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So, just what qualifies me to be able to criticise the work of other people? What makes me think that I am allowed to comment on a performers ability to play a part? What right do I have to be able to say “actor X is crap”, “Y’s designs are substandard”, “Z’s direction is non-existent”? Nothing qualifies me. Nothing gives me the right. But….are nine years in the building trade the perfect grounding for arts journalism? Might be. Does delivering milk provide the critic of the future a necessary working of knowledge of drama? It just might, yes. There are career journalists, there are career critics (Billington, Spencer, Mark bloody Lawson). Then there’s me. Lil old me. 13 years of good, honest, working class graft. I’m sure I’m not alone, there’ll be others. Others that simply want to tell the truth, that know how it works, that want to understand even more about how it works, that want to really scratch behind the shiny surface and find out what the writer/director and those poncy bleedin’ oh-so-sensitive actors actually intended to do. But we’re not always allowed the space and time to do that. Oh for a double page spread in the Review or the TLS. But that’s not how it works. In the next blog entry, I shall tell you how many actual qualifications I have. Make no mistake, I am fucking brilliant.

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