24hrs in the Wairarapa - the first 12

10.30am We pull into Martinborough after driving over the hill and head to the nearest café for breakfast. Reading the Sunday papers, sipping our cappuccinos and tucking into a plate of Mexican style eggs in Café Medici seems a fabulous way to fortify ourselves for a big day.

11.30am We stroll around Martinborough, which sits on the site of New Zealand’s first sheep station. Established by Irish immigrant John Martin in the nineteenth century, the streets are curiously laid out in a grid along the lines of a Union flag. The park in the centre where they meet features a small but poignant cenotaph.

We discover a couple of those home ware shops that sell candles, kitchen utensils and notepaper. At Peonies I buy a handful of cards while Him Outdoors rolls his eyes. The wallpaper is gorgeous and the people are pleasant.

12.30pm We drive to Haythornthwaite cottage and it is not yet ready for us. This doesn’t bother us at all as we park the car, dump our bags and set off on our own wine trail.

12.35pm The friendly and persuasive chap at Tirohana Estate pours a glass of pinot noir for Him Outdoors and a chardonnay for me, and books us in for a five course dinner later that night. It is only a short stumble from the cottage where we are staying, so we reckon it will be a good plan.

We sit out on the patio which is clear but chilly. Bob the dog accompanies us, but he has lots of fur. A party arrive and look at the menus, but they soon adjourn indoors telling us that they are not used to it – ‘We’re not from England’ they say, having noticed our accents. They are obviously not from Wellington either.

1.30pm The bloke from Schubert is keen to talk to someone – he is meant to be filling in his tax return. He has lived in England so we talk about football and cats and eating baby octopus – I’m not sure what those last two have to do with England, but I get the impression he will chat about anything rather that contemplate the complexities of the IRD.

The Tribianco they sell here is deliciously unpretentious and we buy a bottle to take back to the cottage. It is a wonderfully drinkable blend of chardonnay, pinot gris and muller-thurgau, with all the benefits of the tasty trio. We also pick up a Marion’s vineyard pinot noir and a sweet Dolce both of which we plan to ‘cellar’, or at least get home in the car.

2.30pm We clink off to Margrain where the lady serving the tastings is more reticent as she has many groups to serve, and probably no forms to fill in. The tasting notes more than make up for the experience, however with their blend of information and ridicule. For example, the chardonnay ‘brings an air of expectation as it works its way over eager taste buds with all the subtlety of a stealth bomber’.

Margrain also do a Methode Traditionnelle which they have named La Michelle after the lucky, lucky girl ‘who has recently returned from a decade of study and travel to join the family business’. Some people have all the luck – my mum is a teacher and my dad works with computers, and they both drink down the pub. Oh well, we bought a bottle of the bubbles which are, ‘Clean and tingling, it shows good manners while introducing itself then wags its tail in sheer delight like an overzealous Labrador puppy’.

Him Outdoors, as always, favours the pinot noir – ‘The nose is eager and brimming with warmth and generosity as it rises fragrantly from the glass, presenting juicy prune fruit combined with spicy tamarillo and plum chutney aromas. Grilled prosciutto on warm rye sprinkled with cracked black pepper tantalises while a hint of hedge-pig nest ensures that the wine is at once fruity and complex, like a teenage love affair.’ Should I be worried?

3.30pm There is still a tiny space left in our rucksack and half an hour of wine tasting time left, so we weave our way through sheep-studded vines to Martinborough Vineyard. Here a very friendly young woman raves about Toast Martinborough with us and we convince her to attend the Beervana event in Wellington at the end of August. Once we explain that there are lots of different tasty beers and hardly any fat men in lederhosen, she is more than amenable.

Meanwhile we try a fine range of wines, along with a load of other people who are picking and choosing (somewhat more selectively than us, it must be said). We decide to take home a beautifully balanced chardonnay and a gorgeously sexy Te Tera pinot noir. Guess who selects which?

