Sport is in so many ways the last bastion of Neanderthal attitudes towards women (and I probably should apologies to Neanderthals for slandering them by the comparison), but the latest Australian incident really takes the biscuit.

Netballer Janine Illitch will be allowed to express breastmilk in the Commonwealth Games village, despite reports team officials opposed the plan.
Netball Australia chief executive Lindsay Cane today said issues remained as the association had not yet seen the Games Village facilities, but coaches, support staff and players were united in supporting Illitch.
… Netball coach Norma Plummer yesterday created controversy when she said it was a “delicate issue” and she didn’t know whether there would be the facilities for Illitch to express milk for her six-month-old baby Heath.

What is the issue?

There needs to be a fridge and washing-up facilities? Well, yes, but I rather suspect that somewhere within the vicinity of a lot of athletes there’ll be a few fridges and washing-up facilities. Probably even a power point, I’d hazard a guess, should you wish to plug in a steriliser.

So what’s the problem? Could it just be that dinosaur officials – even female officials – just can’t cope with the fact that a woman can be both a mother AND an athlete? Or perhaps they just can’t cope with the thought that breasts have a purpose other than decorating oh-so-tasteful, not-quite-nude calendars? A – shock, horror – non-sexual purpose.

The Greeks liked to finish off a day of tragedy with a cleansing comedy; the medieval mystery play had little concern for stage trickery, content to have its characters emerge with their moral message from a quotidian frame; the early moderns liked to combine those moral absolutes with the more shaded themes of ancient Greece. It is the combination of these disparate statements about theatre that has inspired a joint bill of Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus and Ben Jonson’s The Devil Is An Ass at the White Bear Theatre.

The former needs little introduction, but you could be excused for never having heard of the latter. It sat on library shelves between 1616 and 1972, and has been dusted off only once more since that date. If you can imagine a 1920s drawing room farce, crossed with a classic Jacobean city comedy, that pretty well sums it up – a convoluted plot and plenty of laughs, if you’d like the non-academic version.

Together, these make an interesting evening, a window on to overlapping frames of theatre history. And much of the production – and particularly the quality of the acting – is high-class. There are, however, a couple of irritating flaws.

First, the highlights: Richard Keightley makes a fine, tormented but human Faustus, see-sawing between high hopes and fear, while Matt Robinson is a broken-voiced, nearly shattered, impressive Mephastophilis. The clowning too is often well done: Andrew Shepherd, as Wagner, Faustus’s servant, might owe something to Black Adder’s Baldrick but is only the more fun for that recognition. Charlie Palmer as Robin, the peasant fool who is the mirror of Faustus – he steals one of the doctor’s books and thus manages to summon an irritated Mephastophilis from Constantinople, milks the laughs nicely, well backed by his companion in foolish adventure, Rafe (Richard Keynes).

And for a play so long on the shelf, The Devil Is An Ass, provided you don’t give yourself a devil of a headache by trying to actually make sense of the plot, is fun. It is even mildly feminist (although I doubt Johnson meant it that way) in exposing the vulnerability of Frances Fitz-dottrel to the financial ineptitude of her foppish, foolish husband. We meet him showing off his gaudy new cloak, the prize for allowing Wittipol (Robert Wilson) an hour of conversation with his wife. He thinks he’s found the way to do this without risk — his wife is not allowed to speak — but like all exercises of Fitz-dottrel “cleverness” this is soon overturned by his opponent and, it seems, he’s soon destined to wear the cuckhold’s horns. READ MORE