We've Been Courteous: Mad Cyril's Pick for the Edfringe 2017

Oi oi saveloy... time for the real top tips of Edinburgh Fringe. The Guardian will give you the nice polite version, make you think that theatre's there for the finer things in life. Cyril, on the other hand knows what you are really looking for, innit. 

I like that. Turn it up.

One for the Thugs

Technically, Performers ought to be getting the bum's rush off me, because the lazy fuckers haven't even sent me a press release. Unfortunately, it's about my favourite film. I probably even get a mention in it.

So, yeah, it's a top tip for the content.

Mad Cyril is Back!

It's like I had totally forgotten: I am Mad Cyril. That's right, the foul-mouthed thug critic who comes out when the stress is all too much for poor little Vile. 

And guess what? 

It's the Fringe. 

For anyone unfamiliar with my personality problems, Mad Cyril is a persona who emerges to say nasty things. I have plausible deniability, too. Mad Cyril is a bit of comedy, my bouffon persona. I'm having a lark, I'm having it large. So - it's the truth, only it's a joke, I don't mean it. I do mean it, But I am refusing responsibility.

While Vile is busy putting up interviews from Fringe companies, Mad Cyril will be making regular posts here, revelling in the nastiness and plucking up enough courage to use some really offensive language. Look out for the 'Mad Cyril' headline for swearing, home truths and the occasional bout of bin-flinging...

Mad Cyril Returns: What Kind of an Idiot are You?

Those people unfortunate enough to know me IRL can tell you: I am a horrible person, lonely, twisted and obsessed with showing off how clever I am (usually by quoting from a book I have read the introduction to, or throwing in a phrase like scopic regime, which I don't really understand). I am also spiteful about other critics and whisper things that I would never dare say even on my blog about directors and actors.

Furthermore, I always try to have a hate piece about the Edinburgh Fringe on my blog in the weeks leading up to the annual jamboree of thwarted ambitions and savings pissed up a wall by enthusiastic artists. 

Let's see how nasty I can be. 

This post is for all those people who don't have an entry on The Dramaturgy Database...

No, you are none of those things. You are an idiot. 

I understand that a press release might feel like a compromise with the commodification of art, an attempt to use marketing to compensate for a lack of creativity. Only sell-outs need to use capitalism's tricks. The real artist will always rise above the pack, and the real critic will spot the genius from the hundred words that I used for the Fringe guide.

I wish that were true. The real critics probably can spot the best production of Macbeth just by glancing at the preview. But I can't. I need a bit more to go on. At the very least, give yourself a fighting chance. Take five minutes, slap a few words on a bit of paper, and send me the press release. 

Alternatively, come and visit me at the end of August and I'll explain why only six people turned up to your show.

You do, sunshine. 

Seriously, have you ever been to the Fringe? Have you ever thought about the relationship between 'number of shows per day' and 'number of critics writing articles'? After August begins, no-one is going to be doing a nuanced preview of your show, even if it is the best gender swap Shakespeare in recorded history. They are on the streets, they are writing reviews. 

I have been so generous - and that is why this article is not directed at the three hundred and fifty artists who have taken time to answer my questions. I spent hours putting interviews on here. It's because I feel shitty about the lack of coverage most shows are going to get (and the shitty things I might say about some shows, I suppose). I can't bear to think of you coming to the Fringe and being totally ignored.

Only you ignored the opportunity... so get to fuck, then. 

Right. I'd rather you didn't bother me, anyway. I know that some artists are threatened by the very idea that a critic or an academic can analyse the magic of their creation, and I have very little time for that attitude. It's like a fundamentalist reading of The Bible, a terror that rationality will unweave the rainbow. 

Now, that's an insult. You fundamentalist Christian. Take that, artists. 

There are at least 350 performance makers ahead of you when I decide what I want to review this year. How do you think I decide what is worth my while - or how I know that Cheeks is getting loads of attention, and will probably be the surprise hit of the Fringe. I publish and tweet, I look at the statistics. 

