Love And Other Variations

By Oscar Owen

“I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”

This is the famous line from the famous scene in the famous film When Harry Met Sally. (A film that if you haven’t see you should see. Right now. Stop reading this and go see it, I don’t care how, just do it. Yes, it’s that good.) It is the romantic comedy to end all romantic comedies. Yes, dear readers, I’m here to discuss that hideous word which causes all the pain in the world and all the happiness: love.

If we look at the dictionary definition we see that love can be a noun (“an intense feeling of deep affection”) or a verb (“to feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment”), neither of which definitions really even scratch the surface of what love is, but, that’s the way it should be. Love isn’t something any of us should really understand. At our age, love is less a factor in relationships, it’s more a matter of lust. We’re a horny generation, I’ll admit. Everything’s about the breasts, the bum, the torso, the legs, the general ‘cor’ factor of your possible mates. We, as that free-wheeling, crazy young teens look for a good time and a bit of fun. But, could it be that in fact, us teenagers have the best grasp of love out of everyone?

We can breakdown teenager relationships into five easy to define categories:

The Innocents - Usually the younger teens fall into this category, but sometimes some of the older ones, those that perhaps haven’t faced troubles, can be listed as ‘innocents’ as well. The Innocents are the ones who think love is still the airy-fairy, beautiful red hearts, chocolates and magic that you get thrust upon you as little children. Their relationships are often sickening and disturbing to behold (oh god I’m such a cynic) as they just act so unbearably sweet.

The Awkward - Sometimes confused with the Innocents, due to a general “deer-caught-in-headlights” expression when confronted with the word sex. But, where the Innocents actually venture into their bubble of childish love, the awkward find themselves completely unable to integrate themselves in teenage relationships in any way, shape or form.

 The ‘old-married-couple’ - These are the relationships that last the longest. We all know that couple who got together in secondary school and are still going right through to college. The only problem is that they lack that spark of fun and enjoyment which should come with being a teenager, they’ve effectively turned into their parents. But with less arguing about the family car or some such.

The Horny/Fun-Loving - This is where the majority of teenagers fall. They want sex, they want to make out, they want to squeeze bottoms in that provocative way which somehow becomes sexual. They have no control, their relationships pass in a whirlwind of lips and tongues and they’re the ones who appear to have all the fun. This category is for both the sexually rampant teens and the ones who are constantly in and out of relationships, just ones which aren’t stable enough to be declared “old-married-couple” worthy.

 The Romantics - Now this is the category I myself fall in, much to my own misfortune. Romantics are foolish idiots who aren’t old-fashioned as such, but more, believe in the love we see in movies. The Romantics want the Harry Met Sally ending, they want someone to bring them the moon and the stars, they want Dustin Hoffman to run after them and rescue them from their very sexual mother... I do hope you’re all getting these pop culture references. And, because of this, because these poor deluded fools are so in love with the theatrical and the cinematic they tend to never really find a relationship they’re happy in.

Now I personally have one of the poorest love lives I know of but, as a Romantic, I hold out hope that someone’s eventually going to chase after me at the airport a la Love Actually. Others of my friends have perfectly normal and long-lasting relationships (the old-married couples and the Innocents), others swap partners constantly and have as much fun as possible as often as possible, being perfectly comfortable with the idea of the teenage relationship (The Horny/Fun-Loving) and then there’s friends who view love like a VIP room and just can’t figure out how to get into it all (the Awkward).

The truth about love which no one really likes to face is that we can’t define it. We can’t look at the dictionary definition and say it’s one certain thing and we certainly won’t ever understand it. But, us teenagers have the best advantage when it comes to love. Because we experience it in its fullest. Love’s confusing and scary, but the best way to come close to even understand love is to be a teenager. The entire spectrum of human affection can be seen by simply walking into a college canteen and looking around.

50 Shades of Grey, Dull Anti-Climaxes.

Tulisa Contostavlos, Kristen Stewart, Eva Longoria and Kelly Brook. What do these megabucks-earning stars all have in common besides good looks and bank balances to die for? Well, these are the celebs most recently been snapped clutching 50 Shades of Grey, the erotic novel that has taken the literary world by storm. Somewhat uncomfortably dubbed "Mummy porn", verdicts thus far have remained mixed. Guy or girl, there's a pretty good chance you've heard of it - but what's all the hype about?