4.30pm Back at the cottage we sit out on the deck to catch the last of the rays of sunshine as they filter over the vines. It is quiet and still out here and we have plenty of bottles to choose from as we sip at the fruits of somebody else’s labours. Mark comes round to light the fire and by the time we move back inside the cottage it is roasty toasty.

There is a selection of videos we can get out for free so we sit curled up on the sofa by the roaring log burner and watch Miss Potter and Kinky Boots. Both are pretty terrible – particularly the former but then I can’t stand Renee Zellweger and should have known better than to watch an American try to play a British icon – but we are comfortable and happy.

7.30pm We almost don’t want to leave, but we have dinner waiting for us across the road so we walk out into the chill night air. We are welcomed back to Tirohana with a glass of Sauvignon Squeeze and seated at a table by the fire. The ambience is fantastic and the service is exemplary throughout the night.

And the food is certainly something to write home about. For starters I have salmon fishcakes with a dill aioli on greens while Him Outdoors goes for the signature Kingsmeade Blue and broccoli soup served with fresh homemade bread. Main course is Moroccan crusted rack of lamb on a jewelled couscous served with a fruit tagine for me and fillet of beef, dauphinoisse potatoes, seasonal vegetables and wine jus for Him, although he mutters profanities about the word 'jus'.

All of it is so delicious that each mouthful is a delight. We are caught between wanting more because it’s so good but knowing we have eaten sufficient. We both have the Warm Apple strudel with a vanilla bean ice cream for dessert and then we finish up with fresh filter coffee and petit fours. I love the language of food – there is an art to making those menus sound as good as they taste.

10pm After Him Outdoors has waffled on to the guys at the restaurant about Burnley’s promotion (it’s a topic that they obviously find intriguing) we stumble back to our accommodation. With all that wine sitting around it would be rude not to have a nightcap, so we stir up the fire and sink a pinot before bed.

Blow by Blackening

The Blackening
Bats Theatre, 10 – 27 June

We are looking forward to this play. Various reviews have described it as ‘homegrown theatre of unease’ with ‘considerable dramatic tension’ (John Smythe); ‘a New Zealand version of Sam Shepard’ which is ‘all very powerful, intensely theatrical, melodramatic, and occasionally poetic’ (Laurie Atkinson); ‘one of the most polished productions you’ll see this year, [and] one of the most deeply disturbing’; ‘this script is pitch black [and] scary, taking us into unsavoury psychological territory’; ‘This is quality work. You won't leave the theatre with a smile on your face and a skip in your step, in fact you might just want to sleep with the light on for a while...’ (Lynn Freeman). So far; so intriguing.

And it’s got Jed Brophy who, as I know from watching Trainspotting and Skin Deep, is an excellent actor. So, as I say, we are looking forward to this play.

The set (Tony De Goldi) doesn’t disappoint – it’s one of the best I’ve ever seen at Bats; the carpet of leaves crunching under foot in the frosty atmosphere; the gnarled tree with a pile of apples beneath; the side of a caravan with blinds drawn; the washing line strung off to the side hung with floral dresses; a swing seat like a crucifix or a portal calmly positioned centre stage right – all hint at myriad possibilities and high expectations.

One character sits sharpening an axe as we file into the theatre. His rhythmic strokes and compulsive commitment auger bad things to come and they synchronise with the obsessive concentration of the other character who rocks gently to the music in his headphones – each isolated in their private world. Then the birdsong flits across the senses (superb sound by Stephen Gallagher) and Jed Brophy enters.

He is Mal (first bludgeoning symbolism – the clue is in the name) and he has returned from somewhere to the family orchard. He has been away for ten years and doesn’t know that the apples have got blight and his younger brother Broody (music man, played by Jack Shadbolt) fell out of a tree when he was ten, landing on his head and resulting in a disability that leaves him with the mental age of six.

He (and the audience) is helpfully told all this by the axe grinder, Dan (Jonny Moffatt), in clipped tones and ill-fitting overalls. This workaday outfit contrasts with Mal’s city suit, as he spins yarns about being a manager and a pilot, none of which turn out to be true. Dan is all repressed something-or-other – rage; sexuality; resentment; tenderness; your guess is as good as mine.

