There’s a level of saturation that occurs with any hot-ticket cultural item, past which I cannot fully enjoy it and often fall into a perverse boycott. Unread Harry Potter books, unseen Game of Thrones seasons, unheard Beyoncé albums – they all come laden with a sense that anyone who continues to live life in their absence has failed. Get to heck then, I think. I won’t.

Hamilton passed that point in 2016, months before I understood what it was. I knew people were selling everything they owned and making pilgrimages to bask in its glow, as if it were a weeping Madonna. They devoured its scriptures, learned them by heart. Appointed themselves missionaries. But what, actually, is it, I asked? A musical about an 18th-century treasury secretary, they replied. It sounded marginally less entertaining than a puppet show about the life of Lewis Hamilton.

And what the hell were they doing giving a Pulitzer to a musical? When I was at drama school, musical theatre kids were regarded as agents of Satan. They tap-danced in corridors. While we angsted out over Ibsen, dreaming of baring our souls in empty rooms above pubs, they were vacuous hoofers with perfect skin and pitch, ready to jazz hands over any moment of emotional truth. Their art form was asinine, covertly conservative and far too popular.

Then Hamilton came to London and things got worse. My social media feeds were full of people posing with their gold-hued tickets; declaring themselves excited and ready, as if the mother ship had finally returned for them. And the thing was, I had a ticket. A friend had made me buy a batch a year ago because I worked at home and had “loads of free time” to endlessly refresh a ticketing browser without losing my job. They were expensive and I was sure we’d all be dead by 2018. But I was scared of her, so I did. And last week we went.

Just being outside the Hamilton theatre was stressful and annoying. It’s next to Victoria station – the worst station in Britain – with a queue so long it doubles back on itself, a horrific real-life version of Snake. People are removed from the line if all the members of their party aren’t there. You have to present identification papers, so I was sweatily clutching my passport, provisional driving licence (out of date) and a council tax bill (unpaid). It was like we were trying to cross the West German border.

Inside, the show’s self-regard is everywhere, from the Willy Wonka tickets to the We Will Rock You-style silhouette poster and the “I am not throwing away my shot” merchandised shot glasses. But it became really unbearable about an hour in, when I understood that the show is as good as everyone says. It’s incredible. Dense with ideas about nationhood and statesmanship, highlighting the roles we let women play in history and the corrosive effect of men’s ambition, even when that ambition comes to good. It’s delivered with transfixing panache (hip-hop being the perfect medium), hyper-fluent, verbose, self-aggrandising. That was the most horrifically irritating thing about seeing Hamilton; being in the presence of something extraordinary, a modern classic, and realising I was wrong. It’s the worst. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to persuade someone to find me another ticket. You should, too, trust me. Or your life will have been a total waste.

Derry Girls … charming. Photograph: Jack Barnes

What’s so special about Northern Ireland? Well, lots, it turns out



I startled myself the other day with the realisation that I don’t know enough about contemporary Northern Irish culture. And there’s a lot to be fascinated by. Liam Neeson is from there, but so is Kenneth Branagh, who has just been awarded the freedom of Belfast. Two actors, who to me represent Michael Collins and Henry V themselves, from the same place. It’s mad.

I ask my friend Connor what makes her, er, province special. “We’re a hard people,” she says. “Have you seen our flag? It’s basically a bright red happy slap.” She’s having a party to celebrate the last episode of Derry Girls this week, with Northern Irish music and food. What is that, I ask. “Carbohydrates,” Connor says, texting me what looks like a Christmas dinner with two kinds of potato, which she ate last night.

Ah yes, Derry Girls. I’ve fallen in love with Lisa McGee’s sitcom, the most charming and laugh-out-loud funny programme I’ve seen in years. Later this week, I’m seeing The Ferryman, Jez Butterworth’s (possibly problematic?) London West End show set in a rural community during the Troubles. I’ve put Nick Laird’s latest on my list. I’d love to have more recommendations. I can’t keep banging on about Van Morrison and Seamus Heaney.

The only possible upside to my comprehensive ignorance is that I don’t have enough information about Northern Ireland to stereotype it. If I’d been asked growing up, I would have replied that it was full of “staunch” Protestants and “devout” Catholics, which seems, I dunno, a bit reductive.

It’s shamefully easy to write a place off during conflict; continued tension and the lasting economic effects of violence don’t help. But it has been 20 years since the Good Friday agreement, and it’s time I learned more.

Stylists not in shot … Justin Timberlake’s new look.

Justin Timberlake, mountain man? Yeah, right

Justin Timberlake has released an album called Man of the Woods. In the funniest persona switch since Ali G became Borat, he wants us to believe he is now a trapper, living off the land, which is actually the name of one of the tracks. Promotional shots include grainy pictures of Timberlake scowling at horses and hugging himself in a barley field. Another of the songs is called Flannel. Imagine the number of stylists and location scouts needed to make this happen; I hope he paid them in squirrel.