We were in Bergen to see the – our – student theatre company Immaturus perform the 70s cult musical classic The Rocky Horror Show. For those who don’t know: transvestite aliens, naughty lingerie, a spooky mansion and a Frankensteinesque yet ‘perfect’ artificially created man should about sum it up. It was all performed in Nynorsk which sounded surprisingly good. There is just something about a... plump bloke with make-up, high heels and a corset (Dr. Frank N. Furter). I was gleefully reminded of Eddie Izzard. All in all it was great, a job well done, we loved it! Well, that was the one night. The day after we went again, because we sort of went to Bergen specifically to see the play and because it was a midnight special where we would, according to Rocky Horror tradition, shout and throw stuff at specific moments in the play. Let me repeat that: SPECIFIC moments in the play. Interestingly, most of the audience did not know this or they did know but didn’t care because it’s easy to forget something like that when you’re drunk. As a result, instead of shouting ‘slut’ (for example (no really, you’re supposed to (but do check beforehand, will you?))) when Janet (or in this case, Janne) entered the stage, people would shriek ‘slut’ from the moment she entered till she went off again. This happened in all cases. Kudos to the actors who managed to perform brilliantly in spite of the orang-utans. I would have planted my stiletto-heel into an eye before the first act was over. For example into the moustache-infested face of the amoebae who sat in front of me and apparently felt an overpowering urge to ‘laugh’ hard for the entire – entrance to exit – first appearance of the aforementioned Dr. Frank N. Furter. I could see his girlfriend twisting in her seat in shame, poor thing. Anyway, it was brilliant nonetheless and such a success that there will be extra shows in June. Not bad for an amateur production!
The next weekend we were in London. Again, to see a play. We are very cultural, you know. This time it was Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot with Sir Ian McKellen as one of the leading characters. We have both read the play and had always wanted to see it. The scenery was spectacular. They had blended the balconies on either side of the stage in with the scenery but given it a dusty, dilapidated look, with broken beams sagging down from the ceiling, a high old wall as a back-drop and a twisted and gnarly old tree centre-stage – everything greyish, dusty and old. The acting was great and made what are essentially two long nonsensical absurd acts go by very quickly. We also saw the musical Oliver!, which we almost missed because we couldn’t find the bloody theatre. First we went to the wrong one and were told to just go out and straight ahead and we’d see it easily enough. You’d think a theatre-building would be somewhat of an eye catcher if you follow the road it lies at, but we ended up walking in random circles until we suddenly saw a neon arrow pointing further down an alley. We were certain we’d be turned away but we were helpfully shown to our seats all the way on the upper floors. We missed the first 15 minutes but the rest was great, with brilliant moving scenery and impressive talents. At the end there was a little farewell speech by Fagin because it was Nancy’s hmhmmthundreth performance and now she was leaving. There were roses and confetti! Afterwards we had a Japanese pork bun which still haunts me and makes me nauseous when I think of it... We met up with a friend of Katrine one of the days as well and went to a restaurant where we had some Brazilian vegetarian food. Now, it’s not like I’m against eating vegetarian food every once in a while, heck I ate a cookie just a few minutes ago, but my previous experience with Brazilian food still comes out at number one. Probably because of all the different types of meat they would come around with all the time. Yes, I ate grilled chicken hearts and loved it.
During the Easter holidays my family came over to visit us. As we have a spare bedroom my sisters could sleep in our house, with my mum and dad a few streets away in a nice old hotel, where my mother had managed to snag an en suite with a view of the garden. They were here for about a week and we did a lot of touristy things like walking the walls, visiting the Castle Museum and Clifford’s Tower, checking out York Minster and of course walking the myriad of streets of York. For Easter Sunday I had hidden a lot of eggs in our ‘patio garden to the rear’ while the girls were getting ready for the Sunday lunch at the hotel. It must be noted that the Easter bunny himself was the most excited and perhaps also enjoyed most of his girlfriend’s share of the eggs... This week was unfortunately cold and dreary, with Spring-time coming back just as the family left again.
Some time later we were invited by one of the teachers at the Norwegian Study Centre to attend the Indian festival of Baisakhi and Holi. This is a festival celebrating the founding of the Sikh community known as Khalsa and is celebrated every year in April. We first had lunch with delicious, towering piles of Indian food. I was the only one at our table to finish his plate (I have the Stomach of Holding +1). After bursting our bellies, we were ushered into an auditorium where we were treated to various contributions from York’s Punjab and Sikh community, such as Sikh prayer and hymn, the story of Baisakhi performed by some local children, the story of Holi, some dancing (which was fun, because we do like the odd Bollywood film) and a few musical recitals. Some of these were performed by quite young but very talented children playing on traditional Indian instruments. There was also a performance by a Dr Sriharan who played a few ... longish songs. We were told it was quite an honour to hear him perform and it’s a good thing they told us. Fellow linguistics geek Janne and I caught ourselves analysing the speech of every single speaker on stage, noting such fascinating things as rhoticity, whether children were likely to have a native English-speaking parent, Yorkshire dialect features, retroflexity of plosives and nasals, clear l’s and other Indian Englishims, and afterwards sheepishly admitting as such to each other.