Mal alternates between smiling conviviality and flaring temper, while Broody is awkward but adorable with childish gestures in an adult’s body. They seem to be getting to know each other and Mal builds Broody a go-kart so he can enter a race, even though Dan won’t let him go beyond the gate into the wide world (that’s us – the audience).

Neither will Dan let Mal sleep indoors, and he sets his sleeping bag out among the leaves and under the stars. In the moonlight he thinks he sees May, his former girlfriend and Dan’s wife, but she turns away without speaking to him. So did he see her or was she a dream, or is she a ghost (she’s all dressed in white and we’ve never seen her)? We’re told he hurt her, but he loved her and then he left her, and he is surprised she has settled down with Dan. But has she? It starts to get confusing.

He wakes up to a beautiful dawn and a perfect cross fade – I’m noticing the lighting (Jennifer Lal), which may not be a good sign. Things seem to settle down to normal, or whatever passes for that on an orchard miles from anywhere with suggestions of psychosis. With signalling verging on the semaphore, Dan says they have to chop the trees down to prevent the disease from spreading. Mal finds an apple still clinging to the tree. He plucks it and bites into it but it is rotten and he spits it out at us – right at us; that’ll teach us to sit in the front row.

Pop, who used to thrash the brothers when they were boys, is still on the scene. He emerges from the caravan with a cane in his hand and a hat pulled over his eyes and he roams through the trees looking for Broody. Mal steps up to the swing and takes the whipping on his behalf. Clearly Jonny Moffat is playing Pop, but the question arises, is Dan playing Pop? The caravan appears to be the tiring room and we wonder whether the characters are acting out other characters for themselves more than for us.

May appears once more; again she is wreathed in white and is clearly Jack Shadbolt – there are titters from the audience at the sight of ‘her’ hairy masculine legs protruding from her nightie. But this time she is clearly Broody; Mal is alarmed and Dan disturbingly allows himself to be seduced. The lingerie drops to the floor and is removed to a dress-up box in which the hat and cane are discovered. My friend asks, ‘what is going on?’ Her husband tells her to shush.

Mal puts on the dress and is intimidated by Dan into tears and recriminations. What happened to May? According to Dan, she slit her wrists after Mal left her pregnant. Her name itself expresses uncertainty and implies there are other factors. Is the relationship between Dan and the personification of May physical? Is this another outlet for the repressed emotion in Dan which explodes (Pops) into violence?

The emblematic apples are the death of Mal – quite literally as he chokes on one, after stuffing his face, knowing they are poisoned. The fairytale and biblical elements are overwhelming. He brought a knife with him which he gave to Broody. As Broody toys with it at the end and looks dreamily into the distance, we are left to ponder what he will do with it. Will there be a sacrifice, and if so, of whom?

The bows are a highlight as the actors shake off their multiple personalities and finally connect with the audience. As we leave the theatre we are all bemused. Friend’s husband says he couldn’t engage with the play – judging from the audience response, he is not the only one. No one seems to know what was going on, although they don’t want to admit it lest they seem ignorant.

So they fall back on pretension – exhibit A; ‘Since the opening of this production, I’ve heard some audience members express discontent at the staging conventions (role doubling etc) confusing with the symbolism in the narrative, making the plot hard to follow. However, I found this served to intensify my understanding of the text, in which much of the pleasure lies in attempting to decipher this world.’ (Fiona McNamara). Well doesn’t she think she’s the clever one?

The only thing I can’t decipher is whether it’s the fault of the writer (Paul Rothwell) or the director (Paul McLaughlin) that this play makes no sense whatsoever. Due to the tight production values and the complex characterisation, I think the director can largely be excused. I blame the playwright. When I got home in answer to Him Outdoors (who had wisely refused to come – ‘I won’t like it’) I praise the set, the sound, the lighting and the acting. He nods sagely; ‘Say no more’.

