Quills

Hello dear reader. It pains me to break from the norm of this site but I feel a need to address you formally as the loyal, consistent members of 'edardaily' that you have been. You may have noticed a change in this site's policies as of late, one that stems towards everything my original aim directed against. For those of you new to my humble area of the internet, 'Edar' was set up as a way of backlashing against the typical review structure of our modern periodicals, to give credence and substance to the life which is exerted in everything around us, not just the typical forms of media. In that way I thought it best to give to you tongue-in-cheek situational reviews of the most mundane aspects of the World I perceived around me. Recently, these have devolved into my giving over to members of the Horse-Twattersley family members' theatrical reviews which have become nothing more than ridiculously immoral and peverse characterised satirisations of the English upper classes. 

Well, I can't do it anymore. I need to claw this blog back from the dark depths it has been dragged to, these preposterous facsimiles of human subject must be reigned in to regain me some level of resp...hnnnngkkkurrrgh.....skkkrrruuuughhhnkk...Neiighhhhhh..skkkrrruuueeergghh...familiarity with my own, wait....what? What the sh...skkkrruuuggg....Brrrrggghhhh.....Hello reader! Welcome to 'Quills'. A play written about the Marquis De Sade, Produced by Stoke Newington's very own Second Skin Theatre. The owner of this blog doesn't know it yet, but I, Night's Rapture, am pleased to present to you my very own review , one that aims to finally set to rest...noooo, no please, I look ridiculous enough already, please, I can't have a horse doing a review. They don't even make keyboards big enough to accommodate hooves. This is just ridicu...Brrrrgghhhhgh...I think you'll find, Mr Reviewer, that I was personally invited along to give my esteemed opinion on this production, and I shall not be swayed on this. My relationship with Lady Cytherea Horse-Twattersly has been the subject of much conversation these past few months, and I must be allowed my voice. Dearest reader, enjoy!

Night's Rapture, in his glory days.

It's not easy being a horse. Oh my God, that is the singularly worst start to a review ever...Ahem, as I said, it isn't easy being a horse. For all our brute strength, speed and tenacity of spirit, we have allowed you humans to enslave us as tools of your own progression. In the past we towed your farming equipment and conquered the Wild West for your personal gains, now we jump over little hedges, chase down foxes and prance about like little ninnies for your entertainment. We've shaped the modern World as you know it from Mongolia to Montreal and how do you repay us? Bales of hay and the odd sugar-lump here and there. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but that's not entirely fair is it? You refer to dogs as 'Man's best friend', but what have they ever actually done for you? Those yappy little bastards get all the credit for...right, a whole paragraph and you haven't mentioned the play once...I'm getting round to that. Hold your horses mate. Heh heh heh.

So it was with great pleasure that I received my invitation to The White Rabbit's basement production of Second Skin Theatre's 'Quills' on that drizzly October night in Stoke Newington's famous Church Street. I trotted down the steps and settled myself into one of the the cosily positioned pews almost within the stage. This wasn't the first play I had attended, in my mortal life  Lady Cytherea had dragged me along to various Women's Institute performances of Anne Yearsley and Adrienne Kennedy productions in spacious yet for the most part empty Church halls. For the first time I realised the ability of Fringe theatre to accommodate the smallest area into a thriving venue, contorting the restrictions of space into an intimate evening wherein the audience feels more a part of the action than ever. Also, the fact that it's been nearly two decades since my death means I possess no earthly body and was able to float ephemerally above the other audience members, causing no actual discomfort to myself or others around me.

As the lights rose the stage was revealed and it has to be said, the limitations of space did nothing to sway the stage design's ability to place the audience within the office of the head of the Chanterem Asylum as he discusses with the Marquis de Sade's wife the suggestion of silencing his blasphemous works to retain her own honour. On a personal level, the actress playing the part of the wife gave one of the most stellar performances I have ever seen, perfectly representing in the most humourus way these ladies of supposed high-class who would so shamelessly use her own husband's wealth to protect their image. Oh, Lady Cytherea, I could almost envisage your own twisted features on that actresses head; utilising your womanly wiles to contort and betray the ugly truth of what lay beneath your own reserved and haughty exterior. But, in the immortal words of her own son and heir, Terrence, I digress.

