The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Carcosa

Some people are desperate to play Hamlet. They'll even set up theatre companies, just to cast themselves in the role – the average Edinburgh Fringe features at least five Hamlets. I've watched it performed underwater by divers, and once with a dozen schoolchildren in the lead. For Christ's sake, I once saw Hamlet played by a fucking Labrador.

Only a few Hamlets are good enough to sense that there is something wrong with the role, something that is getting worse. Several times, I've broached the subject with colleagues. Most of them think I'm crazy. A few recognise some of what I describe, but they’re reluctant to discuss it.

There's a spell, that moment when the audience is enraptured, when you become that character. It even happened during a touring production of Hamlet, a slog of provincial dates stuffed with bored GCSE and A-level classes. I inhabited Hamlet deeply enough to understand that he was half-aware of the audience – not me as Hamlet, but the character himself. Hamlet can see into our world, and even a little further.

I still audition for Hamlet whenever I can. I've come close in a couple of semi-professional productions, but nothing better than Claudius. The Hamlet I performed with then was an idiot who couldn't remember his lines. The director tried everything – threats, promises, a seduction from Ophelia. Somehow, on the night, he was word-perfect, but it broke something in him – he said he'd seen 'them', but he refused to say any more. I was ready to step into the main role, but the run was cancelled instead. It had only sold a trickle of tickets, and the backers wanted an excuse.

I see traces of what I saw as Hamlet in every role now: a second proscenium arch on the wall behind the audience. Sometimes, I'm convinced there are beings on the other side, watching both the audience and the performers. I've no idea what they are – but I sometimes suspect they’re farmers, that they have been growing things inside Hamlet and we – people, our culture – are the medium.

Before long, something will happen. Every passing month brings more productions of Hamlet, and they are growing weirder. A crisis is coming. I blame the Internet for forcing everyone to compete for attention. Hamlet with sock puppets, Hamlet in the nude, Hamlet in Klingon. I'm terrified. Something has got inside the play, and it's close to hatching.