Actually, what I want to say - but had to hide it beneath a rant about how great I am - is thank you to the many creators who did take the time to fill out the email interview. I've enjoyed reading them, and appreciate the time and effort.

I just thought it would be funnier to be nasty about those other artists, the ones who haven't filled it about. They probably aren't reading this anyway.

Aving Dramaturgy Large: Mad Cyril and DJ Spinoza @ Edfringe 2016

Plato's Ghost presents

Mad Cyril and DJ Spinoza

aving it large

The Royal Mile, Edinburgh

4-27 August, 3pm

"I like a bohemian atmosphere"

Following on from DJ Spinoza's award-winning Uncle Vanya In Dub and his legendary sound-clash with Glasgow's finest, Hush (Music Please), Plato's Ghost are proud to present aving it large, a collision of gangster aesthetics and transgressive politics.

In the heart of every person is a battle between the higher and lower instincts. In the space between Spinoza's techno re-imagination of philosophy, and Mad Cyril's feral displeasure, the tensions between cerebral morality and sexual deviance come out to play...

What was the inspiration for this performance?

SPINOZA: I have always been inspired by the potential of art to expose the metaphysics of social performance: the way that clothes, demeanour, speech and even desire is an expression of both construction and instinct. After making Uncle Vanya, I wanted to examine what it meant to use Goffman's ideas about the dramaturgy of everyday life in a performance context.

CYRIL: I wanted to meet some tasty birds in tight skirts. 

Is theatre still a good space for the public discussion of ideas? 

SPINOZA: Undoubtedly. I know that Cyril enjoyed CHRISTEENE's gig at the CCA, but he was perturbed by the speech that claimed masculinity is dead.

CYRIL: Too right. Nothing wrong with wearing a nice bit of schmutter. Like the ballroom scene in America, where they have all those geezers in suits, playing with 'realness'. I thought, I'll give them some fucking realness.

SPINOZA: What we are interested in is questioning the boundaries. Once you have no religion in the public sphere, is there any wrong or right? We'll be exploring ideas about feminism - and Men's Rights Activism - and whether a new morality is replacing the old. 

CYRIL: And I'll be chucking some dustbins through windows. Pinky promise.

How did you become interested in making performance?

SPINOZA: Everything is performance. If we take the definition of dramaturgy that you suggest - making an event in time and space - then walking down the street is theatre. I suppose I have always been making performance - music, even - since I first learnt how to cry.

Was your process typical of the way that you make a performance?

CYRIL: I want to be clear. I am not his MC. And it's not like Alan Partridge and Glen fucking Ponda, either. We have this chat show vibe - I'll be talking to the artists who, when Edinburgh City Council was full of cunts, would upset the press and get all famous for it. But there is no process.

SPINOZA: I'll be dropping some dubstep, maybe a bit of funk. My aim is to expose the appropriation that is inevitable in DJ culture, maybe asking a few questions about whether it's any different from the exploitation of colonialism.

CYRIL: You fucking what?

What do you hope that the audience will experience?

CYRIL: I hope some of them will be experiencing mad love, if you know what I mean.

SPINOZA: A spiritual journey that allows them to reconsider their assumptions about identity.

What strategies did you consider towards shaping this audience experience?

SPINOZA: I am influenced by Kode-9's thoughts on using music as a weapon. That is, not as noise - although I have tried to find 'the brown note' and 'the big whistle' sound. More promoting love through the atmosphere. So it is in the musical choices for me. The way an audience feels music. 

CYRIL: I just... what the fuck question is that? Strategies are for taking down rivals. So, I'm going to get people on the show who have good pieces, and do their heads in. That way, less competition.

You Can Make Five Thousand Pounds

Right, Mad Cyril here with a message for all you theatre people who want to make money. Get your wallets out, and hand me a couple of grand.

Now, fuck off to where you came from and don't even think about doing a show at the Fringe. And you've just made five grand. 

It amazes me that you keep coming back. When some people have got money burning a hole in their pocket, they nip over to Ibiza and piss it up against the wall round the back of a sleazy club. I'm not saying that the Edfringe is like a drug-dealer who tells you he's got the real shit, takes your cash and leaves you with nothing but a bitter after-taste. 

