British Theatre is dying.
It’s taking its very last gasps of creative breath. Buried under the weight of political correctness, bed-wetting snowflakes and shit drama teachers.
We know things are bad. Rape is bad. Prejudice is bad. Abuse is bad. Ed Sheeran is bad.
But let’s not confuse reality with art.
We’re at a crossroads where the depiction and exploration of these very themes and issues is considered bad.
There’s a whole generation out there who’s only ambition is to be offended.
I can’t name names. I’d be bullying them.
They know who they are.
They are about to write, direct, perform and review a 5* play called ‘Anxiety, Houmous and Me’. It’s a minimalistic one woman verbatim show about a fat twat wearing a hessian cardigan called Alice who just didn’t feel right and then someone told her she should cheer up which humiliated her because it’s not that easy so she cried and found strength through a group she joined who share stories of loneliness and isolation until one of them smiled and this made Alice smile and that was the ‘thrilling climax of this beautifully observed and sensitive exploration of the human condition with special mention to Libertine Madeley-Spencer who evoked real pathos with his one note piano score and Dexter Hartley-Harridan for his dynamic fight choreography that beautifully captured Alice’s turmoil as she tried to eat a chickpea – go see, but take a recycled tissue.’
I’m fucking sick of it.
Since when was British Theatre so regressive, conservative, unenlightened, unchallenging, unprovocative and fucking boring?
Since middle class, public school, folder clutching, daddy shagging, keyboard warriors became artists and critics.
Since snowflakes found a voice that was forged in chat rooms through binary opinions where code imitates life.
Since Beth and Jamie became shit drama teachers and told kids freeze frames were cool.
This unholy trinity make up a gutless generation and they are killing British Theatre.
‘It was misogynistic – utterly disgraceful.’
It’s a play you cunt.
‘It was racist – utterly abhorrent.’
It’s a play you cunt.
‘I felt violated – utterly repulsive.’
It’s a play you cunt.
‘It was insensitive – utterly offensive.’
You cunt.
They are scared of feeling anything other than hard done by.
They are introspective, narcissistic, naïve and pathetic.
A generation of artists, actors, writers and critics who subjugate the drama of drama.
Their life experience consists of blogs, PSE lessons, mental health websites, university hustings and a Qantas gap year.
They’ve never stolen money to survive.
They’ve never slept on the streets.
They’ve never flashed a knife.
They’ve never shot heroin into their groin.
They’ve never heard their mother being raped.
They’ve never had their head kicked in.
They’ve never been humiliated.
They’ve never been violated.
They’ve never been abandoned.
They’ve never been hated.
They’ve never been scared.
They’ve never lived.
And they don’t have the imagination to imagine such things.
“Not true actually – once Edith and I were in Marrakesh and some guy aggressively tried to make her buy a fake Louis Vuitton. We were extremely shook-up and genuinely considered leaving.’
It’s not a class thing – it’s a cunt thing.
What does a generation do that has neither experience or imagination?
They cry.
They lash out.
They whine.
They tantrum.
They agonise.
They patronise.
They vilify.
They demean.
They don’t understand what real life is and they belittle the expression of anyone who does.
They admonish behind the safety of a keyboard.
They share ideas with peers in Costa.
They give readings to poets for feedback.
They get funding for ticking the right boxes.
They rape theatre to reflect their facileness.
Daniel is shit at drama.
Daniel has no talent, drive, experience or imagination.
Neither has his shit drama teacher Keeley who thinks Daniel has ‘something’.
He studies drama under shit failed actor Ben who has no talent, drive, experience or imagination.
Daniel spends 3 years making shit self-indulgent pieces.
Daniel forms a company with Becky who is shit and spent 3 years making shit self- indulgent pieces.
They make a shit self-indulgent piece of theatre.
They get funded by some shit self-indulgent failed artist who works for the arts council.
A shit self-indulgent critic who’s been in shit self-indulgent plays at University thinks the piece is ‘provocative’.
It goes on tour.
Shit self-indulgent drama types come and watch it and say it’s not shit and self-indulgent and it inspires them to make shit self-indulgent theatre when they grow up.
The circle is complete.
British Theatre is dying.
It’s suffocating under the weight of mediocrity, passivity and entitlement.
No one is angry anymore.
I’m angry.
I’m fucking furious.
I’m sick to fuck of spineless, pointless, spiritless toss made by self-obsessed, self-aggrandising, self-appointed cock wombles performed by intolerable, awful, cowardly arsewipes reviewed by insipid, inbred, conformist spunk trumpets.
We need John Osborne not George Osborne.
We need Andrea Dunbar not Andrea Leadsom.
We need angry young men and women.
We need Heroin(e) for Breakfast.
British Theatre needs to fight back.
Now.
Yours sincerely,
King Brilliant
