The historic Yard Bar in Soho has been saved after planning inspectors upheld Westminster City Council’s decision to protect it.
The well-known LGBT venue in the heart of Soho found itself at risk, as the developer, Consolidated Property Corporation Limited, originally submitted plans to build flats over the courtyard area.
Westminster City Council first blocked those plans in March 2015, but the developer submitted subsequent applications and launched two appeals that were finally rejected in the Planning Inspectorate on 10th August.
In its final report, the appointed inspector described any move to build over the Yard’s courtyard as one which would “fundamentally alter” the character of the bar.
The decision represents a full vindication of the council’s two-year battle to protect this much loved Soho bar, which received outstanding support from the local community and the bar’s owners, who led a high-profile ‘Save The Yard’ campaign.
Cllr Robert Davis MBE DL, Westminster City Council’s Deputy Leader and Cabinet Member for the Built Environment, said,
“Soho is one of the most iconic areas of Westminster, with a unique character that everyone at the council is committed to protecting.”
“The Yard is a jewel in Soho’s crown and I am thrilled that we have joined forces with the ward councillors and the local community to ensure it remains open for business.”
“I am absolutely delighted that Westminster City Council has been able to play its part in saving this long-standing example of Soho’s history, culture and diversity.”
The proposals for the development of three flats meant that the courtyard would have been enclosed beneath a glass roof, something which the Soho Society and Historic England also strongly objected to.
This would mean the loss of an “extremely distinctive feature of the bar and its related culture” said the planning inspector.
The Yard Bar’s owner, Andy Jones, led the “Save The Yard” campaign which brought the issue to even greater attention.
He said,
“It has been a very long battle and we are so delighted that we have been successful. The support we got from Westminster City Council, ward councillors, Historic England, Soho Society, heritage experts and the LGBT, business and residential communities was huge and unbelievable. We can’t thank everyone enough. Ultimately, all of their support helped to overcome the multiple applications and common sense has prevailed. Long live The Yard!”
With Allegro, the charming space at Southwark Playhouse sees the UK premiere of a dusty old 1947 musical. Thanks to the partnership of Thom Southerland and Danielle Tarento (Titanic, Grey Gardens, Dogfight and Parade) this forgotten piece has had the cobwebs blown off it, regained its sparkle and is a welcome find rather than a lacklustre piece of tat from the store cupboard of musicals that should stay dormant.
Rodgers and Hammerstein’s musicals have been entertaining theatre audiences since the early 1940s when they hit the scene with Oklahoma. The pair went on to score a string of hits with The Sound of Music, The King and I and South Pacific among many others. Given their continued critical and commercial success it was a surprise when Allegro floundered and failed to win over American audiences when it premiered. Theories abound as to why this was: a misguided choreographer/director, a storyline ahead of its time or too radical a departure from accepted musical theatre form. Whatever the reasons, it’s resulted in something quite extraordinary for us in that we now have a ‘new’ musical from an iconic writing duo to enjoy.
The storyline isn’t the strongest around, the intention of the show being to tell a simple tale of an all American everyman. It’s a little flawed, has the odd flabby moment in Act One and is occasionally too sentimental for modern tastes but has an endearing core message. None of that matters though and it’s easy to overlook the cracks in the core material. The genius of the show lies with the team behind it. Southerland has stripped back the show and presents it on a pared down set of almost perpetually moving ladders and platforms with a cast of sixteen and an eight-piece band. The cast form the musical equivalent of a Greek chorus, commenting on the life of small town doctor Joseph Taylor Jr. as he moves from birth through to an early mid-life crisis at 35 with individual members stepping forward and taking on the roles of significant people.
Unlike the ill fated first run where a reputedly Gorgon like choreographer reigned havoc, the choreography is one of the key factors that makes this performance work. Lee Proud makes use of the limited space and the company move with panache, seamlessly augmenting the narrative. The ensemble singing is as strong as the individual numbers and really packs a punch. Some killer numbers and an accomplished cast combine to make this a winning show. Gary Tushaw as Joseph is handsomely wholesome without being nauseating and Kate Bernstein is particularly enlivening as his waspish nurse, Miss Lipscombe. Her take on “The Gentleman is a Dope” is a sight and sound to behold.
Forget Jesus Christ Superstar. If this team continue to breathe life into shows that are as dead as Lazarus then we’ll definitely be hailing them as a the new Messiahs of musical theatre.
