Tag Archives: John Norton

Straight Talk by Dan Anthony


Chapter, Cardiff Tues 17 Nov 2009, 8pm – £3 on the door

The Dylan Thomas Centre, Swansea Wed 18 Nov  2009, 7:30pm – £3

The Riverfront, Newport Thur 19 Nov 2009, 7:45pm – £4


Inspector Williams – Jams Thomas

Mysterious Informant – John Norton


Simon West


Straight Talk

My first visit to the redesigned Chapter Arts centre, with its new airport-lounge style café-bar area, was to see the latest “On The Edge” production – a reading of Straight Talk, Dan Anthony’s clever, verbose (one might even say Stoppardian) comedy about a by-the-book copper and a mysterious, philosophical informant, and their meetings in a park. Pacily directed by Simon West, it was lifted still more by Jams Thomas’ comic timing; John Norton was also impressive as the informant, although his American accent was a tad distracting.


The Keep by Gwyn Thomas


Chapter, Cardiff, Wed 13 Dec 2006, 8pm, £3 on the door.


Ben Morton- Owen Garmon

Con Morton – Gareth Potter

Miriam Morton – Olwen Medi

Russell Morton – Dean Rehman

Wallace Morton – John Norton

Oswald Morton – Arwel Gruffydd

Mr Wilmot/ Caradoc Slee – Michael Kelligan


Simon West


Gas Station Angel by Ed Thomas


Chapter, Cardiff, Wed 23 Nov 2005, 8pm, £3 on the door



Ace – Arwel Davies

Bron – Lucy Lutman

Bri- Dean Rehman

Marshall – John Norton

Manny – Jams Thomas

Mati – Gerri Smith

Mary Anne – Anwen Williams

Griff- Gareth Potter

Dyrig }

Keith }

Mr Entertainment } – Alastair Sill

PC }



Michael Kelligan


Welsh Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit, mocked the Guardian headline-writer when Ed Thomas’s play was first produced by The Royal Court in London, neatly conflating their Cymrophobia, their bourgeois suspicion of lyrical language and their celebration of being an unashamed Londoncentic arbiter of cultural taste – rabbit being one of those famously cockney rhyming-slang words for talking too much.

It was also, I think, the last time the paper correctly used the phrase Welsh Rabbit, albeit out of context, rather than the silly gentrification Welsh Rarebir which is now favoured in their food pages and elsewhere. Again, its denial of the social-history implications of the Welsh having to pretend cheese on toast is as good as the native rabbit which the English squires denied them, is part and parcel of the colonial mindset that helps explain which English (unlike Scots or European) critics just never got Ed Thomas.

It’s ironic because, as this modest revival of Gas Station Angel as a script-in-hand production reminds us, Ed Thomas’s plays are all about being Welsh and the tribulations therein.

We are reminded, too, of Thomas’s whirling and whimsical use of words and (like other Welsh playwrights) his fascination with the Underworld and that thin line between so-called normality and insanity, the world in which many of us live, the world of the imagination – and the right to live in that world.

After all, “to be Welsh in the twenty-first century you’ve got to have imagination,” says one of the characters in a line that seems at first like a self-deprecating joke but which resonates much more.

It’s a tale of two families, neither of which might be considered conventional.

Ace and his parents live in a house about to collapse into the sea and his mam gets the fairies mixed up with the men from the council.

Bron lives with her family not far away: one brother who loses it and disappears, another who confesses to being a psychopathic sheep-killer, another who is simply simple-minded and a dad whose darts don’t reach the dart-board any more.

Ace and Bron are the Romeo and Juliet figures whose story just might hold out hope for the future if they could only get past the secrets and lies of the past – familiar Ed Thomas territory.

The problem is that a play like this needs a totally committed cast, one that understands Thomas’s sense of humour, his metaphors, his lyrical pace and, in this ad hoc company, none really has had the chance. The constraints of these On The Edge readings, with only a couple of days’ rehearsal, also means that any sense of ensemble – absolutely crucial here – is absent.

It looked and sounded as if this admittedly complex script defeated director Michael Kelligan and most of the actors in terms of the narrative (it goes back and forth in time), the rhythms, the characterisation, the comedy and the tragedy. There are some good moments but they are few and far between.

Those that aren’t familiar with Thomas’s work would, I suspect, be puzzled on this evidence and those that are would have a job persuading anyone that this is indeed a marvellous play, all about identity and family and selective memory and love and imagination and, fundamentally, about Wales at the start of a new era.

For the allegories to work, we must first accept the reality of the characters and situations – and we can’t here. Despite some gallant attempts to find in the short time allotted some sense in this multilayered epic the company offers neither realism nor anything deeper.

David Adams