Month: September 2018

“We couldn’t do this if we were grown ups,” says my friend.

I woke up this morning and had a spicy curry Pot Noodle. It’s been in my cupboard for ages. I had it with biscuits, coffee and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Then I got in the car and drove to Hampstead, to wander around on the Heath. We clambered around in trees and looked at things. There’s a hollow tree over in the middle of the Heath. It’s a miracle it hasn’t been condemned as dangerous by some joyless fishperson. We were monkeys, fuelled by inadequate nutrition, and keeping all my ribs intact this time. I found a bolete but I’m not going to eat it. Mushroom season is coming into play though. Time to go to the countryside for nutritionally sound cheap meals and occasional lucky liberty caps.

I was meant to be doing an R&D this coming week for a beautiful little kids’ show at Greenwich, but too many auditions came up so I had to pull out in favour of someone with better availability. Good to have some meetings just before I plan to get out and walk for a month. But it means another week lost on money out. I need to start tightening the spending. Nights like last night where I finish a gig and immediately blow a third of the wage on booze and ubers – they need to get sidelined. Especially if the fallout is a morning staggering around trying to work out how many feet I have and eating plastic food from plastic tubs.

After the Heath we stopped at The Spaniard. Overpriced but well located, with a good beer garden and NEVER NEVER EAT THE FOOD. It’s a Sunday, I told myself. And my head hurts from drinking last night. Homeopathy. That’s all. Addiction you cry? No no. Hair of the dog. I cry back, fingers shoved in my ears. Glug.

Then more walking. We end up in Hampstead and by now I’ve made sure I can stay over on the sofa because there are plenty more hairs on that dog and my stomach is mostly full of the dissembling potted yellow welsh spicy food impersonator. There were maybe six dried peas in my noodle. They count as food mum yes? But outside of that my body is hoping it can absorb what it can from Guinness because it’s had literally no nutrition since I dragged out of bed. So we stop at a pub with a quiz, and in goes the Guinness. After all, it’s good for you. The advert said so.

But it’s not enough. We crash out of the quiz. Cooked food has become a necessity and now as I hear the autumn rain starting in the trees over the road, we wait for the oven to heat up and I wonder if her depressing pronouncement that “this might be the last lovely day we get” could have been right.

I’ll write my blog now before my body goes into toxic shock from consuming nothing of worth since that brick of beef last night at The Globe. And then I’ll try to claw back to normal working hours next week, despite day job vacuum and cancelling this R&D.

The Balcony Room at Shakespeare’s Globe has become very familiar to me over the years. I’m here frequently enough to be greeted affectionately by the security staff, the waiters and the managers, but not frequently enough to have a 100% hit rate with the “Can I get a staff discount on my drinks? I’m here all the time but I haven’t got an official card.” routine. They have a reasonably quick staff turnaround in the Swan Bar. Too quick.

But here I am again, overlooking the river, watching the boats go by. Today I’m going to introduce myself as a Shakespearean actor and history lecturer. The client wanted both so I’ll be wearing multiple hats. But essentially it’s just me being charming, knowledgeable and deft for a few hours.

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They’re spinal doctors and researchers, the clients. A very smart attentive lot. I stream of consciousnessed a load of facts, shapes and opinions about the journey through time that has led to this current season at The Globe, including a very felt and positive slant on Michelle Terry’s first season. It feels like a good safe playing space at the moment – good work and good thinking together despite recent politicking. Oh how lovely it would be to take off this corporate hat and put on that main house one. But this’ll do for now.

Even if they are eating unbelievably slowly. We were supposed to be out of here by 9.30 and it’s past ten. They’re communing with their food. Can’t complain though. We had some of theirs, although no wine. Beef Wellington. A brick of it drowning in gravy and minted peas. It was lovely. I took my time over it too. Now work.

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And now I’m done. Finished. Long finished and have seen multiple friends, some who heal, some who party. And I’ve been waiting for ubers in the centre of London for over 20 minutes. Drivers keep cancelling to the extent that Golfo just googled “terror in London” because the last time it took this long for her to get an Uber was on the day of the haphazard idiots running around London bridge with their shit knives, sparking 12 million tons of xenophobia and the opportunity for loads more radicalism.

