I took a
lady to see A play with the word play in
the title, twice (a comedy) at one of the theatres around Shaftesbury
Avenue earlier this week, my only prior intelligence of the evening being the
play’s title, the lady’s attractive properties, and the positive reviews of
both of the evening’s components provided to me by a fellow faux-connoisseur –
although he qualified his opinion of my companion by saying that it was not
based on an intimate acquaintance, and then further qualified this qualification
with a laugh and an assurance that although they had slept together they had
never discussed sixteenth century French poetry. It was midway through the
second act of A play with the word play
in the title, twice (a comedy), after a bit with a dog, a misunderstanding,
an absurdity, a couple of one-liners and a sequence of unlikely combinations -
for the play did indeed live up to its name - that I realised he may not have
been joking. The give-away, so to speak, was the sideways contortion that
culminated in my ear being at once probed and cleaned by the errant tongue of
my libidinous companion. It is this sexual assault in a public place, my
educated reader, this deflowering backed by riotous laughter – and only
curtailed by a casual allusion to a secretive condition that I was at the time
suffering from - that forces me to advise you against seeing A play with the word play in the title,
twice (a comedy) with a whore.
Rex
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