Farm Fatale

I was on my way to the Southbank Centre to see a play. It was last-last weekend, precisely, the Saturday. Tommy Robinson’s fanboys were clogging up the zone 1 pubs, St George’s flags tied around their necks like capes. All the way from Embankment, across the river, union jack st George union jack st George — tourist or fascist or y2k britpop revival? Spin the wheel. I was there to see a play called Farm Fatale. A group of scarecrows in a field after the climate collapse, after all the birds have fled or died. They jiggle around on stage and tell us about the farms and farmers that made them. They tell us that they now run a scarecrow radio show — they play music (they’re in a band) and birdsong (because they miss the birds!!) and they interview the last bee in Europe. Then a giant egg plops out the back of an enormous furry mass. They show us the barn that they keep more of these giant eggs in. They spray the eggs with fine mist, the eggs glow. They serenade the eggs. They spy a…