God Hates God

Dear The Theatre,

When my mortal coil makes that final twist and I am angrily deposited at the pearly gates of that place the gays like to call Heaven, I know that God would be so cruel as to set me a truly impossible challenge: watch Cats without any detectable signs of contempt or spend eternity being anally fisted by Camden tramps. As soon as the first act-or purrs, I’ll be swiftly deposited doggy style on the red soil of Hell. And I know those tramps can’t afford lube.

What you must remember, my lovies, is that the theatre is entirely populated by cunts.

Cunts in the audience, cunts on stage, even the ice cream selling cunts are cunts. Actually, they’re ultra cunts because they take a minimum-wage-paying job like that just to be close to the theeee-a-teeeeer, dahlink! It’s a bit like someone licking up the piss outside Downing Street because their mummy told them they could rule the country when they grew up.

All theatre depends upon suspension of disbelief. Sadly, it’s very hard to suspend your disbelief when there’s some fucking drama student shouting shit at you for an hour and a half. You know what? If I wanted to pay 50p a minute for a load of wank, I’d call an 0898 number.

Theatre-nazis always go on about how ‘magic’ takes place inside theatres. True enough because, they second you step inside - POOF! - all your money disappears… along with your time, your self-respect and every last bit of knee cartilage you had before shoe-horning yourself into a seat roughly three centimetres behind the one in front.

The only acceptable form of theatre takes place on ice. ‘Les Miserables’ might even be bearable if I could spend my time daydreaming about the many and varying ways the actors could crack their heads open. “Cosette executes a triple salchow and a half twist while performing a monologue; then lands on Mme. Magliore’s neck, severing her head clean from her body with the blade of her well-sharpened skate.” Brilliant! It would be an inadvertent battledome of drama students, culling the most cunty through icy mishaps. After years of performing on ice, there wouldn’t be enough actors left to perform ‘The Producers’ - and this is a good thing.

Actually, scratch that. I did have one good experience in a theatre once. No, I wasn’t sitting next to Alanis Morissette (are you fucking SICK?) - it was ‘Snoopy The Musical’, and it was bloody brilliant. The laughs! The tears! The magic and the mayhem! The fact that I was only two years old and you could’ve stuck a turd on stage and jiggled it about with a stick and I’d still have found it mesmerising! Everything since then, though? Everything since I developed the ability to reason? Complete and utter shite.

Essentially, a play is just a bunch of actors who aren’t good enough to work in cinema, appearing in a very shit film with no locations, no score, no cameras and no editing. In other words, theatre is your dad’s home movies. Wonderful.

Fwa fwa fwa fwaaaaa, daaaahlink,

Munky