Barred from Crow
Enclosed you will find the letter I sent to the Mayfest organisation because I am upset about my unsuccessful attempt to enjoy Glasgow.
This is to inform you that a number ofserious errors have been made in the Mayfest programme. and to relate the consequences this has lead to.
A friend and I wanted to see Crow,
performed in the Tron theatre from 4 to 13 May (according to the programme). Because the telephone number in the programme is wrong, my friend wasted a lot of time trying to phone (on Sunday) in order to book seats for Monday. Monday morning we tried again, but there was no reply. so we decided that, since Monday is not usually a busy night for the theatre. we‘d chance it and go to the theatre to get the tickets first thing on arrival. We found the theatre closed. as always on Mondays. This was the second, and more serious. error in the programme. Effectively. this meant not only that we wasted a day. but also that we wasted money travelling and sheltering from the rain.
Determined to see Crow (among other reasons because I studied Ted Hughes‘ poetry at university), I tried again later. It turned out that performances as from Wednesday started at 10pm (to last till 11.20pm) every night. I rang British Rail, the coach service. and the Edinburgh and Glasgow tourist offices. but there are no public means of transport after 11.30pm to Edinburgh.
Finally, I tried friends with cars. Having found two interested people, I phoned the Tron at 4pm on Thursday 10. Nobody replied, though the box office was supposed to be open (according to the Mayfest programme). When I tried again around 9pm. all performances were sold out. Earlier I had inquired whether the show was going to go on tour. I was informed that the production would also be staged in Moscow!
Perhaps you can imagine what I think of Glasgow’s being cultural capital of Europe this year. I am appalled at the disorganisation and the difficulties involved in doing something so apparently simple as going to the theatre.
Thea Breedie Lauder Road Edinburgh.
Regarding the Gorbals Children exhibition, even now a venue has not been found for this show, a situation that must be remedied. Yet if Glasgow can afford a ‘neo-Ceausescu‘ opera house, surely it can afford to restore some Greek Thompson buildings. It is as criminal to watch these influential buildings fall into disrepair as it is to watch the
Jake signed the letter. No flourishes. He addressed it to The List, Old Athenaeum Theatre, 179 Buchanan Street, Glasgow G1 ZJZ. Or was it 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE? It didn’t matter. It would get there by Friday 25 May. As he walked down to the postbox the sun shone and his head and trousers throbbed with pleasure. It was a good letter. Damn good. Maybe even good enough to win a Jose Cuervo tequila slammer glass forthe best letter that issue.
price-tag of the wee casuals‘ clothes ﬂapping in the wind (a topic about Glasgow’s children which isn‘t 20 years old).
Bennie the Bawl
I bought The List in the foyer of the Filmhouse, scanned the Personals. and then settled back to watch Bladerunner for the nth time (it being one ofthose films like Casablanca, Betty Blue and Manhattan where the Law of Diminishing Returns doesn‘t operate). After the Alan Ladd company oak tree logo, the introductory caption appeared on screen: LOS ANGELES, 2019. It suddenly occurred to me that by then Harrison Ford, my favourite actor, will be a dribbling and incontinent 77 years old. Then it struck me like a coin-filled sock that I will be an inconceivable 57! An existentialist groan escaped from my still youthful and luscious lips, and I slid further down into my seat. There were a few embarrassed titters in the dark, but I
suspect most of the audience empathised subconsciously, since the clientele of this art-house cinema differs significantly in demographic make-up from that ofthe Odeon or Cannon multiplexes; in fact the collective noun for Filmhouse-goers could well be Listies.
I‘ve noted in my social diary that William ‘Simile, please’ McIlvanney will be reading from his acclaimed early novel (ie the one that gathered dust at the bottom of the underwear drawer) A Gift From Nessus in Glasgow‘s Waterstone’s on 17 May. ‘Wine will be served.’ Eldorado I assume, with sausage rolls rather than canapés. I‘ll try to make it, so we can all stand around, pint pots in hands roughened by honest manual labour, staring each other out. I saw Willie recently on television, presenting a programme about human ﬂotsam on the sea of unemployment, and it was reassuring to see he hasn‘t lost the common touch — namely white towelling socks.
I was surprised and delighted to see an ad in your last issue for the
Hunterian Museum, even though it was only an eighth ofa page. The publicity budget must have soared since I worked there, when only the affluent Art Gallery across the road could afford paid advertising. The eclectic and bizarre collection of Dr William Hunter (the Father of Gynaecology!) which lurks behind Glasgow University‘s neo-Gothic facade is the Scottish equivalent of Charles Foster Kane‘s Xanadu. and is much more fun than the boring old Burrell.
Talking of Kanes. I see from your Media Preview that the new rector of Glasgow Yooni, Pat, is to have a ‘Citizen Kane‘ spot on BBC 2‘s Saturday Night Clyde, similar apparently to his column in The Scotsman. I wonder how many Hue and Cry fans read this quality broadsheet, which is the world‘s third most pompously dull newspaper. not far behind Corriere delta Sera and Le Monde. Young Pat is very articulate, but it’s a torrent of well-expressed meaninglessisms. Somebody please hit ‘Citizen Kane’ over his head with Rosebud in order to shut him up permanently.
Finally. When circling at stacking altitude in St Andrew’s Square looking for a parking space, I noticed that the closed-down and vacant Boston Moneyshop has been almost completely covered in ﬂyposters advertising Living Marxism. A nice touch of irony which made me smile David M. Bennie Haddington Place Edinburgh.
All right, you win a bottle ofJose
C uervo tequila for the best letter this issue. Will someone not rid us of this turbulent correspondent?
I see from your Media Preview (issue 119) that Stuart Cosgrove. not content with producing a TV programme and making an unannounced appearance in the audience for Robbie Coltrane’s Mistero Buffo, is now to make weekly appearances on Saturday Night Clyde. This is really getting out of hand. The other night he even turned up in my local, his grinning physog scanning the place for evidence ofsome wacky behaviour from those noble savages, the Scots, which he can then write about, to his own profit and our cringes, in the features pages of the London press. So I’d like to ask you a small favour. Ifyou mention the man again, please don‘t print a photo of him — I read The List over breakfast. Will you do that for me, loveys? Will you?
92 The List 18— 31 May 1990
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