Spotted: David Suchet

When: last night
Where: in the auditorium of the Roundhouse

Actually, JC has to take the credit for this one. I was miles away, focused on whether my fiance, having been dragged to the theatre to see ("which one is it again?") Shakespearean comedy wasn't having too rubbish a time.

I shouldn't've worried. The RSC came up trumps, and JC was pretty much totally enthralled by As You Like It, despite being extremely suspicious of the title.

In the interval, while most people were being distracted by a rabbit being skinned on stage, JC spotted Mr Poirot / Suchet, with his wife, engaged in conversation with another audience member. He seemed just like he always does: very polite and a thoroughly nice bloke.

I suggested we went over and told him how much we'd loved seeing All My Sons last year. JC wasn't so sure.

It reminded me of being in the theatre behind him on another occasion, when I saw Wet Weather Cover at the Arts Theatre. Happily, last night's show was far better than that.

A Flea in Her Ear at the Old Vic

As I've already pointed out, there were stars in the audience when JC and I saw this particular show last week.

After treating a very tired JC to a great meal in amongst the Christmas Parties at Tas on The Cut, I was a little apprehensive about this show. Here we were, nodding to rather than celebrating our anniversary, as tradition dictates, about to see a show that I was unconvinced would keep JC awake in his shattered state.

Happily, I was completely wrong.

A Flea in Her Ear turned out to be hilarious. Just the right mixture of silliness and talent to make a lovely, diverting night out.

Read my full review here on londonist.

Spotted: Christopher Eccleston

When: last night
Where: the Old Vic, upstairs bar.

Yes, there was more than one doctor at the Old Vic last night :-)

Thankfully, unlike the one on stage in A Flea In Her Ear, Christopher Eccleston was keeping his trousers on...

I'd headed for the upstairs bar, knowing it'd be easier to get served up there, and more likely to score something hot to soothe my sore throat. Parking next to a scruffy individual who was being much quieter than the braying theatrephiles around me, I asked the barman for a cup of tea. In the mirrors behind the bar, I saw a familiar, drawn, expressive face; checking the profile of the guy next to me, I was thrilled. It was Christopher Eccleston, actor extraordinare, being fantastically, err, ordinare.

Dressed in an ordinary black top and jeans, he was being distinctly unshowy, talking in a low murmur, gently moving the lady he was with (his mum? an aunt?) out of the way of other people in a way that totally betrayed him as different from the rest of the Old Vic crowd. They push rather than say excuse me, are loud and obnoxious, and have that strange theatregoer trait of extreme self-absorbtion with a completely misplaced sense of entitlement. Urgh.

JC was gutted to miss him. Having sat, tense, through Accused the other night, and reminisced with me about shows like Our Friends in the North, and Hearts and Minds (which blew me away as a teenager), he was anxious to know if "he was alright." Because usually, when you're watching Christopher Eccleston in some heartwrenching drama, he's not alright. Usually, his world's being torn apart; he's suffering. And tormented. And demonised. And horrified. And powerless. And, and...

But he looked alright enough in the lovely Old Vic bar.

Hope he enjoyed the show as much as we did. I'll post a review later today...

Wembley: England v France

We went to Wembley last night. Here's a picture of that glorious arch with the back of JC's head in the shot.

It was very cold and wet yesterday; the exact opposite of what you'd expect fair-weather football fans like myself to be going out in.

And. Well. England didn't play very well. Stevie G did just fine, but I'm sad to say JC's still never seen him score, live, in the flesh, as it were. There were some new boys playing in the middle, and it seemed like they were a bit nervous: each time someone passed them the ball, they tended to knock it back to the keeper, rather than try anything creative. And I started to feel a bit sorry for that Andy Carrol bloke after the rest of the team had hoofed the ball into the air for the 1000th time for him to jump up and get it, again, and fail to head it to someone useful. Again. He must have nightmares where his eyes are just continually trying to adjust to the speed of a ball flying through the air and his knees are failing to make him jump at the right moment... At least, that's what I'd have if I were him.

One of the goals scored by France was the keeper's fault (never leave your near post open, dude!), something an ex-goalie like your author doesn't like to see. He did make some good saves, though, which was a blessing otherwise the score could've been much worse.

