Joe ‘Compulsive Liar’ Sommerlad

To be honest, resident theatre critic wasn’t exactly my first choice. But where else can a virile young gadabout turn when sports, music and lechery have already been taken? To monster trucks, lumberjacking or whiskey swilling, I hear you cry. Balls to that, say I. What kind of a fop would waste his time with effeminate capering of that sort? Not me, that’s for sure. Good Lord no. I walk the line. 

What can I say? I just fucking love the theatre. The creak of the boards, the warm glow of the spotlight, the smell of the greasepaint, the bustle of sequins, the hushed awe of the privileged few. Yes sir, I can boogie. As dear old Shakespeare once said, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players”. I think the Bard had a point there.

Who needs football, popular balladry and sex when you can sit in the dark alone with the sweet poesy of Ibsen, Pinter, Brecht, Chekhov and Lloyd Webber wafting up your stalls? Ah the majesty of the footlights! The powdered poofters mincing in splendid regalia! The comedy! The tragedy! The turgid one-woman minimalist performance monologues about rape! Alas poor Yorick… you’ve gone too far. 

And no, thank you, I already have more than enough garlic bread. Oh wait…