What’s your deepest impression of Barry Humphries? The tacky, kitsch-bitch supreme Dame Edna Everage, all ghastly, C&A drag and granny glasses, or worse, the snot-and dandruff spattered Sir Les Patterson?
CREDIT: Helen White – PR Supplied
Hopefully, it’s neither. See, the true Barry Humphries is a deeply cultured graduate of the fine arts, and has written definitive articles on eccentric, human sexuality. He’s also a superb character actor, to the extent audiences mistake his Sir Les Patterson creation for a genuine Ambassador of Australian culture! And if Brits, unfairly, accuse Americans of misunderstanding irony, it’s sheer, poetic justice that they’re completely insensitive to Barry Humphries’ deathly dry, Australian wit.
There’s a reason for that, of course – what ex-colonial, reactionary, right-wing regime can bear ridicule?
Not Little Britain, that’s for sure, and Humphries, initially, works hard to win over a cold, deeply monied and highly privileged Chelsea audience. Still, he’s a charming and infectiously erudite bon vivant, all barrel-chest, squat neck and deliberately ironic, his physicality eluding rigid, anal-retentive analysis. Quite simply, the audience – many of whom have never seen the real Humphries – don’t know what to make of him, suspending their typical, pack-mentality persecution prejudices. Oh, don’t get me wrong, many hardcore Conservatives adore the arts – remember David Mellor, anyone? – but often, they view culture as shockingly disposable.
Not tonight, perhaps. ‘I’m doing my hardest impersonation ever tonight’ Humphries quips, ‘myself’.
Too true, and Humphries’ actual, authoritative, deeply knowledgeable self is instantly seductive company. Always ferociously anti-fascist and bitterly opposed to any suppression of human diversity, he’s a tireless champion of Berlin’s Weimar Republic, immortalised by Christopher Isherwood’s Cabaret.
Never heard of the Weimar Republic? Google it ASAP – it’s essential queer history. An inter-wars, sexually diverse paradise, the Republic briefly flourished from 1919-1933, an intense island of queer resistance against crushing, hetero-normative banality. And Humphries, obviously, is in his element, showcasing the cream of Weimar musicality – his entire career has hilariously skewered homophobia on the spot.
So naturally, his Weimar night shares a treasure-chest of subversive memories. Discovering stacks of obscure, German sheet-music in late 1940s Melbourne, Humphries, enthralled, tracked down any possible recordings and information on the Weimar Republic. Many otherwise utterly obscure composers – Krenek, Spoliansky, Schulhoff and Hollaender – set cynical, Weill and Brechtian lyrics into thrillingly mutated music fusing American jazz and indigenous folk motifs.
And that music, of course – soon becoming the vital staples of furiously transgessive cabaret throughout Berlin – was pure poison to Germany’s ultra-reactionary, proto-Nazis. Physical, sexual and emotional spontaneity – all encouraged and cemented by Weimar’s signature, polyrhythmic musical delights – was seen as instantly inflammatory, undermining every fascist orthodoxy.
Tragically, with the brutal rise of Nazi supremacy in 1933, Weimar was immediately suppressed, but Humphries’ gorgeously provocative time-capsule of the era suggests what we’ve lost. Appropriately, he’s accompanied by mischievous, multi-talented diva Meow-meow, channelling as always the spirit, attitude and killer glamour of every possible living drag queen! Yes, Meow-meow is a biological female, but far more than fellow, drag manqué Holestar, Meow-meow performs her femininity as an intoxicating artificiality she’s just discovered. Does it work? Oh god, yes – as sublimely as Ru Paul in full, killer-queen mode, and visiting and inhabiting Weimar’s music simply demands a hugely exaggerated reality!
CREDIT: Harmony Nicolas PR SUPPLIED
It’s a theme that extends, even, to Humphries’ backing chamber orchestra, all uniformly dressed in sharp, Bohemian black, all Joel Grey trilbies for men and women. And the music’s a revelation, all instantly contagious, colloquial melodies grafted to the spare bones of classicism and non-European, imported tonalities. Yes, there’s some expected, Weimar favourites – ‘Pirate Jenny’ and ‘Surabaya Johhny’ – but the stand-out is Erwin Schulhoff’s ‘Dada masterpiece’, the Sonata Erotica.
