After numerous scheduling SNAFUs, I finally had a date with the legendary Curt Hatred. I’d never met (or even seen) him before; this isn’t surprising, for he’s a shadowy figure. What is surprising is how magnetic he is in person.

A bon vivant, raconteur and something of a gadabout. Curt Hatred is also a sexual philosopher, battery farmer, performance art reconstructionist and scout leader. Among other things.

My encounter was both brief and delightful; he’s simultaneously more and less than human. He was the inspiration guiding a
pataphysical intervention at The Miller pub. It was entirely improvised.

On the surface, it would have appeared as a show in which Michael Brunström directed a group of improvisers in a longform-via-shortform improv format. It was that, and it was good.

Various narrative threads were explored. A refrigerated love story touched down on a tropical island, via vigilant veganism and religious symbolism. It made sense in a way that transcended ordinary sense. In fact, maybe I do understand pataphysics after all.

And hiding backstage rifling through handbags and leaving half-eaten cheese sandwiches, was Curt himself. I’m grateful for the chance to be in the room with the man, and on the basis of this, will seek out his back catalogue of b-sides.