the liberal elite

Liberals: you only have yourselves to blame. 

Donald Trump did not say 'all Mexicans are rapists'. Nor did he even say 'they're rapists', as a casual, racist brushstroke of an entire country's core character. 

He said that Mexico, as a nation, was not sending over their brightest talents to aid the economy of America. Rather, 'they' were sending 'their' rapists. 

So, not all Mexicans are rapists; but the ones that are, they are the ones coming to the USA. 

'Their rapists'. 

Now, that is still a deplorable, detestable thing to say. I reckon it scores about a 99 on the hatespeechometer. 

And 'they're rapists' gets a perfect 100 (ding ding ding!). 

So what is the point of nitpicking over this, with only a single hate-point between the two statements? 

Well, 'they're rapists' isn't what Donald Trump said. And then the argument becomes about what he did or didn't actually say, rather than if what he said was bad. 

You have a very good chance of winning the latter argument (even at just 99 hateful rather than 100), but the former argument? Not so much. 

This is also, partly, due to our condescending attitude towards Trump supporters: we felt the need to simplify things for them. We didn't have faith that people could see him as the hateful figure we could perceive, so we dumbed down what he said for them. I know, quite a feat; but we managed it. 

We spoke to people like they were morons; to make ourselves feel clever, superior. 

And we embellished the truth, which gave credence to ridiculous claims of rigged ballots and a biased media. 

We didn't tell it like it is. We got into a lying contest with the world's least sincere man. 

We done goofed. 

Liberal elite: 2 stars. 

If we're so smart, how did we screw up this election? 

Also, Brexit. 

Non-English speaking world, crack on without us. Good luck. Sincerely. 

Canada, give in to your French side. New Zealand, save yourself. 

'They're' and 'their' sound very similar , but if you listen to the context, it is clear which one he was saying. 

lol at Brits ragging on Americans. You are on your high horse, in a glass house, and that horse is throwing rocks.

What qualifies me as a member of the liberal elite? Well, I have been drinking flat whites since 2013. 

Aladdin: The New West End Musical.

Price Edward Theatre, London. 

The stage musical adaptation of the beloved Disney film, the West End transfer of the Broadway smash. The songs you know and love. And the songs you don't know, or love, when the movie songbook oasis runs dry. 

Ladies first: Princess Jasmine is played by Jade Ewan, famous for replacing the last remaining original member of The Sugababes (thereby completing their Trigger's Brooming), and she does a cracking job as the Princess longing to break free from the shackles of tradition by outbreeding the royal bloodline. Jasmine also has the best non-movie song in 'These Palace Walls', nailing its multi-layered harmonies with some help from her gal-pals. 

Jasmine can sing, no question; but the strongest female voice is that of Michelle Chantelle Hopewell, as Jasmine's BFF/Marketplace Fortune-teller/"still, I think he's rather tasty" interjecter; the needle on my sassometer nudged dangerously into the red whenever the spotlight was on her, before pinging off entirely during a solo. Hopewell is a-star-is-borning all over the West End stage. You can foresee her carrying 'most any top tier musical on her shoulders, including this one: I dream of (female) Genie, anyone? 

Still, while the star of Hopewell is in the ascendency, the charismatic supernova of Trevor Dion Nicholas explodes from the stage like PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWER bursting forth from an itty-bitty lamp. 

As the Broadway stand-in Genie, Nicholas is a veteran of 70 plus performances and he. is. transcending. He has some big, curly shoes to fill in Broadway Genie - Tony award winning, James Monroe Iglehart, but West End debutant Nicholas is little short of phenomenal. 

You go, Trevor Dion Nicholas. 

But, let's get to the big problem with Aladdin: Aladdin.

The big solo-number for Al is the insipid 'Proud of your boy', where our hero seeks approval from his dead mother. Are we not already rooting for the underdog street rat here? 

All Aladdin really has to do is keep up with the dancing, flash toothy grins, and look constantly amazed at the constantly amazing things happening around him. But poor Dean John-Wilson is out of his depth. 

John-Wilson better wish for three more wishes, because once timing, technique and posture are magically fixed; we still have a lot of polishing to do on this rough diamond. 

Still, even though he is the title character, he is not the main character; you are here to see Genie, and Genie rubs me the right way. 

