The Bombay Breakfast Club

When it comes to Sunday mornings, and Saturday mornings for that matter, there is one sure fire way to trigger that warm weekend feeling: brunch time. Good weekends are made and unmade by brunch, depending on its varying grease factor, the runniness of its egg yolk and, most importantly, the crispiness of the bacon. But when the thought of yet another Sunday morning’s greasy fry-up doesn’t quite appeal, then there’s always brunch with a Bombay twist at Covent Garden’s all-day café, Dishoom. This is one for those who don’t take their weekend brunch too seriously.

Dishoom is an old Bollywood sound effect for when the hero’s well-aimed fist hits his nemesis. It’s the Bombay Kapow if you will, and a worthy name for this retro Indian café. Dishoom’s menu is filled with Mumbai specialities and exciting versions of good old brunch classics. And each certainly knows how to pack a punch.

Situated on Upper St Martin’s Lane in Covent Garden, Dishoom is a popular restaurant modelled on the original Bombay cafes that used to fill the streets of the bustling Indian trade port during the 19^th and 20^th centuries. Then, they were commonly known as Irani cafes, as they were opened by Persian immigrants to the city, and were traditionally places where worlds could collide: immigrant and native, rich and poor, family and business. From the rickshaw puller to the wealthy businessman, these were welcome coffee houses where people could watch the world go by over a hot cup of chai. 

Very few of these old Bombay cafes remain in Mumbai nowadays. And as this tradition sadly dies, Dishoom is resurrecting some of this faded colonial elegance for the London crowd. And it largely succeeds. As you walk in, the black and white tiling, wooden tables with gleaming marble tops, and rotating overhead fans immediately imbue a sense of retro glamour. There are sepia Bollywood photos framed all over the walls, reflected back on themselves in shiny mirrors. Low-hanging lamps and polished brass bars give it a smoky brasserie feel. All this, and you can even keep an eye on the chefs as they bustle about the open-plan kitchen. 

Décor aside, we had heard a great deal about the food at Dishoom. So, with this in mind, we went along one Sunday morning for a spot of brunch. Our verdict? This was brunch that lived up to expectations. Dishoom’s comprehensive menu includes all the traditional Mumbai specialities, and the breakfast section itself is a bold take on ordinary brunch fare, each with its own Bombay spin. There are bacon naan rolls with homemade chilli, spiced Bombay omelettes, and the full Bombay breakfast complete with akuri (Irani spiced scrambled eggs on toast), crispy bacon and juicy Cumberland sausages. Like any decent continental breakfast buffet, there was a thoughtful selection of breads on offer. Forget the humble baguette, at Dishoom it’s all about roomali roti and garlic naan. And those watching their weight can sample the breakfast lassi, a delicious yoghurt drink with mango, banana and oats.

Feeling adventurous, we tried the Dishoom chicken roll, which turned out to be delicious grilled chicken exquisitely seasoned with herbs, leaves and garnished with chutney, all served in a lightly baked roti. Yes, it felt odd to be sampling such strong flavours before midday, but somehow it worked. Less impressive, however, were the vada pau which we shared as a table. Billed as a Bombay obsession, these curried potato and chutney buns were somewhat heavy, the texture a little too gluey to be savoured.

And whilst any good brunch lets a good brew tie it all together, at Dishoom it’s the array of chai teas and lassis that put the icing on the top. The menu listed everything from the virtuous mango and fennel lassi (the ideal accompaniment to a spicy brunch, I discovered) to the genuinely named ‘naughty chocolate chai’ complete with chocolate shavings and a shot of Bourbon.

For those who can’t stomach the thought of curry in the morning, then lunch and dinner at Dishoom looked good too - the menu offering everything from chicken tikka with ginger and green chillis, to sheekh kebabs and grilled masala prawns. Even on a lazy Sunday morning, Dishoom was a fast-paced crowd-pleaser, and with prices modestly ranging from £2.50 to £7 apiece, it was brunch on a budget, too. This is one jewel in London’s list of brunch brasseries, and a fitting tribute to Mumbai’s heritage. Just don’t try it if you’re hoping for brunch to cure a hangover…

http://www.dishoom.com/

Le Gateau Chocolat

As you enter the Menier Chocolate Factory, check your inhibitions at the door. From the bright tutus lining the entrance to the sheer amount of spandex waiting onstage, it’s like walking straight into a playground of riotous colour and no rules. With Le Gateau Chocolat, anything goes.

