Rave review

My routine when I go and see any culture, be it TV, film, art, theatre or opera is as follows: 1) Try to go in with an open mind. 2) Form my own opinion. 3) Force myself to see the other side - if I've loved it, try to guess how people will criticise it; if I've hated it, try to imagine why someone would love it, or (most often), if I've felt ambivalent, try to imagine why someone might give a shit. 4) Go home and read what the critics have said. 5) Digest. 6) Come up with a final verdict, taking everything into account. Fun to be me, isn't it? So footloose and fancy free? Nah, I do this readily, easily - it's not a chore, honest - I enjoy it.

So, last night I was lucky enough to be taken to see Jerusalem, currently the hottest play in the big smoke. It's had a brace of four and five star reviews from all the big papers, and won barrowloads of awards. I'd heard good things from friends and I was really looking forward to seeing it. I did not, however, know if I would like it. Good reviews from journos and friends do not automatically mean I'll enjoy something - and, in fact, in an unconscious effort to be deliberately obtuse, I think they often push me the other way. On this occasion, however, I will happily admit that they were right - I was captivated.

It was an amazing script, first and foremost. That was the best thing about it by a west country mile. Well-observed to the last syllable, the gags were topical, the references were spot on and the pacing was fantastic. The playwright, Jez Butterworth, found the perfect blend between classical allusion and timeless concepts of ownership and fairness, meaning that Jerusalem is accessible and challenging whether you're a theatre snob or a newbie who failed GCSE English. There's a fair bit of St George, William Blake, myth, legend, ley lines, spirituality, Shakespeare and Arden, and if you want to be poncey and compare the protagonist to Falstaff, Lear and Caliban, you can knock yourself out - but there are also mobile phones, Girls Aloud, drugs, all-night benders, The Prodigy, paedophilia, Trivial Pursuit, Morris dancing, giants, drums, BBC News West, a lot about the challenge, claustrophobia and limitations of growing up in a small Wiltshire village as well as a celebration of country life, the experiences borne out of boredom and the honesty that comes with the inability to be anonymous. I was agog.

And then there was Mark Rylance, labelled in our press as our best living actor. I'd never seen him before. He is really good. Rooster, the character he played, was phenomenal: grotesque, selfish, weak, aggressive, coarse, rude, greasy, physically damaged, emotionally horrifying, failed and angry, but generous, kind, struggling, vulnerable, incredibly charming and - yes - immensely attractive. A superb creation played to perfection.

Does it sum up modern Britain? Certainly it's a big chunk of what a lot of people feel. It's a comment on the English countryside so watching it in London felt a bit odd and removed, and there are definitely many general concerns in modern urban life that weren't touched upon, but that's not a criticism - better to do a few things to perfection than try to cover everything and fail. I wondered if the seven years I spent at a Wiltshire boarding school and the three years I spent at uni in Bristol gave me more of a connection (however tenuous) with what was going on than my life in the capital since. Place names such as Devizes, Wootton Bassett, Chippenham and Marlborough were all bandied around last night and it was immensely pleasurable when they fell on my ears; I'm not sure if that will resonate to quite the same extent with everyone.

Most affectingly, I felt - and perhaps it is the mark of a truly great piece of culture that everyone in the audience feels this in their own way - but I felt like it was written with someone like me in mind. I feel like I am lost in the no-man's land between the bored teens who just want acceptance and diversion, and the conservative townspeople who want order restored. My parents, and, in fact, the people I saw the play with last night, would have wanted Rooster out of his caravan faster than you can say 'Scarper'. I can see their point and I understand their reasoning - logically, I feel it too. But in my heart, I wanted him to carry on living right there in the forest, dealing drugs and behaving disgracefully. I don't know why - is it an immature desire to be a rebel, a childish refusal to conform? Perhaps. I'm certainly not holding myself up as a paragon of grown-up ideals, and maybe if I have kids one day I'll hate people like him, but last night I passionately wanted to protect and preserve the variety. The thought of sanitized order, manicured lawns, Singaporean cleanliness and Aryan purity scares the bejeezus out of me. The world needs Roosters. And I write this at home, while my downstairs neighbours are playing hard house so loudly that I can't hear my Sam Cooke. Maybe I should be annoyed, but I can't muster the energy. I love that they're enjoying themselves. Plus Sam Cooke is actually extremely out of tune. Seriously, listen to Lovable - it's painful.

My host complained that, at just over three hours including two intervals, the play was too long and self-indulgent, but I wouldn't have cut a moment: every exchange added something and I could have stayed longer. The set was breathtaking, and the direction was bold - I loved the fact that one of Rooster's most heartfelt outbursts was delivered into a video camera that was facing us, so that Rylance's back was to the audience throughout - an immense confidence in an actor's abilities.

So. I've seen it, I've read the reviews, I've listened to my friends and my own opinion and I've formed my Jerusalem verdict: possibly the best play I've ever seen, entertaining, funny, challenging and charming. I walked back to the tube, alone, and felt incredibly fortunate and full of joy. So why, then, did the snake return this morning? It's a mystery.