If the show was Trevor Dion Nicholas, just standing there and singing, it would still be worth spending the cost of admission; but add the sets, the choreography, the razzle-dazzle, the orchestra; and a flying carpet that I couldn't actually see the strings on, and it is damn-near worth spending a wish on a ticket. 

Everything about Aladdin is sensational (except for Aladdin). 4 stars. 

Bonus minor gripes: 

Jafar is a bit pantomime. Sultan is a bit too statesman-like (how is this benevolent leader being fooled by panto Jafar?) The pacing is a bit wobbly in the second act, we blow through both 'Prince Ali' and 'A Whole New World' straight after the intermission; leaving Aladdin's three-amigo monkey-substitutes, cowardly Omar, tubby Babkak, and 'hey, I should be playing Aladdin' leader of the group Kassim to fill time with another non-movie song (urgh) until the big finale. Speaking of the big finale, Jafar only has 2 seconds as an all-powerful Genie; the audience didn't even have time to realise that peril was happening before it was all resolved. 

Also, when Aladdin's bros and Jasmine's squad pair off, the stunning Michelle Chantelle Hopewell is lumbered with the comedy fat bro; despite obviously being the Alpha BFF, just because she ain't no size two? 

Notes: 'The Sugababes, the Trigger's Broom of girl bands' is a joke I stole from a The Guide (Saturday Guardian) from about 8 years ago. It is never too late to steal a joke. 

The staging is absolutely wonderful; the Cave of Wonders especially. Heh, they should call it The Cave of Won... No, wait, it is already called the right thing.

Sound design supremo Ken Travis was in the row behind us with a notebook, looking grumpy; possibly because of the noises coming out of Dean John-Wilsons mouth? 

Aladdin bro, Cowardly Omar (Rachid Sabitri) has his own stage weapon combat school; watch him buckle some swash in the fight scenes. 

If you what to cry like a bairn, read up on lyricist Howard Ashman's life story 😭😭😭

Reasons to be Happy

A play about a substitute teacher named Greg, who is trying to figure out just who he is; a 30-something coming-of-age story. Married and separated early in life with a dead-end job, he has now returned from university; full of wonder having read some books. Greg is vey much the modern archetype of the 'nice guy who finishes last'; he doesn't want to offend or upset anyone, desperate to please in all his relationships. 

I really cannot begin to stress how annoying he is. 

He strings along his ex-wife, and current girlfriend, and his former best-bud. He gets a '100 books to read before you die' book out at every opportunity; the world is Greg's coffee shop to be seen reading worthy books in. He is just so cloyingly needy, passively patronising, self-centred and spineless. 

Reasons to be Happy looked like a play about four individuals, two couples, whose lives are intertwined and complex. But is just about this one, whiny guy; and these three stupid bimbos (including one him-bo) that he has to dumb himself down for. Oh poor, clever, special snowflake. 

If this play is autobiographical, then writer Neil LaBute hates women: they shriek; hysterically in public, and are stupid; not having heard of Brown University (which is just down the road), and manipulative; using the threat of abortion as a tool of control. 

He also hates muscular men who get the chicks, represented here by Kent; an uneducated meathead, in the same dead end job that Greg escaped by reading a John Steinbeck novel. 

Eventually, having fully condescended to the three people in his life, Greg leaves for New York; leaving behind a guidebook to New York (not a novel, not for these dumb-dumbs), so they know to come chase after him in NEW YORK; if they would only read the BOOK he deigned to bestow upon them. 

Reasons to be Happy: an awful sitcom, that is apparently given some level of credibility just by being on stage. A red-pill menimist's comments board rant, brought to life with some dodgy American accents. 

1 out of 5 stars. 

Greg does get punched and slapped, so that's a reason to be happy. 

It isn't the actors' faults, they did all they could. 

Greg puts me in mind of Ted Mosby from How I met your Mother (actually a good sitcom, with an awful lead character).

God I hate you, Ted Mosby. 

Exploring every facet of a whiny asshole; and winding up with no character progression, right where you started off: a Mösbius strip. 

Bonus review.

How I met your Mother without Ted Mosby, or when bad things are happening to him: 4 stars.

How I met your Mother with Ted Mosby: 2 Stars.