AlBarclay

Invigilating today and trying to ignore the growing conviction that the “whole civilization” that died on April 7th was the good old USA. I’m still trying not to think about it, but where they lead, we follow, we always have, culturally.

The narrative that “liberals hate America” obviously has nothing to do with truth, but it does have a lot to do with generating a pretext to ignore all the things that liberals seek. Like accountability for those in power, basic human rights, lack of torture etc. I’ve already spoken about this notion of “suicidal empathy”. It’s out of the same playbook. And it ties neatly to all the stuff that’s been going on in the home counties where people who have never valued critical thinking have been encouraged to put up flags to express their “patriotism” and other people are taking them down again because it’s meaningless and ridiculous. But this is why they are being encouraged to put them up. Because people will take them down. And then the narrative that “they don’t care about are country” can come in. Because there are people out there that DO hate our country. And the more wedges they can drive into cracks to splinter us the less likely we are to be able or willing to defend ourselves if/when the time comes. Trump has made it obvious that we have been in a cold resource war for some time, and he feels it is time to make it hot.

The Lego propaganda videos from Iran are terrifying in their catchiness and accuracy but also reveal clear thinking from a terrible regime that we have been at odds with for ages. Let America throw resources at us, they say. It takes their attention off Taiwan.

It doesn’t feel like things are gonna get nice any time soon. I’m back to making sure I know where my iodine is.

Just this morning there was a thing in a respected paper about some gammon who painted a red cross on a listed building. The article was making out like the reason he had to paint over it was because “they hate are cuntree!” He would have had to paint over it if it had been a penis, or “I love Keer” or “refujeez ar welcum”. There’s a picture of him sulking like he’s been told he can’t have his train set today. And my usual crowd of ferociously stupid manchildren on the socials are crying about it all.

I’ve been invigilating, and my entertainment recently has been pretty pessimistic zombie apocalypse fiction, so perhaps that is colouring my attitude. I’m actually in a pretty bright and hopeful headspace about the next few months of work…

A tape this morning first thing. I really wasn’t in the mood. Acting doesn’t switch on until noon. Had to do it though.

Thank fuck for ground coffee. I bubbled an espresso, shat like a horse, and put on a winged collar and a frock coat.

I’ve got a good tripod now, and the morning light is great in my flat. They were drilling outside but thankfully it isn’t a tender scene. It was a monologue and then a few lines of character swapping. I learnt the first paragraph of the monologue to lull them into a false sense of security. Then the rest was semi learnt semi read. It’s ok, they said in the instructions that we could read it. Still, I like to do as much as I can but I’m old and gnarly enough to have received dozens of “thank Al for all his hard work but…” I didn’t take a day down to learn it. I lived my life instead. In the end I either look like they want or I don’t. I can be fucking Laurence Day Burbage and if I’m too tall or brown or whatever they’ll go with Tommy Wiseau instead. I think it was a great tape anyway. As I said to Lou, there’s a lesson in that. I still dressed appropriately, got up early, tried. But I didn’t beat myself up.

A few hours enjoying the wonderful weather and then off to meet a girl about a panda. Artist collaboration brewing again. Madness will ensue.

Now I’m home, staring down an early bed. Invigilating tomorrow. Got some lines to learn for Monday. Keeping myself honest.

I’m playing Telltale’s The Walking Dead game series, and it is an absolute masterclass of cinematic game design. I haven’t watched the TV series or read the comics but my understanding is that it is a parallel story with a few intersections, but with the freedom for the narrative to be influenced by the players choices. It’s beautiful and terrifying and menacing and human. Like “The Last of Us,” a zombie narrative where the people are worse than the zombies. It’s a done thing, but this was made in 2012, and has been untouched in my steam library since it was super cheap in a flash sale forever ago. The Walking Dead kinda created the whole Georgia zombie apocalypse trope and tone. The game is like watching a very good adult cartoon where you occasionally influence what the protagonists do, and from time to time have to do an easy timed twitch thing. The voice acting is actually exceptionally good for an older game. Usually – with some notable exceptions – some people were always just phoning it with no context until quite recently. There are some atrocious examples of voice acting from the nineties and early noughties. By 2012 they were using directors and studios , but the directors and actors weren’t gamers and tended to overdo everything or send it up or just miss the point entirely. This game stands out in that I haven’t had anything take me out of it in terms of bullshit voice acting or absurd accents or false emphasis, and that is exceptionally rare for that era.