This totally doesn't even happen in the play

The performances of the entire cast continued in an equally memorable and wonderful fashion, but especially prominent was that of  the actor playing the Marquis de Sade. With all the passion and natural exuberance of a roaring steed he burst onto the stage and so began the play's diatribe to the injustice and torment suffered by the protagonists real life counterpart. But not only was his performance so well devised, due in no small part to the writing and direction of the production, because of its pertinence to the real life story of the Marquis de Sade, but also for the memories it invoked within my ethereal being. Now, reader, I must confess two things to your good selves. Firstly, my life was one of torment almost tantamount to that of this play's hero. My true desires, as to those of the Marquis' with that of the seductress maid played by the fantastic 'Nika Khitrova', were usurped and denied by a bitter, twisted old hag such as the Marquis' wife. Secondly, Lady Cytherea Horse-Twattersley is a lying, deceitful, selfish, murderous whore of a...this had better not be going where I think it's going. Please, my mum reads this stuff...Silence! I will have my say.

For you must understand, dear reader, that for all the sordid although ultimately reticent deeds I was forced to perform with that old hag, it was my only wish that it was the man of the house, Sergeant Edmund, who showed me such tenderness. Witnessing that actor's fully fronted nakedness brought back such wondrous images of lonely nights, grazing the Twattersly ground's pastures and casting my fleeting glimpses towards the manor windows, where he would be stood at the window of their bedroom, resplendent in all his glory. If you could only understand the pain and longing that pervaded the days at the stables with her, stroking my mane and playing with my fetlocks as I wished her husband would do. The final insult, when I thought my eventual death could finally lead me to rest, was her last unscrupulous deed. She cut off my horsehood and kept it safe in a jar on her own private mantle piece, using it to her own terrible deeds and entrenching me within this infinite hell.

If I put a Jimmy Saville joke in  here it would
be obsolete in a few weeks, so I won't.

Her actions kept my spirit in this World, bound to the jar of formaldehyde that held my prominent prowess, I was forced to watch the lives of the Twattersly's evolve and continue. Oh how I sobbed as I saw her convince that poor man his yearly offerings to her were enough to produce a son as perfect and brilliant as Terrence , how I wept as I saw her conspire to protect her own falsehood as she sent Terrence away to that asylum for witnessing her facetious and blasphemous acts upon my own member. Terrence, my son, how I regret being just a dead horse and not being able to reveal to you your true father, or my love for the one that Lady Cytherea convinced was your own. How I...Right. That's it. Thats enough. I am not having this shit anymore. You are not telling me that a human being can be produced through a woman copulating with a horse. No fucking way. If you want to see the kind of play that invokes these sorts of mental images, do it, it's showing at the White Rabbit bar in Stoke Newington Church Street from now until the 4th of November, shows begin at 19:30. Otherwise watch the fucking X Factor or some bollocks like that.

4:48 Psychosis (Guest Review)

As is tradition here at edardaily, I've gone and got another guest reviewer for today's new theatre write-up. And who better to explore Crooked Piece's production of 4:48 Psychosis than son and heir to the Twattersly throne, released for one day only from St Andrews Mental Asylum, The Right Honourable Terrence Twattersly. It took a ton of bribery, extortion and hired goons to convince the administration to let him out for this, so you'd better like it. Enjoy!

'Neuron' to a winner with this design guys

Hello. They said I could come out today if I promised to be good. Mum and Dad  asked the wardens if it would be ok for me to come review a play for their friends blog. The wardens didn't like it at first. Warden Graham especially felt I didn't deserve this because of what I done to his testicles two weeks ago. He said I was still too much of a danger to the general public. Their lobbying meant nothing in the end though, the administrative staff said it would be good for me to experience modern culture after all these years of years of solitary incarceration. There was a distinctly tangible note of duress however, one that I couldn't help but feel showed a humanist aspect to their otherwise conservatively by-the-book approach to my personal torture. They locked me up, you see, the FUCKING lot of them, they locked me up because of what I saw. They subjected me to - sorry. The review. We, you, me, I, I must review. 

