So here I am, in the room with you, telling you theatre isn’t a dying art form, and half believing it myself. Weird encounter. We both judge ourselves by the company we keep. Maybe one of us paid to be here. There’s eye contact that’s friendly, intense, warm, calculated, electric, sexy, pathetic, threatening, needy, abusive, pretend, too much, standoffish, necessary. A charm offensive, a wobble, and a war. Things go downhill rapidly. “Theatre isn’t a dying art form,” I say. “WTF is this,” you reply. Choreographed shrugging, blood, alcohol. I tell you I’m a good uncle. We think, we talk, about what you want, and decide whilst this isn’t it, it tickles somewhere unexpected and not unpleasant. Second guessing is a waste of time. The music gets louder, the image smokier. Are you getting on board then or not? Straddling the gap between we don’t know what and seriously fucking dull this-is-the-way-it’s-done. “I don’t think I’m safe,” I say and you say the same so we buy into it. We let what happens happen. That’s the point. It’s not proper, it doesn’t count, and hey sunshine, it’s better for it. Knives out.