Only I am, aren't I? Still, if you want to encourage the continued degradation of art into a consumerist cluster-fuck, here's how you can really make a fucking mess of your life.

DON'T HAVE A PRESS RELEASE

Hey, you're an artist, right? A press release is, like, marketing, man. You are too busy to think about actually getting people in. And hell, fuck critics, right? They are just parasites. 

DON'T CONTACT ME

Well, I guess this one's fair enough. But don't contact Vile, either. He can't talk now, because he is tugging himself off over the numbers his blog is getting. 

I mean, if you really want to get a sit-com deal out of the Fringe, you only need Lyn Gardner to mention you in a round-up, right? Supporting independent underground media is the kind of thing they did in the 1970s, man. It's not like social media levels the playing field and this blog is knocking it out the park at all.

DON'T DO THE DRAMATURGY DATABASE

Am I right? Fucking email questions. If you'd wanted to be a writer, you'd be a journalist, right? This database isn't the biggest single set of articles about the Fringe. It isn't a platform for artists to speak about their work. No researchers ever look at it. Just ignore the reply that took me a few seconds to cut and paste and send. It's like - you are doing all the work, and it is so easy to get an article written about you in the Fringe.

Okay, troops. Vile asked me to write something cheerful to celebrate the large numbers of people who have made the effort. It might sound like this is a slagging but the odds are that if you are reading this, you've done the opposite of the advice. 

You've probably got an entry on the database. I bet you are feeling smug right now. 

How to Lose The Fringe

Of course, it would be possible for me to take a positive angle. But I have just put up ten entries for the dramaturgy database (Fringe 2016 edition) and I've gone Full Cyril with frustration.

Right troops, let's clear a few things up. This is the Edinburgh Fringe. The chances of your show getting a mention anywhere are smaller than Jack Straw's dangler, unless you are at a major venue. Sure, I'm doing this blog out of sheer egotism, and only really care about having more entries than any other publication. But seriously: don't send me a press release that claims you invented theatre and then fail to reply to my questions. The Fringe is like outer space in Alien. No-one can hear you scream.

The Vile Arts has a love/hate relationship with theatre-makers, and I'm the hate part. Do you know what I think when I get an email that suggests an idea for a feature (starring your company, natch)? I think: now every fucker has that idea in their inbox. And I decide on another topic. Simples.

It's an accident, but I learn from the database. How do you think I decide on which shows I am going to see? Right, I read your unbiased press release and believe every word. 

I certainly don't consider how you approach making theatre, what tradition you come from, your attitude towards the press. It would be stupid to spend all this time putting up posts and paying attention to the answers. 

Being a critic at the Fringe is liking looking for lice in Boris Johnson's hair. I can't be arsed to extend that metaphor, I've got articles to write.

You know how they say cynicism is the product of broken idealism? It's like being a lapsed Catholic, too. You say you have rejected it, but those ideals keep tugging away at your soul. That's how I feel. I long to believe that artists are something special, that good quality will win out. But I also know that the artist who tweets gets attention. 

In it to win it, son.

Mad Cyril in 'Full of Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing'

Sorry, son, I've gotta get this off my chest. All you Facebook

socialists wonderin' why Labour can't get it together like it's a mystery: sit down and listen. Better than that, read The Prince and get a clue.

You want to know why the Conservatives are in power so often, even though their policies have the compassion of a orangutan with his penis caught in a zip? Check the way they dealt with their leadership contest. Give them a week, and most of the candidates have withdrawn, leaving the alpha in place. They make like gangsters, and I'm not saying that the withdrawals were precipitated by a word in the shell-like. 

Except I totally am. I'd just love to see the pictures they showed Gove to get him out the race. They must have been tasty.

Labour, meanwhile, can't run a palace coup without letting the papers in on the act. If you want to assassinate a leader, even metaphorically, don't announce it. Even Professor X had files on his X-Men 'case they needed taking down. If there isn't a file in the whip's office with a picture of Corbyn doing something to shame him - like wearing a properly tailored suit, son - then Labour needs some new enforcers. 