Bearing radical, avant-garde comparison to John Cage’s 4.33’ – four minutes of silence with the score considered any random sounds within that time – Sonata Erotica still startles. Exuberantly performed by Meow-meow, it’s orgasmic moaning, pants and screeching delivered as fine, operatic art, the most joyous, unrestrained expression of subversive sexuality possible!
No wonder Humphries, after an awkward but endearing dance with Meow-meow, finally exits with an ecstatic grin- he’s just mentally liberated yet another slice of Little Britain!
Something quite extraordinary is happening in Wandsworth, the mid 90’s gay scene has come back to life and it’s hilarious as it is heartbreaking.
CREDIT: PND Photography
Based on a true story, Do You Have A Secret Crush (sleeping with straight men) transports you back to mid-90s-America, where a gay man, Stanley (Chris Britton), working in the city’s only gay bar Flamingos, is eager to spread his wings and escape Pontiac in Michigan. He falls head over heels with a straight waiter, Lee (Rich Watkins) whilst out to lunch with his drag queen friend Sally (Dave Lynn).
He devises a plan to tell Lee that he has fallen for him, live in front of a television audience, to be broadcast nationally on the daily chat show The Jill Johnson show.
Flown first class, limo drop offs, all expenses paid trip to New York, both Stan and Lee make their way to the studio separately for the big reveal. What could possibly go wrong?
The small but perfectly formed company fits in the cosy space of the Lost Theatre in the heart of Wandsworth.
You’re immediately transported back to the 90s thanks to a rather fabulous soundtrack and costumes. Britton plays Stanley confidently and cheekily, filled with life. Watkins plays straight man Lee safe, curious and slightly unnerving. Ruth Petersen’s mid-morning Talk Show host is perfectly fake, disingenuous and veneered. Drag icon Dave Lynn smoulders as Sally and belts out some glorious numbers. It is however Louie Westwood who manages to steal the show, with his shrieks and trills, hair tszujing and high-campery.
CREDIT: PND PhotographyCREDIT: PND Photography
If your in the mood this summer for some gay history, a slice of campery, a belly of laughs, a hint of longing and a tragic reminder of period less accepting, this glorious time capsule of a play is a must see.
The London Gay Symphony Orchestra are set to take up their instruments in a battle to become the greatest Orchestra in the BBC’s nationwide search that captures the spirit of amateur music-making.
The four-part series will air on BBC Radio 4 at the end of August and will be hosted by BBC Radio 3’s Katie Derham. I
n each week’s episode, the orchestras will present a performance to be judged by renowned conductor Paul Daniel and the winning orchestra will perform at BBC Proms in the Park!
A spokesperson for the London Gay Symphony Orchestra, which turns 21 next year said the players were “excited” by the news.
One of London’s most famous saunas has let the cameras in…
Film-maker Chris Amos and his team have released a video to show you what it’s like in one of London’s most famous gay saunas, Pleasuredrome.
The sexy teaser, starring Marshall Arkley, Danny William & Jaider Bello Carmona, shows the sauna’s “deluxe” pods which have programmable lighting, key-card entry and a place for you to charge you devices – oh and the pods can be rented for 2 to 8 hours…
But let’s face it you’re not going there to charge your smartphone, are you!
London is failing gay singles according to an industry expert who says that the UK’s capital is not providing gay men the right opportunities to meet long-term partners.
CREDIT: dolgachov-bigstock
If you’re looking to find a long-term partner you’re more likely to find him brunching in New York and not in London, so says matchmaking expert Jacqueline Burns at the Vida Consultancy.
The award-winning consultant blames the lack of social spaces for gay people and London’s “hedonistic” drinking culture.
She told THEGAYUK,
“There aren’t enough places where gay men can socialise, and those that do exist, either in Soho, Vauxhall or Clapham can be quite hedonistic and are mainly party areas.”
She also warns that nighttime prowling could be damaging to your chances of finding love in London.
“The majority out and about are younger men, looking for fun, and they may still be in the early stages of exploring their sexuality. Trying to meet someone after 8pm is not the ideal environment to be your true self and meet someone whose values reflect your own.
Booze Cruise?
According to the expert, New York’s dating scene is more “day focused” with an active brunch scene, weekend trips to the Hampton’s or boat trips to Statue of Liberty. London on the other hand has a Saturday night focus which revolves around boozing.