But the trip to the venue was great: Wembley is quite stunning. Something I really haven't quite captured in these photos:









Ooh look. Stevie G's arse:

Notes from the Rob Ryan Private View

Rob Ryan is one of my most recent "art crushes". As noted in my write-up of the private view I attended this week, my interest / investment covers a few months and various media:

I've loved Rob Ryan's intricate papercuts for a while now. Since being introduced to his work by the fantastic Domestic Sluts last year, I've made the pilgrimage to his Columbia Road shop, Ryantown, bought this skirt from clothkits, and been given a beautiful framed print for my birthday. Yes, I'm something of a fan.

It was really fun to go to the private view with JC. Sadly, the room was too full and too hot for me to say I had a great time, but I'm still really glad I went. JC says he can't decide if Mr Ryan's a zeitgeisty genius, a timeless talent or just a strange obsessive that puts skill before art. I just like the out-and-out romance of his work. And I guess I've always liked text in art.

One thing that was really interesting about the show was the chance to see Rob himself. (Sadly, your writer wasn't feeling on go-getting journo form, so didn't push through to prod him for a Londony quote as she has been know to in the past.)

From the evocative, romantic male figues in his art, I'd been expecting a pre-Sherlock Benedict Cumberbatch playing-Bernard-Bligh kind of figure. Skinny in a 1930s depression-era way. Or at least like slight, and tall, and straight, like Anton du Beke preparing for a particularly traditional waltz.

But no. It turns out, Rob Ryan actually looks like a less cuddly, much hairier version of Chris' dad. Crossed with Danny Baker (GWS). With a bit of Lord of the Rings director Peter Jackson thrown in. Not quite what I'd anticipated!

Read more about the Rob Ryan Private View on the Visit London Blog

Pictures show Starry Night by Rob Ryan; and Rob Ryan by Jenny Dale

Seeing Yes, Prime Minister with a Political Insider

It was always going to be interesting, seeing Yes, Prime Minister with someone who used to be an advisor to the guy who's just been made leader of the opposition. (Of course, we didn't know this at the time, but the little insights into the workings of a similar office still stand true.)

JC's first comment was that the set was pretty damn good. "That's just about the size Ed's office used to be," he whispered, before any action had even taken place. "In fact, looks pretty like it."

The second thing he spotted about the same time as me: that David Haig's (as PM Jim Hacker) suit and shoes just weren't right. It doesn't take experience of working in Whitehall to see when someone's costume just doesn't fit the part. A sloppy, ill-fitting, tired-looking suit, and some terrible "comfy" shoes will big, fat, rubbery soles don't scream, "look at me, I'm pushing the Presidential part of my powerful position as Prime Minister of the Britain and Northern Ireland..." It was off-putting.

My betrothed(!) was also quick to give kudos to Emily Joyce's portrayal of Special Advisor Claire. "She's got exactly the right levels of arrogance and ohgodidontknowwhatimdoing for a SPAD," was JC's assessment.

But the main thing that got to JC was that it just hadn't been updated enough for his liking. Just adding references to Blackberrys and the like doesn't suddenly make a show zeitgeisty. Today, people like Sir Humphrey, far from being completely disinterested in what the electorate might want or think (as portrayed in the 80s by the TV show) are now obsessed with it, according to JC. Sure, to reinvent a character would've perhaps been beyond the desires of the audience, but it would've been nice if there was one voice onstage showing a more modern approach to taking the temperature of the people as a whole, through twitter or facebook or whatever. (But any reference to tweets or, dare I say, pokes would've been missed by the majority of the properly ancient audience on the night we saw the show...)

Which leads me to one final point on this funny but flawed play.

There was an excellent example of what I'm going to start referring to as "satire fail" on the night when we were there. You might remember me questioning the weird, I felt, inappropriate laughter at The Little Dog Laughed back in January. There was a similar incident in Yes, Prime Minister. I'm not 100% sure I can remember what the line was exactly, but it was after something about the Freedom of Information act being a bad thing, uttered by a character we should, of course, not be sympathising with. It was a piece of satire. Cue gales of agreement-based Toff laughter from the back, which can't help but leave a bit of a sour taste in your mouth. "No!" I find myself wanting to shout, "It's not funny like that. You shouldn't be laughing. Unless you agree with what's just been said. In which case, I don't like being in an audience with you..."

