I’ve always thought that Shakespeare’s MacBeth was cursed, unlucky, a blight on all those who perform it. I imagine that this opinion was formed the day we presented the Scottish Play on Spacehoppers on the roof of the school sports hall, the culmination of a term’s work at Drama Club, with your author taking the all-important role of Jimmy Hill, Lord MacBeth’s irrepressible, large-chinned man-servant. Not, in hindsight, our finest hour.
Avant garde it may have been, but an experience I shall never quite forget. Especially as we were performing The Bard’s original 12-inch mix of the play, complete with the controversial hamster-juggling scene and MacDuff’s famous “Thou art onlye supposed to blowe ye bloodye doors offe” monologue. We decided, mainly because we couldn’t be arsed, not to include the original songs by Phil Collins.
Our mentor, English teacher Mr Lewis, added his own personal touches to the production, replacing the traditional swords and claymores with a selection of live sharks, a mongoose and several leopards liberally catapulted into the auditorium, which made, in my opinion, the whole production a touch edgier, and added a certain amount of audience participation into the proceedings (Never, in the field of the dramatic arts, have the words “Is there a doctor on the stage?” been uttered before, or indeed, since).
“A triumph of spectacle married to the dramatic arts in the most wondrous form imaginable” - Maidenhead Advertiser
”What the flying fuck was that all about?” - Henley Standard
”A tragedy that could easily have been avoided” - Official Coroner’s Report
I’ll always miss little Stevie. He was the best Lady MacBeth, ever.
Blessed-me-do, Palin-me-don't
With my bottom smelling like a Chinese takeaway, and a steely determination to fix the results before my Welsh arch-nemesis does, we have one more day of voting left in the Best Person Ever Beat-the-Crap-Out-of-Phil-Collins poll. Vote!
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