Burns also warned that as well as problems with drugs and promiscuity in most gay clubs in London, it is increasingly unsafe for gay men.
Recent studies show that around 9000 men are raped each year in the UK, that’s 12% of the national total reported, whilst in London, 307 men reported being raped to the Met Police, a 120% increase over 2012 figures. These figures may be much higher as sexual crime has a notoriously low levels of reporting, even more so among men.
She continued,
“While the Tinder revolution means there is now an endless choice of sexual partners, many gay men are actually looking for marriage and children and London’s hedonistic and fragmented social scene is not conducive to this.”
Blanc de Blanc is the new circus show in the cabaret theatre at London’s
iconic Hippodrome Casino. From the team behind the sublime LIMBO and
Cantina, it’s described as an evening of ‘breathless abandon’ and they’re not lying. It’s a dazzling spectacle of pure madness.
Imagine if Bob Fosse’s disaffected dance hall girls from Sweet Charity met with the bawdy performers from The Kit Kat Club in Cabaret and decided to mix it up by throwing in a smattering of MTV style gyrating and twerking. If you add in the attendees at a fetish ball, the clientele of an underground Parisian bar from the 1930s and some wasted dancers from an Ibiza foam party then you’ve maybe envisioned part of it. That sounds like an unholy mess but it really isn’t. It’s bizarre but it works.
Loosely linked by the celebration of champagne drinking, the show is hosted by French beefcake and model Monsieur Romeo and his sidekick contortionist and post-modern clown Spencer Novich. The show contains the inevitable repertoire of cabaret standards. There’s trapeze work, hoop spinning and contortionism as well as plenty of nudity and things being inserted into or pulled out of places you might not want to even think about.
There’s the usual stuff that makes you gasp, laugh and say “Eurgh” as well as marvelling at the performer’s skills (and their beauty). The difference between this and a standard burlesque or circus evening is the style. Everything is done with panache. Choreographer Kevin Maher and director Scott Maidmont’s production is a sight to behold. It’s not surprising as between them they’ve worked with J-Lo, Madonna and Britney (to name but a few). It’s all deliciously camp and self-mocking and tremendous fun.
The styles gel together and the show segues well between acts with a great build up to a frenetic finale. It’s raucous but restrained and even in the most absurd moments retains some dignity. It’s like an unfettered club night but one where you have to be a member and have a propensity for the darker things in life to be allowed in.
They even manage to make a 5-minute pause for the audience to pop up on the stage to take selfies with the cast not seem too brash. If you’re looking for a good night out with attitude then you won’t go far wrong with this show.
Ever heard of the biographical fallacy? No, it’s not a handy, dictaphone dildo, but a warning to never, ever judge an author’s work by his life. See, back in the 19th Century, critics actually believed in pure, spun-from-thin-air fantasy, that plays and novels came from sheer imagination, not hard, lived experience.
Oh really? Tell that to gay, smack addict and novelistic genius William Burroughs, whose entire output mirrored his self-chosen squalor. And he’s merely the tip of a non-stop, thinly-fictionalised iceberg – every second, every minute, we’re swamped by tsunamis of blogs, memoirs and blatant self-mythologizing.
So unsurprisingly, critical theory’s undergone a complete reversal, and currently, all creative writing is viewed as ultimately flowing from biographical facts. Oh dear. That’s very bad news for Rocky Horror creator Richard O’ Brien’s latest show The Stripper, which once again showcases his low-brow, pop-culture fixations. It’s a heavy-handed, sleazy, musical theatre adaptation of a disposable, pulp-fiction, private-eye novel by hack Carter Brown, and as dire as it sounds.
Me, I pity the show’s outstanding actors. Despite being crippled by O’Brien’s clueless, misogynistic lyrics, an uninspired score and lazily generic stage design and costuming, they often touch real brilliance. In particular, Gloria Onitiri’s lead stripper Dolores has the raw, diva heat of a young Grace Jones, while Sebastian Torkia’s private eye Wheeler is magnificently moody. More quirkily, Hannah Grover, Michael Steedon and Marc Pickering all triple-up to flesh out The Stripper’s seedy, eccentric cast. Sadly, they inhabit a world of laughably clunky exposition, with composer Richard Hartley’s score merely a serviceable, degraded blizzard of inept doo-wop and leaden jazz.