Satire fail, see?

Read my review of Yes Prime Minister on londonist here, or check out my Your Views piece on the Visit London Blog

Spotted: Lisa Smosarski

When: earlier this evening
Where: Tom's Kitchen, Somerset House

Yes, I'm sure there were more famous faces at the launch of Tom Aikens' new restaurant, Tom's Kitchen at Somerset House this evening.

But the only one I spotted was Lisa Smosarski, editor of Stylist magazine, and one-time drinker of tea made by yours truly at Smash Hits magazine.

It was green tea. I don't think I made much of an impression. I think I might've told her I thought green tea tasted of pond water. She was one of those nodding, smiling, indulging-the-crazies people when it came to workies. And I was one of those keep talking, keep smiling harder, force-them-to-remember-how-great-you-are-to-the-point-of-crazy workies. Not a great pairing, I'm sure.

As I said, there were probably far bigger names at the launch this evening, but I wasn't in any position to spot them. Sadly, JC had a going-to-be-sick fainty moment after about three mouthfuls of his gazpacho, and so we had to leave and get an emergency cab back to Peckham and the chance to be perpendicular.

So it seems I've still, after four years, not really engaged in those free new restaurant taster meals other people who work for VL have. It's probably just as well. I just don't think food writing is my bag.

For me, food is fuel or facilitator. You're either just eating it cos you're hungry, and if you don't you'll probably faint (ohhh...) or you're out for dinner with someone getting around the fuel thing cos you actually want to talk to them about something, or needed an excuse to invite them round to yours for more than just a chat.

Hey ho. There'll be other celebs, other invites and other Michelin-starred restaurants. There aren't any other boys I need to look after in quite the same way as JC.

Image of the super-pretty Lisa from the Press Gazette 

Reflections on Anish Kapoor @ the Royal Academy

OK, so that's just kind of a fnarr header to go with JC's clever image, but hey...

The fact is, we didn't get into Anish Kapoor at the Royal Academy on Saturday. We tried buying tickets in advance online, but for some reason, the booking website was down. We headed to town anyway, with other plans if we weren't able to see the show.

The queue for buying tickets spiralled past the funky silver bubble sculpture (an image of which now adorns the walls of JC's office, I'm told. "It's a metaphor," his super-brainy boss pointed out), and nearly out of that famous courtyard altogether.

We had some fun taking photos of the cool, funky, multiple mirrored surfaces, trying to get them reflected in windows (me: little success), and trying to get us reflected *in* them (JC: better). I'm sure if we had been queuing next to the thing for as long as some of the tourists there, we'd probably have enjoyed it a lot less...

So, note to the wise: probably best to wait for a mid-week opening to see this show, rather than attempting to enjoy what is surely (from the photos I've seen and what I've read) the kind of art that needs space and NOT crowds at the weekend.

It's great that it's a popular show; it's a shame if people pay the (quite high) admission fee and enjoy it less because it's too crowded.

Theatrical Excitement: An Inspector Calls

I've been excited about this for a while now: happily, I've just secured press tix for An Inspector Calls at the Novello Theatre for Thursday night.

And even better, I've been able to persuade JC to come along.

I have to admit, I know very little about the play: I've been trying to keep it that way, so I can actually see something with fresh eyes for a change. I know, I know: it's the sort of thing people (WG) study at school. My school? No sir. Let's not forget I studied Twelfth Night every (exam) year from the age of 11 to 18. A good play, of course, but a studying schedule that won't encourage breadth on the same scale as depth. There's something to be said for teachers that adhere to the National Curriculum, I think you'll find.

So aside from the rain; the awards; and a lead that comes from theatreland rather than celebland, I'm trying to remain in the dark about the play.

I did read this really interesting profile of Stephen Daldry in the Guardian in May. Sounds like a very interesting chap.

Am reviewing for londonist, so watch this space...