Aural Reminiscences: Devin O' Shaughnessy of Fruit Bat Annihilator

Fruit Bat Annihilator's logo showed a bat hanging upside down holding a flail, with bloodshot eyes. This is not it. 

Aural reminiscences will invite famous and infamous names from the anarchic annals of punk rock history and many other musical genres to reminisce about their experiences of life in the music industry. Everything our subjects say is their own opinion, and doesn't represent the views of News, News, News, News. We will not edit, cut, sanitize or refrain from printing anything our subjects say, no matter how lewd, tempestuous, coquettish or unsavoury. This week we welcome Devin O' Shaughnessy, the controversial front man of Glaswegian cyberpunk band Fruit Bat Annihilator. 

NNNN (News, News, News, News): Devin, when our readers see your name in our paper, they'll immediately think of 'the incident'. Do you know which 'incident' i'm talking about?

DO (Devin O' Shaughnessy): Aye, I think so, yeah. 

NNNN: What does it feel like to have something like that constantly following you wherever you go? It must feel pretty hard constantly being defined by that one moment of madness. 

DO: Aye, but I take codeine, you know? A lot of the stuff I see in the papers and that is false anyway, you know? It's fake and that. It used to make me angry, you know? But not anymore. I'm used to the bullshit, i'm used to the lies. I just figured, you know? These people have a job, and i'm interesting to them, i'm like their cocaine, their amphetamines, their Nightol. They need me, you know? So if they want to write about me, I don't care, you know? 

Fruit Bat Annihilator were one of the most popular cyber-punk bands of the 1980s. This is not them.

NNNN: But it must feel infuriating to be constantly misrepresented in the press?

DO: It used to be, you know? This one journo at the Daily Star printed this story about me years ago that was utter dogshit. He said I lip-synced my performance at the Queen's Silver Jubilee and made a big thing about how I was unprofessional and a massive fraud. I broke into my brother's dental practice and stole his tools, you know? All cordless flossers, forceps and that pink liquid and shit like that. Then I went to the journo's house in West London and fucking went to town on his big mouth. I sewed his fucking mouth shut, but not before forcing him to eat the Times Literary Supplement whilst singing 'Take On Me' by A-ha. Not only did the guy eat his words, he ate better words. The fella's face was weeping and that. It was classic, you know? But, as I said before, I've mellowed and matured with age I think. I look back on all the shit that I did in the late 70s and I don't regret it, I relish it. I miss it. But I'm older, you know? If I could go on being disruptive and chaotic, I would, but it's a matter of survival. Most punk rockers aren't as self-destructive as people might think, you know? We know when to stop and we know when we're too old to set stuff alight, you know?

NNNN: But that destructive impulse is still there?

DO: You're too fucking right it is. You wouldn't believe how much I want to look you up on Facebook, find where you live and come to your house and scream at you and your family. I had to bang my head against the wall before I came on Zoom to meet you, that's why I was bleeding profusely. People think i'm too much of a live-wire and too over the top, but what they don't realize is, the person they meet is fucking soft. They have no idea what i'm like at maximum capacity. 

NNNN: So would you say people see around 30% of who you actually are?

DO: Aye, no. More like 24%, but i'd have to check those wee numbers there. I did a spreadsheet a while back and figured it out, but the vagaries of time and repression have made the number much lower. I now show a lot less to the world and that will surely be represented in statistical data. But, who has the time these days, you know? 

NNNN: What percentage of your inner life projection to the outside world would you like to reach? What would be a healthy figure for you?

DO: Aye, so 42% is my target. Anything over that would be dangerous though. There was a brief period in the early 80s where I was at 49%, it felt like I was clinging on to a bullet train, everyone who met me experienced me, experienced me, emotionally. They experienced me in ways most people never experience their own family. Within 10 minutes of knowing me, people would either be repulsed and want to murder me or they'd want to marry me and keep me locked in a dungeon out of  toxic love. There was no middle ground, people's reaction to me was extreme and fanatic. It was like everyone I met was acting out their own private apocalypse and trying to drag me along with them.

O' Shaughnessy is also a keen painter. This is not one of his paintings. 

NNNN: So this would have been the early 80s, around the time of your fourth studio album Do Psychopaths Dream of Electrocuted Sheep? Great album, by the way. How much of this time do you remember and how much is a dirty haze?

DO: My memories of the time are surprisingly clear. I kept a diary, which shocks people, for some reason. They think of us punk rockers as illiterate hooligans, but in reality, there's nothing we like more than the smell of a fresh paperback, or the uphill battle of sitting in front of an empty Word document, you know?

NNNN: Can we take a sneak peek at a random diary entry, say, 19th January 1981?

DO: That's not a random date at all, and you know that, you wee shite. That was the night I crowd-surfed into the wheelchair section of my audience in Leipzig. The right-wing press called it 'Cripplesurfgate' and the left-wingers wrote a series of opinion-pieces about ableism, disability rights and the history of crowd-surfing and the underlying discrimination against wheelchair users perpetuated by the activity. What really happened was I broke my neck and wore this anarchic, cyberpunk neck brace for 2 months. It was painted matte black and was adorned with little robot skulls and middle fingers. People signed it with their favourite swear words and their own blood. I was on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine wearing it, you know? But here's the diary entry for the 19th:

19th January 1981

Fell off the stage tonight attempting to crowd-surf, ended up falling into the lads in wheelchairs, was performing 'The High Man in the Castle' from my latest album. Performance was legendary, thought i'd top it off with a crowd-surf as It usually turns out OK, it did in Stockholm, London, New York and Guernsey. But my aim was poor and my neck's in agony. The local hospital were lifesavers, I gave all the nurses a copy of my first LP 'Please, Sir, I Want Some Alan Moore'. Will be about 4 months before I can crowd-surf again, i'll have to find a new hobby, flagellation maybe. I once knew a musician guy, a real avant-garde, outsider type. He used to self-flagellate on stage, directing the whip according to the audience's whims. It was real 'event theatre'. Venues that allow this kind of extreme acts are sadly disappearing. The Narcotic Beaver in Islington is still going strong though. Anyway, this particular guy died from anemia, lost too much blood in the end. Characters like him really form the backbone of our collective creative unconscious. We are all animals, all savages. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

NNNN: So, looking back at this diary entry, do you think you predicted the decline in independent, anarchic venues like 'The Narcotic Beaver'?

DO: Aye, they shut down a year after I wrote that! It's heart-breaking, most of my 20s were spent in places like the Beaver, The Chaste Maid in Cheapside, MK Ultra +, Cromwell's Fanny, The Chernobyl Experience & Wet Fred's Barnstorming Hickory-Doodle Shakin' Booty Dance Ranch. I was born in Glasgow, but I was made in Cromwell's Fanny. If you weren't there, there's no way you could know. I remember being in this strange experimental bar in Holborn, the whole place was tilted at a 50 degree angle and all the bar staff were naked and completely hairless. I was playing crazy eights at this table which also happened to be a fish tank, the guy opposite me pulled out a machete and some shaving foam and proceeded to shave his wee handlebar moustache off in a seductive and salacious manner. This all sounds unbelievable to people who weren't there, but there's thousands of stories like this I could tell, you know? My point is, all these places have shut down. They've been replaced with fancy new chain restaurants and 'trendy' cocktail bars. People argue that they're an 'upgrade' on what stood before, but we don't see it that way. You won't ever hear someone begin a story like "I saw a guy ride a Tapir through a ring of fire in All Bar One", nothing interesting happens in All Bar One. I did see a guy ride a Tapir through a ring of fire, by the way. The wee Tapir was unharmed, but the lad who rode him was badly burned. 

A common sight of patrons donning animal masks would have greeted any weary traveler who happened to stumble upon 'The Narcotic Beaver' in the late 70s/Early 80s. This is not 'The Narcotic Beaver'.

NNNN: Do you think I personally would have survived this era?