Penned by EL James, 50 Shades is the latest "bonkbuster" to hit the shelves after huge success online. Soon-to-be graduate Anastacia Steele is unaware, unworldly, and unassuming, making an interview with brooding businessman Christian Grey a recipe for disaster. But when the mysterious young entrepeneur pursues Ana and appears to take a deep interest, she's swept off her feet by the man behind the mysterious exterior. Mr Grey is emotionally cretinous, with interests "kinky" doesn't even cover;
though he admits to not being "love hearts and flowers", he does do ropes, chains and whips. Hardly a match made in heaven, right? But Ana has never been fuelled with such desire for a man before..do sparks fly or fireworks combust? No prizes for the correct answers - it's aimed at women, and there's usually nothing we love more than a story of tortured romances.

The racy novel sold it's 10 millionth novel last week, and the title may very well have been held by me. Most books that have stirred up controversy in the past are usually...well, good books, ones that have made an impact. I'm afraid to say this novel only left a bad impact on me, no matter how much I gawped at the nature of the more explicit scenes.

Essentially, Ana Steele is a bit of a wet blanket, and it's damn well painful. She's laughably timid for a 22 year old woman, frustrating to listen to and does little more than flushing, biting her lip and weaving between her careful subconcious and sensual inner goddess. I saw her as a victim than the heroine, and when she "surrenders to her grief" at the novel's conclusion, I want to hand her a tissue exasparatedly rather than applaud her for being a sassy bitch Austen would kick herself for not creating first. Christian frequently expresses his awe for Ana, at one point proclaiming her to be "the most fascinating woman he has ever met"; really? Her best mate and budding journo Kate seems a little more vivacious and "fascinating" to me.

A dislikable protagonist does not a good novel make, jaw-droppingly raunchy or otherwise.

As for Mr. Grey (who incidentally is the rumoured reason Kerry Katona left her most recent beau, but I'll leave you to make your own mind up on that one), he is depicted as a bit of a sex god - smouldering good looks, a finely chiselled body,excellent taste in cars. But that does not conceal the fact his enigmatic personality only begs one question; what the hell is wrong with this man? He's not even a remotely charismatic "troubled soul"; just a plain old "troubled soul", who from my perspective appears to exploit Ana, and his occasional pleas of affections just don't seem genuine.

Overall, it's poorly written and cannot possibly be deemed worthy a place on my prized book shelf; both characters have nothing going for them, the plot is predictable with no unexpected twists to engage the reader and there's no real chance of the reader's jaw clenching with sheer desperation for these two to have a happy ending. On the plus side, if you're into BDSM, you can just skim through those scenes in Waterstones and save yourselve a few quid.

The blurb claims it will "obsess, possess and remain with you forever". I am confident this will not be the case; the "obsess and possess" aspect only predictably parralells the plight of Anastacia Steele in the following installments..
50 Shades is a shining example of the literature of lust becoming lacklustre literature; and with a film in the pipeline ,the buzz won't get swatted any time soon.

The "Growing Up" Phenomena; Affecting Millions Per Year

By Oscar Owen
Now I’m going to ask you something of you dear readers, and I want a nice honest show of hands. Okay? Right. Good. Put your hand right up, and I mean right up, no slacking alright- put your hand up if you have ever in the past couple of years wished your life was as carefree as it was back in primary school. Come on, don’t be shy, that’s it. YOU THERE. IN THE BACK. PUT THAT HAND RIGHT UP. There we go, you see, that’s basically all of you. (Well if’s all of you in my imaginary blogging lecture theatre (which I’ve named the blogture theatre incidentally) but the point still stands.)

You see, we all, at some point, just want to return to that world of freedom and joy, where everything was a game and nothing was out of bounds. When you’re little the sofa isn’t just a sofa and the floor isn’t just a floor. Oh no. The floor is lava and the sofa is you’re only protection, a rock in the middle of this sea of death which you must cling to for dear life or fall to your lava-ry demise. Ahhh, being little was a wonderful time. It’s no surprise that so many of us aging teens wish to return. And, here’s the thing, why don’t we? What’s stopping us throwing off the shackles of teenagedom and returning to the rainbow coloured ball pit of childhood? I say why not grow up and be young? Why don’t we maintain this element of childish fun and get to drive and be independent and drink and all that jazz? I say let’s be childish grown ups.

