A theatrical marathon to numb the most cultured bum

Today I will do something most people under 25, and a good number over 25, would consider purgatory. I will spend from 11 in the morning until 11 at night in the theatre. That's a lot of time in which to numb even the most cultured bum; but as the venue is the National Theatre, complete with bars, restaurants and riverside walks, and the occasion is the world premiere of a trilogy of plays from Tom Stoppard, it's probably worth the risk.

Theatre marathons can be fraught for both audiences and actors. I remember during the RSC's Nicholas Nickleby cycle some years ago, the actors mingled with the audience between plays (never a good idea, whatever directors might think). A man near me asked one actress who she was playing. "Mrs Nickleby'' snarled the angry performer, who had been on stage for much of the preceding three hours.

At the National today the actors will be rushing from costume and wig changes (Stephen Dillane virtually needs his own follicular agent, with a toupee in one play and extra hair added to his own beard in another) to wolfing down puddings backstage. And how my heart warms to the acting profession to learn from the National that custard will be on constant supply. There goes that ethereal image forever.

For audiences too, theatre marathons take on a distinctive character. Not least, they can be pick-up joints. Only the most bashful of theatregoers can avoid striking up a conversation with the person in the next seat after spending morning, afternoon and evening elbowing them, pushing past them and treading on their toes. Such is the foreplay of a National Theatre audience.

And then, think of the burden on the poor playwright. The National says that we will be seeing three self-contained plays. But Stoppard must know he will have to work that bit harder for a laugh with an audience running into the 10th hour of babysitting fees. Does it impinge upon the playwright's art that the cost of tickets plus meals plus drinks could be well over £100? Ah, Sir Tom, yours is a heavy responsibility today. It's to be hoped that when we all rise at 11pm it will be to give a well deserved ovation to a master of the British stage – and not because we have cramp.

* The poet Michael Donaghy resigned this week as chairman of the £10,000 Forward Poetry Prize after a claim that there was "cronyism" at work. Two of the shortlisted poets, Peter Porter and Paul Farley, are published by Picador. Mr Donaghy and another judge, Sean O'Brien, are also published by Picador. All four poets, it is reported, have the same agent.

Mr Donaghy says there was no cronyism in the judging sessions. He resigned "so that there is one less Picador poet around when the winner is picked to avoid any suggestion of a taint''. Poets are not famous for their mathematical skills; but presumably Mr Donaghy was aware of the number of Picador poets when he took the job. Resigning now is an odd thing to do.

There is a way out of this dilemma – a dilemma, it must be said, that also exists on the books pages of newspapers, where authors can be given books by colleagues in the same publishing houses to review. The solution, on judging panels at least, is to avoid practising authors, and use university lecturers or schoolteachers, the people who do, after all, spend every day of their lives reading, analysing and teaching the stuff. Then the judging panels would be beyond reproach and everyone would be happy except perhaps the sponsors. Teachers and lecturers are less starry than poets and novelists and might get a little less publicity.

* A reader, Vince Naughton, comes up with the perfect riposte to my recent pieces about Mike Batt's silent track on a new album. Mr Naughton has put down his thoughts on silent tracks in an e-mail. The e-mail is blank.

* What happened to the hoards of screaming, wailing, hysterical fans from the long-gone days of Beatlemania? Did they really all grow up into mild-mannered, right-thinking citizens, repressing all their teenage euphoria? Yesterday we were given an indication that it had not been totally repressed. Heather Mills, the wife of Sir Paul McCartney said she attracted "hostility" from "female Beatles fans around Paul's age. Even now they're jealous that I'm with everyone's favourite Beatle.''

Sir Paul is 60. He must be secretly thrilled to know that he still has fans of the same age with enough emotional energy to be jealous of his wife. He probably doesn't mind that when he strolls in the park for a constitutional with his wife, sexagenarian females out walking the grandchildren, mouth insults at her. It must help to keep an ageing rock star young.

d.lister@independent.co.uk