I reckon Corbyn's got too many principles to have his own protocols for Mutually Assured Destruction. Not saying it'd be nice if his boy Seamus Milne was strolling round Parliament remindin' the rebels of that time they pumped a donkey, but it might have shut the chaos down. 

So, the papers have it that Labour is going to split in two. Good. Fuck them. The Tories were on the fucking ropes, and they decided that was the perfect moment to have a domestic. We've seen in the last two referendums that the political class have not been listening to the populace. Maybe a pair of parties would have to pay attention instead of relying on brand loyalty.

Too long, didn't read? Try this: The Tories win because they are ruthless. This is moronic political commentary, written by a moron, because that is all politics deserves. 

Postcard from Craiova

Hello Insert name here

Wish you were here! Sorry about the generic message! I am only allowed one email from my cell, so I thought I'd use it to do one of those round-robins you get at Christmas off people you barely know, but their kids are doing so well at Cambridge and their jam was such a fucking success at the local fete. 

The Vile Arts arrived in Craiova at five on Sunday morning! Mad Cyril was sent out to find absinthe, while Ghost Face Critic and Gareth K started an argument about whether it is racist to say that Cyril's accent is not Scottish. Luckily, everyone quickly fell asleep, only to be woken up at seven (a.m.!!!!! LOLZ) by Cyril coming back with a bottle of absinthe and three Orthodox priests who performed a selection of polyphonic chants for St George. 

Team Vile sent Criticulous out to represent at the Europe Theatre Prize. Sadly, even though he had written a speech, he did not make it onto the National Theatre of Scotland's panel, because he got arrested for throwing a flag off the roof. Quoth Mad Cyril - 'That's usually my mind of caper'!!!!

Meanwhile, Gareth K found out that the artistic director of the NTS, Laurie Samson, has a connection to Wessex. He's a gurt big talent.

In other news, Ghost Face attended a three hours Easter service inside (well, technically outside, Orthodox liturgy fans), and Cyril blagged his way into a wedding reception at the hotel. He did a few turns of traditional folk dancing ('pretty basic group-circle action,' he reported back!!!) before the groom suddenly realised that he didn't actually have an old friend from Glasgow who did not speak a word of Romanian but kept smiling whenever anyone spoke to him...

Mad Cyril Tells It like He Sees It (Diderot and the Lap-dancer, interlude 3)

I have a bit of bother with this whole ‘suspension of disbelief’ malarkey.  I know Coleridge came up with it, and he wasn’t adverse to a bit of puff. Suggests his relationship to reality was probably tangential. But I’ve seen a few plays, like that Forced Entertainment one when I was right off my chump, and I didn’t feel the need to scream that there was a real gorilla on the stage. It was that sexy bird in a monkey suit. I knew that.

Mind you, I still reckon that Bloody Mess was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling the dramatic illusion old Diderot bangs on about. The way that they had these characters

doing their own thing, ignoring each other pretty much, just trying to tell their own story – and the way that this overlapped so that each personal story reflected on the others – this series of unconnected episodes that somehow connected to each other. 

Yeah, that’s the closest I’ve seen to real life on stage. Plus no-one knew whether they were a tragedy or a comedy: couple of clowns trying to split up, only they couldn’t; a sexy lady talking dirty in that gorilla clobber; two dirty long-hairs pretending they were romantic heroes.

That time Forced Entertainment was good – unlike their follow-up, which tried the same trick only explaining history and failed – that was text-book dramatic illusion. See, they kept piling it on, scene after scene. The sort who wanted to pass away, the geezer doing his impersonations of various bombs, the clown trying to tell a story about the universe… the end of the Universe, as it happens, which suggests that they might have had a bit of a destructive theme going on. 

The emotions got higher and higher, until the whole thing was a bloody mess. Just what it says on the tin – and there was no way reason was able to cope with the amount of information they were chucking at the audience. The constant interruptions, the bickering, bloke getting his nads out at one point… it was so much that reason was proper overwhelmed. And so, yeah, I might never have forgotten that it was a play – they were quick to chat straight at the audience – but I was right in and about it.

