It's That Grand Old Man (of theatre) Again

This year marks 100 000 years of Samuel Beckett. Yes it is over 60 years since he was born. Or died. I forget which. I am sitting in a room talking aloud about how I forget which things are which. The audience is quiet. Silent, even. The auditorium might be uninhabited. Only the praise-filled reviews in the press and the never-generous-enough advances from commissioners-of-works tell me that there is anyone out there at all to hear my muffled muttered utterances.


Dear Dear Sam...he was such a darling. I once spent an entire weekend at his flat in Paris, you know, going over some details (well TRYING) for a production I was about to direct. All's he wanted to talk about was the prison exercise-yard we could see from his window. Despite his being a miserable twat he really was full of japes
e.g. me "It's a lovely day, eh, Sam?" - him "well I wouldn't really know about that".

But that was Sam for you - he never took things at face value. He always looked deeper into things than the rest of us. That's why he was such a cunt. His use of language was always so sparse, so economical.

And he fought against the Nazis in WW2. Surprising really, given his pessimism about everything. You'd wonder why he thought anything worth fighting for! But that was Sam...it's hard to believe it's over 800 years since he last shagged Billie Whitelaw.

The time has come, for a tribute -

2 Beckett-like figures in artist's garrett, surrounded by fine wines and theatre awards.

1. "Beckett, bleak".

2. "Beckett... bleak?"

1. "No...no.....bleaker yet"

2. "Bleaker yet....bleaker, still?"

1. "No,..no...not bleaker yet....not yet"

2. "No...Beckett...bleaker still"

1. "And yet...and yet..."

2. "Bleaker yet"

(agonisingly-long pause then rapturous applause of Melvyn Bragg & Harold Pinter and posthumous literary awards)