After all, it’s not often a show called Le Gateau Chocolat comes to the aptly named Menier Chocolate Factory and this arrangement is not only too good to be true, but great fun to boot. With a string of sell-out shows around the globe, from Adelaide to Edinburgh, the delectable Gateau is no stranger to possessing the stage. And this one man show for London is no different.

From the moment Gateau slinks onstage, all fabulous glittery eyelashes, permed wig and bright lipstick, to dramatically discard his robe and proclaim, “Yes, I know. You’re wondering where is my penis?”,  he effortlessly keeps the audience enthralled. Because, of course, he’s right. We are wondering where it is. (It turns out there’s some magic M&S spandex involved). Gateau has a gift for impeccably timed jokes. He knows exactly how to charm a crowd. But what really matters is his refreshing honesty. It sets the tone for the rest of the evening as he candidly takes us through his unlikely story: a Nigerian-born Londoner, and self-confessed gender-bending “assholic”, who came to cabaret via law school and countless battles with inner demons.

But on stage, he displays a persona that goes beyond his size, colour and sexuality. And just as Gateau readily switches between his backstage and onstage personas, so a costume rail lined with drag symbolically ‘splits’ the stage space into onstage and backstage. But ultimately, Gateau teaches us these personas are one and the same. After all, for Gateau, a larger-than-life man with a baritone voice as silky and rich as a Hummingbird cupcake, drag isn’t simply about men slipping into some sequins and flaunting another persona as though it were feather boa. Oh no. Instead, Gateau spends the evening persuading us that drag is actually just a normal part everyday life. It’s about always performing as your very best, polished self. Putting on your game face. As Gateau puts it, it’s about being a drag terrorist.

And it turns out Gateau is a one such drag terrorist. A sort of glittery guerrilla who takes us on a fabulous romp through various costume changes (his wardrobe is unparalleled), raw moments of intimacy, touching anecdotes, and a large dash of humour. At one point, he stands there in a green Lycra onesie covered in large question marks, begging us to ask not ‘why?’ but rather ‘why not?’ Why not prance about in green Lycra? 

But it is his operatic baritone that really impresses throughout. Gateau’s voice is velvety smooth and fabulously versatile. It can caress a Radiohead number as gently as it can a Puccini. And his repertoire is astonishing. There’s the number where he stands, clad in a glittering caped dress in a hilarious imitation of Susan Boyle, and then belts out ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ as if it were his own. There’s the bit where he clambers into the audience, hauls them to their feet, and revs the evening up a notch with Madonna’s ‘Holiday’. Then, just as suddenly, he sits ‘backstage’ in front of the mirror and gives a moving rendition of ‘Old Man River’. The song changes are as hectic and eclectic, confusing and bemusing, as his costume changes, but somehow he pulls it off with megawatt charm and a big fix of charisma. And his 3-piece orchestra more than admirably keeps pace - at one point, even they are clad in full-length Lycra. Gateau’s fetish, it seems, is utterly infectious.

If you come innocently expecting some sort of cookery class, you wouldn’t be far wrong. This show has all the necessary ingredients for a sumptuous feast. Gateau himself is delectable- a outrageous presence who knows how to titillate a crowd. Not to spoil the surprise, but expect a “collective orgasm” as the show reaches its thrilling climax. (Let’s just say there’s more than one loud bang involved). Yes, this show is crazy and kaleidoscopic but that, I think, is its winning appeal. And if you want to leave feeling all warm and fuzzy, then this is unlikely to disappoint.

 http://legateauchocolat.com/

Summer Shakespeare

Staging an open-air show during a notoriously wet summer was always going to be an ambitious challenge. Yet Iris Theatre’s outdoor promenade production of Shakespeare’s As You Like It still shines despite the rain – proof that Shakespeare’s much-loved romantic pastoral comedy can still resonate with the modern audience. Exuberant and energetic, it transports its audience to the mythical Forest of Arden with enough ease that soon the horrendous emergency waterproof ponchos (thrust into every audience member’s hands immediately upon arrival) are almost forgotten. Almost. And that’s the trouble with Daniel Winder’s production: it does its very best, but still falls short in places – much like this altogether rainy British summer.

