What’s so great about Shakespeare? There, I’ve said it. I don’t understand it. Can’t even stay awake. And I think that’s completely normal – it’s just that people still think it’s clever to pretend they love it, daahling, when everyone knows they’d rather be at home watching Midsomer Murders. Have you ever not understood Midsomer Murders? There you are. Shakespeare language is all well and good for the olden days, but who wants to watch hours of sexist Ukip propagandists droning on about dead white kings in words nobody even uses? Like “hawk from a handsaw”. What’s that all about? I’ve changed it to “sausage from a selfie stick”, and you know what, children love it, that’s my litmus test. I’d love to think Shakespeare knew more about accessibility than me, but I think I can be really rigorous in saying, I don’t think so!
You have to wonder what sort of country literally worships a privately-educated property speculator who never bothered writing decent parts for women, and don’t get me started on the way he deals with mental health issues that we all ignore because he’s the oh so marvellous “Bard of Swanage”. Whatever. That gives him this total get-out-of-jail card for writing a totally irresponsible play about suicide? Well, not in my adaptation, he doesn’t.
So I’ve cut everything about self-slaughter, which loses a lot of fat, and turned Ophelia into Phil, this fabulous, whip-smart drag queen – it’s done with a lot of respect – then reclaimed the ghost scene for Hamlette’s mother, Gertrude. I’ve renamed her Linda, less lah-di-dah, to correct the gender imbalance. So I had to replace Gertrude with Hamlette’s father, Eddie, but that’s fine, because he’s now in a same-sex relationship with Uncle Claudius, which finally makes sense of Hamlette’s struggle, especially now I’ve written in this magical new ending, where Hamlette’s like, whatever, and she and Laertes – Rob, in my version – decide to open a farm shop. Because wouldn’t it be great if Shakespeare was, just sometimes, as good as the Archers?
