those on the right want to ensure no one restricts the size of their squares, John Prescott unzips his fly, offering to show us his squares. Honourable member. Boo Boo! Papers are waved, and the speeches are made, drunkenly. It’s a fancy dress dinner farce.
Which deteriorates into a dangerouslydebaucheddruggedanddrunken house party. The bassline thumps, like my heart for you, Anne. Buzzing.
Bert is coerced into tights and photographed on the toilet as Suzie cleans sick off her jumper, jilted by the boy she loved. A youth, far gone, shits in the shower, slipping in it, as his “friend” uses the toilet for a pee. Meanwhile at an awkward gathering round a fire, to bid farewell to an arrogant acquaintance, said acquaintance attempts to to lure a drunken friend for sex. Songs are sung. It’s messed up. An uncomfortable and implicating campfire.
In the humanities studio proposals are being made for a future Utopia. Speeches are spoken with zeal. The crowd listens to tales of dogs on moors, the wide horizon, lies about upbringings, and legal advice. As well as an enraging speech on the privatisation of council housing. We are riled.
It is time to Dance!