When Duke Frederick is banished, his daughter Rosalind flees the court’s corruption for the forest. Disguising herself as a boy named Ganymede, she embarks on a wild summer of homoerotic androgyny, which the whole mind-boggling concept of girl-dressed-as-boy creates. Hidden behind her male guise, she is sexually empowered, and suddenly shy Rosalind becomes cheeky Ganymede as he/she persuades Orlando to woo her. A brilliant Emily Tucker expertly balances the coy with the flirty, bringing a dazzling warmth and vigour to the part. But Joe Tucker seems to be there purely for aesthetics - impressive six-pack aside, his Orlando is oddly uncharismatic and it is left to Diana Kashlan’s peppy Touchstone to keep the stage chemistry alight.

Theatre is at its most magic when it provides genuine escape – and set designer Tessa Battisti’s Arden is definitely a saving grace, a mesmerising place of transience and displacement. Set in the wild, overgrown garden of St Paul’s Church– known simply as the Actor’s Church –the bustle of Covent Garden may be but a stone’s throw away, but as soon as you step through the church gates, Shakespeare’s mythical Arden instantly pops up around you. Battisti’s whimsical paper lanterns hang suspended from a giant tree, the church steps doubling as a confined court world and later the entrance to a dark and ominous cave, and finally the church itself adding a much-needed final flourish. This Arden feels like a state of mind – a timeless place where the characters wash up and indulge in warm midsummer fantasies.

Keeping up with the plot might seem tricky enough without the three-fold distraction of rain, airplanes, and audience members who kept chatting at the back as if they were at someone’s garden party. And whilst this promenade show certainly hits the ground running, there are sadly moments when they lose control of the plot. A confused second half was made worse by the pouring rain- and sadly shouting the lines was not enough to keep the audience engaged. Despite the weather, the cast does keep spirits up – shepherding the audience from space to space with high-voltage energy. Daniel Winder embraces the performance aspect of the Bard’s play- expertly incorporating the cast’s orders to the audience into jolly song (“Come hither!”, they trill). It’s strangely effective and irreverently tongue-in-cheek. After all, promenade theatre is the ideal medium to perform this play, forcing the audience to their feet as a way of fully engaging with the plot.

For all the cast’s efforts, though, it’s hard not to become impatient especially towards the end. Where the first half neatly sews together Shakespeare’s rapid vignette scenes, the charming woodland set is not hypnotic enough to uphold the masquerade for over two hours, and the penultimate scene in particular felt scattered and confused. Perhaps that was because it was, by now, utterly pouring and a little girl next to me had poked me in the eye with her umbrella. Choose your seat carefully when you move from space to space. By the final scene, it feels like welcome relief to leave Arden and return with the cast to the restored real world. Staged inside the warm (and dry) church itself, it atmospherically pulls the entire production together – the perfect setting to exploit the play’s famous four-marriage ending. Who know, as Rosalind delivers her gendered epilogue, you might even have dried off….almost.

Carnaby Book Exchange

We all own at least one book that we’ve read and no longer want, whether it’s that Dan Brown you nearly dropped in the pool on your last holiday, or the dog-eared charity shop copy of Gone with the Wind that you know you shouldn’t read for the umpteenth time (or is that just me?). But now an ingenious pop-up book lounge has opened for a limited time only, and it promises to sort out all your literary woes. The premise is wonderfully simple. Just bring in any of your unwanted books, write a note in the front, and swap it for any other book on the shelves.

The Carnaby Book Exchange offers a peaceful place where you can simply grab a book, enjoy it in a squishy leather armchair, and immerse yourself in the weighty worlds of fiction, fashion, travel, and design, to name just a few. Billed as London’s “most diverse free book exchange”, the selection of titles ranges wildly from well-thumbed classics like Pride and Prejudice and Ulysses to brand new (read unwanted) biographies of the likes of Cheryl Cole. There’s undoubtedly something here for everyone: from the contemporary bookworm looking to get their hands on the latest chart bestseller (Twilight is sadly an option here) to that well-read someone searching for an old literary classic.

