I went to a play tonight, and I enjoyed it very much indeed. Impact are doing a Beckett season in their tiny little basement theatre, and that’s where Joe and I headed, to see Happy Days.

As the play was going to last 90 minutes without any real break, Joe pointed out that it wouldn’t be a good plan to have half a dozen pints inside your gut, or you’d be up and out to the toilet every five minutes, which is not a good plan in a theatrical space so intimate the audience and the cast really ought to be close family. From my own point of view, I thought it would be a good idea anyway to have a few drinks, mainly because I feel that no Beckett play should be approached entirely sober.

So we went to South’s where, instead of pints, we langered back several small Jamesons. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Good. That’s better. And thus suitably fortified, we wandered down the street to the Impact theatrical space, where we enjoyed a good, solid, funny hour and a half of black humour, a few seconds of a fool’s phone ringing and about ten minutes of a big unhealthy fat bastard coughing his lungs up in our tiny theatrical space. In a bigger place, you could lean over and mutter something intimidating like, why don’t you do your hawkin’ outside, you fat fuck? But you can’t really behave like that in a tiny basement theatre and so we just had to endure it, as did both of the actors. However, you’ll be glad to know that when the play was over, I stabbed him, in traditional Limerick fashion. It caused no real harm because I couldn’t get past the flab to hit anything vital, the fat fuck, but he’d better not turn up to Godot or he’s dead fuckin meat.