Immediately, it’s obvious that nothing but instant closure can rescue this glacially-paced, Z-grade murder mystery.
Yes, every possible cliché is alive and unfeasibly surviving here. There are one-note tough guys, vapid femme fatales and even – shades of Rocky Horror’s Riff-raff – a two-timing hunchback.
Speaking charitably, it’s more Roger Rabbit than Jason Bourne. My god – didn’t it even occur to O’Brien that Carter Brown was parodying hard-boiled prose and attitudes? How could it? Peel away all the frothy, feel-good kitsch from Rocky Horror onwards and what’s left are O’Brien’s deeply unpleasant, highly reactionary, sexual politics.
Frankly, nothing else explains such shockingly offensive lyrics as ‘I wanna fondle your tits/Baby you give me a hard-on’. There’s a simply appalling sub-text here – f*ck whoever possible and totally abuse their feelings – a textbook, sexual predator sense of intimate entitlement and presumed consent. Sure, as a songwriter, O’Brien is hardly Noel Coward or Cole Porter, but surely he’s capable of finer artistry than this abysmal, teenage smut? Honestly, do audiences really need such insensitivity casually inflicted on them in 2016?
And even more disturbingly, O’Brien’s lyrics don’t even attempt irony – the object of their lust is meant to feel privileged! Gee, whatever happened to any notions or awareness of sexual dignity, humanity or compassion here? Heartless but superficially attractive, The Stripper is a coldly cynical exercise in period sleaze, but ultimately, one best left unattended in a forgotten, theatrical morgue.
The Stripper run at the St. James Theatre Studio until 13th August
Is there anything more delicious than desecrating a dead, pandrogynous diva? What could possibly beat the sick, violating kick of shredding every scrap of their scanty, psychic lingerie, rooting out lies, betrayals and filthily addictive truths? Someday, perhaps – long after privacy laws expire in a surveillance culture feeding-frenzy – we can feast on Bowie’s secret excesses, but meanwhile, there’s fictional meta-scandal Geist.
The latest, multi-media assault on mediocrity by self-styled fascinatrix La John Joseph, Geist comprehensively dissects its’ messianic star’s life and legacy. Like Orson Welles’ towering Citizen Kane, the ambition is grand; a retrospective, faux-documentary excavation of deceased celebrity myth-making, of conflicting public and private truths.
Better yet, Geist forcibly marries Kane’s scope to Malcolm McLaren’s viciously precise, punk-rock irreverence and the stinking, incest brats of Freudian guilt and raw egotism. It’s a sublime, sick-f*** polygamy, a Sid and Nancy puke on propriety and startlingly provocative theatre, an All About Eve reconfigured as snotty, waspish, rock ‘n’ roll swindle.
So why, overall, is Geist unsatisfying? Certainly, La John bleeds visual charisma from every skin-pore, an unlikely but striking collision of Lucille Ball and effeminate, Cecil Beaton-immortalised Oxford dandy. Like fellow, flamboyant predecessors Brian Howard and Stephen Tennant – both icons of the 1930-33 Pansy Club Craze – La John fuses soignée aplomb with savage arrogance. And that – despite Geist’s visual and thematic brilliance – is precisely the problem.
Just like Dorothy’s Tin Man in Oz, Geist comes across, ultimately, as a show without a heart. Somehow, we never warm to La John’s portrayal of Alexander Geist, his mercurial alter-ego. Possibly, that’s a result of deliberate distancing strategies, such as the preference for gender-neutral grammar that La John habitually employs. But why – speaking as a devil’s advocate – apply that strategy to an evidently cisgender, aggressively narcissistic male? Whatever La John’s intentions, what comes across is feminine mystique forcibly misappropriated and superglued to masculine rage. It’s an intensely jarring mix brilliantly avoided by David Hoyle, who radically transcends the car-crash insensitivity of an indiscriminate, pick ‘n’ mix plundering of gender politics.
Yes, every artist is free to explore any subject, but why not avoid ham-fisted disconnects via empathy and respect for one’s mode of expression? That’s why the work of physically trans-morphing artists Nina Arsenault and Genesis P-Orridge is so passionately human; it’s a textbook, orgasmic intercourse of form, intention and content. La John, by contrast, unwittingly embraces the fallacy so brilliantly skewered by Joan Didion’s Year Of Magical Thinking, presuming that wishful dreaming always trumps reality. Ideally, he’s hoping to embody some transcendent, omnisexual Puck or Ariel, but the actuality onstage is mere pretty-boy petulance.