Diderot was never much cop at fiction: his novel gets distracted by big ideas and

wanders off to explore them. One thing, which Lessing sampled in his Hamburger Cook-Book, was this thing, where a bloke is told about this intrigue – which is really a play – then gets taken to the theatre to see it. The punch-line is, even though the bloke’s been told the intrigue is all real, as soon as he sees the play, in a theatre (natch), he’s like: oh right, it’s a play.

Now I mention this because Diderot is explaining why plays can never have suspension of disbelief. In his time, they had the knobs sitting on the stage and all, so you got these gawkers right up in the action. Diderot did mention that he wanted the impediments to realism out of the way, but this problem – of explaining the dramatic illusion through reason (it’s supposed to be a thing of emotional overload, so quite why he thinks he’ll manage that is another point) – is made a lot more difficult when the play as a play is being made clear by all the stage business and the way that the actors speak their words.

Suspension of disbelief? Skin us up another one, Coleridge, eh?

Beautiful Cyril

I luv a bit o the old Fight Club. Chuck Wasshisface caight that postmillennial vibe jus right, the crisis of masculinity collidin wiv vague anti-capitalist aggression. Ee's written sum ova stuff - baht chokin an that - an ee's back wiv a scathing satire on tha fashion fer BDSM books. Neva sure wevver Chuck's bein proper sexist ors makin a point abaht ow women get the shitty end of the stick most o tha time.

Beautiful You  is abaht this geeza oos a scientific and sexual genius. Ee's rich and desired, like him off Fifty Shades. Turns out ee likes to pump women not fer fun but ta learn abaht their desires. Then ee goes on to exploit is fantastic facts, and turns all the women in the ole world into zombies frew is sex toys. Then them Promise Keepas get into it, make a big bonfire out of the toys, which explode and NYC becomes like a war zone.

Anyway, the plot ain't important - is all a bit silly, wiv mystic burds up in the ills knawing abaht sex magic, science and crappy sex scenes. The writing is well sloppy in places - wat's a 'clipboard shaped bruise, FFS - but Chuck's more into the absurd than the narrative. He's avin a laff takin pot-shots at boy bands, vampire novels and the inability of men to please their wives wivaht shovin plastic up em. 

Mad Cyril is avin this one... easy to read, plenty of jokes, bit of nawty action an Chuck's distinctive fast-paced style. Gets a bit radio-rental at the end, mind. Still, took ma mind off the drubbin Chealsea jus started givin the orns. 

Mad Cyril Likes Men

Afta a bit ov business went dahn, I fort I betta lie low for a bit, an nipped orf to France. Fer the sake of the insurance, I took in a coupla shows over there, keepin the profile on the low-dahn.

Fer the sake of the Wee Man, there's one abaht masculine identity. 

I doan have much truck wiv all this dance that is abaht being a man: I fink havin a willy is pretty much wat is all abaht. Still, it's Belgian innit, I'll give it a taste.

See, I reckon is the first fin that male dancers do when they get a bit of choreographic action. All them years gettin the piss extracted fer wearing tights, they jus gotta show orf that they're real men. So we get a bunch ov fancy acrobatics, bit ov angst, ow ard it is being a bloke. Neva mind the rest ov the world couldn't give a toss. Three fousand years of patriarchy has given us quite enuff of masculine featre (Amlet, Orestes, need I go on).

Still, it's Belgian, innit?

Is a bit ard workin aht wat Chicks Fer Money, Nothing Fer Free as to do wiv the Dire Straits' numba it mentions: it's five geezas avin a laff on stage, mostly. Sometimes they come orf the stage, like skidding in pools of beer an shavin foam, but when these geezas wanna rock, they go wiv the AC/DC, a bit ov propa rock'n'roll. And they do the showin orf, only, this ain't some tricks to impress the chicks. They have a propa go at each ovva, til one ov em ends up with a nasty kick in the nuts. They calm dahn afta that. 