Uber used to be a viable option, back when they were deeply undercutting the black cab lot. I vowed never to take another black cab shortly after leaving Guildhall in 2002. There was a good decade when i learnt the buses because wheels were a pisstake and i stuck with my vow. Now I know the buses at least  But then Uber came and seemed to be effectively priced to be affordable to people outside of businessmen and rich tourists.

Problem is, you get charged for cancelling but they don’t. My first uber cancelled on me after I watched him fucking around on GPS for ages. My second uber made me watch for 14 minutes while he completed a trip, and then he fannied about and eventually cancelled himself too. I stupidly then cancelled out, thinking it was something to do with my phone or my rating. Now my friend has booked a third one, but it’s on a surge now at 1.4% price, and in fucking London Bridge, which is about as central as we can get, and it’s been another 10 minutes. I’ve aged while waiting for these vacuous shits who were ignoring me because I got in before the surge. We have watched so many black cabs and a fair few buses going by, winsomely, wondering. Black cabs are overpriced, sadly. And in a world of “adapt or die” they’ve mostly spent their time going “When I was a lad, these app things didn’t exist.” But if these grasping clueless American numbercrunchers leave the cab industry at the mercy of a million idiots who would all be totally lost as soon as there was an EMP then we lose a bit more of the London that makes us London. I’m going to try to get more black cabs. If only they didn’t cost the earth. I don’t mind a middle aged white dude driving me for money. I’ve been that dude.

This has been half an hour of standing here watching one greedy bastard after another cancelling for surges. One of the passengers is 5 foot tall and female. They don’t know how many of us there are and who, but we’ve been standing half an hour unable to cancel because if we do it costs us. So we watch them accept, drive and eventually cancel with impunity.

Having considered driving for the buggers, this experience is enough to make me want to go back to night buses exclusively. The bus network is excellent in London guys. So worth learning. Wheels like uber are a luxury. And if a luxury starts treating you like you’re second class it’s time to drop it…

Rant over. We got home. Toyota. Monosyllables.

 

The flat is full of people, colour and light. Rob and Amy are down from Manchester. Mel and Brian are smoking shisha. My cousin-outlaw is currently in the dark park over the road chanting at the base of the Buddha. I’m sitting on the sofa while Gangs of New York plays on the huge crazy home cinema set up. I’m thinking about the shape of my day today.

My cousin and I went to Hackney, to the empire. There’s some interesting and timely work coming out of that place. It’s well run. This was the culmination of a week of work exploring how to bring in BSL and audio description. Usually when a show is interpreted, the signer is put to the edge of the action so hearing impaired audience are having to look away, refer back, look away, refer back. Constantly behind the action. Can the signer be part of it? Can we bring in audio description and add to the action on stage with it? How does the audio description interact with the sign language?

They has the bones of some interesting work here. Part of me wanted to see it applied to a customised text and part of me preferred the difficulty they were exploring of applying it to existing (very lyrical) text. As a sighted and hearing auditent it was stimulating seeing three people simultaneously play one part. But I love visible process. It’s a big part of my groove. It’s why I love The Factory. The edges of what’s made are as curious and characterful as the middle. And i enjoyed seeing one actor delivering and channeling text, one actor bringing gesture and expression through BSL, and one actor neutrally handling language and description. It was strange but positive. If they get some funding they can develop something unusual and shifting. But that’s the endless issue in this industry. Making interesting stuff takes bodies and minds in space over time. And we all need to eat, especially the people who have space in London, who eat caviar.

