Diary: At the Irish ATM

On a recent visit to Ireland, I managed to get all boiled up about several things, but the one that pissed me off the most was being unable to top up my phone account at an ATM.

The background, briefly, is this: whenever I go on holiday in Europe, I do not add an Internet Booster to my account until I arrive, check out the local wi-fi possibilities, and decide what my requirements might be for the duration. No sweat, usually, because, you can buy Boosters as you go.

Unfortunately, in this case, the purchase of my first Booster (looks like wi-fi is not a big priority in smalltown Ireland) cleaned out my account, so I needed to top up. Stupidly, I confess, I had forgotten my account details, so I could not use SMS to top up. So the only answer I could see was to find an ATM and top up there. Cue the bad temper.

I could not find an ATM anywhere that offered phone top-up. And before you jump on me with the very sensible statement of the bleeding obvious that not many smalltown ATMs ANYWHERE offer phone top-up, I even tried a bigger town (Portloise) and what I think is actually a city (Galway) ... But now I am starting to sound patronising.

Oh, well, in for a penny. The thing is, the problem with Ireland is that in many respects it resembles mainland Britain. They have the same models of cars, they are gluttons for the pub lunch, they watch crap telly. But in other respects it is very different. In fact, it's another country. They prefer brown bread. Their moral compass is still in the hands of the church. And they are not that bothered about connectivity, it seems. Hats off to them, I say.

Logic tells me that the blame for my irritation lies squarely with ME. But I just can't resist having a playful pop at the Irish. I think I probably feel kind of entitled, in a smug way, especially since Liverpool took so many of them into the bosom of the north docks area in 1846 (or was it 1847?) after the Spud Famine. So on that note, I will end on a well-worn Irish joke. Q: What did the Kerry fella call his pet zebra? A: Spot.

Theatre: Cumberbatch in Hamlet

Bendy does it for me

Can't believe the outrage that has been voiced in the media world over the "to be, or not to be?" bit being shunted to the front of the play in a production of Hamlet currently playing at London's Barbican theatre. This all came straight after the very first performance, and the producers later relented and moved the scene to its more traditional position in the play. And now the 'official' press reviews are in. I can't say I have finished swimming through that particular pool of mud just yet, but I have already noticed a common media trend in action. Which is: don't go kicking someone who is obviously a people's favourite, which Benedict Cumberbatch has become since appearing in the BBC series Sherlock.

We attended the first night of his Hamlet on 5 August and I immediately found that seemingly audacious placing of the "to be, or not to be?" line at the opening remarkably fitting. It features the Danish prince Hamlet (Cumberbatch), contemplating and fingering some of his dead father's possessions. The "to br" speech in this poignant moment seems perfectly natural and marks out the production from the start as existential. This version explores the complextities of the parent-child relationship in ways I had not considered before, so for that reason alone it gets a thumbs up from me. And congratulations also to the hoards of Bendettes who managed to contain themselves until the very end of the play. Only then did they consider the question, "to squeal, or not to squeal?"