DO: Fuck no, you're a wee sissy. You wouldn't last 10 minutes in The Chernobyl Experience. No, you're of the Wetherspoons generation. The 'sit down, drink, take a few selfies and call it an experience' generation. People like you consider Johnny Depp or Russell Brand to be hardcore partiers, but they're like Mary Whitehouse and Jacob Rees-Mogg compared to some of the people I know. I once knew a guy who could make people overdose just by looking at them, imagine Prince Harry doing that.

NNNN: And this lifestyle complemented your music career?

DO: Aye, It fuelled it. People always look at people like me and say "What could have been?" But It's not like that, you know? I don't want to be the person you think you see, there's no such thing as wasted potential in my opinion. 'Potential' is a construct, you know? The music we've made may be niche and only suitable for a limited audience, but why should we have to want to make it into the 'big time', I don't care about appealing to a wide range of people. I don't care about appealing to any people. People shouldn't always have to be catered to, you know. Art shouldn't be made to reinforce people's prior tastes, it should disrupt, it should heighten your senses, it should bother you. I like to bother people. We made it our mission in the 80s to not give a fuck, there's an art to not giving a fuck, you know? You can put that on a fucking fridge magnet.

NNNN: So speaking of the band, let's delve into the origins of how you all met. I believe Tommy Trott and Wayne 'Lucy' Ferr were the two founding members, then you and Nigel Orgy came later?

DO: Aye, me and Nige upset the apple cart a wee bit when we joined up in 79'. Tommy and Lucy were doing quite well touring various small farming villages throughout the Highlands, they weren't punk rockers then though. They were still outrageous, but in a folksy kind of way. They used to perform a beautiful rendition of 'The Parting Glass', before literally 'parting with their glass' by throwing their glass of bitter into the audience and provoking a riot. People got used to this and used to throw their glasses at Tommy mid-song. He's be sitting on a stool, guitar in his arms singing "Goodnight, and joy unto you a-" then he'd have to duck to avoid bottles being lobbed at him. He loved it though, it was his bread and butter, you know? Ye wouldn't see anything like that nowadays, imagine Ed Sheeran or Hozier lobbing a Carlsberg into the audience at Wembley. I don't know if Ye knew this, but Martin Carthy was briefly in the previous incarnation of Annihilator. He was too depraved for us though, too fucking violent, too roguish, there's a line, you know? 

NNNN: So how did the band transition from the previous incarnation, I believe you used to be called 'Twisted Harlot', to 'Fruit Bat Annihilator'? And how did you come up with the name, does it have meaning?

DO: Well, me and Nige joined. It kind of happened organically, you know? They were in dire straits and needed more members to continue touring and to pay the rent etc. Nige wasn't that talented musically, we used to nickname him Ringo Starr because you could get away with insults like that back then, but he learnt the drums and has done a serviceable job, you know? I was a passable singer, so we both joined and bonded quite quickly. We all decided a name change was appropriate though. I don't remember, if i'm honest with ye, how we came up with Fruit Bat Annihilator. We were getting fucking twatted in a pub, a real stone-cold, hardcore drinking session, we even wore chain mail and carried spears, it was that intense. My theory is the name came to us subliminally. There was like 5 fruit machines in this pub, and another arcade game called 'Alien Annihilator' or some wee shite like that. Then, as we were stumbling home, all hammered and mauled like shit pugilists, Lucy claimed to have been attacked by a cauldron of bats. So I guess all this just came together.

NNNN: The name got you into a spot of trouble though, didn't it? Once you reached the big time?

DO: Aye, a load of animal rights groups claimed we were encouraging the annihilation of fruit bats. It hurt us quite badly that publicity, not because of our image, but because we've all four of us devoted a significant amount of our spare time working with bat conservation societies. We love everything about the creatures, they're charming, mischievous, highly intelligent, crafty, bizarre, macabre, all the things that spark our curiosity as Humans. We've had a shared fondness for the little buggers since before we named our band after them. To respond to those critics who claimed we were encouraging violence, we held a kind of 'Fruit Bat Live Aid', The Sex Pistols performed, so did The Clash. Engelbert Humperdinck even contributed a dozen knackered 6-strings which arrived in a soaking wet shipping container. It really took off, I hear they're doing it again in 2021, fruit bats have taken a hit due to this COVID shite. Paloma Faith is performing I hear. The wee lass understands the fruit bat hype, good on her!

Engelbert Humperdinck maintains a keen interest in fruit bats, especially their mating habits. This is not Engelbert Humperdinck, this is Paul Anka. 

NNNN: It's clear from this interview that you're fairly defiant about the criticism you've received. What do you think your legacy is?

DO: I don't care.

NNNN: You must care a little?

DO: I care nowt'.

NNNN: Do you at least see a reunion down the line? When the pandemic is over?

DO: I see a reunion happening during the lockdown. That's the most punk rock thing I can think of, holding a punk rock concert in a claustrophobic underground location to an orgy of human scum spreading their droplet seeds around in wonderful, chaotic harmony. It's a real middle finger to the Tories, and to COVID. 

NNNN: And you won't bat an eyelid if the papers find out?

DO: Aye, i'm dying anyway, I had a liver transplant a few years back, had a hip replaced last year, and i've become addicted to Russian literature, it won't be long before I kick the bucket, I just want to make sure the bucket is kicked into a rabid, screaming audience of knucklehead bastards gathered in a poorly lit cellar. It'll be Fruit Bat Annihilator's last hurrah, you know? 

NNNN: I look forward to that, Devin. Finally, what's your opinion on the conflict currently afflicting the Tigray region of Ethiopia? 

DO: Aye, I was reading about that the other day in The Financial Times, terrible situation, you know? My hearts go out to the people caught in the conflict. I said as much on my Twitter the other day. People are surprised that I have a Twitter, they assume I'd loathe it, but I actually quite like it. It's a worthy distributor for chaos and ill-informed, half-baked musings of destruction, and you can do it all on the toilet at 2am. It's mental. If it were around in the 80s stuff would have been sanitized though. But we're the old guard, we need somewhere to spew our angst-ridden diatribes, and Twitter does quite nicely. I called the Starbucks CEO a cunt the other day. Isn't it amazing that ye can do that nowadays? You used to have to go to their house and throw a brick into their children's window with a wee piece of paper attached to it saying 'cunt', but now ye can just @ them online. They won't see it, but it's the feeling that counts, you know? Fucking wee Starbucks corporate shite. The modern world isn't so bad, I guess, but we all want 'our day' back. This day will be someone's 'our day' someday, so I guess i'll have to make do with their day, even our day was better and you're all cunts. We all want to feel young again, to feel light as air. We owned it all, we lived like kings, because we were fucking kings. 

NNNN: Devin O' Shaughnessy, thank you for talking to us. 

Next time on Aural Reminiscences we'll be welcoming jazz/demolition fusion artist Azure C. Blend. Jazz/demolition was a musical genre which arose in the early noughties by combining free, experimental jazz with demolition derbies, popular in the US. Audiences would gather in an arena and watch cars mercilessly attempt to annihilate each other and create unlimited destruction whilst hundreds of jazz musicians would line the arena trying to provide frantic and chaotic musical accompaniment. The sound of brass instruments and the experimental rhythmic harmonies juxtaposing with motor vehicles being molested in an orgy of steel was found to be an oddly pleasing, fresh new sound for an American audience. Blend will join us to reminisce about his aural experiences in the Deep South. 

Keith Brown (From the Theatre Desk) Reviews Some Television

Ha! They call this a theatre? Wankers.

Despite what the News, News, News, News editor seems to think, television and theatre are not 'basically the same thing'. Theatre is like the Flying Scotsman to television's Schienenzeppelin (Google it), Tarrant to TV's Clarkson, or the 19th century to TV's 20th. It may steal our beloved stage actors from time to time, Timothy West was in EastEnders for 9 months and eviscerated the other cast members with his mammoth classical acting chops, but the entire essence of theatre as an art form is drastically different to TV's. Of course, you, my readers, will know that I, as one of the UK's leading theatre critics, scholars, academics, authorities, exegetes, wizards, if you will, have a considerable amount of bias when it comes to deciding which side to pick in the debate between TV and theatre even though this is not a debate between TV and theatre and the editor explicitly told me to stay on topic.  