See, what this piece does is take the worst aspects of the average geeza - the showin off in front of yer mates, the drinkin, the fightin, the husslin for position - and make it all charming, like. Five fellas havin a piss up and a slap up turns inta a bit of fun, and not so fuckin scary.

Even a geeza like me gets a bit worried when ee sees five saucy lads carryin on, but instead of em being all hardcore, they come across like kids. Playful, bit insecure, not keen on the old intimacy but able to do it if ya put em in a box first. 

That's the genius of this Belgian stuff. Is less predictable. 

And there were big laffs when the two ov em came out all in shaving foam and skidded into the audience, or when they bunged beer all over the shop... or as they put it





Zes jongens, mannen, komen samen in de Krakeling. Om hun verhaal te vertellen smijten ze hun lichaam in de strijd. Tegen elkaar en voor elkaar, tot het bittere einde. Ze hebben het over geld, seks en macht. Over jongensdromen en het echte leven.

Chicks is een oefening in geluk. Een zoektocht naar een ideale wereld waar alles kan en niets schijn lijkt. Danstheater, bewegingstheater of fysieke voorstelling, het is in elk geval een uitputtende veldslag waarin taal pas bovendrijft als de zes lichamen leeg zijn, moegestreden

Postcard Reviews? I'm Havin That

The Real Origin of Mad Cyril...

Oy oy Ontroerend Goed. I wanna word. 

Now it seems like Vile's got is ot little ands on a copy of ya 'blueprints for theatre performance.' Naw, as ya know, Vile's a bit ov a fan, an he was pretty excited to ave a ganda at ya scripts, only...

Ta see that intro ta Audience. Where ya say it caused a bit ov bovva in the UK? Some geeza frew a shoe at ya? Well, that shoe-flinga was me, an it was nuffin to do wiv not likin what ya were up ta. I was jus joinin in. An you farkin started it.

It's like this, sunshine. Audience was all abaht the audience response, right. An I knew from the minute it kicked off, that you was gonna fuck wiv us. Thas why I didn't stand up when you told us ta. I was like, nah, they are gunna video this an play it back later. Fuck that.

Then that bit where ya gave some women gyp? I knew somefin like that was gunna happen, so I took my shoes off before ya even started. I'd been checkin up on ya, knew ya could handle a bit of trouble, and was waitin for ma chance. When ee kicked off on that bint, I kicked off on him, and gave him a shoeing.

The shoe's a political symbol, chuckles. Like they frew one at George Bush that one time then, it's a big thing in Muslim societies. It means ya being a muvahfucka. 

But I was jus joinin in, G. It weren't no protest, I fort ya were makin a point about how passive the audience becomes. 

In my case, I ain't puttin up with ya nonsense. Ya seem to be sayin that some character bunged is shoes at ya cos he was offended. I weren't. I farkin luv this show, Audience. I was givin ya somefin to play off, see whevver you could live up to ya hype.

Ya boy did okay. I called im a cunt a coupla time, ee said ee was sorry abaht it, an he got on wiv is acting. When he kicked off on the piece again, the audience only fuckin turned to me and told me to frow my ovver shoe. I told em to fuck off and do it theirselves. 'I ain't responsible for yous cunts,' were my exact words.

Gareth K Vile comments
In retrospect, this action was the first manifestation of my critical avatar, Mad Cyril. If I am the father of Mad Cyril, then Ontroerend Goed are the mother. Collectively.

Mad Cyril continues
And Audience was the womb he shot is load up. See, Cyril's ere to say what Vile daren't, cos ee's a liberal pussy. I am like you, Ontroerend Goed: the critical mirror to your aggressive deconstruction of theatrical form. Simples.

I am the Critical Thug.

Parklife, eh?

Amlet Avin It (with Mad Cyril)

credit: Tommy Ga-Ken Wan

Ear's the fin baht Amlet: ee wants a good slap. Carryin on like a geeza, only ee ain't got the stones. Spends arf is time bawlin baht is old man, bottles it when is uncle is dahn on is knees, finally poncin abaht wiv a rapier when it's time fer a shoota. All that actin mishuga, then ee carn't even take dahn a daddy's boy.

