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Tychy began the morning reading Broadway Baby, which left me in a foul mood, and so I decided to go jogging in the Meadows. Some students were trying to hand out fliers, but they encountered only “a load of filthy, bloody people out there, gazing at their shoes.” Yet on my eighteenth circuit, there was suddenly a swift, sharp crack and I blacked out.

I woke up in a sack and when they eventually hauled me out, I was trapped in a basement, bathed in orange light. What followed was so irrational and senseless that I almost imagined myself to be dreaming. Two surrealist clowns (Lawrence Russell and Kieran O’Rourke) showed their faces. At first I was hoping that they were going to rape me, but they merely wanted to clown about and parade their flashy knowedge of obscure historical references and recite a series of at times beautiful prose poems. The finest concerned the death of a whippet who had been owned by Rathmore.

I could almost sense presences out there in the darkness beyond the cellar, but they were probably rats. There are rats everywhere. Some of them may have been wolves, reviewing the show for Broadway Baby.

I was itching to get out of there, but then I had finally surrendered to this experience, asphyxiated by the surrealism. Oddly enough, the same course of events happened in exactly the same manner for every day of the following week.

Tychy began the morning reading Broadway Baby, and this morning they reviewed Victor Manley’s playRathmore’s Whippet,” which is currently playing at C Eca in the evenings. They said that the show at first promises to be quite an adventure, but that it eventually finds itself wandering lost across a plateau, repeating the same lines and occasionally groaning under the weight of that unsubtle allegory of Fringe theatre that it is forced to carry aloft. But even their idiot reviewer had sense enough to like the acting.