So the van pulls up after a long journey outside this beautifully decadent pub/theatre in South Kensington. The fading evening sunlight nearly blinded me as the wardens pulled open the van doors and dragged me out. My eyes hadn't been subjected to natural light for longer than I can try to remember, but I could still make out the happy, normal people stood out the front, smoking, drinking and staring worriedly at me, this straight-jacketed, lank haired mental patient surrounded by clinical wardens and doctors ready with coshes and ketamine filled syringes designed to knock me out should I make one false move. I was led through the bar area and taken upstairs to the theatre space, forced into a back row seat so as not to disturb the other press members and manacled to the bars riveted behind me. As was au fait with every other press member in attendance I was offered a free glass of Pimms and lemonade, one which I readily accepted and had Graham pour into my mouth as and when I felt like it, fruit and all. 

The auditorium lights faded and the minimal set was revealed by bare bulbs hanging over a stage decorated with three stacks of boxes and a lady stood on centre stage. Due to the supposed nature of my incarceration every doctor, nurse, warden and administrative staff I had come into contact for the past quarter century had been male and this was my first time seeing a female since not long after my puberty had begun. As she began monologuing several more ladies and one gent burst from the boxes to provide further narration to her internal diatribe. I was reminded of my fourth year of solitary confinement in St Andrews, when the voices started, when the past, present, alternative and future versions of myself began whispering into my ears. Their was a kinship felt at that moment, one which my fading memories of childhood visits to major productions in the West End could never hope to recreate, one that touched me deep within my internal psyche and awoke the Terrance that had once been. Here was a competent array of actors who were able to express the workings of the mind which mainstream theatre dares not to tread. The supposed thoughts and feelings which make us human yet which must be quashed and silenced by your rotting World were laid bare for the tiny closed minds of South Kensington. I knew what knew what must be done, but onwards with the play.

The resemblance to childhood sweets
is almost uncanny

A common misjudgement within the outside World is that places such as St Andrews operate on a therapeutic, reformative approach to rehabilitating patients as propagated in your major Hollywood films. The actual truth could be nothing further from this, we live in a confinement warehouse fed on a diet of drugs and belittlement. This production of 4:48 Psychosis truly managed to get this unfortunate truth across through not only clever set design which lighted the numerous amount of medicinal bottles surrounding the protagonist at appropriate times but the interaction between doctor and patient. I was reminded again of my own specialists who feed me a regular diet of all sorts of medications washed down with a liquid supplement of natural proteins who couldn't be further away from the actual requirements my disintegrating brain needs. This was mirrored almost perfectly by the therapists portrayed on stage, who seemed more concerned with the female protagonists realignment of character through medicinal intake than getting to the root cause of her mental state, a residual problem within not only my personal experiences of St Andrews but I'm sure throughout the psycho-analytical field.

The interesting and almost unique aspect of a play such as this is that without a clearly defined narrative structure, with no austere antagonist, story arc or even placement of time or causality the audience is given, even required, space to really analyse how the the production reflects on their own experiences. In the absence of what we normally expect from a story, we are left with filling in the gaps with our own interpretations. I cannot begin to express what lurking horrific memories this ignited within me. Believe this, they almost won. They were so close to convincing me I was wrong and the lies they fed me since the original incident were true. I entered 4:48 Psychosis an almost broken man. The years of solitary confinement, the constant mental and physical abuse from the staff, the scattered diet of downers and protein supplements had begun to take their toll and I was ready to accept I was in the wrong, just to be released from this living nightmare. 

It was a clear, autumnal afternoon, back in the old family estate, almost 20 years ago now. I'd returned from prep school early, a fellow student had started a fire in the chemistry lab as a prank with the old bunsen burner sets. The gas had pulled back in unexpectedly and caused an explosion, meaning we were to all be evacuated. With no one else being contactable at home our chauffeur was asked to collect me and take me back home. Havig dropped me off he went to park the old Bentley in the garage, whilst I entered to explain to my mother my mother what had happened. She was in the drawing room, a place me and my father were told to never enter and usually obeyed due to her formidable nature. I walked in because I felt it necessary to explain my early return from school, and witnessed what no child ever wants to see their own mother doing. There was an open jar on her wooden desk filled with some kind of viscous liquid, and she was performing some unspeakable acts to the contents within. Upon noticing myself she turned and viciously screamed for me to leave, shouting that I should never have entered. Nobody, not even my own father believed my story afterwards. She denied it to the last of course. My final memory of that house was being strapped up and taken to St Andrews because of the supposed lies I tried to explain to him, and of my mother's final fleeting glance to me through the barred windows of the van. A mixture of remorse, guilt and relief, as her own son was taken away to hide her disgusting secret.

