Dude, where's my country?

Brighton. May 20. In Athens, it is Eurovision night. In Brighton, you would be forgiven for thinking that the seaside town has suddenly become the target of Maltese immigrants. They are everywhere. I counted five at lunch at Bill's in town, a sixth turned up later after getting stuck on the journey down from London and another handful were too chicken to travel down for the event of the season. They know who they are. Luckily for this small island, the Maltesers are all in transit and have little wish to take over the country.

Morning. My friend Marion is visiting from Spain. She came ill-equipped for the cold, cold weather. In Seville where she lives between weekend trips, the weather is already upwards of 35°C. In Brighton this weekend, the mercury is struggling to rise above the 10 degree mark.

We make a late start. The night before we ended up at a one-off funk gig in Brighton which turned out to be a showcase for some amazing voices. We were very lucky to get returns at the door and spent most of the night swinging to the beat with our eyes glued to the stage in thrall. This morning we have decided that a lie-in is well in order but the phone has not stopped ringing as the Maltesers prepare to descend on Brighton.

Lunch. Lunch turns out to be hot coffee at Costa before we hit the shops. We make a valiant attempt to tour the North Laines but the cold and rain beat us back after just two hours.

Tea. Time for lunch. We assemble at Bill's, one of the finest eateries in town, and tuck in. Home-made pizza, fresh salad with at least 20 different vegetables, pulses and seeds. Bill's food is art. By 6 p.m. we are raring to go. Warm clothing, check; warm socks, check; boots, check; hats, check; scarves, check; more warm clothing borrowed from other people, check; tickets, check; Maltese flags, impossible to ascertain but probably safe to check.

Evening. You could be forgiven for thinking that a bunch of Maltesers ganging up in a town like Brighton on Eurovision night are planning to spend the evening waving Maltese flags at a television screen and screaming wildly every time our Fab looks down on us moodily. And that other guy, of course; one would not want to let the side down (or rather, we are all too scared of that woman). In reality we are all here for the world premiere of Souterrain, and to egg on one of our better actors and one who, I find, exports tremendously well: Paul Portelli by name, Orpheus in character.

Souterrain is the brain child of Wildworks, the creative team behind Kneehigh Theatre. Kneehigh Theatre is based in Cornwall but is no stranger to Malta mainly due to its Three Islands Project which saw it create site-specific performances in Malta as far back as 2001. Theirs is not the kind of theatre you sit down and watch but, rather, it is theatre you participate in and follow around from site to site.

The Brighton performance is being held in Stanmer Park, about 5,000 acres of mainly parkland but also comprising two farms and a village street. The residents become part of the show. They have allowed installations on their front lawns and actors inside their houses for the performance.

The show is billed as "an adventure, a physical journey into the underworld, loosely based on the quest of Orpheus to find Eurydice in the Underworld. It is a tale of love and loss and a passion celebration of life told with live music, laughter, lyrical text, powerful emotion, visual delights, sunsets and tea sets". It is a very accurate description and, despite the cold and the rain and my very tired feet after weeks of hosting manic shoppers in Brighton every weekend, the magic never wanes.

The performance starts with a street party celebrating the return of Orpheus from war and welcoming the arriving audience as homecoming warriors. Orpheus and his wife Eurydice are briefly reunited but she dies suddenly. Overcome by grief, Orpheus follows her into the Underworld and we, the audience, follow Orpheus across the border into another world of strange dreams and powerful memories.

Drinks. Afterwards, we arrive back in town on a high and tramp all over the Old Laines to find a bar big enough and loud enough to contain us. The group has dwindled to just three very happy and very proud Maltesers. We all know we have just witnessed an amazing performance. Nothing dampens the exhilaration, not even the news by text message that Malta is sunk in the doldrums after the Fab places last with one point. Oh, the ignominy! I bet I am in for some good-natured ribbing at the office on Monday. But in the meantime there are other achievements to celebrate.

Malta. May 30. I still well with pride every time I think of the Souterrain performance. After a little googling for reviews I find that the British critics were just as appreciative as I am. The Independent and The Guardian both give the performance four stars. Meanwhile, Malta is still completely immersed in post-Eurovision analysis. It is tiring to contemplate.

Meanwhile, no one is talking about Souterrain. No media coverage. No pictures. No hissy fits because the minister has not rung up Paul Portelli to congratulate him personally and possibly even help lay down the red carpet in preparation for his return. No tears. No histrionics. No questions as to why Souterrain is not being brought to Malta. No unbecoming public belligerence.

Dude, where's my country?

(Souterrain is touring in Amiens between June 15 and 17, in Colchester between August 3 and 6 and between August 8 and 13, in Hastings between August 31 and September 2 and in Gosnay, between September 5 and 17.)

Ms Spiteri is a journalist and a researcher in media and identity based at the University of Sussex.

S.Spiteri@sussex.ac.uk