Oxfringe is huge this year, so huge that I can’t quite believe I had anything to do with it ages ago (and am quite glad I’m not having anything to do with it any more, having more than enough on my plate). There are dozens of acts, with John Hegley headlining at the Jac du Pré next Saturday.
Words can’t express how much of a “well done” is due to the organizers, who’ve achieved what I certainly don’t think I could ever have managed to get even close to achieving. Besides, despite running away from any possibility of involvement I still ended up caught up in an entirely different set of conferences and other conferences, so I’d be as much use as a wet rag by now if I’d have got involved.
And anyway I’m still tenaciously linked to the week-and-more of gorgeous cultural wotnot. K. and I, you see, are providing bed and board to the laconic self-deprecating Lancastrian comedy gold that is Cliff Laine, star of the upcoming Playhouse show John Cage’s Disco Classics:
My mother said, ‘Albert, there’s two things in life. Take preventative measures during full relations, and never mix experimental performance art with disco-funk classics. John Cage? Genius. Barry White? Inspired. Just not together.’ But I’m 44 now and you’ve got to make your own mistakes, haven’t you?
If he throws the telly out of his attic bedroom window then there’ll be words. Especially as we don’t have a telly.