Curated by the MA Fashion Curation students at London College of Fashion, this little gem in Kingly Court off Carnaby Street is like stumbling across a brilliant book club. Carnaby Street has always been stylish and this temporary book lounge is yet another fascinating chapter in the area’s history. It’s a place to share your thoughts and recommendations on the book you leave behind, and to learn from the note left in the book you take away. Not simply swapping books, but sharing them – and giving them future lives. Open from 8 till 6 Monday through to Saturday, you can drop in on your way to work, or during your lunch break and simply enjoy the shelves. With its vintage bookshop feel, its quiet library atmosphere, and comfy armchairs, it’s a great alternative to wasting time in Costa- and, best of all, the whole premise is free. With summer around the corner, this might just be the place you pick up your next read (to nearly drop in the pool). Who knows what you might find scrawled inside the front cover of your latest acquisition.

The Irish Giant

Suspend your disbelief and put on a jumper in Southwark Playhouse’s ice-cold vaults – as devised theatre company Cartoon de Salvo plunges its dirty hands into the controversial story of “The Irish Giant” – and sadly fails to set the stage alight.

Based on a true story, science and faith awkwardly collide as obsessive anatomist John Hunter claps eyes on Charles Byrne, the 8 foot tall Irish Giant and toast of Georgian London, and becomes hell-bent on claiming his body for anatomy. Framed as a medical lecture, the entire set-up makes clever use of the audience and performer dimension- posing some serious ethical questions about who really owns our bodies and what must be sacrificed for scientific progress.

Devised theatre relies on stellar talent and the three gifted Salvos certainly deliver – alternating between their multiple roles as confidently as they swap medical instruments for musical ones. Although the live musical interludes are a delight – especially alongside Rebecca Hurst’s whimsical animations that tell most of the story- they clash inharmoniously with the show’s attempt at theological dissection. For all the heart-warming rays of humour, the result is an improvised production that unwisely shows its cracks, not helped by somewhat sloppy illusion (darkness didn’t quite conceal the actors crawling behind the operating table) and a story that tries to teach too much but loses its way.

Jekyll and Hyde

‘How far would you go to play God?’ Dr Henry Jekyll goes the whole distance – and so does Morphic Graffiti’s updated adaptation of “Jekyll and Hyde: The Musical” – chilling proof that the Victorian tale of good versus evil can still rear its monstrous head in contemporary London.
 
Director Luke Fredericks brilliantly strips mankind’s condition apart and lays bare its soul in this spectacular musical. As Dr Jekyll casts ethics aside and experiments on himself, the initially hesitant production really finds its stride. His dreams of saving the world unravel as quickly as his character – and soon he’s a hooded hooligan rampaging around dodgy backstreets in a violent serial-killing spree –as his evil alter ego threatens to consume him.
 
An initially tentative Tim Rogers eases rapidly into the lead role: timid and tense as the virtuous Jekyll before letting his wild side run riot. It’s a compelling transformation: physically, he only removes his glasses, but psychologically he removes all inhibitions, becoming unpredictable and sinister. Musical theatre relies on a stellar cast to pull off songs at the most unexpected moments – and this production has monstrous talent – wonderfully complemented by Dean Austin and his orchestra and a powerhouse performance from Madalena Alberto as Lucy, the hooker with a heart. Darkly revealing mankind’s inherent evil, this musical is absorbing, disturbing - and downright terrifying. 

The Art of the Armourer

If you haven’t queued up to admire the Mona Lisa (and realise how disappointingly small she turns out to be in real life), then you will at least be familiar with that famously enigmatic smile. But I doubt you’ll have ever appreciated the rapier of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian II - an exquisite sword crafted from solid gold, set with glittering jewels, and commonly regarded as the epitome of the Renaissance sword. In fact, I’d bet good money that you didn’t even know it existed at all. And neither did I. Until now, that is.

We’re here at the opening champagne reception as the team over at the fabulous Wallace Collection unveil Maximilian II’s rapier as the star of their latest exhibition –The Noble Art of the Sword: Fashion and Fencing in Renaissance Europe - which finally places weaponry on the must-see museum map. Delving behind the unsung history of the Renaissance rapier, this free exhibition is hugely illuminating- neatly exploring the historical and social context behind these lethal art objects with razor sharp attention to detail. Wielding a sword in the street may be a public offence nowadays, but back in Elizabethan London it was all the rage. Rapiers were not simply for gentleman duels: they were fashion statements, status symbols as devastatingly beautiful as they were devastatingly lethal. Expect gold and silver galore (not forgetting a wealth of jewels), the finest regal costume, and priceless fencing manuals on loan from the Howard de Walden library- all brought together from prestigious collections including the Wallace Collection itself, the Royal Armouries, and some of the greatest pieces from the continent.