It was a welcome relief to see that TV is still..well.. a thing. I hadn't watched it since April last year. I was watching the coronavirus daily briefings everyday, almost religiously, and started dreaming that I was the naked lady strewn in white satin sheets in Gustave Courbet's 'La Sommeil', but Chris Whitty was the other woman embracing me, our legs were entwined and his supple breasts rested on my stomach, it was strangely comforting and this is what concerned me. I gather most British people were having these quasi-erotic, lascivious dreams about Whitty and Vallance around this time.  Americans must've had the same for Anthony Fauci or, for Republicans, Mike Pence. It's only natural, they provided answers and we all needed a saviour to provide us information at some point last year. 

I think it's brave of me to admit I had these dreams about Whitty. Phwoooooar!

This alternated with another dream where I was being eaten alive as a baby by Boris Johnson as Cronus, like in Francisco Goya's 'Saturn Devouring His Son', this is when I decided to stop watching TV and let the Internet fill my gaping addiction slot. 

But alas, there are several new shows to get through, so, without further ado, i'm Keith Brown (from the theatre desk), take my hand, and let me be your Whitty: 

Heartbreak Isle (ITV, Thursday, 19:45)

It's a well-established fact that when your heart is broken, you lie on the floor like a drawn outline of the body at a murder scene.

I've never seen Love Island, but even I can see that this is a blatant rip-off. 

OK, so the premise of this show is nearly identical to Love Island, but instead of contestants having to couple up with someone to escape eviction, they instead need to break as many hearts as possible. Whoever destroys someone in the most brutal and sociopathic way wins. The rules are totally incomprehensible and lacking in any sort of nuance. Keith Lemon presents and is his usual cluster headache-inducing self. 

The show rewards predatory behaviour and endless deceit. It's a truly abysmal and horrific concept, and I only sort of liked watching it. The episode I watched featured Chris, an IT manager from Chester, and Chantelle, a beautician from Rotherham. Chris initiated the relationship with a lot of enthusiasm. Chantelle was quickly smitten by his boyish charm and steampunk sensibilities. 

But when Chantelle chose to open up to Chris about how she felt, Chris revealed he was only chasing after Chantelle to be closer to her friend Maurice, a French male model and pastry chef. Maurice himself was still reeling from an unexpected Snapchat dumping by Natalie, a Liberian fortune teller.  Chantelle experiences 'moderate' heartbreak on the heartbreak-ometer (the device used to measure the magnitude of the heartbreak), but Chris has done enough to fend off eviction. Chantelle is then evicted by the public in a vote. According to a YouGov poll, the public didn't like her 'manic, unfettered stoicism', it's unclear what this means.   

The heartbreak-ometer, in case you were wondering, was invented by pop singer Adele. She created five different settings: 'it'll pass', 'moderate', 'I need to re-evaluate my life', 'I must record a new album of break-up songs' and the most severe heartbreak of all, 'O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain'. 

You'd think this show would have spawned a flurry of complaints to Ofcom and ITV, but no. Apparently watching the show allows people to face up to pain they've experienced in their own lives. It has a seemingly cathartic effect. This surprised me, I must say. I'd read about the suicides linked with  Love Island and assumed this show would be no different, or even worst.

It makes sense when one thinks about it though. Heartbreak Isle is honest about what it is. It's self-aware. Love Island on the other hand is a plastic shitshow which rewards bottomless shallowness and feeds people's worst impulses for self-criticism and self-hatred. It will distort your perception of a healthy body, a healthy life, and it will sink it's teeth into you. 

In fact, Heartbreak Isle, in it's own way, does us a service. It brings love's pain kicking and screaming to the surface for all to see, whereas Love Island twists it and buries it, allowing it to fester and ultimately kill you. Maybe the creators of this show didn't create it to piggyback on Love Island's success, maybe they created it to hold a mirror up to a capitalistic, brutal, human-baiting show that basically amounts to broadcast-able psychological torture porn.

Covidiots (BBC, Tuesday, 18:40)

Great British Bake Off presenter Prue Leith. She's a Tory, phwoa.. oh. 

How does one create a hidden camera prank show for COVID times? This is how. Covidiots invites celebrities (this week it was Danny Dyer, Romesh Ranganathan & Prue Leith) to undertake a series of risky and dangerous challenges which put the public at serious risk. These challenges usually involve covertly licking people on park benches, standing and breathing near elderly pensioners, or coughing into a giant fan mounted on the top of a 4x4 then driving around and spreading their droplets around the town centre dressed in camouflage.

One scene showed Prue Leith spit into a specially-designed 'COVID grenade' then throw it into a local Londis and watch it explode her toxic enzymes into every Tom, Dick and Harry who was unfortunate enough to be shopping there. 

In another scene, Dyer sets off a fire alarm in a Gap clothing store, then quickly gets into his COVID fan truck before a swarm of frightened people leave via the fire exit. He then proceeds to drive alongside the gaggle of people, blowing his giant, corona fan in their helpless, screaming faces, all the while laughing and firing an AK-47 into the sky. Ranganathan assisted by driving up on a quad bike and slapping the hoard of petrified Gap shoppers with a giant synthetic tongue laced with a shit tonne of COVID.  

Still, I enjoyed watching this, and judging by the lack of complaints, the great British public did too. This is apparently what we pay our license fee for now, watching Prue Leith lick a bunch of cereal boxes in the hope that someone will pick it up and catch the virus. Funnily enough, in this case, someone did, Romesh Ranganathan. He decided to lick every single box of Cheerios that Leith had not 15 minutes before graced her tongue with. Karma's a bitch.

It's clear that these long lockdowns have made people into immoral zombies, baying for blood. People have reverted back to the Colosseum days where entertainment involved actual human sacrifice and endless bloodshed. Still, as referenced in the previous review, shows like this aren't really any worst than your Love Islands or your Big Brothers. 

Next week, it'll be the turn of three new celebrities to find creative ways to spread the virus to an unsuspecting public (footballer Jimmy Bullard, former Home Secretary Alan Johnson & rapper Tinie Tempah). I'll be back to watch, i'll admit it. I know you'll be back too. Does that mean we're all savages? 

Panopticon (Channel 4, Sunday, 20:00)

 

Reminiscent of Shakespeare's Globe, one might say. Phwoaaaaaaar!

Oh, Channel 4, you're so daring. 

So to understand Panopticon, a new Sunday night reality show, one needs to know the work of 18th century English philosopher and social reformer Jeremy Bentham. Bentham is regarded as a key thinker in utilitarianism, a loosely connected family of theories that espouse widespread social utility, welfarism, freedom of expression, animal rights etc. The whole shabang. He wrote extensively on these theories and is currently ensconced in a glass cabinet in University College, London, frightening the living shit out of squeamish undergraduates. 

Bentham sitting dignified and at peace within University College, London. Phwoaaaaaar!

The show's name refers to an idea Bentham had relating to prison reform. He proposed a new type of circular prison building, with the prisoner's cells arranged around the outer wall, with a watch tower stationed in the centre. From this central tower, the inspectors would be able to look into the cells and converse with the prisoners via 'conversation tubes'. The prisoners would never be able to see the prison staff.

Bentham theorized that the knowledge of always being observed would drastically alter the criminal's behaviour, and further their rehabilitation. 

"Morals reformed-health preserved-industry invigorated-instruction diffused-public burthens lightened-economy seated, as it were, upon a rock-the gordian knot of the poor-laws not cut, but untied-all by a simple idea in architecture!"

It's an interesting concept and has been debated extensively by reformers to the present day. But you get the jist of it. Circle building, conversation tubes, always being watched, social experiments, great fuel for some thought-provoking telly, huh? 

WRONG!