Dominic Ill's gotta line on the boy: as im givin it the large one when it's the sorts, but not so much wiv the gaffa. Brian Ferguson's a great comic actor, ain't to see is prince is a joke, but he is joker. Somefin's rotten in Denmark, an this nancy ain't helpin'.

Reckon it's a Glasgow fin, but this Elsinore's a ruff old joint. From the way er old man grapples er, I bet Ophelia's first name's Pete. Nasty business goin on there, this old Leslie Philips double avin a feel of er tits and ass. Then Amlet decides ee wants some - bad enuff he turns up avin a wank in er closet ('his doublet all unbraced,No hat upon his head, his stockings fouled': right.) but then ee jumps er and afta that, I ain't givin this character no face-time.

Credit: Tim_Morozzo

It's pretty clear that Claudius is the ero in this one. Ee's a stand-up guy - did a bit of mischief on his bruver, pumped his wife, but that's ow it goes sometimes. Peter Guinness looks well tasty in his whistle, and that shaved ead earns its respect.


Oi, oi saveloy! Am I Avin It?


I Am Avin It Cuntry Style.


https://www.flickr.com//photos/citizenstheatre/sets/72157647491358857/show/

Kill Johnny Glendenning - The Royal Lyceum Theatre wiv MAD CYRIL

Gawd luv DC Jackson, but thass one-oh-one stuff. Ya wanna protect the neck ov some hack, you gotta put ya good lads on the case, not a coupla muppets who are frettin abaht gettin shit on their shoes. Nofing I like more than a saucy caper, and that Johnny Gildenning is quite the geeza. Still, ya won't catch me gettin tied up by my business partners. Never go inta the farmhouse alone: ain't ya seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, son?

Kill Johnny might look a bit like one ov those Guy Ritchie numbers - shit gangsters and hard-nosed romance, but it's all west coast Scotchland, innit? The sorts seem to be in charge, even when they're Keif or on the Shawshank, and Johnny boy goes abaht wearin a Ranger's top. Not sure whever he's a football lad or a grafter. As for the gaffa, Andrew... well, I know his type. Smarts suits and more likely to give ya GBH ov the ear ole than a propa slap.

Still, I'm propa havin this: Johnny is a stand-up geeza, like ya want in ya crew. Ready for a bit ov a tussle, knows it's an act and can calm dahn when needed. Tries to keep orff the collateral. Those muppets turn out ta be the main men, kind ov, an it's happy endins all round, long as ya ain't been shot by a granny afta havin a dump, ground up inta pig-feed or burnt alive (betta than gettin ya meat and two sliced, I sppose). It's a laff, innit?

Still, I reckon the fight scenes could uv been a bit more tasty - really see the knife goin in, know what I mean?

Am I havin it? I am havin it SWAG.

The Tools of Critical Intervention

Awright? Mad Cyril ere. Been chattin to my friends in the world of show biz, and it turns out there's some Mail ack sniffin arahnd to get a story abaht fundin. Turns out this lad fancies a moan abaht the waste of public money on art.

Now Cyril is no big fan of the state, and reckons we'd be better off wivaht it pokin its nose into a legitimate business man's affairs. But ee's even less of a fan of Mail Online. Waste of public money - well, betta than the waste of public consciousness the Mail peddles. Tell you wat, mate. Until the tabloids start printin articles that continue public debate, or check out stuff that ain't prattle abaht stars I ain't heard ov, the arts are gonna ave to keep goin.

But anover point, before I put away the pliers. We ain't exactly breakin the bank on the arts, are we? I reckon they spend more on chairs in Westminster than they do on fundin interesting research. You wanna maybe investigate where the gov'nors are investing our tax money? Brians like you ain't quick enuff when it comes to doing investigative journalism when it is the arms trade. Maybe ya brick it when ya might meet someone with the crew to talk back, huh?


Mad Cyril is callin time on these attacks on the arts. Fink you represent the common man, son? Ah'm the common man and I have a common dustbin that can go frew ya winda. Hop it, son, before I ave to remonstrate with you.


