The Cabaret of Potty People

I love filth. You can have the stars, I will always turn over for a better view of the gutter. Cabaret for Potty People share my passion, and they fly the freak flag high, but despite their zeal seem to have little idea what they’re doing. The show is very much a work-in-progress, so rather than a review I will offer tips.

Your Camden Fringe obsession begins right now

The 2011 Camden Fringe is upon us again, once more semi-miraculously orchestrated by a staff of two, Michelle Flower and Zena Barrie, operating out of a shoebox above a boozecan. And, according to the programme, they are being assisted this year by a frog and a baby.

Park Avenue Cat

It’s a shame cats don’t make any noises which can be conveniently mashed into an onomatopoeic equivalent of ‘wince’, isn’t it?

The Black Diamond

Passing security in their black suits and shades, I descended the plunging stairwell to what seemed the basement of my craziest aunt in 2011, only to wind up in the dark, cluttered Shoreditch bolthole of my richest, most eccentric French uncle in 1963.

Much ado about nothing at Shakespeare’s Globe

A trip to the Globe to sit through three hours of Shakespeare may not sound too appealing to most.

Emperor and Galilean

In Emperor and Galilean, Caesar Julian, last pagan ruler of the Roman and Byzantium empires gives an impassioned and possibly drunk/drugged speech to the citizens of Constantinople. All shall be free to worship as they wish, and the suffocating, false morality of the Christian centuries shall be washed away in a tidal wave of free love, man, and, like, creative thought and tie-dye parties and does anybody have some crisps or something, or maybe some brownies?

Six Rounds

Snipe's Theatre guide for May

Theatre editor Alan Hindle’s checks out every play running in London*.

• Every play may not be included.

Theatre of the mind

The sunshine is crashing down, turning pale, jellyfish-faced Londoners into gleaming red lobsters. On such a beautiful weekend, the beginning, hopefully, of a beautiful summer, what you want is a long, torturous drive to a beach where you can sprawl on a blanket and drink Pimms until you pass elegantly unconscious. Around you the burbling voices of children laughing/screaming. The loose gossip of strangers floating on the sultry breeze. Your iPod is blaring this week’s pop revelation.

But maybe it could be blaring a piece of theatre?

Jamie Blake