The exhibition runs until September 16^th, and with Olympic hysteria steadily building the capital, there’s no better time than Summer 2012 to get to grips with sword-fighting, the ancient precursor to the modern Olympic sport of fencing. These fine weapons are the secret to a cultural day out – and you’ll soon be wondering why you never equated fashion with fencing before.

Behind the Door

In front of the shabby, unmarked door right in the middle of Chinatown, two hostile bouncers are deliberately sizing us up. Their unfriendly eyes flicker over our outfits and our (bemused) faces, deciding whether we are either fun or young or cool enough to be granted entry. They hope we’ll be all three, but you may delete as appropriate. Awkwardly, we wait a few agonising seconds as they pass their horribly scrutinising judgement. The bouncers haven’t said a word, and for all we know we could be waiting to enter some dodgy brothel or underground Chinese lair. But then, miraculously, they both nod their assent – and the pathetic, peeling door swings open to reveal a dark flight of stairs.

So it’s not a warm welcome here at the Experimental Cocktail Club, a hidden drinking spot randomly nestled between a dim sum restaurant and a shop selling roast duck on Gerrard Street – and the frosty service sadly continues once inside, as you climb the narrow carpeted staircase only to be greeted by harassed waitresses busy shepherding customers to their seats. Luckily, the chill in the air is saved by the intimate atmosphere: snug velvet chairs, mirrored ceilings, and ornate wallpaper lending the place an opulent sort of vibe. Think low-key boudoir elegantly blended with fin-de-siècle decadence – a ridiculous combination that somehow translates as self-assured Parisian chic. And it’s all the more fun when you consider this two-floor joint remains largely a secret in Soho, its unremarkable exterior brilliantly belying the reworked Georgian townhouse within.

And there’s a certain magic in the menu, too. Cocktails here are dazzlingly creative – prescriptive potions that will have you thirsty for more. Almost aromatic, the menu is a never-ending list of impossibly-named concoctions – all fashioned from perfumed ingredients as eclectic in range as lavender-infused gin, orange and celery bitters, and spiced tea. Mine, a Kota Ternate (whatever that means), was a bubble bath mixture of Trinidad rum, Ceylan tea, spices, coconut, lime juice, milk, and Batavia arrack (again I hadn’t a clue what it was). On paper, it sounds like a overindulgent mixture of everything in the cupboard, but in my tumbler it tasted exotic – almost like drinking a deliciously liquid scented candle. It may sound off-putting, but cocktails here are definitely unique - especially as my drink was shaken up and bizarrely served in a tiny brown bottle which I had to slowly pour as the evening progressed. One thing is certain: they didn’t miss a beat when they named this place the Experimental Cocktail Club. At £10, it was reasonably priced as London bars go, and deeper pockets can always splash out on classics such as the vintage Cognac and Rye for an eye-watering £250. With prices like that, there’s always the risk that you’ll be rubbing shoulders with pretentious crowd-seekers, but those just looking to have a fun evening with friends needn’t worry: the slightly more relaxed second floor, complete with resident DJ and chilled young crowd, is sure to keep this place fresh and upbeat. So next time you’re wandering past the decrepit door of 13 Gerrard Street, just remember it’s really a secret portal to an upscale bar-and a guaranteed electric evening. Don’t let the bouncers’ attitude put you off. 

http://www.chinatownecc.com/

Titus Andronicus

The murder of Titus’s son is the spark that fires Hiraeth Artistic Production’s gory adaptation of Shakespeare’s “Titus Andronicus”. As its opening vigil descends into murderous revenge, the scene is violently set for three hours of severed heads and mutilated tongues. Throw in a couple gallons of blood, and this is certainly not for the faint-hearted. 