Earlier this summer I watched Ferdy Kingsley read a letter by James Joyce. It was evening, after sunset, at Wilderness Festival. The letter is affectionately known as “farting Nora” and it is actively filthy. Like really really filthy. The ultimate expression of the fallout of Catholicism. Horrified parents were rushing away in droves with laughing children in tow. There was a sign interpreter there, and they used him to remarkable effect even if he was to the side. The audience was far more engaged in his pantomime struggle to accurately sign all of the filth in the letter than in Ben Kingsley’s son busting out his excellent Irish accent on the stage. He gave the time needed for the poor BSL guy to flounder. But there was joy in the audience, and surprise. “I’ve never seen a sign interpreter upstaging an actor before,” one friend remarked to me. And if course she was right. They were playing with the convention that the BSL interpreter is supposed to be invisible to the hearing portion of the audience. Our instinctive absorbtion of that convention made it funny. There was a ripple round the audience. “Look at the sign interpreter.” Because usually we don’t, because we can hear… But this workshop today challenged that convention. Because why not have two languages equally important and running simultaneously? It’s something to think about.

He’s much shorter than me. Intense brown eyes. Vague suit. Still. I’m at a press night and I’m drunk. Free wine. Hard not to take another glass. We have been talking for a good while now, and it’s only when I play it back in sober memory that I see the edges of the conversation. At the time I was drowning in it.

It’s like a Meisner class, in that he’s identifying what I’m doing and telling me about it. “You’re being defensive.” “Now you’re being apologetic.” “Now you’re being aggressive.” He’s managing my behaviours, and all the while I’m thinking he’s just being very observant. He rarely moves his head. I don’t remember him blinking. I’m feeling increasingly self-conscious, becoming increasingly passive. The booze ain’t helping. Then he validates me, thereby raising his own power in this interaction. “It’s not that I’m saying your behaviours are bad, Al. I like you. I find you very charming. I feel that I’m very similar to you.” “I like you too,” escapes my lips obediently. He continues “Although unfortunately I think we want very different things from each other.” He lets that hang. Still not blinking. A little light goes on through the drinky fug. No. Surely not. But yes. Yep. Oh yepparoonie. He’s definitely hitting on me. It’s a masterclass. Undercut undercut undercut. Validate validate validate. Dig out insecurities. Replace them with your approval. Wow. I rarely if ever hit on people. I’ve definitely never been hit on like this. I’m fascinated. I don’t tell him I’m not interested, although he knows it and it’s part of why he’s enjoying the game. But I’m thinking I’m going to need an exit from the conversation and he’s not going to make it easy. Then Rebecca comes battering in like a steam train because she’s as drunk as me. “Come on Al, we’re going home,” she announces, and his face falls. And we leave. “That guy gave me a really weird look,” she says as we get our coats. She lives near to me and it’s cheaper to share an uber, but that’s not the message left with “Right Al we’re leaving.”

I’m glad we left. It was a strange thing. It made me notice that we can compromise our desires for social anxiety. I know that I don’t desire men, even as I know that I do desire women. But when it became clear that the end point of his aim was for us to be going at it like rabbits until dawn, I didn’t end the conversation and walk away. I needed to be rescued by drunk-Rebecca, who thankfully came in on cue and pulled me out of him fnarr fnarr. But I’m glad she was there to do that.

I’m now thinking frequently about his methodology. It seemed a conscious and targeted approach. I get the sense he’s honed it. If I find someone attractive I either talk too much or completely ignore them. Next time maybe I’ll just stand still and talk about their behaviour. It’s not a bad approach. Works on me.

Eleven years of Hartshorn Hook. That’s my flatmate’s production company. It’s their birthday today. It’s also the press night for Six the Musical at The Arts Theatre. That’s their theatre, but not their production. I lucked into a last minute replacement ticket for the press party, which is excellent as the show is sold out until late September already and I was worried I wouldn’t get to see it. I’m sitting with the team right now, sucked into their post work birthday celebration, looking forward to catching the show. But it’s only ten to seven and someone is talking about tequila. I don’t want to be dancing on the tables surrounded by casting directors. I still harbor fantasies that they will one day start to notice that I’m a legitimate and saleable prospect. I missed Downton. The Crown is still going. There’s plenty of interesting and right headed stuff that fits me, and I’m still here, still optimistic, waiting for the audition, still not dead – miraculously. It just takes that one part to snowball work. We all know it. But you need the meeting to get the job. Someone might wake up before long. Meantime I’ll keep doing the random things and try not to dance on the tables after Wednesday afternoon tequila madness at a press night I’m nothing to do with.