It is a game that is constantly asking difficult moral questions as you play through. It’s great and very upsetting but somehow beautiful with it. I’m up early tomorrow though so I’m gonna get an old fashioned book out now and find my bedtime story in that instead. There’ll probably be fewer zombies. Hopefully the zombies don’t make it into my dreams. But the thing I’ve learnt is they somehow seem to manage to get everywhere.

For a day I’m back on the invigilatey train.  They’ve changed all the road systems round the edge of Brompton, and I was in Ibis Shepherd’s Bush but now instead of going up to just by Olympia and going left, I actually have a much more logical route to my last parking spot, turning right at Brompton Cemetery. I park on one of the border roads of my borough. From there it’s just a short schlep.

Made it in time and found out I’m running a huge room, but it isn’t one I haven’t run before so it’s fine. I had decent people on my team and a helpful woman from the programming team. The guy who gives us our info is still a little green so everything has to be checked and double checked my end, but actually it was pretty smooth. Not many potatoes today. Things are looking up.

There’s not much time to think in that huge great big conference room, particularly if you’re wearing the hat. By the end of it I was knackered.

Got home and up to my attic to dig out a particular frock coat. Tomorrow morning early I’m sending in a particularly wordy self tape that I don’t have to learn but that will be a right bugger to get in the can. I’ve been putting it off for that reason, but I’ve got some appropriate costume now. Does it help? Who knows. But it makes me feel like I’ve made an effort. There’s a lot in the pipeline right now. I’m almost overflooded with possibility. A nice place to be, but at some point there will likely be a time of careful pruning.

For now I’m just keeping all the balls in the air. Esta did brilliantly shifting one audition for a summer Much Ado tour to a time where I could do it without dropping two days worth of well remunerated workshops in Kent.

So yes I’m feeling flooded right now. I’ve learnt now about my attention and how it works. I can only look at the thing I’m doing and the next thing. As soon as the thing I’m doing is done I look at my diary to see what the next thing is. When I’m flooded like this then I can’t fit social in. The next thing comes on the back of the thing I’m doing. I sometimes think of old friends who couldn’t cope with this. I mourn them. But I know what I’m like.

If I haven’t responded to your thing it is not personal, I forgot. If you decide to cut me off and start just being peremptory with me because of some imagined slight, it is not intended, it never was. Still, I try to get it. Some personality types just don’t play well with others. But I miss you.

Lou and I were up and out early in the morning. The Brighton Marina Car Boot takes people from 6. The road outside Lou’s was shut from 6 for the marathon, but Bergie was parked out of the zone. Still, I thought we might go in and get a pitch before 6. In the end I’m glad we didn’t. We arrived at 7:30 and it was too early. They made us park in someone’s armpit anyway because we only paid for one pitch. The guy at the door tried to upsell us. It’s £12 for one bay, £24 for two. I wasn’t gonna pay £24 for a chance to move on the tut in my car. He just saw big Bergie.

The guy we were right on top of was pleasant, thankfully. But it was gale force wind, freezing cold and spitting. We steeled ourselves. The sale is right at the top of the marina car park and it is exposed to every element. We weren’t given a good pitch for wind resistance. They dealt with us as if it was going to be busy. We were one of only about six stalls there. Mostly regulars / dealers.

Not many people came by. I flogged more than I expected to frankly, but it’s only because I was pricing everything at a couple of quid. The dealers around us all had a few things they were holding out for a few hundred. Lou and I made a good trade but might have queered their grandiose pitches, cos nothing is worth more than what people buy it for.

Items moved on. There were expressions of joy. Three people haggled me up over the course of the morning. All three times I could tell they loved a silly thing, I basically told them it was free : “It can be yours for ten pee.” They gave me a pound.

There’s still a load of shite in my car but it not as much as there was. I’ll do a Battersea Boot before long. That’s a good one but you have to book it a week before and it is a touch pricier.

We got squalled a few times. It was horrid. But when it wasn’t shit things were bright. It was a fun and different context in which to hang with Lou in her manor. And it really is her manor now, she’s been there so long. One lovely peaceful guy came to the stall wearing a jacket she had made for him twenty years ago.