It’s one of the problems of life however that, in the process of growing up, we’re forced to, well, grow up. Already I see those friends I once muck about with so wonderfully leave behind their childish ways to become an adult *shudders*. Oh the disdain in which I hold that word. Because there’s a certain stigma attached to that word ‘adult’ now which we simply cannot avoid. To become an adult is not to become a person secure with their personality and their own self. Nope. To become an adult in our current society is to become a person who is responsible and sensible and various other words ending in “ible”. There’s no sense of fun, no childish mucking about, if an person of maturer age acts like a child in anyway they are told that its “not adult”. But I have long since come to the conclusion that the only way to live is to maintain an element of stupid fun.

Next time you’re stressed readers, next time you’re feeling a bit down or the coursework’s just got a tad too much then remember this and act on it. There is never anything better for stress than good old fashioned mucking about. Let me give you an example from the riveting life of Oscar Owen. I deal with a helluva lot of stress, it’s just a fact of my life I’ve come to live with. Most of this stress I create for myself, because I am a confessed worrier but there’s also stress from the incredibly mountain of work which comes from maintaining 4 A Levels into A2 Year, something I’m already feeling and we’ve barely started; there’s stress from my pitiless excuse of a love life in which everything’s ended in lots of tears and Woody Allen marathons to remind myself that true love is somewhere out there; there’s stress from my eating habits, my constant feeling of “oh fuck I’m going to die there’s a tumor in my head”, my poor sleeping pattern and, most of all, my panic over the state of my favourite fictional characters (note from Floraidh: he's not joking). And how do I deal with this stress? Well, most recently, I volunteered to put on some silly glasses, wave a wand about and advertise our college’s Harry Potter Appreciation Society. It was a day of nothing but childish playtime, I put on a costume and drew some silly pictures. Blessed relief amongst a sea of stress.

As that old northern genius Alan Bennett writes in his coming of age masterpiece The History Boys, the only antidote to growing up is “sheer calculated silliness” and I present the same idea to you reader. The next time you’re stressed or full of the woes of life or just feel like you’re coming dangerously close to becoming an adult *shudders once more* then please, I beg of you readers, take my advice and go be silly. Go put on a silly costume or talk in a silly voice or play with lego or just run around for no apparent reason. Anything will do and anything will make you feel better. Sometimes, when the future seems scary, the only thing to do is revert to the past.

Can You Guess What I'm Reviewing?

By Jaguar Bingham (http://www.beautybehindapaneofglass.blogspot.com)

The day before yesterday I went to the most extraordinary event in my lifetime. I did have to travel to some distant field and queue for about three hours, but I can confirm that the discomfort and agitation stirred beforehand was totally worth it.

I had never heard of this event until the very night before. A rogue dressed in khaki bed sheets knocked on my door and offered me a pamphlet for the next day’s happenings. Well I say pamphlet, but it was actually a dried Horse Chestnut Leaf with faint words inked on (presumably this was done by organic means as later, the nomad tried to convert me to Veganism and I hadn’t the heart to point out that the leather jacket on my back and beef steak in the oven would forbid me to do so). I was rather intrigued, to say the least, and since this man seemed trustworthy - if you omitted the stench of horse manure and bare feet which were muddy like a Woodland’s floor and stumpy like a Hobbit’s - I gratefully thanked the rogue and delightfully decided to attend this fantastic affair the following day.

The map on the Leaf was rather peculiar; instead of showing roads and houses, it depicted footsteps, paddocks and cornfields. I know you may think that I am insane for accepting and attending such an obscure invitation to an event so unknown and so eccentric on my own, but I’ll have you know that the neighbour’s Springer Spaniel, Odysseus, barked at the chance to come with me (for this was a once in a lifetime opportunity). Whatever, we set off late that night or early the next morning, (depending on your own perception of Time) and bounded to the field in a state of dreamlike euphoria.

The invitation suggested that fancy dress was appreciated, for the theme was Mythical Beasts, and so I decided Woodland Sprite would be appropriate. I harnessed Odysseus into a dog-sized purple, scaly dragon bonnet, allowing his sun-tainted brown ears to flop around his elated face and I slotted an equally scaly tail over his own. It was dark when we set out, and so I used my luminous wand, crafted from the Stars, to guide the way and to allow my straining eyes to read the Leaf-invitation. I never lost sight of Odysseus, as his scales shone back the glow of magical exuberance from the wand.