Then, curry night! The dedicated reader of this randomly updated blog will know that we go boxing here in York. Yesterday was my (Katrine is bravely trying to come to terms with her final essays) final day there as we leave the country at the end of the week. But that particular week we went out and had curry with a lot of the more regular members. Akbar’s is great for curry, so go there if ever you are in York, despite the inevitable ‘ring-sting’ the following day (I was made aware of this beautiful phrase by one of the boxers, and if you don’t get it go have a Chicken Madras and wait). We will miss both Akbar’s and the boxing classes.
Last week we treated ourselves to a short rainride to nearby Malton to see Castle Howard, a 'magnificent 18th-century residence set within 1,000 acres of breathtaking landscape'. It was a welcome break from our studies and it was very nice to see such beautiful architecture and gardens on a sunny day.
We have seen three more films in cinema which I can recommend. Kick Ass, a cartoon-flick, that will leave you with that obscure feeling where you really want to laugh out loud but don’t dare because you don’t know if you should (10 year old girls dressed up as a superhero stabbing people to death with a glaive will do that to you). As the name already implies, it kicks ass. Four Lions gives you somewhat the same feeling, albeit on a more tragic note. This British film is about four terrorists who aspire to become suicide bombers. Although it is a comedy, the end is surprisingly shocking. No wonder families of those who died during the 7/7 attack on the London underground urged people to boycott the film. On the one hand this is understandable as it is not too long ago, but on the other the film does not portray those events and is a different eye-opener and comment regarding terrorism. It will make an impression on you. Then there was Robin Hood! I read a review in a Norwegian newspaper (Aftenposten) that the reviewer missed the old Robin Hood as this film focuses on the events leading up to him becoming the celebrated English outlaw and portrays him slightly different as he is not from a wealthy family. Personally, I think if that is how you feel than you should stick to all the old rehashes of the same old story, such as the painful Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves with Kevin Costner. We liked it. It is a different take on the legend which places the story in a more historical perspective, although not all the events are historically accurate (but then again, neither is Robin). It has some great battle scenes, an interesting relationship between Robin and Marian and, thankfully, and this is the important bit, makes Robin Hood a commoner and not a nobleman. Because frankly a nobleman in 12th century Britain would not have touched a longbow with a 10-foot pole(arm), let alone be so proficient with it that he could spilt an arrow. A myth which Mythbusters have (wait for it) busted, by the way. Robin does not split any arrows, but does have the obligatory fight with Little John before they become friends, and is overall an entertaining film! 
Book-wise I have stumbled across an old favourite I haven’t read (or been read to) for ages: The Wind in the Willows. I really enjoyed both the story and style of narrative by Kenneth Grahame (who is, by the way, a descendant of Robert the Bruce (remember Braveheart anyone?)) along the lines of “‘That’s just the sort of fellow he is!’ observed the disappointed Rat. ‘Simply hates Society! Now we shan’t see any more of him to-day. Well, tell us who’s out on the river?’” A lovely story full of waist-coated animals simply named after the animal they are (I wonder what would have happened if another Badger was introduced in the story), pantries and jovial bachelors with a sense of adventure (as long as they remember to bring a well-stuffed picnic-basket). Also, my mum got me Precious and the Puggies, which is a Scots translation of one of Alexander McCall Smith’s stories about the African detective-lady Precious Ramotswe. Aye, it taks a wee bit o practise as I dinnae ken Scots meself, but it is a awfie muckle treat once ye get the hang o it. It’s aboot somebody in Precious’ schuil pauchlin stuff and hoo she solves her very first case.
Other than that I am of course done with my exams and papers, which went alright I think, and am now cleaning the house while Katrine is finishing her school work. We will be sad to leave, but it will be nice to see Katrine’s half brother and his wife again who will be in London next week, and of course friends and family back home. However, now that Iceland is taking revenge on the lot of us for laughing at them during their precarious economic situation by obstructing air traffic with a bloody volcano (my mum is stuck in Holland, you bastards) it remains to be seen whether we will catch our flight or not.
Tara!
