Chicken according to its full colour, glossy and expensive looking A3 sized poster cum programme is a dark and intruiging (sic) new play.  One of the things that intrigues me is how in this age of word processors and desk-top publishing software a spelling mistake like that can see the light of day.

The story revolves around East Anglia having separated itself from the UK.  Second homes are being reclaimed by the locals, East Anglians are leaving London's concrete jungle to seek the greenness of their native heath and agreement has been reached with the North and Scotland that they will provide steel and sheep, leaving chicken production to East Anglia.  Intriguing.

Most of the action takes place in a chicken processing plant, built where in days gone by witches were put to the ducking stool.  The process is described in lurid detail by the chicken processing supervisor who has taken a returning girl and a flask of intoxicating liquor into the plant at night where despite her obvious willingness he avoids having his evil way with her.  Intriguing.

His teenage daughter refuses to speak to her parents but regales us with stories of happenings that lead us to suppose her to be a witch.  Intriguing.

The chickens escape from their cages and a Hitchcock like Birds situation starts to develop.  Intriguing.

Suddenly an actor shouts something which I didn't catch, the lights go out and the audience claps deliriously.  Intriguing.

The production values are excellent.  The actors are excellent.  The performance space is excellent.  Any one of the hares started by the script could have been developed to a satisfying conclusion but the play went nowhere.  Intriguing.

I went on to the next one, The Bastard Queens.  It didn't go anywhere either but that was rather the point.

Four characters are living in a makeshift hovel.  We see them pick through a supermarket trolley full of junk, pressing some of it into service, an old umbrella for example or a broken carriage clock that serves as a make believe television set which the two male characters spend a lot of time watching, reliving in their imagination favourite programmes of the past.

We see them ritually distribute unlabelled cans that they have scavenged from somewhere, pull them open and eat the contents with their fingers be they baked beans, peach slices or dog food.  

They are it seems survivors of some catastrophe that has wiped out mankind.  They argue a lot.  They make up.  It rains heavily.  The sun shines.  They argue a lot.  They make up.  It rains heavily.  The sun shines.  You get the idea.  I forgot.  Every so often there is loud music, too loud and then feedback, or maybe it's the rain effect again.

Then a fifth character, a pregnant woman, appears.  They are not happy.  She will want some of their food.  Mutterings.  But a child.  Could that herald a rebuilding of civilisation?  The decision is to look after the woman till the child arrives then.......

Alas after a can full of we must suppose tainted grub there is retching and belly clutching by the mum to be.  Our four stick balloons up their jumpers, prance about laughing and joking, prick their balloons and bother the newcomer who dashes off to remove her pregnancy discreetly offstage.  I must congratulate costumes.  It was very realistic.

It goes on.  Fags are found making everyone terribly happy.  They fall out over the fags.  The stranger is raped - to replace the lost child we assume.  There's a general melee at one point with fists flying and falling bodies.  It goes on and eventually it stops where it started.

Are there positives?  Well it is played throughout with energy, enthusiasm and commitment and it is ten minutes shorter than advertised.

After that the opening flourish of the International Festival was a blessed relief.  I stood in the middle of Lothian Road with thousands of others watching colourful projections onto the Usher Hall while the band played.  This was The Harmonium Project.  I took some pictures but The Guardian's are a million times better.

Weren't we lucky it didn't rain.