So it’s a pity La John never risks exploring emotional vulnerabilities; Geist cries out for moments of soft, lyrical exposure beneath an inflexibly brittle surface. Ideally, I’d prefer to view the show’s smug, one-note waspishness as a deliberate critique of celebrity solipsism, but nothing here seduces the heart and soul.
Rather, Geist’s appeal remains purely analytical, the solving of a performance art puzzle-box frustratingly devoid of divine madness. And who needs a faux film-noir inhabited by a non-stop, Mariah Carey diva strop? Hopelessly, I prayed that Alexander Geist would experience Marquis De Sade moments, the shocking, anecdotal bites of exceptional depravity that forcibly challenge all conventional moralities.
Oh, don’t get me wrong; there’s much to enjoy in Geist, especially the multiple shoals of Hitchcockian red herrings cunningly orchestrated by director Robert Chevara. Still, creating intriguing innovations hugely challenges every contemporary director – virtually every pop-culture and media motif has been ruthlessly recycled, so even sheer brilliance seems passé. Not here. Staging Geist as a restless, cinema verité investigation, Chevara splits our focus between La John live, performance footage, and Geist’s sister/former/future self? – being video-interviewed.
And choosing to include actress Francis Lima as a deliberate, unspecified sea of possibilities – who or what is she/he? – is Chevara’s directorial master-stroke. Instantly, Geist’s resonances deepen, as Lima’s serene, fascinating ambiguity provokes comparison with searing, Roman Polanski psychodramas – Repulsion and The Tenant – far beyond La John’s dazzling flippancy.
Still, Geist is very much a work in progress, but even now, has the fabulous, if very faint, imprint of Michael Moorcock’s Jerry Cornelius novels. Never read Jerry? Don’t delay– he’s a multi-gendered, rock ‘n’ roll assassin simultaneously exploring contradictory versions of his own reality. Just like La John Joseph, in fact, who – with just a little fine tweaking – will emerge as Bowie’s flaming, ambisexual heir. We’ll all be watching with breathless awe.
Denmark is a country that has a long history of tolerance to gay men and same sex relationships were legal from 1933. With the German occupation of Denmark in World War Two, Copenhagen saw many of its previously openly gay men having to hide and flee. Dutch doctor Carl Peter Vaernet believed that he’d found a cure for this ‘disease’ of male homosexuality.
The Nazis’ belief that being gay was an ‘abnormal existence’ that should be eradicated were sympathetic to his own and he was allowed to experiment on men in Buchenwald concentration camp. His methods were brutal with enforced injections of hormones into men’s testicles.
There’s been a worrying emergence of far right wing groups in recent times and with politicians with links to religious ‘gay cures’ or terrible voting records on LGBT rights emerging from their creepy backwaters in quests for power, it’s a good time to be reminded of the lessons from history. Indeed, British history isn’t squeaky clean and in the 1990s the prime minister apologised for the enforced chemical castration of 49,000 men during the mid twentieth century.
Unfortunately, well intentioned though Claudio Macor is in examining this subject matter, the play fails to engage or shed any new light on history. He focuses on a gay couple, one of who is arrested and experimented upon. Alongside this he offers a contrast to their situation by showing the relationship between a secretly gay, Champagne swilling Nazi officer and a cabaret artiste who he is keeping prisoner. The script feels messy and poorly written with lines that often feel melodramatic and trite. The Nazi general struts about, boasting of torture like something from a cartoon, people stare wistfully into the distance and utter philosophical lines about life and love with misty eyes. This should be a painful play to watch because of its theme but instead is excruciating for other reasons.
The actors are too broad in their gestures for such a small and difficult space and the production is stagey with little hint of reality or genuine emotion. Only Nick Kyle as half of the gay couple manages to make much of the unwieldy script. On a positive note there are some excellent costumes from Jamie Attle and the set by David Shields is clever in making use of a limited area.
Sadly this is definitely one to give a miss. You’ll learn more about the subject matter from a quick read of Peter Tatchell’s 2015 Guardian article and save yourself a couple of unentertaining hours.
