Dont Talk About It
Half an hour before the matinee of Sam Shepards’s Buried Child starring the legendary Ed Harris at the Trafalgar Studios . I have a look at the thumbs up statue on the empty pedestal in Trafalgar Square. Then time for a slow half in the Admiralty pub. The place is heaving. One cubicle for four is dominated by a young couple. I ask if they can move so I can sit. He says no. But the seats are empty. You asked and I said no. Ok. I stand over him, take up the Guardian Review and get tucked in. I am pissed off.
They start talking in Dutch. Fuck me, they are meant to be the nice guys. I wish I had voted Brexit. So I say, with some truth,if it wasnt for my Dad you’d be talking German. God that felt good. So he says, what do you mean? He was in the army that liberated Holland in 1944. He has no answer to that Millwall chant. Now he is pissed off. And looks it. The girl in some pain says something like why did you start this. He glowers at her. Great. As he leaves he says sorry. Too late, Brexit means Brexit.
Play,which won a Pulitzer in the 70s, was a 3.5 star dirge to the Trump class of failed and male white men. The dying patriarch, one son who has lost a leg,the other who has lost his mind,the mother who is having it off with the priest who is useless,the grandson who visits. His girl who brings Pinter into the show. An everyday story of country folk,that country being Kentucky. It is not played for laughs,though black humour occasionally breaks through, but for pain. Greek tragedy meets Eugene O’Neill, maybe. It is not a sell out.
Cycling back in the rain felt good, there are no Christmas lights like those in Sloane Square. Kings Road was beginning to stampede for Jesus. Later that evening I went to Vivien’s Christmas concert. Tidings of comfort and joy. Brexit isn’t just for Christmas.