The fine line between the outside and the inside.

Last week I went to Paris and fully intended to come back full to the brim of classical French existential pondering. However, the direction of my thoughts went elsewhere. I went to Paris and stood on the corner of the St Germain, waiting for a flummoxed Parisien to take me to the finest French Restaurant he knew, he knew none but suggested  'I do know a really great Japanese place nearby?' I discovered the hot new cafes in Paris were English run, I ended up going to the talking point gig in town which was Icelandic and the most popular exhibition which was American.

Gruesome Playground Injuries, The Gate Theatre, London.

Love Hurts, love scars, love wounds; Gram Parson once warbled at many a High School last dance. Perhaps he was also playing at the prom of self destructive lovers Kayleen and Doug before they found themselves in the sick room picking at the one of many love wounds found in Rajiv Joseph's heartbreaking tale of the bloody leading the bloody, 'Gruesome Playground Injuries'.

Theatre, Booze and Blatant Blagging

Every now and then I tear myself away from the moreish bite size chunks of reading matter on crack site Jezebel and force myself do some more academic reading about proper cultural stuff. However, my intensely gossip driven core drew me straight in to a piece about theatre and alcohol.

Why did the ladies take their trousers off?

I remember going to see Forced Entertainment in Cardiff at the lovely Chapter Arts Theartre, in my first year of university back in 1997(Yup, I'm a bit old). My lecturers, Richard and Mike, who must have been in their late thirties took us. I remember someone peed on stage, there was a microphone and a horse head and some fairy lights.