Quite a quote

Thanks to my dear friend who reminded me in a comment on my last post of one of my favourite quotes from Friedrich Nietzsche. ‘What does not kill me, makes me stronger’ is something I often chant to myself while struggling through a triathlon or a particularly daunting day at work.

I was thinking of quotes this weekend when at my writer’s group, someone mentioned one of Jack Kerouac’s essentials for his spontaneous prose method of writing: ‘Be in love with your life’. This is a wonderful sentiment, although sometimes hard to follow when you are stuck in an office with the wind and rain howling and lashing outside.

But at least I am not stuck out in it. I have food, shelter, and love – so really, what more could I want? I have a job that I don’t hate and I live in a beautiful (albeit windy) part of the world. I have a loving husband, a great family, fabulous friends, and an adorable cat. I have had a good education and enjoy fine health and the ability to pursue my theatrical and sporting interests.

And I am lucky – I know it. When I see people living in rubbish tips in the Philippines or dying of disease and starvation in Africa, or bound by restrictive fundamentalism in many parts of the world, I think ‘There, but for the grace of god, go I’ (attributed to John Bradford). Another of my favourite quotes is from Cecil Rhodes (although I have also seen it attributed to Rudyard Kipling): ‘To be born English is to win first place in the lottery of life'. At first glance this smacks of arrogance, but I believe it is actually humility – we do know how lucky we are.

But luck plays its part only to a certain extent. After that it is up to us to determine our fate, or, as the great William Shakespeare said; ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars/ But in ourselves, that we are underlings'. We have to make the difference, as Jean Jacques Rousseau pointed out; ‘Man is born free but everywhere he is in chains’.

Man by his very nature will always try and achieve greatness, and he may often do this at the expense of others – ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others’ (George Orwell) – whereas the converse nature of man is that someone will always try to preach tolerance and right the wrongs of inequality. ‘Think for yourselves and let others enjoy the privilege to do so too'. (Voltaire).

Of course, the Bible echoes this attitude – ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’. Honesty and tolerance are the golden rule to live by, and once again good old Bill steps into the breach; ‘This above all: to thine own self be true’. These two tenets of humanity provide some of my favourite quotes: ‘A man who loves whisky and hates kids can’t be all that bad’ (WC Fields) and ‘Someone said football is a matter of life and death, and I said, Listen, it's more important than that’ (Bill Shankly).

This is just off the top of my head and I realise, looking over this list, I have missed out many funny, witty, pithy sayings, but these are more than comedy quips – they are mantras for modern living, without the popular psycho-babble. What are yours?

The other thing I notice is that all of my favourite quotations are from men, and I haven’t even mentioned Oscar Wilde. There could be some form of heated debate as to why this should be so, but for now let’s leave the final bons mots to Emmeline Pankhurst: ‘Deeds not words!’

Believe it or not...

When I was a child my big brother used to tell me all sorts of nonsense and I believed it – ‘brrr’ was Latin for cold; the strips that hung from the back of cars were to prevent motion sickness (what are they for, actually?); the tunnels that held up the nearby fly-over were used as air-raid shelters… and so it went on.

It was like living in a permanent episode of Call My Bluff. Except I never did. And it wasn’t until I blurted things out at school to be met with an incredulous look and the words, ‘Who told you that, your brother?’ that I realised the full extent of my gullibility.

I never had a younger sibling, so I could never wreak my revenge. No one ever believed my stories, even (sadly enough) when they were true. But now I am an aunty and all that is due to change. My nephew is four. He’s at that age where he’s learning things, before he becomes a teenager and knows it all.

He’s quite a serious chap and constantly seeking answers and explanations. When I went away for a week, he (and his mother) fed Chester in our absence. I bought a little gift and said it was from Chester. He furrowed his little brow and said, ‘Chester didn’t really buy it, did he mummy?’ Mummy – bless her – is equally unfettered with an overactive imagination and replied that no, of course he didn’t, he’s a cat.

The other week we were out at a café and nephew was rootling around in the flowerbed where he came across some rat poison. After his hands had been thoroughly washed, the torrent of questions began. They mainly centred on why we wanted to kill rats in the first place. Mummy explained that it was because they carried disease.

