On Thursday I was very high-brow. I went to see ‘Waiting for Godot’ by Samuel Beckett at Smock Alley Theatre. I was dreading it. I’ve heard of the play of course – being as it is, one of the most important theatrical works of the 20th century. However, I’d heard that it was allegorical, and ‘about nothing’. Two men waiting by a tree for a character named Godot, whose provenance is never explained. It sounded very art-wanky to my ears. The type of work that, which may be incredibly clever and worthy, but would also be completely incomprehensible to a person like myself, who likes to go to the theatre either to be entertained or to see a shapely male buttock. In my ignorance I would have classified this play as being of the same school as ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce. That book beloved by millions, but only read by thousands. Continue reading Theatrical: ‘Waiting for Godot’ →