Then I drove back to London, did a self tape with Dan – thank fuck there’s an actor / film maker near mine who gets it… Chelsea isn’t full of them, or if it is I haven’t met them. I showed up at his at 8pm and got it all signed off quickly enough considering they wanted multiple versions. I’ve just come out the edit. Tiny part, but I love that stuff. You can do a lot with a little, and it’s what you have to do until they give you a lot.

Bedtime. Dayjobbing tomorrow and another tape. In the mix in the mix in the mix in the mix.

So it is as I feared. Waitrose was a gentleman’s relish free place. There were other men of about my age looking when I went in. Like the best mushrooms, some fucker was there first thing in the morning and snagged them all.

Lou and I had a lovely peaceful day by the sea, involving a good amount of driving but that never bothered me. She’s been flogging things on vinted and it puts me off the whole process seeing how she has to go to five different places in order to post things through businesses that the customers have selected. Evri and InPost and others I’ve never even heard of and it’s all far too involved for a few bob.

Once business was concluded the sun came out and we went to the bluebells. For a moment, a warm clear day. The clouds blew away, the light came. We walked in Falmer through the dancing hordes of lords and ladies in blue.

And the cherry blossoms in pink. And the childerlings screaming as they jump on nature. And little covens of hopeful people with their bluebell mindfulness ritual circles. “Now channel the times you’ve been blue, focus your blues and send all that sadness into the beauty of the flowahs, and when I ring the bell, put some money into my bank account. *ding* And remember, your generosity is energy for change in your life, every penny you transfah to me will bring joy and prosperity, hope and whatevah else you wrote on that piece of paper at the stahrt. *ding* So really breathe into your pockets now, feel the flow of prosperity from you to me like a river of blue and gold”. etc etc. I’m in the wrong job.

Then we got home and watched Amandaland and we absolutely howled with laughter. At one point we had to pause it. For some reason I thought it was a Hollywood show. It is totally the spiritual successor to AbFab, which still has a huge following in the states – I had people in smalltown Virginia doing “Patsy” for me when they found out I was English. I wouldn’t be surprised if their kids were doing Amanda in twenty years.

The spring feels like a new beginning at last. I started to really hope for some positive change in the world and our life too. Pendulums swing swing swing and keep on moving til they stop.

I used to always have a little tub of Patum Peperium in the fridge until one of my flatmates went to war with it. I’d get home, eventually notice it wasn’t there anymore, replace it, a few weeks later I’d notice it wasn’t there again. At first I assumed he was thinking it must have gone off. Eventually I confronted him on it. “It’s disgusting”. “I like it.” “It stinks the fridge out.”

Had he not been so insistent on purging it, there might have been enough for a few years in the back of my fridge tonight when, as I’m driving down to Brighton, Radio 4 gives me some of the most BBC news it could possibly give me. Patum Peperium is no more.

The era of fish and meat paste is long gone. When I was at school we had spam with our ploughmans. Once a week we had corn beef hash and I used to like it. Mum would fry us up cod roe on a Friday. Every restaurant served paté as a starter. That one has had a resurgence lately. Taramasalata hasn’t though. It’s always chicken liver, never fishy unless it’s mackerel.

Before Twitter died there was lovely parody account purporting to be an enthusiastic intern espousing the delights of Shippam’s #PASTE. I’m pretty sure that the guy who was pretending to be Ben the social media intern chose that particular product because there’s something a little lost, a little esoteric about fish paste these days.

Back to Gentleman’s Relish though, “spicy paste” It’s a very good umami ingredient though, “Patum Peperium”. Strong strong salty anchovy paste. Bit of warm brown toast, butter and a tiny amount of the stuff. You get call it a meal. I often did. But never again.

Sic Transit Gloria Pati

A website called NineLife is already trying to flog a pot for over £200. Other places like Uber Eats haven’t caught on and are offering for cost but will cancel all orders as they’ll be inundated. I’ll be sticking my head into a few posh delis and Waitroses in the hope I can snag a last ever pot. I almost bought one a few weeks ago in Brighton. Might still be there but unlikely. It’s been in the Guardian. “Charlie, quick, get in the Daimler and bring a basket, we’re going to Waitrose!”

