The day that Boris Johnson was announced as Prime Minister had all the ingredients of apocalyptic foreboding that any political commentator could ever ask for. A heatwave scorched up and down the country, reaching 32C in London, and promising hotter conditions still later in the week. The almighty heat brought with it swarms of insects, with places like Leeds rife with the likes of flying ants. Finally, to cap off the day of sweat raddled defences against creepy crawlies, when the sun came down, storm clouds swallowed the land, bringing terrible rain showers and great claps of booming thunder. Anyone watching the day with the slightest bit of superstition probably has developed an anxiety disorder just from thinking about the days to come.
Superstitions aren’t my forte usually. Assuming that little unrelated events are not only connected, but potentially foretell even greater things to come is the kind of thinking that strikes me as desperately trying to grab hold of something in life that’s missing from our everyday society. As if we are bored with the mad chaos of the universe, with the lack of barriers that prevent us from doing what we want, so we must make our own strings to dangle from, and subject ourselves to an invisible and omnipotent Nature-of-Things. When we do that, suddenly things are not only more manageable for our heads, but also more interesting, since there’s rhyme and reason to everything wherever we go now.
The European Elections were the second democratic check over the state of the country and Brexit after the council elections, and while the council elections proclaimed the simple message that the Labour and (especially) Conservative parties were becoming as popular as rotten meat in a picnic in regards to their handling of Brexit, the results of the European Elections have declared everyone a winner, apparently.
The sky is blue, and there is barely a breeze worth mentioning; Perfect weather for a good voting turnout, though I suspect that even in lashing rainfall we would still smash records for these elections.
After more than a couple of decades of constant performances in a quaint town in Warwickshire, the Atherstone Theatre Workshop was closing down, and all of its past members were being invited for one final goodbye party. The old building where we met up on a weekly basis, a former girls school converted into a small theatre, that seated possibly 50 people at the most, was the venue for this wake.
To even suggest such a thing calls into question of even seeing the same film as other people.