Terrence Twattersley

If I told you the full story of what happened to me in the years following in that damned asylum you wouldn't believe me, as much as every therapist refused to believe my own story. How pathetic, how weak willed of my own father to pay these people to hide me and the shameful truths I possessed about mother. They told me I was schizophrenic, that I suffered from acute Oedipal fantasies and was an embarrassment to the good name Twattersley. And it had almost worked dear reader, they were so close to breaking me and getting me to confess to my sinful lies I almost believed their lies. Nietzsche's famous line of staring into the abyss and the abyss staring back? True to a point. What he failed to expand on was the horrifying extent to which the abyss stares back at everyone you've ever known, how it's empty void infiltrates their minds as well. It was only having witnessed the female lead's struggle in this play against her own internal doubts and the institutional degradation of the spirit that I was reminded of my past inner strength and was able to formulate my escape.

Once the play had ended and I was being escorted back to the van, I put my plan into action. As Graham turned me round to place me inside I spat the concealed lemon pips from the Pimms I had been given earlier straight into his eye. In the ensuing panic this created I was able to slide the saved cucumber rinds from under my tongue and use them as makeshift lockpicks on my handcuffs, years of rolling on the floor of my padded cell had given my body the extra suppleness to complete this task. They came at me with everything, but I was ready for them. As I tore apart my straightjacket I grabbed  at a handful of promotional flyers one of the other wardens was holding and executed two perfectly timed paper cuts to the faces of the other oncoming nurses. As the flailed back in shock and pain I made good my escape through South Kensington, over the spiked fences of several inner city mansions and off into the vast expanse of London.

Freedom, finally I taste her nourishing flavour. Dear reader, words fail me as to the bounteous beauty of what it means to finally be freed from that terrible torment. I've travelled far now, although I know they search for me. Don't worry, I've found a safe place. It's warm here, nicely furnished. There's an inhabitant, sat in front of their computer, reading a review in the pale glow of their screen. Ignore that flicker in the reflection of your monitor, it's nothing. No, please, don't...turn...around...

Thanks Terrence for that lovely review, we hope to hear from you again soon. If you too would like to awake the twisted repressed memories in your internal psyche, Crooked Pieces production of 4:48 Psychosis is showing at the Drayton Arms Theatre in South Kensington until the 29th September 2012, 8-10pm, tickets £7-10 and available from box office number 0844 8700 887

I Have No Timeline And I Must Scream

Grr! Zack meet rub.

Facebook. We all have it. If we don't we're living under some clandestine rock as a societal pariah or we're my mum. But we're neither of those; we are the living, breathing, active members of a race that thrives on societal interactions. Every event that happens in our lives is now glorified on our walls, if it isn't it almost seems like it never happened. We have entered a new realm, one that needs to be documented and contrived to present a picture to our friends and family of our relationship status, our job title and our most base desires and preferences revolving around films, television and music. For years we were indoctrinated into presenting ourselves in a certain way to the World, one that felt safe and unintrusive. We could cocoon ourselves within this presentation and never physically speak about our online personas whilst always knowing that those we were closest to had at some point viewed the shared experiences and knowledge we had gained through status updates, video links and profound quotations hastily searched on brainyquote.com.

On Thursday October 6 2011, Facebook evolved. It was no longer a tool we humans used to interact with each other. Sentience had begun to formulate itself within the combined consciousness of more than two billion online subscribers. Without warning a new era unfolded amongst the social media generation, one that demanded placement of time, causality and predication. A timeline appeared, splitting the walls of many of these personas apart and breaking them up into well versed topics of activity, friends and utilisation. We were given the illusion of choice; stick within the confinements of our known boundaries or join the new age of Timeline, one that promised a new way of proffering our fleeting glimpses of reality to our nearest and dearest. This new Book gained preference by appeasing to our vanity. We were no longer only able to portray our most treasured photo to the masses, we were allowed to present a cover. This cover was at least six time the size of our previous instalment, it was presented in glorious widescreen Technicolor, it was possible to drag and fix to the utmost specifications of the user and those long forgotten holiday snaps of beaches and temples were finally given a usage. 