Zoe Ford directs this wild version– replacing Roman togas with the anarchic uniform of 1980s punk London. Her tattooed skinheads, largely clad in ripped denim and combat boots, make perfect sense of Shakespeare’s play, plunging us into a vicious turf war between extremist gangs – led by Titus and Queen Tamora– and an inescapable cycle of revenge. Meanwhile, Nadia Malik’s stripped stage makes clever use of intimidating punk culture, as the reviled Emperor Saturninus lounges on his sofa throne surrounded by expletive graffiti and discarded bricks. 

David Vaughan Knight’s untiring Titus holds the production together, his bloodthirsty rampage unapologetic in its scope. After all, this is a man who strategically decides to cook his enemy’s sons whilst contemplating his Rubix cube. Rosalind Blessed’s scheming queen is overdone and pushes the production to the brink of parody. Fortunately, the rest of the cast grow into their roles- particularly Maya Thomas’s Lavinia in the crucial rape scene- individually shining when it matters most. 

Although it’s carnage, Ford’s adaptation is provoking precisely because it’s incoherent. Shakespeare in collision with “This is England” was never going to be straightforward and although this is a frantic and often faulty production, it violently rocks the establishment - proving that revenge is best served hot, baked in a pie.

Long Day’s Journey Into Night

Onstage the whiskey bottle is once again being shunted back-and-forth, its level of liquid steadily dropping as each character takes a desperate swig. Round and round the bottle goes, from mouth-to-mouth, acting almost as a barometer for the play’s tragic family woes. Occasionally, its level is surreptitiously topped up with water as each character attempts to conceal their drinking from one another. Pointless, really, as they all know they’re a bunch of dysfunctional alcoholics. It’s as depressing as watching Macbeth’s three witches struggle with their one, pathetic eyeball. But the intensity is such that it wouldn’t be amiss to say half the audience could do with a drop of the strong stuff themselves.

As the whiskey level ebbs and flows so, too, does the audience’s overall happiness levels. Here we are, deep in the middle of Anthony Page’s powerhouse production of Eugene O’Neill’s autobiographical masterpiece, Long Day’s Journey into Night, and the barrage of accusations, counter-accusations and lies is at full throttle. Written in “tears and blood” (the playwright’s own rather forceful choice of words, not mine), this play was always going to be a tricky one to watch. Let’s put it this way: you don’t book tickets to see O’Neill if a night of light entertainment is what you’re after. No, this is raw, high-voltage drama that surges with heartfelt loneliness, human misunderstanding, and cruel self-deception. Steadily charting the Tyrone family’s downward spiral into despair, deceit and addiction (itself modelled on O’Neill’s own troubled relationship with his thespian father and drug-addled mother), the play takes place over the course of one day in summer 1912. As the relentless pea soup fog thickly swirls outside, we watch as the family play out their past failures, present miseries, and deep-seated resentment in their cramped living room. James Tyrone, the miserly patriarch, is played brilliantly by David Suchet - a commanding presence on the stage that arguably glues the entire production together. Tyrone is a selfish old miser who jacked in a promising career on the stage to earn big bucks as a proprietor and thereby support his wife and two young kids. But his penny-pinching, selfish, alcoholic ways drive his wife to morphine addiction for the birth of their youngest son - a tragic error that ultimately drives their two disappointing sons (one a selfish alcoholic, the other a rootless consumptive) into self-destruction and despair. Suchet is simply spot-on as the ageing patriarch, delivering his lines with a quiet authority and pitch-perfect Irish lilt. One minute, he’s a raving, disappointed tyrant, the next a remorseful, even tender family man. At one memorable point, there’s even a brief glimmer of the actor Tyrone could have been as Suchet stands, in a moment of drunken delusion, atop the living room table, perfectly illuminated by the living room light, and delivers the poignant line, “I could have been a great Shakespearean”. And this is exactly how Suchet plays him: it’s powerful, precise, restrained. In short, Shakespearean.

Instead it is Mary Tyrone, in the text surely the tragic victim, that here seems to be portrayed as the true villain of the piece. Laurie Metcalfe, an American actress last seen on the West End stage in All My Sons, is an unsparing and unsentimental Mary: from the very first, she pours paranoid accusations onto her tenderly loving husband and worried sons, a manipulative, unstable woman deep in the unforgiving throes of going cold turkey. As the play progresses, her relapse into morphine is terrifyingly rapid - and she becomes a poisonous, deranged woman trailing around the house with her old wedding gown like some sort of granny Ophelia. Can you blame her, though, when the morphine delivers her into the hands of the past -  the tragedy of a dead baby son and a lonely life on the road with her husband that she never even wanted. “The past is the present” says Mary, and yet when these memories are so tainted with resentment, it’s no wonder poor Mary wants to drag the whole family down into her fog. It’s a persuasive performance and definitely frenzied - but, at times, Metcalfe goes overboard, rapidly rattling off her lines at such manic speed, it was hard to hear her. 