The paste is no more. It is an ex paste.

You can just use anchovies to replace it in sauces I guess. It lasts longer but… Some sauces a tiny pinch gave it umami, but nam pla is everywhere nowadays so people can use that instead as it lasts as long. And there are other anchovy pastes, but not with the secret blend of herbs and spices…

I will miss thee, oh weird fishy rusky paste.

But only very occasionally. Which is why it died I guess. One pot lasts five years and more.

There’s something very satisfying about the recycling centre in Wandsworth. My car was full of things. Old appliances, bits of wood, gubbins… I filled up completely yesterday and didn’t put anything in that I didn’t think was absolute bum. Also I knew I would have both John and I checking everything into the car, and then again I knew I would have to handball every single item into the correct receptacle at Wandsworth. It took me well over an hour to empty the car. They have well delineated bins there. I chucked an old metal wine rack into the metal bin and a few minutes later saw it by a woman’s car. “I thought of scrapping it but in the end figured it wouldn’t get much value,” I told her. She looked guilty. You aren’t supposed to take things out. “I… I thought I could put some shelves in there or something…” It made me think of the time I had a fucking great big mirror in my car belonging to my friend and I leant it up against a wall for a moment. I chucked my stuff under it and then… it was gone. I got it in it neck for that as she is someone who attributes high value to items. Suddenly it was the most valuable mirror in the history of mirrors, which begs the question why she left it in my car.

I eventually had it all sorted to my satisfaction. It fills me with hope, that place. There’s a small appliance container where you can believe they will break down all the circuits and plugs etc and get back all the rare metals. There’s an area where you can put “things that are still good”. I didn’t put anything there. The stuff in the lockup has been through two creative thieves, one of which had a prolonged amount of time there. He took out loads of stuff. A fold up bike, tools, boxes of toy cars, some clothes. Hard to know exactly what but they made hay.

There’s still stuff in there worth a quid or two so I’m filling up tomorrow morning and I’m probably gonna do the Brighton Marina Car Boot on Sunday with Lou. It’s the marathon so there’ll be loads of people in town. And anything that doesn’t sell can just go to charity.

Another big whack came out of my bank for Canterbury. I’m mad paying for that where there’s a shot at using Camden, even temporarily. I hadn’t really considered how out of the way it is down there.

But yeah, I’m all done now putting things in the right container. Back home, sea and Lou for a few days coming, all is right with the world.

Sometimes things don’t go according to plan for the best possible reasons. John came round in the morning. I had all sorts of ambitious ideas about getting all the gubbins out of the lockup.

We had coffee and caught up. My rhythm today has been slow from the get go. We walked out into the warm day and drove to Camden. We opened the door and immediately all the old bad instincts kicked in. “I might want this bit of old fabric if we do Christmas Carol again.” “This thing is nice I just haven’t got room for it.” I managed to get over myself enough to fill Bergie with rubbish. But we only did one load. I just can’t be bothered today. It is too lovely. Bright sun, warmth. The lockup is walking distance to Regents Park so I went and lay on my back for a while. No wonder I’m broke. But life is good. And we were far from the only people doing it. Siwan and John both got a beer. I wasn’t in the mood, strangely. Plus driving.

Beer and I have stopped getting on so well since all the acid reflux stuff kicked off. The fizz of lager in my belly and I often want to immediately just expel the stuff. Out as quickly as in. Quicker. I was happy to soak up the rays a little with all of London.

Hottest day of the year so far apparently. Regents Park today was like all the London parks in 2020. Big thumping sound systems and loads of pockets of friends overlapping loud conversations, alone in their bubbles in a crowded place.

I drove home. I’ll empty him tomorrow and then load up again ahead of a probable car boot sale on the weekend. I just want to make room now so I’m not running to stand still on all the wheelie wardrobes in Canterbury. Although I also spoke to a lady with a shipping container near Dargate. One thing at a time. The key is to make space make space make space. I might end up with a load more stuff to sort very soon. The thing to remember is that there’s “work” in the gap in the plan.

1: Collect all sorts of random gubbins

2: …

3: PROFIT

Maddy bought a Gousto box. Brian has been on Planthood. I have long ago cancelled my HelloFresh and my Mindful Chef and my Nonna Tonda.

