Stalls, circle, mezzanine and the gods, full to capacity stared down, and waited.
Kramer was centre-stage and all eyes were on him.
Stalls, circle, mezzanine and the gods, full to capacity stared down, and waited.
Kramer exited, stage left.
The stage-manager screamed at him to get back but Kramer took no notice.
My kingdom for a script.
He found one lying on a skip just behind the rickety scenery that defined the on-stage area. Nothing was familiar. Certain passages were underlined but he knew none of them.
Actors were imploring him to return in rather loud stage whispers, other were feeding him his lines. Kramer wanted to escape, but the only doors visible led directly back onto the stage.
He took a deep breath and strode out, confident that it would all come flooding back to him once he calmed down.
It didn't.
And to make matters worse Kramer looked down to discover he was naked.
He panicked again.
Everybody else in the place knew what was happening, so why didn't he. Lines were delivered to him but he made no reply. People pushed him into position, others turned him to face the right light.
Then something happened in Kramer's mind. Something spoke to him. That little voice, deep inside the brain that keeps its head when all about are losing theirs, was trying to get through.
Listen to the brain!
Kramer almost knew he was dreaming, but not quite.
The theatre roared with laughter and Kramer revelled in it, nakedly joining in the action. He opened his mouth and proclaimed in his best voice "How now Gloucester, canst thou not sleep? Are thou sent be Kent to torment me further. Whilst thou not leave and by thy leaving show spirit lacking in the most base Englishman. Speak, villain, or forever shallt thou be damned by thy silence".
The place erupted and Kramer continued.
"Could I but while away the times betwixt now and then, and contemplate, in my solitude, the aspirations and aspidistras and Charley's Aunt and the man from Laramie riding shot-gun on Apollo 13.
"Houston, we have a problem", said Rene Magritte, not wanting to sound Welsh.
Kramer was losing it.
The voice was there again, "We gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do".
Boos and catcalls were coming thick and fast.
Off! Off! Off! they shouted but Kramer would have none of it. "Friends, Romans and people who return their library books late, lend me a fiver 'til Monday. Don't knock the rock until you've tried it and remember this my good and faithful servants, it is better to have ironed your own shirt than a rose by any other name. So there".
The Stage Manager, watching dumb struck from the wings, pulled hard on the signal box type lever he was holding.
Kramer, naked, sweating and still in full, gibbering flow, fell through.
