I suppose some people like to keep the defining north and south poles of their empires a little further apart. Span a larger axis. For whatever reason, life has really made sure I’ve kept my own poles far more provincial. Hoping between two neighbouring counties, whose defining edges are so uneven that they practically border on incest. Still, it’s okay, there’s some history around here. Shakespeare wrote plays and poems not too far away, before commuting to London and possibly not existing. Richard the Third, pantomime villain turned award winning role in one of those plays, slept under car park after forgetting where he parked his horse. Alan Moore only lives one country over, sewing seeds of magic, myth and political mayhem. Not a bad neighbour to have in these times.
Read More A few weeks ago, on Easter Sunday, we were flicking around and passed a rather intense looking programme. It was clearly a drama, being performed on a stage and in front of an audience. A well dressed, well behaved audience at that. I recognised a couple of faces in the cast and was relatively intrigued until I spotted a grave digger and heard the name Horatio.
“Alas…” said the TV.
“Oh, not again.” I said as I quickly hopped to another channel.