It's shit. contestants serve as prisoners in the makeshift panopticon building. They are being watched, unknowingly, 24/7 by prison inspectors in the central tower. These inspectors are made up of retired prison wardens and criminal justice activists. Their theories differ wildly as to how the contestants will respond to certain tasks and stimuli fed to them via the conversation tubes. The goal for the prison wardens is to coerce the contestants into believing certain facts and creating complete division between all 32 cells among the prison populace, who are able to communicate only with the cell next to them. 

The contestant's goal is to sort fact from fiction and somehow form a united front and organize themselves efficiently in order to ascertain which nuggets of information are true. 

In theory, this sounds like an interesting show, but it's just so convoluted, so dense and unwieldy. The central themes of the show are very stimulating and ask some very potent questions, "how does one separate fact from fiction?", "How can people organize effectively to challenge higher powers?", "How does manufactured division stifle people's ability to improve?" All very valid questions, but this is not reality show material. Between shots of the wardens speaking through microphones, and the contestants attempting to communicate with each other whilst moaning about their toilets, the show just doesn't live up to it's initial promise. 

One scene saw Adam, a farmer from Suffolk, attempt to experiment with a new method for passing along information to his fellow contestants. The prison wardens have fed him some false information about the number of hours they've been in their cells. Remember, the contestants have to somehow coordinate themselves via crafty and ingenious methods to present a united response. Adam thinks Chinese whispers is the answer. "This here (sic) lil' (sic) nugget is a lie. I have a perfect sense of time, I does (sic), we've been here 12 hour (sic), nun' (sic) more, nun' (sic) less". 

Adam believes if he somehow passes on information by whispering to his neighbouring cell mate, it'll escape the surveillance of the wardens, who won't be able to influence the other cell mates with differing information anymore. 

They haven't thought this through. It makes no sense and it makes for some tedious television. 

"Ah, who's been a silly billy?" Seriously, you can imagine him saying this to a prisoner.

The show is narrated by Ray Winstone to give it some 'edge', but that 'edge' is completely squandered when Gyles Brandreth shows up as the show's presenter. He is not a great fit for a show like this. At one point he literally goes up to the bars and says to a contestant, "Ah, who's been a silly billy?" I mean, for fuck's sake. Also, when he's talking with the wardens up in the central tower, he keeps interrupting them to look at the camera and talk about the history of English borstals. Apparently Dermot O' Leary and Sandi Toksvig turned the gig down. At least Toksvig would have actually listened to the contestants rather than correct their grammar every few seconds like Brandreth did. 

Undercover: Attenborough at Exxon Mobil (BBC, Saturday, 19:43)

Utter bastards

Just like 'Panopticon', this new series sounds exciting in theory, but the reality is duller than watching paint dry in a room with Theresa May playing a triangle.

The series places various left-leaning public figures undercover into conservative and capitalistic institutions, with the express goal of tearing down said institutions from within. This week it's naturalist, broadcaster and intergalactic treasure David Attenborough burrowing his way into a highly lucrative position with American oil and gas corporation Exxon Mobil. 

The show opens with Attenborough presenting a montage explaining who Exxon are, why they're massive arseholes, and why he wants to obliterate and defenestrate them and their children. I came into this programme thinking Attenborough was a calm, good-natured gentleman who only wished to educate and inform, apparently he's become jaded in his old age and now seeks to mercilessly annihilate all the rich bastards who are destroying the environment. 

It then proceeds to show Attenborough under-going an extensive prosthetic makeover to disguise himself before starting his new job as an Exxon Mobil social media spokesman. He's fitted with a luscious strawberry-coloured wig, his eyes are made to appear drooped and full of melancholic dread, and he's given mutton chops and rounded spectacles. Quite why Exxon would employ this interviewee as their social media spokesman is beyond me. 

With the stage set for destruction, Attenborough attends his first Exxon board meeting. The other employees are told the cameras are filming for a corporate documentary, made to help Exxon's image. Attenborough right away suggests a new social media strategy to increase Exxon's positive publicity, but is really meant to harm and degrade them.

He suggests gathering a group of Nuns, African children, paraolympians and Albino grandmas and filming them being shown round an oil rig smiling and laughing and drinking Pepsi. Attenborough tells the company's executives that such a promotional film will help foster Exxon's image as a friendly, open, caring, forward-thinking institution. "You could even show the nuns jumping and splashing about in a pool of oil whilst some Sudanese children fire Nerf guns at them". 

A young David Attenborough. Phwoaaaaaaar!

Now, most people would suggest an idea like this and be fired on the spot, but Attenborough, being 94 years old and wiser than a baked Noam Chomsky in the Bodleian library, is able to get away with it. 

The board gives Attenborough's idea the green light, and sit back and watch as the doomed promotional film causes an international outcry and PR disaster for Exxon. 

The executives choose to back Attenborough (who's disguised as 'Abraham Cambridge') because whilst the PR disaster was happening, he managed to steal some highly confidential and explosive information about the corporation, and threatens to release it if he's fired. 

The rest of the programme sees Attenborough slowly chip away at the company's credibility via social media, producing scandal after scandal, and forcing the executives to make stock market decisions to the detriment of the company and the oil and gas industry as a whole. 

A lot of the programme is explosive and pretty enthralling, but these moments are all too fleeting. The last half hour is literally Attenborough holding a gun to an executive's head whilst he sits and watches Bloomberg markets on his laptop. He hopes to see the company collapse in real time and the BBC clearly think this is an acceptable way to fill the dead air time. Instead of being the nail-biting, tense countdown they were hoping for, it just turns out to be a massive anti-climax as the company goes into liquidation and causes unprecedented tremors in the global financial markets. 

Attenborough closes the programme with a monologue about climate change and environmental disasters caused by companies like Exxon. He's right about it all, but as a result of this programme, the US government has bailed Exxon out, in many ways making them a far stronger and more impenetrable institution. Perhaps the US government itself will be the next institution to be ransacked by revolutionary impostors. 

It certainly isn't on the list of episodes of the shows we can expect in the coming weeks. Next week will see Greta Thunberg disguise herself as a buxom blonde and go undercover at the Trump organization, hoping to slip some arsenic into Eric's morning camomile. Jane Fonda will attempt to infiltrate UKIP playing a sewer-mouthed alcoholic Tyneside fascist and Gary Lineker will take a crack at freemasonry disguised as a balding, obese carpet salesman. I look forward to those. 

BBC News: Anywhere But Britain (BBC, Tuesday, 18:00)

This is actually Bacari Biai, don't worry.

So apparently the BBC think that the news in Britain is too Britain-centric, so they've decided to set themselves a challenge to present news coverage for all 196 countries for one week each. 

The task, which will end with Zimbabwe's news week on 9th November 2024, has been described as a mammoth-undertaking by the BBC's new Director-General, Tim Davie. "We conducted several focus groups and found that people know more about what's happening half way around the world than in their own country. We believe the British people naturally look outward and are inquisitive about what happens in the world."

Just to make it clear, this programme is not going to be shown alongside the usual BBC news. This will replace it. The organization will not report on events in this country till late 2024, even on their 24-hour news channel. Some conservative commentators have claimed this was 'inevitable'. Lord Perrer-Striker, a former Tory minister for blue bins, argues the BBC has had nothing but contempt for the British way of life for years. "I'm not surprised at all, the BBC no longer represents British interests, it cares more about what happens in Guinea-fucking-Bissau than what happens in Stoke-on-Trent."

The BBC have responded by announcing Guinea-Bissau as the first nation to be covered for a week, just to rile up the disgruntled Lord. The first programme has already caused controversy over the title, 'Anywhere But Britain: GB News', with 'GB' standing for Guinea-Bissau. GB News is an upcoming 24-hour right-wing news show, destined to become the UK's Fox News. Confusion between the two will lead right-wingers to become well-informed in Bissau-Guinean political affairs by mistake. Twitter will be abuzz with opinions about the country's new National Director of Interpol, Bacari Biai and what it means for his ousted predecessor Melancio Correia, who is being accused by former Prime Minister Domingos Simoes of attempting to issue an international arrest warrant outside legal boundaries. Spicy stuff. 

