The Taming of the Shrew

The Taming of the Shrew

Funny, madcap, almost three hours of glorious lunacy. I think the Globe plays a massive part. The 'minor' plays we've seen there have all been fantastic. Anywhere where you can wander around with a beer, a takeaway, whatever you like; anywhere where you can go in with cool bags and boxes of food and drink (three old ladies behind us produced full-on Pimms at half-time, complete with all the fruit and veg salad floating about in them – only lacking little umbrellas and sparklers); anywhere where two of you can see the best productions in London for a tenner (which, coincidentally, is what it cost us for a post play round of drinks (one frappucino, one decaf capuccino, one double espresso, one americano with an extra shot) in the Paternoster Square Starbucks. That's no bad reflection on Starbucks, my coffee was good, but it does show what great value standing at the Globe is; anywhere so slick and professional yet so amazingly laid-back and relaxed; well, that isn't anywhere, that's someplace special.

This Taming of the Shrew, the Coriolanus, the Titus Andronicus we've been to see have been up there with the Lear, the Midsummer Night's Dream, the Romeo and Juliet, and the Henry V.

TTT, just after this Titus Andronicus scene, even as the fainters are being carried out to the St Johns first aid stations: “have we got any more sandwiches?”

It starts with Christopher Sly, in replica England shirt, cross of St George cap and can of lager, causing a disturbance in the crowd, before taking the stage, taking a leak over a bloke in the front of the groundlings, passing out and puking up. There's no let-up. It races along, powered by

an energetic cast, through the codpiece only wedding, brawls, banter, and bawd, breathless and breakneck. Wonderful. You sit down (MM and I skipped the cushions) and before your bum goes numb, before you even blink, it's the dance at the end and a huge ovation. I looked around. Smiling faces everywhere.

Old and fat

When us old blokes get older, bigger and fatter, as long as the hair don't fall out but just goes ever more grey, we do a backward evolution thing and slowly turn into Michael Winner.

I hate Michael Winner. He's an awful, bigoted, prehistoric right wing moron. Jeremy Clarkson's his secret lovechild. I hate him to absolute bits.

Now I'm turning into him. I'll be getting phone calls soon, to do rubbish insurance adverts and open fetes in rural tory strongholds. All I need is a light-coloured linen suit, and to crank my voice up a couple of octaves (helium might do it).