Things are going too well. I expect my house will fall down next week. But then it's insured, so that's probably a blessing.

Last night I went to see a play and IT WAS GOOD. Yes, I know this rarely happens to me. I'm shocked too. The last time I saw something halfway decent, I'd written it. And even that was marred somewhat by one of the lead characters fluffing his lines in the opening speech.
The play in question was Sing Yer Heart Out For The Lads by Roy Williams. The set was stunning. They had actually built a pub on stage! The windows had rain falling behind them, the gents was a slide-out set within a set, and the CCTV behind the bar showed characters in the street before they entered. In order to defeat the Theatre Royal's sloped stage, the pool table had been built up on stilts of varying levels and at one point, a brick flew through the 'glass' of the window. Impressive.
The dialogue was raw, snappy and fast-paced. Most of the characters were so well drawn that you didn't know who to trust or how they would react. SO much was left unsaid. Many sharp intakes of breath were heard amongst the audience.
The plot was outwardly simple: over the course of an evening, a pub footie team and their various hangers on gathered to watch some cup final against Germany. The one black member of the team, Barry, was trying way too hard to fit in, with his bulldog tattoo, St George flags on his cheeks and desperate cries of 'Stand up, if you won the war' whenever the conversation strayed into uncomfortable areas. Which it frequently did. There was a character, Lawrie, who was your archetypal football hooligan, goosestepping, violent racist, but much more sinister was the 'Don't read The Sun, read BOOKS' BNP type, Alan. He wound the other characters up and made them say what he wanted them to say. He just wanted to HELP black people, because they'd be much happier elsewhere...............
Then there was the landlady's white son Glen, who desperately wanted to hang out with the cool black kids, but had the piss ripped out of him (and his stuff nicked) continually. All the while, Barry's brother Mark smouldered away in the background, attempting to get Barry to realise what a tit he was being. Throughout, the white characters referred to Barry and Mark as 'son' or 'boy' and let them buy round after round at the bar without reciprocating.
It was clear that with such a mix of characters in such an enclosed space, there would be a confrontation at some point, but where it originated was a genuine surprise. And I'm not going to spoil it. The play ended abruptly, boldly, without the satisfaction of a neat resolution which could never have rung true.
Fantastic acting, directing, writing and set. WHY were there only 110 in the audience? The auditorium was almost empty. Does the answer lie in the fact that I asked for the cheapest ticket and yet paid £14? Under 25s get in for £4, which is cheaper than the pictures, but the message obviously isn't getting through. This play needs to be seen! PLUS you get a complete copy of the new, rewritten script in the programme. If you can get to see this production, do so - This will stay with me for a long time.