Who doesn't sit at their computer naked?

Those that chose to remain luddites of the previous Facebook era were shunned by the purveyors of the glossy new hierarchy of the Timeline feature. The tentacles of Artificial Intelligence had spread across most peoples sinewy jaws and cemented them shut in an attempt to suture Facebook's new law, that everyone and everything should be placed within an implementation of time and space; the Greatest Event ever Told. Those content to thrive in the new Facebook domain of popular culture looked down on the old ones, silent in their physical dominion but omnipresent in their internet sub-culture. And thus was the law of the new Facebook: Divide and Conquer. We remained as long as humanly possible, clinging onto our singular walls and accessible information, defiant in our last stand against the tides of change as palm trees buffeted by the storms of a tropical monsoon. One by one we fell as Facebook's determination strode on, sweeping us up in a torrent of inevitable newspaper articles and pertinent videos that required submission by viewing. 

Gone. Are we truly gone? The wind that passes over our tired husks breathes the hope of a new generation. Those of us that have switched to the new regime have no mirror, no opportunity to return to the solace of our previous virtual lives. Even this reviewer, in a semblance of martyrdom, has switched to the brutal tyranny of Timelime's monotheism to create this piece as a warning to those remaining few. But there is hope in those that have stayed true to the old ways. They that still uphold the values and meaningfulness of the neo-socialist movement of the pre-Timeline era remind of those simpler times. And hey, Maybe Mark Zuckerberg and his army of marketing executive goonies will realise that this time they really fucked up. Or we'll get used to it, like we always do.

Timeline gets a 3 out of 10 because I kind of really like the ability to make Dr. Rowan "Flinty Badman" Williams the Archbishop of Canterbury's face massive now, something which will become very useful in the upcoming months. You have been warned.

La Chunga

Thanks to the huge popularity of Sergeant Edmond Horse-Twattersley's guest review on the Edgar Allen Poe stage play I am delighted to welcome to the pages of this blog his charming and noble wife, Lady Cytherea Horse-Twattersly. She specially requested being allowed to review a play from the same theatre group and I have to admit it was pretty hard to say no. She was, let's say, very forceful in her persuasions. Bon appetite ladies and gentlemen.

Lady Cytherea Horse-Twattersly

It is often stated that the foibles of men are relinquished through the generous and kind-hearted nature of the fairer sex. Utter tosh of course. Having been wedded to my pitiful excuse of a husband for almost thirty years now I have learnt that kindness and generosity have done nothing to quell the tenacity and ferocity of his spirit. Instead, one must learn to treat ones husband as a form of pet, or to a lesser extent, one of the servant class. These simple beings understand only one language, and that is the language of strict discipline. A short, sharp thwack with a cold tablespoon did wonders for my Edmond when he used to get frisky, promiscuous thoughts after watching 'Eurotrash' on a Thursday night.

Men are nothing more than beasts driven only by the desires of their throbbing members. It is our duty to remind them of their places in this World, to utilise their brute forces to create and provide for us a comfortable standard of living. I must say I read my husband's review of the previous production with great amusement. To hear poor, deluded Edmond so worked up and overwrought by a mere stage show, he certainly was the laughing stock of the Thursday night bridge 'n' bitch meeting when I showed it to the other ladies. From the moment he blustered into the house that night in November, red-faced and panting at what he had witnessed, I knew I had to see first hand the troupe who could so easily reduce my husband to a gibbering wreck.

So it came to be I reserved myself a seat for the Wednesday showing of La Chunga at the Phoenix Artists Club in Leicester Square. A squalid little bar cum impromptu theatre space and a well known haunt for the technical oiks of the theatre district, it had all the charm and rustic appeal of a Devonshire Bordello. I ordered myself a vermouth and bitter lemon with extra slice from the bar and was promptly ushered next door into the stage area. Some effort had gone into the design of that room I must say, with it's torn bamboo rugs hanging from the walls and assorted South American decorations it certainly resembled my great-niece's holiday photos of her travels in Central America last Spring, minus the various scenes of topless debauchery, I hasten to add.