I, for one, look forward to this new approach to global news. At least it will mean Boris Johnson won't be given any air time on the BBC. Instead we'll get used to getting used to a country for one week only, then moving on to a completely different country (in alphabetical order, apart from Guinea-Bissau), in an entirely different part of the world. The country will be split down the middle on Honduran gun policy, toxic and spiteful discourse will put a strain on relationships, then be immediately mollified after the coverage of Honduras ends and moves on to Hungary the next week. Political anger, manufactured and encouraged by both sides, will ebb and flow as the weeks go on. The country will get used to crisis after crisis, country after country, continent after continent. Andrew Neil will provoke dinner table conversation about Omani Minister of Commerce, Industry and Investment Promotion Qais Mohammed Al Yousef's qualifications for the job. 

So, that's telly for you. 

Auditorium of the Old Vic, Waterloo, London. Phwoaaaaaaar!

I would happily burn every single TV in the world if it meant getting theatre back. I miss everything about it. I miss the audience laughing at the wrong moments in a scene that's supposed to be serious and sombre. I miss the cast giving a speech to the audience after the curtain call asking for donations to a charity, then feeling guilty for not carrying any spare change. I miss being spat on by actors as they launch into an astoundingly intense Shakespearean monologue about bone-deep guilt. I miss buying a programme at the interval and smelling it, that smell is like cocaine to me, though I save that for when I see a butchered production of Chekhov. I miss it with an intensity no TV show could ever match up to. And I think I speak for all theatre lovers when I say i'm deeply unsettled, uninspired and unstimulated without theatre in my life. So yes, fetch me the propane, let's burn us some flat screens. 

Poem of the Month: 'Don't Touch Him' by Shadow Poet Laureate Andrew Suction

As shadow poet laureate it's my mission to counter whatever the actual poet laureate writes with something even edgier. Simon Armitage is one hell of a poet, but I think you'll find I can do better. I lead the nation's poetic opposition. This month's poem reflects the state of anxiety we are currently living in. This new variant of COVID spreads far more easily, and there is a palpable sense of panic among the people of this country that they'll come into contact with the virus, giving it to their elderly and vulnerable loved ones. 

Back in Medieval times, citizens had the same fears, for them it was the black death. Certain groups of people became scapegoats, they thought God might be furious at them, children were left alone in houses to fend for themselves if they showed symptoms of the disease. It really was a clusterfuck of existential proportions. One of the most famous chroniclers of the black death was Giovanni Boccaccio, who wrote The Decameron, which follows several young women and men sheltering outside of Florence to escape the disease. 

The Decameron was also the title of Martin St. John Travers' book about the resignation of David Cameron. St. John Travers coined the word 'decameronization', meaning 'to let the school bullies set the school on fire then leave without acknowledging that you provided them with the gasoline and the map of the school and the chloroform to render the security guards unconscious and the getaway vehicle and the balaclavas and the swag bags'. The phrase is now common parlance. 

In these unprecedented times, poetry is more vital than ever. My poet chums and I will attempt to articulate, to the best of our ability, the roller-coaster of feeling we have all experienced in some way or another this year.  

My name is Andrew Suction.

I am a wordsmith

I sweat ink and bleed Typex

Let me indulge you:

Don't Touch Him

Look, Mummy! 

There's someone outside.

What does he want?

Don't you go near him

Do not touch him

Do not smile at him

Do not acknowledge him

Do not answer his questions, sign his parcels

Do not give him the time of day

Do not charm him, indulge him, converse with him

Do not invite him into our home

Do not wave at him in his car, or holler at him across the street

Do not speak to him at morning prayers

Do not pass him condiments when we feast together after Evensong

Do not make eye contact with him in the sauna

Do not sit where he sat, stand where he stood, walk where he walked, breathe where he breathed, think where he thought, shit where he shat.

Erase him from your memory

he is the enemy

he is the untouchable

do not even lay eyes on him

Nay, not even your thoughts.

Block the very essence of him out of your minds

He is only trouble now

We must be strong

We must be together

We must be stubborn

We must be together

We must be rigorous

We must be together

We must be brutal

We must not let go.

We must purge him from our lives

And yet

No

He is like us

He needs bread and friends

He is neglected

He is troubled

He is in need of sanctuary

He is dying in front of us

He is weary and decrepit

He is old and withered

He needs water

He needs shelter

He needs us.

I know not what to do

We must clean

Clean the surfaces

Clean the doorknob

Clean the doorbell

Clean the cupboard and the sinks and the taps

Clean the clocks

Clean the telephone

Clean the dog with his juicy bone

Clean the pianos

Clean the coffin

He is dead

Do not touch him, children!

Hear my words

He is a poison

He is from the gutters

He is a nowhere man, a solitary man, a wretched man, a leprous man, a cretinous, devilish, pittance of a man.

Oh, what am I saying? That's not your father, that's your uncle Nigel! Let him in, children! 

-Andrew Suction

Worldwide David Bowie Tribute Goes Horribly Wrong

Scientists have warned that it might be 'at least 2 months' before air travel is allowed to continue after millions of David Bowie fans worldwide paid tribute by firing their Grandparent's ashes into space. The ashes failed to leave the Earth's atmosphere and have created a thick cloud in the ozone layer, shrouding half the planet in near darkness. 

The event, which News, News, News, News journalist Muriel Sticks predicted in her 'crystal ball' column, has sparked outrage in the international community and has caused widespread economic chaos. 

When asked if she might have provoked this, Sticks told NNNN, "No, i'm a journalist. We just write what we see, it's basically objective truth.We can't influence people's opinions, stupid". 

David Bowie died after a long battle with cancer on 10th January 2016, aged 69. His death sent shock waves through the music industry, leaving millions of fans distraught.

"I think most people remember where they were when Bowie died" thought Sticks, "I was in a revolving door, heavily drunk. I looked down at my phone and checked the news, first I saw that Nasdaq was up, whatever the fuck that means. Then I saw an article by Laura Kuenssberg predicting that Remain will win in a landslide in the referendum, then I scrolled down and saw a picture of  Bowie as Ziggy Stardust. He'd just released an album, Blackstar, so I thought it'd just be an interview or something. My heart dropped when I saw he had died. I fell to the ground and sobbed uncontrollably and curled up in a fetal position, almost paralyzed with grief. The revolving doors gently coaxed my prone, vulnerable body into rolling over, being carried round and round as the doors kept turning and turning. Round and round I went, creating a circular trail of tears and mucus on the floor of the revolving door mechanism, and a considerably dangerous slipping hazard. Round and round I went, beaten, bruised, broken, battered, without hope, utterly inconsolable. My phone was crushed to pieces, obliterated by the never-ending, heartless machine where I now lived. Endless rotation, endless, frenetic, turning, never stopping, incessant turning, never motionless, always running and running and running and turning and running and turning and turning and running. The doors silently carrying my stagnant body around like an ocean carries a pile of dead seagulls trapped in Sainsbury's bags on the crest of a wave. An endless cycle of turning and sobbing, turning and roaring, turning and howling from the deepest recesses of my bottomless, burning soulscape." 

NNNN would like to assure it's readers that we sent Muriel some flowers and a box of Cadbury's Milktray after this harrowing mental breakdown.

We'd also like to inform our readers that we here at NNNN haven't even a basic grasp of physics, geography, climate science, astronomy, meteorology, or any scientific discipline needed to fully analyse a situation where Human ashes have formed thick, dense clouds in our ozone layer as a result of over-zealous fans collectively propelling their familial bonds into space as a tribute to a music icon. As a publication, we pride ourselves on transparency and self-deprecation which disguises a genuine lack of academic rigour and self-esteem. 