To call this play hard-going wouldn’t be enough: O’Neill takes his depiction of human weakness and addiction to the furthest extreme and lets his audience descend into madness alongside his poor protagonists. It’s all the more tragic when you consider the play’s personal overtones - James Tyrone is a barely concealed version of O’Neill’s own cruel thespian father, and two of O’Neill’s sons committed suicide from alcoholism and drug addiction. The consumptive youngest son, Edmund Tyrone, is meant to be O’Neill himself: an itinerant writer struggling against the difficulties of his tragic life. Throw in the swirling fog, the persistent cry of the foghorn, and that bottle of whiskey, and you have yourself a compelling and high-voltage drama. Sure, there are the odd bright moments of humour to keep the audience’s flame alight, but ultimately this is a slow dance through one family’s tragedy. And, as the final curtain drops, you’ll find yourself wondering what the Tyrones ultimately learn from their day of suffering (that’s 3 long hours you’ll never get back). I emerged from the theatre feeling slightly crazed, my nerves slightly shredded. The play’s title really works: it truly does feel like you’ve endured the longest day’s journey into night. 

http://apollo.official-theatre.co.uk/london/journey-into-night 

Boat

Every city has a story to tell. Forget the swath of hot tourist spots viewed through outsider’s eyes – it’s the long-forgotten tales, quietly whispered secrets, and native cultural quirks that embody the living, breathing soul of a city. Those that hit the headlines for all the wrong reasons fade away as suddenly as the media turned on them, and their real stories are left untapped, unspoken. No wonder, then, that Boat magazine – run by visionary husband and wife team Erin and Davey Spens - is a revitalising breath of air. Their premise is clean and simple: decamp to a new city every few months, maraud the local creative talent, and document their city experiences in an edition entirely devoted to refreshing people’s idea of that place. In a vast sea of publications, its nomadic spirit is just what is needed: giving us a vibrant snapshot of a city that has so far managed to remain anonymous, if not misunderstood, in the world’s eyes. Take the inaugural issue, a beautifully shot edition that dropped anchor in Sarajevo, delving beyond the war-torn façade of Bosnia’s capital to show us its relentless pulse – the creative energy of Bosnian youth that proves the city is still very much alive. To follow-up, Boat’s second issue cruised around Detroit - a city in ruins due to gun crime- yet somehow a resilient and scrappy economic spirit through Boat’s itinerant eyes. Relocating off the radar to each of these cities allows this rootless magazine – itself born out of its desire to see the world – to in due turn deliver sharp, anecdotal cityscapes that firmly remove the millstone of negative media attention. No wonder Boat bills itself as “an antidote to lazy journalism”. Its approach is immersive, hands-on, and entirely legit. The result? A creative publication with its eyes wide open to the hidden merits of neglected places.

For the current issue, however, Boat is riding the wave of interest in London, harnessing the power of the Olympics and the Diamond Jubilee with a cool edition devoted to our much-documented capital. Sure, there’s the worry that London has been much hyped of late, if not throughout history, but somehow Boat’s London is rewritten as we’ve never experienced it before. With a thoughtful intro by ‘About a Boy’ author Nick Hornby, powerful insights into ethnic subcultures within the capital, and a scintillating piece on the Isle of Dogs of all places, it’s a refreshing take on a city that is so much more than just double-decker buses, red phone booths, and rain. Playfully illustrated maps, pictures taken from the iconic Top Deck photography exhibition, and an A-Z pullout of London’s bursting streetfood scene just add to the fun, somewhat scrapbook, feel to the magazine. At £8 a copy, it may not be the cheapest magazine in the shops, but you can’t beat Boat for its unique, enduring take on our beloved London. Besides, with its sleek cover and cool photography, it’s certain to look good on the coffee table. 

http://www.boat-mag.com/