We came across a multitude of Mythical Beasts all lined up in an urbane manner, which did not befit their costumes. I could see the licks of Flame of a bright Fire at the very front of the queue, the distant Smoke billowing and curling like the stems of the Wheat heads at my feet. Enriched by the magnificent spectres ahead and those which were still to come, I eagerly took my place in the queue and waited.

I got chatting to a few witches and they told me that they came every year to what they referred to as ‘The Illumination’ and that it was absolutely spectacular. One let out an exhausted sigh as she’d been forced into making small talk with vexing relatives whom one only hopes to see at Christmas parties where the occurrence is somewhat bearable as one tends to be intoxicated off Christmas ‘Spirits’. Sadly, just as she was going into explicit detail about how her Great Aunty Johanna has the niggling habit of exclaiming ‘Esmeralda you’ve grown so much since we last saw one another’, (albeit Esmeralda is in fact thirty-three and has had the same height, width and weight since she was fifteen), an anomalous bugle-like noise jangled through the air, vibrating in and out of our shivering skin.

It had begun. The crowd started heading towards the heavenly light of Flames and swirling grey Air ahead. Although this Smoke was engulfing my blue lungs, I felt as if I had inhaled an air of magic; I marched on with the crowd.

***

When I entered the field with Odysseus, I saw it. There it was: the texture so exquisite, so enchanting, so impeccable that I could hardly believe that I was laying my transfixed eyes on it!

The green tufts were twisting and spiralling upwards like a new-born child’s soft fuzz of hair; the green rinds, so bright, so crystalline, so breath-taking seemed to glint at me coaxingly; it was sublime, surreal. The deep hue of the thick strands was mesmerising, elegant; yet it looked as sharp as a knife, mercilessly slicing the frigid air as it climbed into the Skies.

The warm Loam beneath effortlessly pulsed the opulent curls out from its depths, sighing with each collective movement, as if the Earth was smiling as it tensed and relaxed, the light tufts unwinding as they are nurtured by kisses from the velvet Air…

This event was not a manifestation of humanity’s ‘Creativity’, nor was it a vulgar display of Man’s skill in technology or cinematics; it was an illumination of Nature’s simplistic beauty, which charms those who take the time to value its magnificence. There was I, watching Grass bloom from Nature’s loving bosom: the mane of the Earth.




- Jaguar Rose

Catch The Cliche & Floraidh's Personal Side

To save myself splattering paint at my reflection and writing sad poetry ostentatiously in cafes, I have to remind myself that I'm not really a fundamentally shit person. And that's the truth.

I can be self-absorbed, self-centred, self-indulgent and self-critical. But like most, I have my faults, too...(!)

This first year of college in Blighty has vaguely became a year of self-discovery. When I emerged out of Germany, bushy-tailed and bright-eyed, I had no idea what I was in for. But to recycle an old phrase, I was the proverbial Wendy making good in the big world away from Neverland. So I like to think I've done things in this year that do not make me a fundamentally shit person, and I have learned not to embody a fundamentally shit person.

In a few years time, I will perhaps regard these two years as the time when my niave former self found her true "self", got over her "self" and perhaps had a "self" esteem rise. So am I any closer to "finding myself" right now(and trying not to wince at how pretentious it sounds)? Well, you are shaped by what surrounds you. And as Aristotle said, you are what you repeatedly do. To answer that, I can confirm leaving my cacoon had been one of the best and worst experiences in my short 17 years, and I'm not all that sure what it's done for me.

Though the aptitude of my personal hygiene remains questionable (the weeks my sheets can go without a wash, the receipts lying accusingly on my floor, the mould I found under my bed recently), my domestic skills have improved infinitely. If I'm absolutely desperate and there's no suitable substitute, I will iron a top. If I'm not up for eating regurgitated meat, I will make my own dinner. I will shower without my mum instructing me to do so. I have made friends I've already assigned seats to for my somewhat distant nupitals. I've stopped caring about presenting myself in a way that wouldn't fit somebody else's definition of acceptable. The cold light of dawn enlightened me on who my real friends at home were, who could be bothered coming to see me, who was a friend or foe - and I learned to not get upset about the verdict, either. Managing my own finances, & saving money for a holiday too? All in a day's work.

