Thursday, November 11, 2004

I have the kind of headache that usually follows an evening of ten pints of Stella. It is pounding away as if a collective of rock's finest, loudest drummers are in there. The veins situated around the temples are thumping and feel as if they're about to burst. Trouble is, I didn't have the ten pints of stella. Last night, I led a writing workshop and, when I eventually got home, I read three pages of a book before closing my eyes for the evening. But there was no alcohol. Which leads me to believe that my brain might be haemorrhaging. Maybe my head has come out in sympathy with the Palestinians following Yasser Arafat's death. It hurts. I want it to go away. An eight hour eye break away from this bleedin' computer would probably do me good but, as we're tied to the desk, there's little chance of that. Maybe we could extend the two minutes silence at 11am to cover the full day.

Bracing myself for an evening at the theatre. Having reviewed stuff for nigh on a decade, I'm getting very tired of it all but tonight has real promise. Martin McDonagh's Beauty Queen of Leenane has been hailed as "one of the best plays of the last 50 years". I hope it lives up the the hype. It's the first of an Irish trilogy - Hull Truck are doing the third in the trilogy soon. Which makes me wonder what's wrong with the second one. I am worried because plays that are touted as the best usually let me down badly - the last thing I need is to sit through something dull for the 'nth time. It makes me agonise over why I bother tearing myself away from a night curled up at home, listening to music. How the fuck I ever ended up being a theatre critic is still something that leaves me scratching my head because watching people prancing about on stage, acting badly, was never a passion of mine. But it's become one. I haven't given up hope that the theatre will get better one day. Naturally, I consider myself to be its saviour.

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