I’m glad to get the chance to see some theatre. The diary is empty this week and I really don’t like that. My usual reaction to a week of no money in is to stop all money out and basically sit at home all day refusing to answer the phone to fun-friends and googling for money work I can do on my own terms without breaking the audition possibilities. Anyway. Showtime for Six the Musical…

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It’s fantastic. It’s 6 women playing the six wives of Henry VIII. If you grew up in the UK you would be familiar with them. We all had to slavishly learn about them as kids. Catherine of Aragon, the spanish Catholic who Henry invented the Church of England to dump. Anne Boleyn who could never have expected to be beheaded. Jane Seymour who bore him a son but died in the process. Anne of Cleves who didn’t look like her portrait. Catherine Howard who died for odd political reasons and habit. Catherine Parr, who didn’t want it but lived. Six women on stage, and women – not girls. Women. Telling the patriarchal story from their angle, knowing history would not have remembered them had it not been for their husband. With four musicians visibly backing who are also women. Ten visible performers. And yeah there are joke references and homages to the Spice Girls. But this is what I’ve wanted what I’ve really really wanted. It’s not actually about the gender or ethnicity balance, but yes I am glad of it. Because more it’s about the fact that this is a corking show. They smashed it up in Edinburgh. Now they’re smashing it here in London and YOU TOO CAN GET A TICKET. Which you probably ought to if you like musical theatre.

It’s short, complete, punchy, modern and Tudor. I loved Anne of Cleves. Such a smart take, that she didn’t look like her profile picture. But that’s the show all over. It’s smart and modern and funny and on point.

And now we’re off to the after party at Hospital Club for fun and friends. And NO TEQUILA.

My best friend has cut her hair. It’s considerably shorter and looks great. Seeing her this afternoon immediately made me want to do the same – to get a set of clippers and buzz the lot off to grade 1. I’ve got the pilgrimage for it to grow back. And I like myself shorn like that. I feel sexier and faster. Plus it’s nice to rub.

I can’t shave it right now though. I’m doing this one nighter at The Arcola on Sunday 23rd, the night before my birthday. It involves someone stroking my bald bits and telling me there are still some strands of hair coming through “like spider legs”. I get all the best jobs…

Maybe I’ll do it after the show before I go walking but then I’m Scrooge in December. Can Scrooge be shorn? I haven’t the foggiest. Maybe. I’ve seen a shaven headed Scrooge. But then if I shaved I’d have to get new headshots and all that malarkey… Ahh so much to consider.

It was good to see Min today albeit briefly. She was winding down and feeding fish to the baby and I was hanging and unwashed. I felt big and unwieldy and smelly so I didn’t stick around. Today has not been particularly productive generally, although it has been lovely. Anyone that read last night’s ramble would know that I’d had a few too many, so I’ve just been recovering in good company. The advantages of actually “resting.”

But while I’m going on about haircuts, over in Brazil possibly the greatest cultural disaster of our lifetime has taken place. The Brazil National Museum has been completely gutted by fire. My friend in Rio messaged me to say people are talking about arson, which leaves me speechless with rage. The burning of the Library of Alexandria catalysed the period of backwards motion and comparative ignorance we call The Dark Ages. We are already in a period of backwards motion and comparative ignorance. But 20 million artifacts from our past up in flames? Their loss can only add to the general worldwide level of idiocy over time. So much lost. So much irreplacable. They weren’t insured either, not that you can put a price on the sort of things that went up in flames. Surely arson is just a rumour. What could motivate an arson like that? Covering a theft? Surely nobody is that venal, he says, knowing at last sadly that yes they can be…

And as i wrote that last sentence, Pickle pissed on the beanbag right in front of me, looking me dead in the eye. She hasn’t done anything like that for ages. I reckon it’s her way of protesting about the library burning. Perhaps demonstrating what she would’ve done to put the fire out. Brian and I cleaned it as best we could, propped it up in the bathroom to dry, and watched Better Call Saul. Now it’s a comparatively early bed and tomorrow I might try to do something more productive than watch a baby eat fish and clean cat wee off a beanbag.