When we are busy and profligate it is helpful to have people send us food in the correct portion size I suppose. But Maddy says : “I know for certain I could make a better Thai curry than that”. She could. You could. I could. Anyone could. But it saves shopping and it cuts back on waste. I defrosted some bratwurst on Friday and then forgot I did it and now I don’t trust they are going to be safe to eat. Which is a shame really as I bought them somewhere full of hope.

I still have most of a great big Chicken of the Woods in the freezer that is still good. Too much for me to use. It’s all in batches. Anyone passing by my flat who likes it, ping me and I’ll bring you down a little packet. People pass by so often, they send me photos of my flat with the lights on and don’t stop. If you’re in a cab even if you’re in a hurry and you like Chicken of the Woods, slow the fuck down, call in advance and if I’m home I’ll meet you on the street for a trade through the window. We don’t need a long hi there hi there so how are you so how are you what about the thing the thing yes that thing what about it etc etc.

Even if you don’t know me, just give me more than twenty four hours notice and comment on my blog and if you’re going on the other side of the river to the Buddhist pagoda in Battersea, that’s where you’ll get your “chicken” mushroom. I need to get more freezer space.

I might miss the comment though let’s be honest. I’m not gonna give my contact details publicly. But most of the people who read what is essentially my diary, they know me.

Yesterday I guessed six years. Nine… What the fuck?

Lou is back in Brighton waking her workshop before it goes. I’m gonna try and get my shit together tomorrow about the lockup. Slowly steadily. Thing after thing. Sadly Easter is over. It has been absolutely brilliant. And very very lazy.

And so to the end of this extended weekend and having no children it is a lovely excuse to do very little. The world is switched off, all the shops are shut. If you’re active in an acting job then sure you’ll end up being busy cos we play when they work.

Today though I played.

An old friend called me. Can I call him a friend? I think so. He and my mum had a sustained positive romantic interaction when I was a teenager. A lot of the guys she got tangled up with were self important high status silver fox douchebags. They always had one hand on their own dick. This guy was unlike all of them, did an honest job, cared about things, used to get us all out into the countryside for walks. To my eye she was happier with him than all the players. But she kept looking at the players with their shifting skin and their wobbly lipped privilege oozing off them. She ended up with one of them and he only wanted her for a roof.

I went for lunch with this guy over a year ago. I paid. It was a feast time. Now it’s famine again and I’ve been on staples. He rang me, out of the blue. Does he read this? I don’t think so. But maybe he sensed it. The universe is funny like that. I haven’t been looking after myself and suddenly he took me out for a pub lunch, and told me in advance it would be his treat this time. So I had fish and chips and a big glass of douro. He can’t drink these days so like my brother Rupert he does it vicariously.

Many of my mum’s boyfriends used to offer me advice about the acting, with their visible lips and their self importance.  It is rare for us to get good advice from people outside the industry, but it never stops people trying. I am happy to take it, and I got some today from a more welcome source than those grey eminences she would let into the flat from time to time. “You really need to sort out your internet presence.”

I guess if you Google me, it is an encyclopedia of my daily life. Whereas maybe I should bump up shit like IMDB. CAN SOMEBODY MAKE ME A TINY WIKIPEDIA? My friend James tried, but he did multiple paragraphs and it got kicked back. Just a sentence or two, with links. Once it exists it can be expanded, but the gatekeepers are very vigilant about people putting their mates up when they haven’t done anything of note. Have I done anything of note? Some think I have. Surely there’s enough online for a stubby.

Interesting to take his advice to heart. He’s not wrong, my focus has been elsewhere. It’s useful to internalise the perspective of older generations. I think that stuff is less relevant these days, but all mum’s great I-ams who had probably been up Epstein’s island – that form of Nigel Dempster fame holds very little weight with the generations jumping up the tree.

What am I selling? I hope I’m selling something honest. But something honest that looks and sounds like me. Would it be an integrity break to do the whole “hey world ermagerd I’m tho amathing ya?!” I think it would. Is that the only way to bigger jobs? No. My way has worked in that I’m still here. Many aren’t. But maybe I need to dress my shop up. Even if I kinda like that if you Google me you get this uncontrollable mess of six years and more of daily opinion noise. Christ, I wonder what would come if I fed it all exclusively into an AI and got it to write on a particular subject.