Bowie wrote several songs with a discernible space theme, the most famous few being 'Space Oddity', 'Life on Mars' & 'Starman'. "When I picture Bowie, I think of him in space" Sticks told us (after she recovered from that traumatic episode), "I think certain artists are out of this world, they're merely human beings in reality, but what they create through their work is an allure which illuminates them, making us regard them as more than human. their work not only moves us, it can also help us make sense of the world, if only for a few minutes at least. It makes us feel less alone. I think we seek out things which make us feel this way, and when that artist passes away, it can feel like a sort of cosmic grief, like something binding and constant in the universe and in your own life has just disappeared". 

Sticks had read about the planned tribute on a David Bowie Facebook group last October. "I didn't think they'd actually go through with it. Wasn't there also millions of people who were going to storm Area 51? The online world really is hugely disconnected from the real world, now more than ever. So I was shocked when it actually happened. I only wrote about it in my column as a joke." 

Said Facebook group was named 'Bowie blast off' and was created by Zoe Bowie, who legally changed her name after her icon died. "People think I changed my surname to Bowie, but alas, it was my first name, I wanted it to rhyme with Bowie, I used to be called Gladys" explained Bowie, 56, "Bowie is my married name, I deliberately set out to find a husband with that surname, for many years I thought it was hopeless, but then Frank came along. Granted, he works in a tip, is very controlling and is a horrible racist, but it's the surname that matters".

Bowie's group very quickly amassed over 50,000 followers within a month, then 100,000 after two months. "When we reached 500,000, I knew I wanted to actually do this. I asked Frank whether I could be let out on January 10th, and he said yes, so I started planning!"

Bowie considered the logistics of firing one's grandparent's ashes into space. She conversed with people in her group, who arrived at the decision to build large intercontinental mortars, able to fire the ashes past the atmosphere. "Several people on the group were keen engineers, so they really chipped in and helped with that side of things. I had no reason to disbelieve them, they sounded genuine". 

Another problem Bowie and the group faced was not having dead grandparents, therefore not having dead grandparent ashes. "That was a particularly big obstacle for us" explained Bowie, "but let's just say, it was solved after a bit of 'out of the box' thinking". Bowie then winked at our NNNN journalist interviewing her over Zoom. NNNN would like to make clear that we have no idea what Bowie and her associates did to attain the ashes, therefore we are not liable for prosecution. 

So with the mortars and the ashes in place, all that was needed was a long wait til January 10th, the date of the launch. "The wait was agonizing" Bowie told us, "everything that was going on in the world, the pandemic, the US election, Barbara Windsor dying, all that took a backseat. I couldn't wait til January 10th. It was a mixture of fear and excitement, and hemorrhoids."

When the 10th finally came around, Bowie feared some in her group, who were scattered all around the world, would get cold feet. "We couldn't really discern which members would follow through or not. I started to divide people into 'drys' and 'wets'. One of my closest allies in the group, Geoffrey Whye, left the group at a very late stage, which was largely seen as triggering my downfall. But it didn't happen."

Bowie set the launch date at 10:00am (BST), which confused many of her international members. "The launches didn't happen all at once, which might have contributed to this kerfuffle we now find ourselves in". Physicist Neil Degrasse Tyson disputes whether the delays and miscalculations were the cause of the ashes clogging up the ozone layer, "We would've seen the exact same thing happen even if they all fired in unison. I cannot stress this enough, do not fire your grandparent's ashes into space, you stupid, narcissistic idiots." 

Bowie thinks the environmental problem she helped create will soon dissipate. "Scientists would have you believe that the Earth will stay shrouded in darkness for over 6 months, but that's just not true. They're only saying that to drive up revenue for the torch and lantern industries. We know we've caused quite a panic, but at least it's for a good cause. And try telling me your grandparents wouldn't want to rain down on us from above and, stop air travel, cause toxic smog etc". 

Although frustrated at the environmental panic the launch has provoked, Sticks thinks the Earth being shrouded in near darkness is a fitting metaphor for such an occasion, "If you think about it, the World has pretty much been shrouded in darkness since David Bowie died, at least that's how I feel. 2016 felt like something was ending. And usually endings mean new beginnings, but in this case it was the beginning to something fascist and shit. I'm kind of glad David wasn't around to see it all, but I miss him, we all do. The Earth is dark without him anyway, and will be dark long after the ashes of our dearly departed grandparents have fell to the ground and have rendered crops dead, polluted the oceans, destroyed global infrastructure and contaminated our drinking water."

Scientists claim the destruction this tribute has caused will spell the end for humankind. "We've got five years, that's all we've got". 

Jon Ossoff Anointed 'Most Likely to be a Future Hunk President', Leap-Frogging a Vengeful Pete Buttigieg

One teenage Democratic voter claims Ossoff has stolen her heart from Shawn Mendes. "Shawn is a fugly man-squirt poopyface now, I want Jon! I would kill for Jon!"

The incoming Senator from Georgia, Jon Ossoff, who defeated incumbent Republican senator David Perdue in the January 6th Senate run-off election, has been anointed as the 'most likely white, tall, handsome, well-spoken, young Democrat hunk to be future US president'. The role, previously held by former South Bend, Indiana mayor and 2020 presidential candidate Pete Buttigieg, is highly coveted among the elites of the Democratic Party. 

President-elect Joe Biden once held the role in the early 1980s, it had previously been held by such bright sparks as Beto O' Rourke, Eric Swalwell, John Edwards, Bill Clinton, the three Kennedy brothers & probably Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Democratic Party spokesman and social media guru Janie C. Shaypz explained to NNNN why the American people find tall, handsome, white politicians so appealing. "It's an appeal that goes back to every American's teenage years. When someone like Ossoff comes along, girls will want to sleep with him, guys will want to be him. And the fact that he's white will have some cross-over appeal to the Republican Party, it's a win win!". Asked why politicians like Barack Obama and Cory Booker don't fit into this equation, Shaypz replied, "Well, both Barack and Cory are, of course, massive hunks, but in the US we need to reel in voters from across the political spectrum, from the non-racists to the white supremacists. We feel that the US is in such a divisive state in 2021 as opposed to 2008 when Obama managed to get himself elected. We now need to field a white hunk to appeal to Breitbartian America". 

Political figures on the left of the Democratic Party have questioned this strategy. Political pundit Cenk Uygur has called it 'bullshit'. "The elite, corporate Democrats are now claiming they need to field white hunks in order to win votes from Republicans, this is total bullshit! Their worldview is completely binary and lacking in nuance. Yeah, a huge portion of Republicans are racist and have this disgusting ideology, but the voters we actually need to win literally just care about whether the candidate can protect their jobs, their healthcare, their social security. You win elections on economic populism, not whether the candidate is someone one would like to teabag in the Oval Office! It's not rocket science!"

In response to Uygur's argument, Shaypz told us, "actually we did studies that show suburban men and women react more favourably to candidates who they want to bang, or want to imitate. The issues don't really matter, leave them to the nerds on the left of the party!"

Whatever the truth may be, NNNN has received reports that Pete Buttigieg refuses to concede defeat to Ossoff and is planning to wield "fire and fury, the likes of which the world has never seen" upon Ossoff. Alejandro Hitchens camped outside Buttigieg's home and listened to several conversations the former major had with former hunk Bill Clinton. Hitchens claimed to have heard Clinton say "You know Pete, I was an up and coming hunk and I fulfilled those early predictions and became president, and you know how I did that? I became a bloodthirsty son' (sic) bitch, Pete, a bloodthirsty son of a gun. I hunted down my handsome enemies and disfigured those son' (sic) bitches. And ya' (sic) know I couldn't have done it without Hillary. Hillary had an unquenchable taste for violence that made me love her more and more each day. You know she castrated me after the whole Monica Lewinsky thing? Yeah, that lil' (sic) detail never came out".

Buttigieg was previously considered a future presidential candidate before Ossoff burst onto the scene. As Thomas Paine once said, "Being usurped can do terrible things to a man. The path to evil is clearer for handsome folk". 