Oh God. Normally when i write drunk I try to pretend that I’m sober or at very least not make it clear that you’re reading the ramblings of someone deep in the throes of mindpoison. But tonight there are a load of people who read this nonsense reasonably often and who are actually physically here in the room with me right now. And I’ve been here with them for a while. And one of them just said “Here you go mate ” and passed me what must be my 8th pint. They don’t necessarily expect coherence, these friends. But they expect argument or image or wordnoise of some sort, surely, otherwise WHAT MADNESS IS THIS? Sentences… What have I got left? Not much. I’ll try. Subject verb object. Go.

I drove the Jag. Back from to London. Drive, Al, drive. Golfo and I were together. Golfo is 5 foot tall. Hello Golfo. I stayed at hers last night. Sleep, Al, sleep!

Sometimes beds can be evil. After too many times kicking the bedfooty wooden block thing at the end of my leg, I deliberately attempted to sleep diagonally. The duvet doesn’t like that though, so it punishes your ingenuity by falling off. So my sleep was hard and shattered and my fucking bizarre brain decided to dream that I was sleeping at the home of Procrustes. Of course.

In Greek myth Procrustes  would put you in an iron bed and would either stretch you if it was too long or chop you if it was too short. I woke repeatedly, lying diagonally across with the blankets falling on the floor, expecting a guillotine to take off my ankles. Who the fuck makes bed frames so short? It’s a double. I’m only six foot tall.

But to this evening… How did I get so drunk that it’s pointless pretending I’m thinking straight? Networking. I’ve been networking, mofos. HOo ah. That’s when a load of people try not to get their conversation destroyed by their social anxiety in the hopes that they’ll find collaborators. I met some people but I don’t have a card because fuck that. I also spent some time with very old friends who make things, and I laughed harder then I remember laughing for a long time. I laughed alongside people I didn’t know too but then I didn’t hand them a bit of cardboard with my name on it to tell them I’m available for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.

The evening was organised by The Gunpowder Plot who are beautiful humans who care about this thing we have started to call “immersive theatre.” They described it as a “movement” at one point this evening. I like that feeling, to be part of a “movement”. I think back twenty years to when I was playing with people at BAC on this theme and was told by a man who ran a pub theatre that I should stop doing all that stuff because it’s never going to go anywhere. “It’s not acting” was his big one. But now it’s business. And maybe it IS “acting” mate. Maybe the onus is on the performer to abandon their shit. Art is what we tell you it is.

Now audiences understand that they can feel they’re part of the story because there’s a whole skillset that involves not having actors acting AT them. If you want to be part of the story, you can do that, on your own terms, and mostly you won’t have someone with blind eyes shouting at you – although that’s still occasionally celebrated because it is comforting. But here am I grinding an axe. Stop turning out your impressive performance.pStart listening. Grind. Grind. Grind.

I’ve ground out another 500 words, somehow. Now I’m genuinely going to try to watch The Return of the King, extended edition with Brian and Golfo, without falling asleep. It’s half twelve. We will all go sleep before it’s finished. But here we are in the uber.

Oh God. It begins. “At dawn on the fifth day, look to the east.” etc

My old college friends massed together in Manchester last night, reconnecting, for a fortieth birthday. It’s hard to ignore the passage of time, when you’re confronted with your youthful companions of foolishness, and almost all of them are talking about their kids. It was particularly resonant after the conversation with the Imam yesterday. These are people from my drama school. And they’re almost all settled, bred up, doggerised, mortengaged, doing the stuff we childishly decided we were supposed to do when we were grown ups.

