Thursdays Belong To Me

I work Monday to Wednesday and the plan is that Thursday belongs to me and Friday will belong to Walter Bagehot, Shakespeare and other matters postgraduate. That's the plan but as per my previous lament I'm generally shagged out by Thursday and manage nothing more than loafing about feeling sorry for myself. So last week I actually did something on Thursday and indeed I did something yesterday, even if it was working (reason for which to follow).

 damned funny old chap

I am in the early stages of directing a production of Noel Coward's Hay Fever (November 19 to 22 since you ask) and so took myself to Bath to see the Theatre Royal production. Lovely old theatre and an estimable rendition with Felicity Kendall in the lead. I can strongly recommend Bath and in particular the user-friendly Park and Ride scheme. No charge for the parking and £3.20 for the return ticket which deposits you in the centre of town. Had my habitual glass of sauvignon blanc before the show in a busy pub where, as in so much else, a Clive James lyric came to mind - 'I like to see a servile barman hustle'.

So that was last Thursday. And yesterday was work on account of attending Joy Collis's funeral on Wednesday. A bumper attendance and a just air of celebration for ninety-three years well lived.

There's a lot to have opinions about at the moment, not least the unedifying spectacle that is the Scottish independence referendum. Alex Salmond finally got his way and goaded David Cameron onto the hustings. It occurs to me that the most astringent analysis is that David Cameron is as odious to the Scots as Salmond is to the English. As for poor old Miliband, he is the same to very nearly all people - a tired joke. As for Nick Clegg, well, so what.

Observations From A Summer Sunday

Satnav said it would take 2 hours and 7 minutes to drive to Bath. This was miraculously accurate despite a traffic jam on the outskirts.

Parking in Bath is fearsome dear - £10 for smelly Stygian doom on the sabbath afternoon. Still it was hard enough to find a space to suggest that the burgesses and aldermen of Bath may have got this one about right.

Some lager louts in Cheapside

A ten minute walk to the Theatre Royal, illuminated by directions given to me by an amused street cleaner, pointing up the road, 'That's it mate.' And so it was, most palpably a theatre. A very fine Georgian theatre in point of fact, running an impressive unsubsidized programme. I had reserved the same seat for both parts of my Shakespeare marathon, F12 in the Upper Circle, cheapest seat in the house. A good start: summer Sunday theatre is obviously not so popular that they can sell out so I was upgraded to the Dress Circle where I baggsied an aisle pew and stretched my legs for the enjoyable duration of Henry IV Part I.  This is a very fine play, its structure following the two young Harrys, Hotspur and Prince, in alternating focus but not having them meet until their fatal confrontation at the climax. Overarching all of this is Falstaff. I'm not entirely sold on this as one of the great Shakespearean roles. Too much scope for hamming it up. Which, of course, is something I would never do.

... but with large fries and black coffee

Between the shows I sheltered in KFC and enjoyed the Boneless Banquet meal, 40p extra to super-size my fries and my coffee. I like KFC but it is a black mark that they serve Nescafe and not decent coffee.

Overheard in the bar back at the theatre, a posh bloke talking about 'our place in Normandy.' One elderly member of his party quietly interjected that he had never been able to face going back to Normandy having arrived there in June 1944 in a landing boat. All he remembered was the smell of human fear. The posh bloke sensibly allowed the subject to change.

Another upgrade, this time to the Centre Stalls. Tres satisfactoire. Part II is really Falstaff's play and his rejection by Hal at the end is a brilliant scene. I think the modern tendency is to feel sympathy for the old wretch but we should also admire Hal's raising of himself to fit kingship. A point of Shakespeare is that, rather as Enoch Powell predicted for political lives, all kingships end in failure. Henry V's dissolute youth may be instrumental in his mature grace but that good grace presages only a bloody succession. Henry accepts that he must aim not to fail while always knowing that failure is inevitable. This is the burden of divine appointment.

Overheard during the interval: 'His second wife is dreadful ... And she sings abysmally .. but then the Welsh always do.'

Observed during the interval: a relatively ancient transvestite a good four or five inches taller than me, demurely sipping a white wine and in earnest conversation with a woman I took to be his wife. Not an eyelid could be heard to bat. The English are bloody marvellous sometimes.

Journey home broken by a chicken tikka pasty break on the motorway. Chicken tikka is as English as the Bard.

If you get the chance to see the two parts of Henry IV together, steel yourself, dose up on strong coffee and go for it. You will be lucky to see productions as fine as the Peter Hall ones I caught on Sunday, but you will be most unfortunate if you don't enjoy it. Trust me, I'm a lawyer.