I was somewhere called Smock Alley to see something called a Hugh Hughes this evening.
Normally, the closest I come to banging elbows with culture involves a mid-afternoon slumping in one of the upstairs innards of the Savoy, away from the Big Beatbox of the Savoy One and whatever Zac or Zak Efron is starring in this 'Fall.'
Old Hugh. A Welshman, the whirringest of dervishes of fellows. Affable, frenetic, looks like Jose Mourinho on a Revels rush.
I'm no fan of slapstick but the sight of this forty-odd-oddman lashing into the stage wall, repeatedly, did for me like Benny Hill never could, and he had some interesting thoughts on the nature of friendship.
All quite strange, and all very terrifying given the level of audience participation. I'm no heckler, I'm no showman, I'm a passivist and it is my ambition to remain as one. Show me a jester eyeing up the audience as bait and I'll show you squirming to its highest degree.
He was looking to conduct a fake marriage ceremony and started separating the twos from the singles in the audience. How the alarm bell of my face, ringing red, didn't alert him is beyond me but he picked out Anders from Norway and his nondescript German missus. They handled it well. I would not have.
Awkwardness avoided, show finished and dignity somewhat intact we took on our bag and baggage and headed for Brogan's, leaving Hugh Hughes behind to hand out buttons with a slogan about perspective.