Will Self

Before tonight, I had a preconceived notion of Will Self. In my head, he was a tall, dark figure with a furrowed brow, eyes that could bore into your insecurities and a scathing tongue that was capable of swatting you to one side with a nonchalant flick, leaving you to cradle your wounded ego. Looking back, I'm not entirely sure where I conjured up this notion of the eloquent Londoner, as it turns out he's nothing of the sort. At least, not from the two or so hours I spent in his company in the Playhouse Theatre.

A round of applause wafted from the audience as the sinuous man loped onto the stage, before coming to stop in front of a modest armchair and wooden table. My fears that he might berate me for my nagging cough were quickly assuaged, as he lulled his way through anecdotes of how he felt strangely at home in Norwich during his walk from the station to the venue. A comment that the audience were no doubt proud to hear; this is an UNESCO City of Literature after all. Tales of family heritage, the etymology of surnames and the apparent '10 Most Influential People in London' according to the London Evening Standard casually followed, Self taking us along on his ponderings with no set destination, no preordained script. It was pleasant and humbling to simply sit and take it all in, occasionally chuckling at a witty aside. Self is obviously an acclaimed writer, social commentator (of sorts) and a highly revered creative, especially amongst the audience members who were willing to shell out £15 to be here. To be privy to this stream of consciousness monologue on society, culture, class and morality that was both informal and endearing felt as though we were being given an insight into a mind that most of us had only previously witnessed in writing.

Towards the end of the first half Self got around to talking about his new book, 'Shark'. That was the whole reason for the night after all. However, he was strikingly clear that he was not there to sell the audience anything. “If you want to read it, you will. If 450 pages of neo-modernist prose doesn't sound like your kind of thing, then you won't. I'm not here to tell you that you have to do anything”. It was refreshing to see an artist have such a view of their work, in an age where we're so often bombarded with views and opinions that tell us how we have to read this book or we have to see this film. Self vehemently opposes the artist as an advertiser, claiming that he is there simply to create what he wants to create and nothing more. I for one couldn't agree more. The first half finished with a rousing recital of a passage from 'Shark', giving us all an idea of the surreal and macabre world within its pages.

After a brief interval (wherein I met the man himself and promptly acted like a nervous schoolgirl before shuffling off with my signed copy of The Book of Dave) Self returned to the stage to field questions from the audience. For the most part the questions were clever and insightful, ranging from his opinion on Russell Brand to walking directions from central London to Heathrow Airport,and Self was more than quick witted enough to answer them all affably, humorously and sincerely. Once the questions were over, Self began speaking lovingly of his home town, which he referred to affectionately as “The Smoke” on more than one occasion. He spoke of how he's constantly drawn back there, how he misses it when he's away even for just a short while and how it feels as though there's a bungee cord around his waist, constantly pulling him back to the capital. With that he bounded off the stage backwards, letting out a comical “BYE!”, and left us all surprised and cheering, each of us feeling that we knew a little more than we did before.