Curtain call!
The School Of Night grace the stage at 8pm tonight.
Join us in the studio or on the livestream.
#improvtheatre #improv #shakespeare #comedy #kencampbell
📰 Cast announced for In The Print!
Starring Alan Cox as Rupert Murdoch (The Gang of Three) and Claudia Jolly as Brenda Dean (Girl from the North Country) this is the gripping true story of power, print and protest, that changed Fleet Street forever.
Also starring Alasdair Harvey (Follies), Georgia Landers (Rock n Roll), Jonathan Jaynes (A View From The Bridge) and Russell Bentley (Death of a Salesman).
From the writers of ★★★★★ box office smash The Gang of Three, this is one not to miss.
From 26 March
Strictly limited run
Book tickets now.
A wonderful afternoon was had by all at the Leicester Square Theatre, organised by Bob Cryer as both a celebration of his dad Barry Cryer and a fundraiser for the edit of a short film directed by Bob. The film currently has the catchy title JOKE — a cinematic tribute to Barry’s ten favourite jokes, featuring Judi Dench, Stephen Fry, Alison Steadman, Rebecca Front and a cast of thousands. Ruth Bratt, Lucy Briers, Bob Golding and I had a very jolly afternoon in North London filming our contribution to the celluloid caper. It was a deep joy to share the bill yesterday hosted by Bob with Justin Edwards, Alex Lowe, Arthur Smith, Shappi Khorsandi, Colin Sell, John Moloney, Mitch Benn, Bennett Arron and Jack Dee. The portrait that emerged was of a man who celebrated not only the craft of the joker but also the magic of laughter, as well as the talent of those who make people laugh for a living- who was not only devilishly good at it himself but would also pull out the stool for anyone who wished to join the table. I count myself fortunate in having been made to feel welcome by Barry on several occasions. I think he would be tickled purple by the notion that his legacy lives on in his family and his many pals both in and out of showbiz. Nice one Baz and well played Bob 👍
I wrote this is in response to a heartfelt tribute to Tom Stoppard by Rob Mountford.
I found him gracious and engaging on the few occasions I met him. I played in a production of On the Razzle at Chichester with David Bamber and Daisy Donovan. It was directed by Peter Wood who had worked closely with Stoppard multiple times over the years. The rehearsal process was a masterclass in identifying the mechanics of the dramatist’s craft. I was pleased to discover that the key to being fueled by Stoppard’s work was to allow oneself to be infected by his enthusiasm for his subject. I struggled to ‘get him’ at school when we read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. And although I could recognize the brilliance of the writing in Arcadia, I found it hard work and felt alienated by it. However, seeing Stephen Dillane in The Real Thing made me realize that there were deep connections to be made through his work and something transcendent to be tasted in it. In conversation with Tom at a memorial, he mentioned that when he read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, it was like receiving a blood transfusion. I found this self-revelation humbling, and it has had a knock-on effect when approaching writing that I may not initially ‘get.’ I am saddened that I will never have another in person encounter with him but I feel fortunate to have had the articulacy of his words to work with and I am glad in the notion that his wit and writing lives on. Fair forward, Sir Tom
In rehearsals for An Enemy of the People, August 1997. After the read through there was much debate over the top table. “I am not disagreeing with you. I am just taking the opposite opinion.” And of course a lot of Ibsensplaining. “He told his publisher that he was writing a comedy.” “Well, that’s not strictly true, Trevor”, “I wonder if the Norwegians used ginger in their soup making. Perhaps Captain Horster hot from the docks brings fresh supplies to Mrs Stockmann’s kitchen stores from the spice consignment recently unloaded at the shipyard.” A sternly rooted Woodvine sitting opposite slowly rotates a polystyrene cup on which he has drawn a sad face in silent comment. Fare forward Mr Aslaksen. 😞
Happy birthday to my sister Margaret Cox. Here she is screen grabbed from an instructional video showing someone how to let themselves into my house. Possibly to remove a table or to lay their head overnight before an international flight.
It started with the rising decibel bants of some northern lads popping a few tinnies on the tube, cutting through my earbuds and into the Seamus Heaney version of Beowulf I am enjoying. I am on my way to the Jerwood Space to rehearse a one-off staged reading of the poem. I ride the up escalator, merging with a few more pockets of lairy, beery boys who initiate a Seven Nation Army chant of “Keir Starmer’s a wanker.” We pass through the open gates of Blackfriars station and into New Bridge Street, where I seem to find myself among Union Jack be-draped revellers assembling for a football match. A new chant of “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Robinson” starts to pick up as I try to make my way over the bridge. Oh dear. I do believe I have stumbled into the wrong joke.
Hello? St George flags? St Andrew flags? Red Dragon flags? I am pretty sure that Red Cross flag with four little flags is the Georgian national flag, chaps. Do I spy MAGA hats? Signs commemorating the death of Charlie Kirk? I slip my backpack off and try to pick up some speed through the crowd to get to my destination on the other side of the river and out of this hell as fast as possible. I think of the machismo of Vikings and the horrors of Middle-Earth. “Coming through, lads,” I say, knocking off the posh, remembering that episode of The Walking Dead when they smear themselves with zombie offal to avoid being bitten by the Walkers. I get into the slipstream of a few plucky cyclists wheeling their bikes and eventually make it to the other side. Then I wiggle through the back streets, past Gabriel’s Wharf and the turning to the National, working my way against the mob up Waterloo Road, then down a slip street to Cornwall Road, where I jump on a Lime Bike. Phew and fuuuuuuck!
Grabbing a glass of water at the Jerwood, I begin to feel safe—like returning to dry land after a difficult sea swim. I decompress with my colleagues. I felt terrified… out of touch… misanthropic… middle-aged..You could say it was a wake-up call; the need to process it by writing this post woke me up at 4am. How was your Saturday?
What an extraordinary week it has been. To have had the opportunity to participate in the profound soul search offered up by Duet For One was a rare privilege. Deep gratitude to all those who supported the show and made it possible. “It’s a journey, Miss Abrahams; we make it together.”