The less rosy parts have included mood swings induced by a homesickness not even a phone call could stave off, and the silent resentment for my housemates if for one second I suspected they weren't feeling it like I was. I have made some terrible mistakes in the past year. I have said and done things that are so, so bad. I dismissed it as teenage steam-release at the time ("doesn't everyone go through this at some point?") before I realised not even being a teenager can excuse being...well, a bit of an actual dickhead. I also forgot about having a tolerable attitude to others, because I felt others weren't exactly tolerable of me - here's lookin' at you, 2/4 of my AS classes.

I considered going home on numerous occasions. Packing my bags, deeming it an "experience", but "it just wasn't working for me". Returning to my old life, back to Neverland, with people I knew and had known for a fair while - a safe familiarity, but not even a subtle step out of my comfort zone. But the thought of giving up on something I'd wanted so much seemed so feeble; coursework rage, homesickness, bitchy class mates. I couldn't face returning home and citing those - upon reflection - really rather poor excuses. "Coursework rage"? You want qualifications? You suffer a little. "Homesickness?" It's not like you've moved away forever. "Bitchy classmates"? They're treating you like dirt without getting to know you, and you're the one getting upset? Realise who has the issues here.

The going got tougher, so I did too. It has worked for me - it still does.

Like most artistic types, I'm quietly spanning out my life as a movie, in which I feature as the protagonist. I like to think my movie is an Arts Council-funded Brit flick, with a kooky soundtrack and tastefully dressed characters. It will be critically acclaimed without being commercially successful. I'll shrug off the baddies, have a struggle before overcoming the odds, and live happily ever after. I'm playing the part of the quick-witted sassy gal, who can let grumpiness get the better of her, but generally an alright egg.

Whether I'm doing the part justice remains to be seen - ask me again next year.

"Hey! My name's Oll..."

Written by Ollie Toms

PICTURE THE SCENE.

You’ve been persuaded by a friend to undergo a psychological experiment of some kind, though you haven’t been given any details. The friend appealed to your innate curiosity and similar interests, and you agreed, with a mix of equal parts enthusiasm and trepidation. You turn up at the address they gave you, and they’re waiting there, outside the house. You follow them into the house, and every door you open quickly shuts behind you with an unnerving finality.

Your friend stops by a large iron door and swings it open wide. It’s a small room with metal walls and a metal ceiling and floor. Metal surrounds you from all sides. The room is brightly lit, but there is nothing to look at. The room is completely empty. You turn to your friend, who gestures for you to enter. Hesitantly, you step into the metal cube. You know what to do, your friend says with a smile. Then they swing the iron door shut.

You quickly turn back and call for them, unsure as to whether or not they’re joking. The fact is you haven’t the faintest clue what you’re meant to do in this place. The emptiness unsettles you, and you feel extremely self-conscious and unsure of yourself. You feel as if you’re missing something obvious that’s preventing you from beginning what is evidently the task at hand. You begin to question your own intellect, the value of your existence. You begin to wonder if you ever did anything worthwhile with your life, anything worth remembering. You look into the vast expanse of metallic silver in front of you, and your reflection stares back, in its eyes a profound look of disorder and fear.

That’s how I feel, gazing pensively at my reflection in the monitor, as I attempt to write my first blog post.(Well, not quite. I exaggerated some parts. But I am a tad unsure of what to do.

The thing is: I love writing. It’s my passion and my refuge. It’s my obsession and my asylum. It’s appealing to me not only as a form of escapism but also as the surest way of immersing yourself within your own imagination, in a world that is completely unique and inescapably, utterly, yours. Having said all that, however, I find it difficult to write anything concerning myself, because, to be blunt, I’m not my all-time favourite subject. In fact, I’m not very interesting to be honest. My average day consists of college, followed by homework, followed by a short spell of piano playing, and then a few hours of Minecraft; then dinner, more Minecraft, and bed. Unless it’s a weekend, in which case, it’ll be just Minecraft.

And I’m not going to try and change that. I LIKE Minecraft.

What I will do is try and make what I say sound interesting – if I find that my thoughts and whimsical ideas are at least marginally more appealing than Vogon poetry, then I’ll be happy!

And I do have a fair few whimsical ideas. My mind is a smorgasbord of ‘what if’s and remarkable ideas and passionate opinions. Unfortunately, not many of these thoughts manage to find themselves at the forefront of my mind. Most just stay swimming around my subconscious like a hive of lethargic bees, surfacing only long enough for me to think “yeah, I should do something about that,” and then forget about them almost immediately.

So I thought it’s about time I got some of these ideas and views out of my head and into the open.