Hitchens, who received pneumonia after listening to Clinton and Buttigieg speak for seven hours in the freezing cold, told NNNN that the conversations shocked him to his core. "I got the sense that Buttigieg was hugely motivated by Clinton's stories. After about an hour of listening to Clinton talk about mutilating his enemies, Pete's eyes were gleaming like a killer. I wouldn't be surprised if he went on some kind of killing spree."

Future prospective Democratic presidential candidates who fit this profile have been put on red alert. Posters of Buttigieg's face have been plastered in bars all over the US to warn any ambitious studs against running for office. Ossoff's campaign was asked for comment, but NNNN received no reply, only an automated message reading "Senator-elect Ossoff is confident he is the handsomest under-40 hunk in the party. He is confident he can swoon his way to the presidency,". 

Buttigieg, who has just been nominated by Joe Biden to serve as Secretary of Transportation in his administration, is reportedly planning to destroy all of Georgia's transport networks within 4 years, making it impossible for Ossoff to leave the state. Hitchens claims Buttigieg plans to create massive craters around Georgia's borders, as well as enclosing it in a massive dome, an idea inspired by Buttigieg's favourite film 'The Simpsons Movie' (2007). "Don't be surprised if Georgians will be getting around via horse & carriage by 2025. Don't be surprised if Buttigieg deprives Georgia of horses and carriages for fuck's sake! He's a wily, scheming, Machiavellian operator. I wouldn't be surprised if he enforces a federal ban on Sedan chairs, just to deprive Jon Ossoff the opportunity to travel to and from Georgia.  

Horoscopes With Keith Brown (From the Theatre Desk)

The editor let me pick my own images to accompany this article. He told me to pick ones that I thought were 'appropriate'. Well fuck that, this is the Gielgud Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. The theatre was home to a legendary cat named Beerbohm, who used to live in the theatre and wander across the stage and attack actor's props. He also apparently had a girlfriend in the Lyric Theatre. Isn't that bloody marvelous? 

In case you haven't heard, i'm doing the horoscopes this month. News, News, News, News is experiencing an unprecedented staff shortage. Weirdly enough, the shortage has nothing to do with the pandemic. Nearly all of our journalists, Eileen Kirkup, Alejandro Hitchens, Muriel Sticks & A. A. Gill Jr. included, were having lunch in YO! Sushi (that's what our shithouse editor considers a Christmas work lunch), and came down with severe food poisoning. And just to be clear, NNNN isn't attacking or even criticizing YO! Sushi and their unscrupulous hygiene practices. They're our longest serving sponsor, and have supported us through thick and thin, including back in 2018 when we influenced that election in Bhutan and in 2009 when our former resident health writer, Dr. Mehmet Stoppard, advocated the use of blood-letting via leeches to cure apathy.

I should also make it clear that I know absolutely nothing about horoscopes. My expertise is in theatre, dramaturgy, ballet & 19th century erotic literature. But, for some reason, I was deemed qualified to fill in for Charlotte Anne de Quaque, the usual writer of this column. I hope my passivity, my lack of interest, my ignorance, my snobbishness and my hostility towards everyone who receives wisdom and clarity from this column doesn't deter you from receiving wisdom and clarity from this column. Let's get this fucking shit over with:

Aries

This is the Harold Pinter Theatre on Panton Street. Formerly the 'Comedy Theatre', like the Gielgud it was renamed for an icon of 20th century theatre, Harold Pinter.

You'll feel at some points this month like you're being handled by a higher power like a puppet via invisible marionette strings. The higher power will have severe arthritis and this will prove cumbersome to deal with. But don't let this get you down. Steer into the skid, so to speak. Let yourself be dragged to and fro in an uncoordinated mess. The onus is on you to find patterns in the hubbub this submission has created. When you've reached some clarity as to what those patterns are, use it wisely. It's important to carve out a path for yourself and the transition between the old you and the new you will not be without considerable challenges, but you will eventually be rewarded in abundance.

Taurus

Yes, I've been to theatres outside of London!.... granted the RSC isn't the fringiest of theatres, but it holds a very special place in this writer's heart. I was once punched by Trevor Nunn for giving his production of Pericles a poor review. Granted, I had posted the review an hour before I saw the production, but I think that was uncalled for. 

Oh, you are in for a treat this month, you Tauruses, or Taurei, whatever you're called. Something really cool will happen to you, I can feel it. Be vigilant though. Avoid people at all costs and build up a supply of food to last at least 8 months. If anyone attempts to call/message you, reply quickly and make your rugged intensity known to them. You'll be having some pretty fucked up nightmares around mid-January, but they are merely the calm before the storm. The waves of feeling you'll experience after these nightmares will be close to euphoric. I wish I was a Taurus. Strap yourself in for a wild, wild ride, my brothers and sisters. Don't de-ice your cars or anything stupid like that. The ice is there for a reason, it chose to set on your windshield. Let the moon dictate when you bathe. Follow these two rules and you'll be swimming in ecstasy.

Gemini

You're better off standing in the Globe Theatre, the benches will render your buttocks unconscious for weeks. Legend has it that Shakespeare did this on purpose out of concern for public health. He wanted people to stand up more. He also ran Zumba classes in Aldgate prison. He was what's now known in youthful circles as a 'fitness Karen'.

This will be a month of healing. I know a lot of you have been hurting these last few months, with unruly Mars and Darius the Satyr constantly creating cosmic obstacles for you, but there is a reason this has happened. We know what you did last summer. You chose not to abide by the psychic laws of the hyperkinetic universe. You really are a cunt. But, it's OK. Things are looking up. Just don't read newspapers, don't answer the door and above all, don't wash until the moon says it's OK. 

Cancer

Well, I personally love the National Theatre building. To hell with Prince Charles. Some say the foyer feels like an airport, but why shouldn't a theatre's foyer feel like an airport? In a way, you are waiting for a departure, a departure to Elsinore or a departure to a Run-down Russian estate. You are waiting to depart to foreign lands. Nowadays you even have to leave your bags in storage due to threats of terror. So it all fits.

OH MY LORD, YOU ARE A LUCKY BASTARD IF YOU ARE A CANCER!!

Seriously, why must I be a Sagittarius? We're going to have a shit time this month (but I'll get to that).

So Cancers, you will experience new bonds with past enemies. The solar energy emitted from these new found bonds will radiate throughout the universe and heal the cosmic wounds that form a chasm in the celestial spheres, creating a newfoundlove that ties up all the loose ends. It is highly likely you'll shag someone this month. I cannot stress this enough, the moon decides when you scrub yourself in the tub. 

Leo

Cornwall's Minack Theatre is divine. This writer made the absolute genius move of bringing a cushion, because again, your arse will feel like it's been spanked by Thanos after three hours of watching King Lear sitting on those stone steps. 

I'm bored already. I don't know what happens to Leos this month. You'll be mauled by a giant bear. There, happy now? 

Fine, the sun is telling me that you'll experience a period of intense calm this month. Whether you're a key worker, or are working at home, you'll embrace this serenity with open arms. Don't let no naysayer put you down, girlfriend. Embrace the calm above all else. Goats will play a significant role in your spiritual healing as well. So, look out for goats. Can I mention Lucifer? Or are Satanism and astrology not linked? I genuinely don't know. At this point I'm convinced people who believe in astrology are also possible Nazis. Nothing is off the table nowadays. All charlatanism is loosely connected in one giant dumb web. 

Virgo

Regent's Park Open Air Theatre, in Regent's Park (where else did you think it'd be? Damascus?) is another bewitching venue this writer has visited many times.

You'll spend this month intoxicated on cheap alcohol from Lidl. 

The universe is likely to spin twice as fast for you this month, my dear Virgos. Don't let this scare you. The gentleman operating it is high as a kite and means no harm. Remember, chemistry is the most important thing to consider when undertaking a new role in life. Always ask yourself, do I have chemistry with this person? Do I have chemistry with this new job? Make decisions based on chemistry, and the moon, don't bathe if the moon tells you not to, how many times do I need to tell you?!

