I'll just tell you.

". . . we realize there are still seats RIGHT IN THE FRONT ROW. So we're like fuck, let's sit up there, that's fucking sweet. We chat about his nice suit and how everybody's had insomnia all week. The performance seems to start late. And then when it does . . ."

it's a one-man show of Hamlet. Uncut and commercial free.

Yes, children.

When Gigi and I discussed it afterwards, we realized the sequence of our reactions were the same.

1. Confusion. Hmm, this man doesn't look like the hot dancer on the flyers. Maybe he's the understudy. He's not bad, I guess. Where's the soprano?

2. Recognition. Gosh, the beginning of this opera/dance production sounds a lot like Hamlet. And there were posters up for Hamlet outside.

3. Denial. What a coincidence! I wonder when the singing and dancing will start.

4. Realization. Oh fuck, I think this is actually Hamlet and not the fucking opera/dance production.

5. Horror. Dude is doing all the parts himself. This is a one-man show. He's not leaving anything out. Hamlet is long. It's not my favourite bit of Shakespeare at the best of times.

6. Cornered. We're sitting in the front fucking row and can't leave. We're fucking here for the long haul. There's no escape.

6. Fury. That fucking cocksucking whore at the box office is going to fucking pay! I'm getting my money back and my fucking HANDS AROUND HER THROAT! SHE IS FUCKING DEAD LIKE DALIDA!

7. Repression. I mustn't look too furious. We're right in the front row and I don't want the actor to be distracted by seeing that I want to FUCKING THROTTLE HIM! FUCKING FUCK OH FUCK! Calm, calm, oh fuck, try not to look so FUCKING FURIOUS! FUCK!

8. Suspicion. (Both) Was that bitch at the box office nailing the actor? Did he put her up to this to pad his audience? (Gigi) Is Mlle La Spliffe a massive fucking crackhead who did this to me on purpose?

9. Resignation. (Both) Well, he's doing a good job of it. And I haven't seen or read Hamlet in awhile. (Gigi) Mlle La Spliffe looks like she's about to blow a gasket so I guess she didn't do this on purpose.

10. Baffled admiration. I can't believe he memorized the whole fucking play and developed so many characterizations.

11. Renewed fury on catching the voice of the soprano from the other theatre. Oh GOD, HOW COULD THIS FUCKING HAPPEN TO ME! THAT BOX-OFFICE BITCH IS DEAD! DEAD!

12. Baffled fury. Why the fuck did he memorize the whole fucking play and develop so many characterizations? And why is he making Darth Vader noises for the ghost of Hamlet's father?

13. Amusement. Ha, he makes Polonius funny.

14. Guilt. He's good. Don't look like you want to kill him, don't look like you want to kill him. Oh god, he made eye contact with us. Is it going to hurt his feelings if we don't show up for the second half?

15. Rationalization. If this was a weeknight and I could take some drugs first, this would be kind of cool.

16. Cognitive process. I have to pay so much attention to the words to keep my head from exploding in anger that I think I have a new appreciation for this play.

17. Goodwill. He is good. Maybe we should just stay for the second half now that we're here. I hope some agents are so impressed with this that they give him a part in something where he can act with other people and have a set and things.

18. Hunger. Nah, let's just get supper.

19. Fight-spoiling. After I get my fucking money back and tear a strip out of that box-office whore.

So there you are. The one-man was Raoul Bhaneja, who has a very interesting website, and who I would love to see performing again in a different context. He seems to play blues or jazz or something, so I'll make the effort. Gigi and I were both spoiling for an excuse to be fucking monumentally rude and walk out - we're both far too nice to do such a thing, probably, but we were looking for it. And Raoul Bhaneja managed to perform the entire first half of Hamlet all by himself without presenting us with it.

Except for that fucking Darth Vader shit, man, that was rough.

Anyways, we got over it, especially since the staff were conciliatory and the box-office whore wasn't there anymore so I didn't commit any murderizing. We got stoned, ate greasy Chinese, watched a phenomenal movie - very ambitious but very successful - called Lilies (no more details, just watch it), and eventually managed to laugh ourselves stupid over the whole thing.