It was a lovely night. The next morning I hung out with an eight year old whose dad lived in my flat for years, sleeping in the room I now sleep in. We dreamed and planned and fought and laughed. “Remember when we moved in and there were literally no doors,” he says. “And no furniture but two beanbags.” He’s younger than me, this dad of two, this dear old friend. All of these friends and mums and dads of two are younger then me. “What’s harder – going from no kids to one? Or going from one kid to two?” They ask these questions like I might ask my friends if they prefer a Margarita or a Pisco Sour.

I feel ancient. “We’ve known each other for longer than I was alive when we first met.” Nooooooo! Another beer.

Being out of work still and with no kids or loved ones, I’m not in any great hurry to get back to the smoke. I’ll always make it in time for an audition if one happens as I can smash it in the new whip. But while I’m in the North I may as will enjoy being out of London. I saw my cousin. We went for Sunday roast in a country pub where they didn’t behave like they hated us. The Indian summer is not disappointing after the heatwave. We sat outside and tanned and gorged. Then I jumped in the jag and was in Liverpool almost immediately. Now I’m in Birkenhead. Near the ferry to Douglas. I could go back home tomorrow although the keys to the place in the IOM are in London and it’s about £120 on the boat. I think it’s probable I’ll sleep in London tomorrow unless we can find a reasonable distraction. I tried Wales but everyone’s too busy. I reckon we should get a car load and go to Douglas in November. See the seals.

For now it’s friends and wine in Liverpool. I’m staying with Golfo and her parents. Golfo and I cleared out a huge warehouse many months ago and realised we were great friends. Her dad spit roasts lamb like nobody else. It’s only right that while I’m in the north I play Pictionary and Pass the Pigs with her and her parents here on the Mersey. And now I’m winding down and she’s put on Only Fools and Horses. And there’s Roger Lloyd Pack. Lovely man. I had a few beers with him a few years ago and oh yes he’s dead. The passage of time again. Bollocks. It’s following me around today.

I’ll have another glass of wine then. Pass the Pigs.

Blablacar sends me a message as I sleep. I wake up to it. “Luke, 51, has joined your trip with a second passenger.” I’m driving to Manchester. I listed it on the ride sharing site to offset the cost of petrol, but now I’m regretting it a little as I’ve never done it before. Who is this Luke? It he going to garotte me? I can get no information on him through the platform.

He’s late at Sloane Square. I’m looking at everyone as they come out. None of them seem to be looking for me. Then suddenly, Luke. He’s imposing. Dominant. He speaks in certainties. His wife is with him, kinder and quieter. One of his first conversation topics is how a woman completes a man. “We do the practicalities. They have the emotion. They’ll always do things better than us if we let them.”

We assess each other. He tells me he’s a science teacher but avoids talking about teaching. He has kids. I mumble something like “Not for me mate.” I’m still trying to work out what I said. Because he mishears it. He says “You’ve got 4 kids? I took you for one of these people that’s just breezing through life avoiding all responsibility. Good on you.”

That leaves me with a tricky choice. I glance at the satnav. One and a half hours left of this trip. How big can the snowball get if I confirm his misconception? I either say “That’s me! Shirking responsibility. Parasite of fun. Contributing nothing.” Or I do what I did. “Yeah. It’s expensive but … you know… We make it work.” Thankfully he doesn’t want to talk much about childcare. But still, I feel the lie rolling and growing. How big will it get? Before long I have an estranged wife in Aberdeen.

And then it gets harder because I start to like him. When I lied I was feeling the weight of his judgement on me for my creative freelance life. Then we start to vibe. We have covered politics. He talks about diet. I mention that I fasted the first two weeks of Ramadan during the Grenfell volunteering time. He sits up.

Turns out he’s not a science teacher – or not only. He’s an Imam. And now he’s in his element. He starts to talk about the responsibilities of Muslims in this country to integrate and to be active in their communities. His voice starts to fill the car and beyond as he involves his considerable diaphragm support. His sentences flow complete and honed. He has said these things at the front of the mosque. His wife is curious about my curiosity. She tells me I should’ve been praying at Ramadan as well. He understands better though. I tell him I did it so I could understand what people were doing and be more compassionate towards it. I dislike having an opinion about something until I have a reasonable understanding of it. I like him more and more. He’s upset with the Imam I spoke to, who just gave me a timetable and basic info and suggested i “find Muslims in my area” He says “I would’ve given you my number. Got you to call me whenever. Talk through the hardship. And through the advantages after a few days.”