Libra

The Royal Exchange Theatre, Manchester is still, funnily enough, also used as a commodities exchange. I saw Maxine Peake play Hamlet here. I sat in the front row and managed to collect some of her spit whilst she recited the 'O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I?' soliloquy. I attempted to exchange this commodity before realizing I had no idea how the financial world works. 

OK, this is a batshit crazy one. I hate to say this, but, you will die this month. I know, it sucks. You will trip on a toy fimble and fly down the stairs, cracking your head open. Blood will gush out and you'll be pronounced dead by paramedics within 20 minutes. 

But it's not all bad news. The celestial spheres will align themselves to form an alliance of kinetic souls. This is not to be bulked at. Cease the moment, Libras, turn those frowns upside downs. 

Don't let the moon dictate when you bathe this month. You'll only be bathing in your own blood anyway.

Scorpio

South Hill Park Arts Centre in Bracknell, Berkshire is a mighty fine institution. This writer saw a tremendous production of the Scottish play a few years ago, the actress who played the second witch caught my eye in particular. One for the future, methinks.  

More bad news for you Scorpios, i'm afraid. You will experience a sort of spiritual paralysis in January that will force you to begin several weird hobbies. Said hobbies will not be economically viable for you in the long term and the inability to fulfill these strange new interests will make you frustrated and full of nascent rage. The clouds will align and the lunar rays will penetrate your skin, so that's something. Venus is always with you, remember that. She's a fucking amazing lass she is. I wish I was a Scorpio. The things i'd do to that Venus. oooooh. Hubba hubba shuckseedoodle. I'm sorry, a lot of my readers are lapsed nuns, I shouldn't be engaging in such disgusting verbal mouthage. 

Don't be afraid to crack open a tub of Greek yogurt and pour it over yourself at your local tip whilst laughing maniacally. 

Sagittarius

The Old Vic, in Waterloo, London is one of the oldest, most beautiful theatres in the World. It was the original home of the National Theatre company from 1963 until the building on the Southbank opened in 1976. Sarah Siddons, an 18th century tragedienne, is said to haunt the theatre (because of course theatres have ghosts. The only ghosts this writer believes in are theatre ghosts, all other ghosts are shit).

So, as I said earlier, Sagittariuses are in for a shitty month. Perhaps the shittiest of all. 

Do I have to elaborate? Do you really want to know? Wouldn't you rather have a surprise? No? For fuck's sake. 

You'll stub your toe. 

Capricorn

Oh, the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. One of my favourites. Boy does this place have some ghosts. John Baldwin Buckstone, a manager of the theatre in the 19th century, has been spotted by Dame Judi Dench and Sir Patrick Stewart. I genuinely don't think Ms Dench is capable of lying, so you better believe it.

Oh, Capricorns have it great! Capricorns won't stub their toe. Capricorns are little angels. Capricorns are the teacher's pets of the universe. It sends down cosmic energy, mainly in the form of Wi-Fi, to you every day because you're such goody goodies. No, i'm not bitter, i'm just pissed off, and bitter, and twisted. I was almost a Capricorn. I would have lead a very different life if I were. I would have become a renowned stage actor. I would have played Hamlet, Lear, Holofernes in Love's Labours Lost. I could have been a contender, I could have been somebody, instead of a deadbeat theatre critic, which is what I am, let's face it. 

Aquarius 

I know all these theatres are not only very London-centric, but also England-centric. So here's the Lyric Theatre, Belfast. Liam Neeson is a patron and has performed here many times. I'm not going to do a 'Taken' joke. Instead i'll do a joke about the time Neeson admitted he once wanted to kill a random black person. Umm... so racially-aggravated assault? What a bummer, huh?

It will have been a very tough year for you Aquariuses. Well it's about to get tougher. Not only will you stub your toe, but you'll also lose your job, lose your mortgage, lose your freedom and most strangely of all, lose your hands. Don't ask me how. The universe blah blah blah, cosmic rays blah blah blah, Darius the Satyr and Mars and Venus and Jupiter and Kepler 22-B blah blah blah Professor Brian Cox. I don't know, OK? This is not my area of expertise, if you're actually gleaning any wisdom from these readings, you need your head examined. Or you need to grow up. I'm a frustrated, middle-aged, balding, pot-bellied, old-fashioned romantic old fart currently nursing a pint of absinthe, poring over Microsoft Bing to see which star sign is next. Get over yourself and build up some inner steel instead of consulting crap like this. You know how, you do. You have the tools, you are enough, you are enough. You have the answers. Not in a Kanye West kind of way, but you have the answers. I believe in you with every fibre of my being, random NNNN reader. 

Pisces

Time to downsize. This is the Watermill Theatre in Newbury, West Berkshire. It's a converted watermill (what did you think it used to be? A Ladbrokes?) The Propeller Theatre Company began life at the Watermill. Isn't it such a cosy, charming, delicious, joyous little sanctuary? 

OK, if you're still reading after that last entry, you must be a total nut job. So i'm going to treat you like one. stop the steal! Trump won the election! He won in a landslide! QAnon! Trump 2020! Stop the steal! Stop the steal! The truth is out there! Sasquatch 2024! Save America! AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! Ed Sheeran is the greatest folk singer of all time! Peter Kay is hilarious! Never Say Never Again is by far the greatest Bond film, Phantom Menace is the best Star Wars film. Lindsay Lohan is a better stage actor than Simon Russell Beale, Mark Rylance and Kathryn Hunter combined! The Gielgud Theatre should be renamed the Gareth Gates Theatre. Henry VI Part III is the best Shakespeare play! Shakespeare and Dickens are the same person. Melons! Kumquat! Lights! Camera! Poopy pants! Take me hoooooome, country roaaaaaaaads, to the plaaaaaaaace, I beloooooooong, Clacton-On-Sea!!!

Right, that should do it. That was truly an awful ordeal and I want to distance myself from everything i've just written. 

The glorious Kathryn Hunter in 'Kafka's Monkey' at The Young Vic. If you have an opportunity to see a great actor weave their magic, grab it with both hands. Actors are ethereal, they don't last forever. I will forever regret not seeing Henry Irving on stage. But I suppose there's nothing I could've done about being born 60 years after he died. 

I cannot fucking wait for theatre to return. I miss everything. I miss finding out my seat is in the middle of the row and making very polite British middle-class guilty jokes like "Oops, there's always one isn't there? ha ha!". I miss walking up the old staircases in West End theatres and seeing all the old posters from past productions and not being able to stop and look at them for as long as i'd want because people are behind me. I miss the musty, mystical smell that graces your nostrils as you enter the auditorium, I always imagine an old haggard theatre witch has cast an ancient spell on the space and anyone who walks into it is immediately spellbound and held in captivity till the players be done with thee. I miss being told "this isn't your seat, sir" and arguing my case in hushed tones until i'm forced to admit my error and laugh politely but silently cursing the young hipster couple who clearly don't really want to be there. I miss walking out into the midsummer evening in the interval for a smoke break, listening to people talk about how the actor playing Tybalt who happens to be in Coronation Street looks shorter in the flesh. I miss the moment when the lights go down in the auditorium, and everyone in the audience feels this spine-tingling sense of danger. Anything could happen, within reason. I miss the coughing, the whispering, the laughing, the rustling of sweet wrappers (seriously who brings sweets to watch Medea?), the clinking of champagne glasses, the smell of old patrons some of whom would have seen Olivier, Ashcroft, maybe even David Garrick in this very theatre. I miss it with an intensity no horoscopes could ever articulate. And until then, I think I speak for all theatre lovers here, I am not the person I am meant to be without my beloved theatre. Now, fuck off, i'm off to eat a crunchie and binge-watch Arrested Development. 

If you thought Keith Brown's readings actually made some sort of cosmic sense, please email dignitas@dignitas.ch to book an appointment with one of our specialists today. And if you think that's too dark a joke to end the article on, don't worry, it's not a joke.