So

Hey! My name’s Oll. What’s up?

"The Last Of The Haussmans" - Powerful Performance, Less So With The Plot?

By Oscar Owen

The Last of the Haussmans, National Theatre, Review

“No one’s to blame for anyone else’s fuck-ups. We all fucked up. We all fucked up our own lives.”

Hello dear readers of the Uncensored Pen, I begin with this quote from The Last of the Haussmans, a play I have come to review. I’m Oscar by the way and while I haven’t officially been trained as a theatre reviewer I like to think I’ve seen enough of it and can waffle enough to make it sound like I know what I’m on about. It may not surprise you to know that this quote was not the one the National Theatre chose to advertise the play with. No, they chose instead some nonsensical nonsense about waking up out of a coma. You know the sort of thing I’m talking about; pretentious, bordering on the dull, not really offering any kind of insight into the play at all. And so I decided instead that this quote was the perfect one with which to sum up a play which is, in its simplest form, all about fuck-ups.

We have Judy Haussman, a remnant of the age of free love and flower power. Having dropped out of her high-society life and running away with her University Lecturer to become a hippy when she was still young, we see her in her still free-wheeling sixties. She’s slowly dying in her health and safety nightmare of an art deco house on the Devon Coast but god knows she’s not going to die without partying right until the end. Judy’s joined by her daughter Libby, a tired mother herself who, while trying to look after her difficult daughter Summer is also having an affair with the local doctor, Peter. After hearing news of her recent cancer surgery, estranged gay junkie son Nick also turns up, soon to be infatuated with young pool boy Daniel.

It’s a chaotic play from the outset, the tone of which is set the instant you walk into the theatre thanks to the gorgeous set design from Vicki Mortimer. Now, I must be careful, here, I admit, or this review will turn into a love letter to the set. But, by god, that set was beautiful. Centre stage was the house itself, a huge white construction, all angles and corners, which revolved around to give us a garden, patio, kitchen and living room all of which are as ramshackle as the last. Around this house are two arched pathways full of all manner of bits and bobs, ranging from kites to flags to dozens upon dozens of plant pots. The set feels like a family. It just surges with life as you can pick out any object and know that there’s a story behind it. It’s simply breath taking.

But yes, okay, the play wasn’t all about the set I hear you cry and no it certainly wasn’t. Last of the Haussmans heralds that indomitable star of screen and stage Julie Walters’ (Educating Rita, Billy Elliot, Harry Potter to name a few) return to theatre for the first time in years. And although she maybe doesn’t have much emotional substance to give, thanks to a difficult script, until the second half she owns the stage as the aging hippy Judy. Wandering about manically in a snoopy top and nothing else she is the pinnacle of uncontrollable energy. One of my favourite moments from her was her sudden drunken declaration to the people of Devon, “Want to see a bit of revolutionary pussy, Darlings?”. And yet, Walters doesn’t, as one may assume, steal the show. Helen McCrory (Harry Potter, and, among other things, famous for playing Cherie Blair multiple times) offers a portrait in human suffering as Libby so powerful and believable that you just want to run up on stage and hug her and tell her it’ll all be alright. And Rory Kinnear (who offered a superb Hamlet at the National last year) who portrays the drug ravaged, drunken Nick with a wit so fiery he had the audience in stitches nearly every time. From him, more than McCrory, you get the sense of the damage caused to the children of the hippy generation, summed up perfectly I feel in his line, “Nobody made me a junkie. Except maybe David Bowie.”

There’s also strong performances from the supporting characters of Summer, Daniel and Peter, although, to be fair to them, it’s hard to make much of an impression on the audience when you have three incredible actors in Kinnear, McCrory and Walters dominating the stage. There are problems with the script, only to be expected from first time playwright Stephen Beresford. And although it feels overlong (the entire last scene felt unnecessary) and the reasoning behind the financial loss of the house feels rushed, Beresford’s background as an actor means he knows how to write bloody good lines for his cast and the play is most certainly full of wit and charm. There’s even moments of real deep meaning, such as the “fuck-ups” line I began this review with which made me sit back in my seat and really consider my own life and choices.

Overall it’s a strong, enjoyable piece of theatre. Perhaps not going to be remembered for its story or script, but the performances will certainly go down in my memory for a long time. If you want a play with powerful acting which doesn’t require too much head-scratching in confusion then this is the thing for you.