Am I Avin it? Like avin ya dinner frew a tube, son?



please note: Mad Cytil is a fictional character and the vile arts does not advocate acts of violence against anyone.This article is for humorous purposes only.

Avin with Mad Cyril: Vindici @ C Venues

Leave it out, mate. Ahm tryin to ave a shit and aave a read of Sunday Sport when I get anuvva call off some PR. I tell yew this much, yew gonna find out ow I got my name if you don get aht of my grill.

Right. I ad a nice stroll up the Royal, Gawd bless er, Mile. Full of ponces. Perfumed ponces. Singin and dancin like its a oliday. Made me late for a very important meetin with a man abaht a dog wot needed shootin. The Fringe is a right mug's game, no mistake.

I ain't seen so many shows this week, but I ad a butchers at that Jefro Compton's Capone Trilogy. It's tasty. Ends up wiv a geeza geetin his tongue all electrocuted, and I like Compton's attitude a sight more that the attitude Ah've been coppin off the staff at certain venues. Give em a lanyard and they fink they're Special Forces.

Anyway, Compton does a nice line in gangster action. I used to watch them film noirs, picked up a few moves. Plus Jacobean melodrama... makes sense. It's all about the blood, the burds and the bollokins. I would've liked a bit more of the old Newingtons over the walls, but ee got the atmosphere bang to rights: the city going all Stoke and the bottles runnin thins tight and nasty.

Am I Avin It? Avin it like ya mum's hoop, son. 

Avin it with Mad Cyril: Product

Apparent, sum problems can't be solved by flingin a dustbin frew a winda. Vile's off in the corner, sobbin like a nancy, so it's time fer Mad Cyril to give ya a pick ov the Fringe.

Fing about featre is, too much poncin abaht and not enuff reality. Back in the day, when The East End Boys Club did their porno versin of Barker's Victory  in the function suite of The Queen and Flick Knife. it was all abaht the reality. That bird playin the King's bit on the side got a propa pumpin. None of this pretendin nonsense.

Still, if they gotta pretend, I guess Poulet's not a bad sort of pretendin. She's in my lad Mark Ravenhill's old classic, Product. Ravenhill wrote it just after he was comin dahn off that in-yer-face period ee had. It's all crap celebrity meets the war on terror, and gives a nasty insight inta the kind of pondlife who make a buck offa farkin over ideology and culture by turnin it inta a soppy romance.

Poulet's in that Games of Frones, which reminds me ov a weekend I spent in Sarf End last summer, but she does the ole heartless business bitch business nicely. She's sellin some script to some bint, convincin er that this'un'll save her career, which has been slidin down the bog quicker than a diabetic needin a gypsy. The way old Ravenhill mixes up it is well smart: if this script was a sort, I'd snort a gram off bof her bristols.

Am I aving it? I am aving if orf, mate. 

Aving it with Mad Cyril: The Illicit Thrill

Mad Cyril here. Tell you what, there was a coupla comedians in The Loft Bar oo were lucky not to get a dustbin frew their farkin winder last night. Nah, mate, I don wanna hear abaht ya connections to the Noo York comedy story, ya farkin Brian. Leave it aht.

Anyway, gotta good one last night: that Gypsy Charms has got a proper naughty show on: Illicit Thrill. Charms was all over burlesque when it kicked off norf of the borda. Now she's done a nice number on it, whackin up the sexual tension and gettin the gals to crawl ova the punters. It's like she grafted the dramaturgy of the lap-dance onto the usual burly style - that nun was well worth a poke. Charms is a reve-farkin-lation as MC: sleazy, charismatic and really goin to those dark places where most strippin-pretendin-to-be-arty bricks it,

She's got a right tasty band knockin aht the blues, and she gives the punters a real mug's experience, teachin em ow to put that tip in the stripper's bits. Loved it when she got hold of one guy and made im crawl afta a stripper's arse. Then Betty Grumble came on and we were in the land of Genderfuck, Lothian.

Am I aving it? I am aving it large!