‘How do they carry disease, mummy?’ he piped. ‘In their handbags’ I replied. Furrowing of brow and quizzical looks ensued. Mummy would neither confirm nor deny (fence-sitter) and I felt the situation slipping away, especially when he pronounced that rats didn’t have handbags. So I asked him if he had ever seen a rat (with or without accessory) and he had to admit that he hadn’t.

I think I’ve got him. Of course, I can’t know for sure until he drops it into casual conversation in the school playground and opens himself up for ridicule, but I think the woodcock may be near the gin, as they say in Shakespeare (trust me!).

You may consider this cruel, but apparently it’s just character-building. And he’ll thank me one day, when he has tales of aunt-cruelty to tell on his own blog. He may even publish a book about how mean we all were (preferrably in an Irish location) and he'll make a sob-story fortune.

Take (at least) two at bedtime

A couple of months ago I began hallucinating about the perfect beer to drink after a long walk. It would be fair to say that all of the pints that sprang to mind were English and most of them were milds.

I believe, however that I may have tracked down a Kiwi tipple to suit the purpose. Kid Chocolate by Yeastie Boys is an immensely sessionable 3.6% and has a satisfying thirst-quenching taste. The boys describe it as ‘chestnut coloured with a little autumn fruit on both the nose and the palate’.

It is heartily enjoyed by Him Outdoors in Bar Edward where he retires with his running club after they have thrashed their legs up and down the hills. Admittedly he is from Lancashire (I may have mentioned Burnley recently…) and he does possess a flat cap but you don’t have to own one (or stuff ferrets down your trousers) to appreciate this fine English-mild style ale. It’s champion and certainly not lightweight.

Which brings me conveniently (and perhaps contrivedly) to the name; apparently Kid Chocolate was a Cuban boxer who enjoyed ‘wild success both in the boxing ring and in society life during a span of the 1930s’. Thanks Wikipedia. He was the world lightweight champion and the inspiration for the character Chocolate Drop in Clifford Odets’ play Golden Boy – the Yeastie Boys 2008 offering. Do I detect a theme?

Meanwhile, we attended the launch of their newest brew – Pot Kettle Black – last night at the Malthouse. This is the new version of the American style porter that so impressed at Beervana last year. And I’m pleased to announce it doesn’t disappoint. Judging from the tasting notes on the Yeastie Boys website, at 6% ABV it is both stronger and bitterer than the previous year’s offering. It certainly packs a punch. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

It’s dark, bitter and hoppy and tastes like iron and chocolate. It’s a tough no-nonsense drop with a malty finish that makes you sense your haemoglobin levels rising by the mouthful. Vampires might drink this as a socially acceptable draught. It just tastes like it’s beneficial. Just what the good doctor ordered – if you had a particularly good one who was not averse to prescribing alcohol, that is.

This morning as Him Outdoors bounced out of bed he remarked, ‘I should drink that every night. I slept well and my legs don’t hurt.’ This may sound like a random recommendation until put into context – he has erratic sleep patterns at the best of times and had done an intensive track session before heading down t’pub. Ye gods, Yeastie’s good!

Cultural Collision

Living in New Zealand, as I do, there are many things that I will never get used to. For a start the seasons are the wrong way round – how can you have Christmas in the middle of summer, Bonfire Night in spring when you have to wait until 10pm to set off the fireworks, and Easter when all of nature is curling up and going to sleep rather than bursting into life?

Secondly, they call the wrong thing football. Here’s a tip – if it’s ‘a solid or hollow sphere’ that you kick with ‘the lower extremity of the leg below the ankle’ then it’s football. If you pick up an ovoid inflatable and run with it, then it’s either cheating, or it’s rugby – union or league depending on the level of violence involved – American football if there’s padding, and Aussie rules if there are no discernible rules whatsoever.

And other thing: although we share a similar history, the popular iconography is far more American than English and, according to a friend I mentioned this to, becoming more so each day. I noticed this when I was writing the Midsummer Night’s Dream review. My 80s was clearly a very different time to most Kiwis’ 80s. And this is not the only decade to suffer this phenomenon.

