Seldom could an outing to see a West End play change history, but I can say with confidence that if this weekend the members of the present Cabinet minus their Prime Minister were to arrange a VIP block-booking at the Haymarket Theatre, hire a minibus, and attend an evening performance of Waiting for Godot with Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart, they would see more than a brilliant production of that preposterous play. They would also, on reboarding their minibus, instruct the driver to take them straight to 10 Downing Street. There they would, en bloc, submit their resignations.
I've just seen Waiting for Godot. Like the last few months of British politics it is a story of which it's hard to offer a coherent resumé. The action - if it can be called action - consists in the rendezvous of two old tramps in an indeterminate place at an indeterminate time, to await, for indeterminate reasons (and fitfully contemplating suicide) the arrival of an indeterminate figure whom we never see, who may not exist, and whose visit is continually postponed. To the extent that the audience reaches any conclusion it is that there's absolutely no point hanging around. The whole play is an elaborate and gruesome joke.