Then we stop for coffee and pastries and he sees the damage on my car. He booked me on the site because he loves jaguars. Blablacar tells you what you’ll be riding. “I can get that fixed up for you, good as new. Get it round to me. Don’t even worry about the money. We can work something out. I’ve got people who know.” It sounds entirely sincere. He’s thinking his son would do well as an actor. He’s looking to find direction for a lost boy. “It’s a hard life,” I say. “But the companionship is great. And it’s wonderful when you’re working.” But you need the passion or you don’t get over the speedbumps…

By the time I drop him off I’m overwhelmed by his generosity and passion. He’s clearly a good Imam and a good man. I’ve got his number now. Maybe I’ll take him up on the jaguar. But the snowball! He had me pinned. Breezing through life, chasing my passion, far too few attachments. But I allowed him to think I had these 4 kids. I didn’t break the mistake. It’s big now.

So I reckon I’ll sleep on it, and then probably send him the link to this by text. See if he’ll look me in the eye after that. Sorry Luke.

Meanwhile I’m in Chorlton. Just about to hit my old mate Nathan’s surprise fortieth. He used to party harder than I could. How he’s got two kids. Not as many as I don’t have. Oh deary deary me…

I like having a car again. But I forgot how expensive it can be. I needed oil. The screenwash was empty. The water level is low. And I’m going to be doing a lot of driving. £70 gets another tank but I’ve got to watch the pennies now. My usual day job at Imperial gave every single bloody invigilation shift away because I was at festivals and didn’t confirm my availability in time. So – world: Money in exchange for acting, driving or being fantastic. I do all three. I’ve got a pilgrimage to fund. Go Go Go. Also anyone who wants a bed in a happy Chelsea flat with the best flatmate ever and a cute cat, I’ll give you decent rates so the flat stays nice while I’m away. Better someone I know and like than putting Brian through the unpredictability of Airbnb types unnecessarily.

I told my agent about it. The pilgrimage. That makes it official. I’m going. Leaving on or around Wednesday 26th, two days after my birthday and I have a show at The Arcola on the 23rd. Returning on the 9th November. So basically the whole of October. I feel totally sure about doing it, even if I’m a little weirded out by all that time away from anything related to acting. But I think it’ll make me calmer and more honest. And I think I’ll be able to properly and convincingly lay a ghost, and honour it as it passes. I’ve got family about 100km from Lourdes, which i reckon is about three days walk, although I haven’t got my distances sorted properly yet so I might be way off. Maybe I could do it in 4 easy days and call it warming up. I’ll have to break the habit of a lifetime and draw up a proper hardcore schedule. They’ll be good for me as well.

Anyway. Today I tinkered with my jag. I had the bonnet up, getting grease all over my hands.

I looked at the manuals and watched YouTube videos. If I was married, my partner would raise their eyes to the heavens and say “That bloody car. It’s his pride and joy.” As it is I’ll do it about myself. I can’t drive it at night though because all the lights on the left side are smashed out and once I get stopped then I have to expensively replace them. Still, it was nice to get my hands oily. I’ll need to top up the water and do the tires tomorrow morning. Then I’m screaming up north for a day or two.

Having a car, even if costly, makes perfect sense with my lifestyle. I wouldn’t have booked a train ticket until tonight to go up north because I couldn’t have predicted auditions etc. By now the ticket would be really expensive which is why I’m always on the Megabus. This way I can list two seats to Stockport on blablacar at £15 quid each, go in my own time, and stay until it makes sense to come back. If i have to mission home for a meeting I can. So, yeah. I’ll keep justifying the expense to myself and to you, best beloved. And I’ll get my nose to whichever grindstone presents itself from next week to make sure I can keep bleeding the insurance out so I can keep bringing behind the wheel of my swank whip…