been hearing since I was a schoolboy, the authentic voice of Dunster.
Chapter Six
The Absent Prince
by Paul Pry
No one was able to tell us where Prince Hamlet was last night. He was, perhaps understandably, staying on in college in Wittenberg to avoid the embarrassing proceedings which were going on in the gardens of St Josephâs. He did send an understudy, perhaps some remote relative of Horatioâs who had once been in a school play. This unfortunate stand-in, referred to in the programme as one Philip Progmire, was clearly unable to afford a decent suit of mourning and came on wearing a well-used tweed jacket and jeans. He had also forgotten to have his glasses mended. Progmireâs idea of acting seemed to be to stand about reciting the lines as though they were poetry or familiar quotations , a style of Shakespearian performance which you might think had long gone out of fashion, even in Denmark. His advice to the players was fairly well spoken; the only trouble was that he seemed unable to take any of it himself. Far from holding the mirror up to nature, he seemed to be holding it up to some hammy performance he once saw at the Old Vic.
It canât be said that the supporting cast was much help to the substitute Hamlet. Bethany Blairâs Ophelia, straight down from Roedean, played the mad scene as though sheâd had one too many glasses of claret cup at a May Ball. Her experience of âcountry mattersâ was clearly confined to huntinâ, shootinâ and fishinâ. King Claudius and his âlady wifeâ seemed a typical suburban couple, only slightly worried by the mortgage repayments and an outbreak of greenfly on the roses in the front garden. This pair of innocents probably thought that incest was something that Catholics bum in church.
Was there a bright spot in these gloomy goings-on, you may well ask? Just one. Paul Adamsâs Laertes struck exactly the right note of single-minded determination. He appeared to be the only passionate person at Court, although in this Hamlet the duel scene was about as exciting as a fight between an Olympic fencer and a short-sighted member of the Campaign for the Abolition of Sword-fighting.
It is worth noting that Nan Thorogood, who knows how Shakespeare should be acted, sat watching her production and was looking as unhappy as I felt. The gods passed their verdict by pissing on this production from a great height; it rained heavily in the second act.
âThe little shit!â
We had bought the Cherwell at a newspaper shop in the Turl and were on our way towards the High Street and coffee. Beth was reading as she walked. The wind lifted her strawberry blonde hair and her forehead was furrowed.
âWho is?â
âPaul Pry!â
âItâs not a good review?â I was beginning to get the message.
âNot exactly a rave. You could say that.â She aimed the Cherwell in my direction. I caught it and found the page. I only saw the headline, knew it would be a stinker about me and decided to spare myself the unnecessary pain of reading more of Paul Pry on Hamlet, and skipped to Ophelia.
âItâs ridiculous,â I said.
âOh, yes? Iâve been laughing ever since I bought the bloody thing.â
âYou never even went to Roedean.â
âOf course I didnât! You donât think that idiot writes the truth, do you? He wouldnât even know what the truth was when he saw it. Heâs only interested in hurting people. Causing pain. Thatâs what gives the little squirt his kicks.â
âDonât take it seriously,â I advised her.
âSeriously? Of course I donât take it seriously! I take it as being absolutely and entirely beneath contempt.â
âThatâs good then. Weâll go and have a coffee.â
âWhatâs the use of coffee! Weâll go to the White Horse.â
After a large whisky Beth said, âWhatâre you going to do to
Chapter Six
The Absent Prince
by Paul Pry
No one was able to tell us where Prince Hamlet was last night. He was, perhaps understandably, staying on in college in Wittenberg to avoid the embarrassing proceedings which were going on in the gardens of St Josephâs. He did send an understudy, perhaps some remote relative of Horatioâs who had once been in a school play. This unfortunate stand-in, referred to in the programme as one Philip Progmire, was clearly unable to afford a decent suit of mourning and came on wearing a well-used tweed jacket and jeans. He had also forgotten to have his glasses mended. Progmireâs idea of acting seemed to be to stand about reciting the lines as though they were poetry or familiar quotations , a style of Shakespearian performance which you might think had long gone out of fashion, even in Denmark. His advice to the players was fairly well spoken; the only trouble was that he seemed unable to take any of it himself. Far from holding the mirror up to nature, he seemed to be holding it up to some hammy performance he once saw at the Old Vic.
It canât be said that the supporting cast was much help to the substitute Hamlet. Bethany Blairâs Ophelia, straight down from Roedean, played the mad scene as though sheâd had one too many glasses of claret cup at a May Ball. Her experience of âcountry mattersâ was clearly confined to huntinâ, shootinâ and fishinâ. King Claudius and his âlady wifeâ seemed a typical suburban couple, only slightly worried by the mortgage repayments and an outbreak of greenfly on the roses in the front garden. This pair of innocents probably thought that incest was something that Catholics bum in church.
Was there a bright spot in these gloomy goings-on, you may well ask? Just one. Paul Adamsâs Laertes struck exactly the right note of single-minded determination. He appeared to be the only passionate person at Court, although in this Hamlet the duel scene was about as exciting as a fight between an Olympic fencer and a short-sighted member of the Campaign for the Abolition of Sword-fighting.
It is worth noting that Nan Thorogood, who knows how Shakespeare should be acted, sat watching her production and was looking as unhappy as I felt. The gods passed their verdict by pissing on this production from a great height; it rained heavily in the second act.
âThe little shit!â
We had bought the Cherwell at a newspaper shop in the Turl and were on our way towards the High Street and coffee. Beth was reading as she walked. The wind lifted her strawberry blonde hair and her forehead was furrowed.
âWho is?â
âPaul Pry!â
âItâs not a good review?â I was beginning to get the message.
âNot exactly a rave. You could say that.â She aimed the Cherwell in my direction. I caught it and found the page. I only saw the headline, knew it would be a stinker about me and decided to spare myself the unnecessary pain of reading more of Paul Pry on Hamlet, and skipped to Ophelia.
âItâs ridiculous,â I said.
âOh, yes? Iâve been laughing ever since I bought the bloody thing.â
âYou never even went to Roedean.â
âOf course I didnât! You donât think that idiot writes the truth, do you? He wouldnât even know what the truth was when he saw it. Heâs only interested in hurting people. Causing pain. Thatâs what gives the little squirt his kicks.â
âDonât take it seriously,â I advised her.
âSeriously? Of course I donât take it seriously! I take it as being absolutely and entirely beneath contempt.â
âThatâs good then. Weâll go and have a coffee.â
âWhatâs the use of coffee! Weâll go to the White Horse.â
After a large whisky Beth said, âWhatâre you going to do to
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