Seven hundred and forty-two days ago (it is on my medical record), I last witnessed Spymonkey and suffered a hallucinating experience of the most extreme kind, I was back for more last night and I relapsed so seriously that I was seeing clowns and bubbles. This was probably just me? Maybe. Another significant number on offer yesterday was one hundred and thirty-two. These were the years to the very day that the Royal Theatre had opened its doors with a performance of Twelfth Night. So what better for an evening of seventy-five (no more numbers now) corpses on the Royal stage courtesy of the mad collective known as Spymonkey to celebrate the Bard of Avon's collection of work? When entering the auditorium things are already afoot, we have cast members Petra Massey and Stephen Kreiss doing things with a fly on a stick, some a little repulsive, and wielding a camera to show the gory details on a vast back screen. To the left we have a slightly miserable lady doing her knitting and ...