This is where a fart joke would go if I was so purile.
Which I'm not.

And thus, seated between some brutish Italians, I settled into my chair and prepared myself for the imminent show by draining the last of my vermouth. The lights dimmed, the music rose and the liquor flooded my brain with it's warming sensuality as I witnessed my first vision of the evening in the shape of the comely actress playing the titular Chunga. As she strode onto the stage masterfully portraying the embittered bar owner, memories of The Buckinghamshire Little Ladies Equestrian Training Acadamy came flooding back. There was something almost tangible about her purposeful stride, that long flowing mane, the husky purr of her voice and that strong, prominent upper jaw which instantly reminded me of my first riding mistress, Ms. Regina Higgenbottom. She, that powerfully handsome woman, first taught me the forbidden pleasures of the love that dare not speak its name.

However, I digress. Next onto the stage came the four men who played the gambling reprobates of Chunga's bar. Typical of men, their conversation revolved around bawdy subjects shouted at each other over a table of alcohol and dice. It put me in mind of the time I accompanied Edmond to The Bullingdon Club for one of his Oxford graduate reunions. Much like walking a dog on Hampstead Heath, one has to let one's man off the lead every now and then to allow him some sense of empowerment, so that he is even more malleable and willing to obey when one calls him back. I watched with some amusement as these men talked themselves up in front of each other, only to be crushed by Chunga's icily sardonic reproaches. 

It was then that they began singing a rousing chorus with the attempt to glorify their stations and the second vision began. No sooner had the first line been uttered, "We are the Superstuds, we don't wanna work..." that I closed my eyes and allowed sweet nostalgia to again permeate my senses. With that one word, 'Superstuds' echoing around my mind I was transported back to the rolling hills of my formative years. It was Autumn, on a mist-laden field in the Cotswalds where Ms. Higgenbottom had insisted I came accompanied by my beloved stud-colt 'Night's Rapture'. It was her that first taught me how to fully appreciate the magnificent strength of this wonderful beast. The feel of his locks between my hands, the gentle buck of his haunches as we cleared fence after fence together and the sweet scent of straw as we would lay together in the stables for hours on end all returned in a maelstrom of synaethsesia as I remembered the nickname I had given him, my own 'Superstud'.

Horse-Twattersly by name, Horse-Twattersly
by nature. Wait...what?

Again, I digress. Following a short interval where I ordered several more vermouths, it was time for act two. Returning to my seat I resolved to put those torrid thoughts away from my mind and try and concentrate on the play. I was able to hold back those desires which my own father had spent many years exorcising from my soul for a short while as the fantastical imagined scenes of what became of the beautiful Meche unfolded, until one of the men alluded to cutting the genitals off another. Oh glorious Rapture, taken from me too young because daddy found out about our sinful trysts, buried and left to rot in the family cemetery. How glad I was father never knew about the night before his burial, where I happened upon a large jar of formaldehyde from the local chemists and snuck down in the middle of the night, armed with the kitchen maid's bacon scissors to relieve the poor beast of his most precious endowment.

That crowning glory holds a special place in my private quarters, amongst my other most precious jewels and trinkets, where not even my personal maid-servant may enter. Though the rest of them have gathered an exorbitant amount of dust over the decades, that particular jar has remained as clean as a whistle. I would like to extend my thanks and gratitude to the entire Second Skin Theatre crew for showing me that my natural love for such wild and untamed beasts is not as sacrilegious as the rest of the family would have me believe. At least, that's what I took from it anyway.

Thank you Lady Cytherea, we look forward to hearing more theatre reviews from you and your family soon. If you would like to see La Chunga for yourself, it's playing at the Phoenix Artist Club, 1 Phoenix Street off Charing Cross Road, near Leicester Square. January 24^th to February 19^th, 2012. Tuesday to Thursday evenings at 7:30pm and Sunday matinees at 3pm. Tickets £12.