When we first arrived to these fair shores we were invited to a fancy dress party (the love of those is also a Kiwi thing I don’t understand – Him Outdoors has his theories which I have mentioned before but shan’t again). The theme was 70s. Naturally, we went as punks – ripped jeans, tatty leather and safety pins galore – expecting to hear The Sex Pistols, The Damned, The Clash, and Siouxsie and the Banshees.

Everyone else was dressed in kaftans, headbands, love beads and painted flowers. They tripped around drippily to Johnny Cash, Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Mamas and the Papas, and The Beach Boys. Wrong decade, surely, I thought – and may well have said. I was an aggressive punk after all – I felt like a Hell’s Angel that had just turned up to Woodstock.

This feeling of displacement continues daily. We are lulled into a false sense of security and familiarity – they play cricket; their judicial and political system are based on ours (although how someone who is not even wanted by their electorate can still occupy a seat in Parliament bewilders me); they screen Coronation Street twice a week (it’s a year behind) and they speak a version of our language. But the popular iconography – from the plastic news presenters to the ‘fashion’ of vests and baseball caps – is largely American.

Not all, I hasten to add. There are pockets of Scottish ‘it’s cold and it’s wet and we like it’ heritage (Southland); there is a large Yorkshire ‘we are better than everyone else and why talk when you can grunt?’ element (Otago); there are prime examples of Home Counties ‘what school did you go to and who are your parents?’ affectation (Canterbury); and a delightful patch of faux French ‘let’s fly the tricolour and call our streets by Gallic names’ chic (Akaroa).

Of course there is a rich and distinctive Māori culture which adds a unique and valuable component to the heritage. And there are colourful swathes of Pacific Island traditions, Asian customs, and all sorts of bits and pieces of European inheritance from the Italian-style blessing of the boats at Island Bay to a strange Viking connection at Dannevirke (settled by a handful of Danes and Norwegians).

The result of all this is a little curious and unsettling like one of those dreams where you know something is different but you’re not sure what. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but it is odd. Some things are simply ingrained in your formative years and when they change, you may never get used to them. Ah well, ‘Vive La Difference!’ as they say in Akaroa.

Dream On

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Stagecraft, Gryphon Theatre, 24 May - 6 June

In his diary Samuel Pepys called A Midsummer Night’s Dream, “the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life”. Director Paul Kay and assistant Joy Heller would take delight in this description of their version of the bard’s silliest comedy.

Set in the '80s with all the fashion and music that engenders, this production eschews any hidden depths (filial duty; loyalty and compromise; sexual politics; gender inequality) to frolic in the shallows.

This approach sits comfortably with the audience who are content to laugh at fluorescent lycra leggings, big hair, shoulder pads and sparkly eye-shadow. A friend once asked me in all seriousness why grown women wear glitter make-up; ‘Just who or what are they hoping to attract, and why?’ He’s got a point.

The set design (Anna Lowe) is intriguing with many levels used to great effect to denote the power struggles and parallel worlds imperative to any production of this play. Fairies eavesdrop on the mezzanine level and leap off it, and it would have had even greater use had Oberon (Stephen Walter) not broken his finger in rehearsal.

The coloured squares on the dance-floor suggest a Michael Jackson video as does the striking lighting design (Don Blackmore). Wreathes of dry ice may get the front row coughing but they add a mystical element to the wood, and the roving spotlights create a nightmare episode from a twisted fairytale into which the lovers stumble.

Helena (Melanie Camp) is the best of the lovers displaying a fine acting range from lover to fighter – one minute pathetic puppy dog; the next fearsome virago. The wedding feast (that is not a plot spoiler – if you don’t know it by now…) is organised by Anna Beccard as Philostrate, the wedding planner – she is my one to watch for the future. Meanwhile Matt Bentley as Theseus comes into his own as he harangues the mechanicals in their performance, channelling his inner Johnny Vegas.

