This evening it’s the Olivier’s. Brian was there, fixing the industry person by person. Meanwhile I was in a bar in Hoxton with tights over my head.

My living room is full of comics and dust. Boxes and boxes of comics. Metric tonnes of dust. Back in the long ago far away time, young Al spent lots of his copious money on comics. He must’ve known that future Al would not have had that sort of money. So future Al is going to have to work out how to sell three milliontyfivety seven comics. Superfast. Come forward, oh comic lovers. Anyone that knows a good way of bulk selling without getting stitched up, help would be appreciated. The alternative, which is not outside the bounds of possibility, is for me to sink all my spare time into learning a new skill, and eBay the lot one by one. Which could be lucrative, but will take months.

Anyway, that’s for tomorrowAl. Today I zoomed over to my old house in the morning in order to put back the things I’d jiggled around in the process of rescuing the comics. Max and I no longer live in our old house together, because he got married and had kids, and mum died so I had a place to eject to and make space for his wife and his burgeoning family. Growing up we were both convinced that he’d be the first to be married. Another illustration of what a bunch of idiots we are when we’re children and we make these very specific plans for ourselves.

Today we did a very different Factory Macbeth. We were in The Electricity Showrooms in Hoxton. Totally different show and cast. I was mostly murdering people which I enjoyed until I had to use my tights to kill Maz. Tights over your face are a big part of the game. But I had a big learn. This will be incomprehensible to you unless you know the game,  but I felt it was right I murder Maz because she’d been using me as a climbing frame. So I put my tights on her face, and then I had no tights for myself. Next time I go murdering I’ll be carrying spare tights for just such an eventuality. Maz died and my tights absorbed her. But then I was standing next to her signalling “I don’t have tights”. Thankfully Wilf had a tights foot which I could just get over the front of my face, but with a proboscis. I need a gusset for my big face… The long and short of it was that I couldn’t play for the last act without either looking like a comedy elephant or being in pain, so I took myself out and went on book in case someone forgot their lines. Being on book is mostly irrelevant for Factory shows because everyone knows everyone else’s lines so you just ask the universe “What should I say?”. But it was potentially helpful this early in the run, and it got me the hell out of sight with my suddenly crap tights. That was pretty much the only choice I had. Or shrink my head.

Factory shows come with great joy and great frustration. It was lovely tonight. Now I’m sitting by Brian and Mel on the sofa and they’re both fast asleep. They’ve been asleep for the whole of my writing, despite Pickle. I’m about to wake them as I go to sleep… Bed is better than sofa…




Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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