His wife, Hippolyta (Jasmine Embrechts) gets to wear all the best costumes, looking resplendent in bikini, riding jacket and a distinctly un-'80s flapper frock. Most of the costumes, however, are hideous (although excellent; the wardrobe team are to be highly commended and I promise not to ask if any of those items are their own).

The fairies are all renamed as '80s constructs from Goth to Legwarmer and everything in-between. Thankfully we’re not in America or Bumbag would have to be Fannypack. They are more off-putting than ethereal, but Puck (Reuben Brickell) is fluid in his movements and I’m not surprised to learn he is a contortionist. He brings a mix of strutting arrogance and fawning cringe to the role which gives him an uncanny resemblance to Gollum.

The interaction between their king, Oberon, and queen, Titania (Michelle Jordan), is one of the highlights of the play. Oberon looks like Adam Ant and sounds like Keith Richard – the monotonous tone is originally jarring yet he is good enough to carry it off – ‘I am invisible’ – and my companion declares that she finds him quite sexy by the curtain call.

Titania occasionally appears awkward when she delivers her soliloquies and the audience attention wanders during her static stance. This could be because she is uncomfortable in her dominatrix outfit, but when she cracks her whip and stalks the stage we are soon brought back to heel. Their odd duet, Love is a Battlefield, has an edge, and not just because of the hilariously erratic dance (God we took ourselves seriously didn’t we?), proving that ‘the course of true love never did run smooth’.

The rude mechanicals are the other stand-out of the show. The role of the long-suffering foreman, Peter Quince becomes Petra, a giddy aerobics instructor. I was concerned about a female cast in a male role (one of my frequent bugbears with staging Shakespeare) but I needn’t have worried. Rebecca Parker is one of Wellington’s finest amateur actors and she enhances every nuance of the script with a delightful performance.

Despite some over-simplification of the text (trust your audience!) these scenes are excellent and the play-within-a-play at the end, which so often seems like an unnecessary addendum, is a lot of fun. Alan Carabott once again displays his impeccable comic timing in the part of Bottom (who else?); Gillian Boyes is impossibly cute as Snout/Wall; and Helen White also steps up to the gender bending challenge of Frank Flute/Thisbe, finding a new paradox in the lines, ‘Nay, faith; let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming’.

The musical interludes provide distraction and a unifying theme as the cast break out into choreographed movements (like Fame School came to Whitireia Community Polytechnic). There was some great music in the ‘80s (The Cure; The Smiths; Depeche Mode; The Pogues; The Clash; Madness; Fun Boy 3; OMD; Blondie; The Pretenders; New Order; Happy Mondays; The Stone Roses; The Beastie Boys; Echo and the Bunnymen; Adam and the Ants – I could go on, and on) but none of it is used.

There is a hint of Ultravox, The Human League and Frankie Goes to Hollywood but many of the cast, who weren’t alive then, will think that the 80s consists solely (or soullessly) of tasteless disco pop and air guitars. A friend told me she feels slightly insulted that these youngsters look at the 80s as we look at the 60s – something to be scorned and ridiculed or plundered for comic effect and fancy dress parties – but we lived through it and we wore those clothes (and that hair and make-up) without irony.

Paul gleefully admits he has done the decade a great disservice. Apparently he has a level below which he refused to stoop (Air Supply and Def Leppard were mentioned) for which I suppose we must be grateful. For the final number, the cast line up to sing I Want to Know What Love Is underpinning (or is that undermining? Paul rants, ‘you should never have to apologise for a play’) the epilogue. Rumour has it one earnest cast member asked what their motivation was to sing the song. Apparently Paul replied, "Motivation? You’re a f*&%ing fairy!" I can only hope that story isn’t apocryphal (that’s my zeitgeist, Paul!).

My sister, not a big bardolater, loved it – she said it brought Shakespeare alive for her. This show should tour schools. Some of Shakespeare’s plays are for the gentry and others appeal to the groundlings. Paul told me he would never be so irreverent with King Lear for example. Having seen how well he can act angst, I would love to see him direct something weighty and dark. Maybe next time…