Month: May 2023

The internet here is not great hence the triple post last night. We really are isolated in the best possible way. There is community here all year owing to the generosity of our hosts. We are surrounded by interesting crafty people.

Today we had two shots at Julius Caesar. A rolling company as ever. I enjoyed joining everyone. I’ve been busy so had to slot in and missed all the work in the lead up. Previous years we have had long intensive weeks with the likes of TC, our patron saint who is currently firmly lodged in Canada, and the wonderful Louie Scheeder whose death last year made the world much poorer.

Once again it has been The Factory at The Willow Globe, and once again if I had been paying attention I would be scattering links and adverts and who knows what else. I will certainly say that, if you live in the vicinity of Llandudnod Wells, go and find The Willow Globe. God it is a powerful place. I’ve written about it frequently, as I’ve been there many times since this vast life-blog experiment went active.

Everyone from the company is in the kitchen being animated. I’m in the living room writing to you. “Can you occasionally do a short blog?” Scott asked. “I can do what the fuck I want,” I responded.

I’ve been bearing that thinking out the last two days. This is a new project. Games are yet to be found. I bring mischief. It’s part of my purpose. I’m happy with my offers and the reasons for them. I know I can be better, do more, be braver. I think this play with this company offers opportunity. It’ll be a long long time until we have milked it. Mostly today I observed my talented friends being bold and hard-working. I am looking forward to the continuation of this.

But I’m gonna rejoin the throng. Good night, blogfriends. Xxx

Wales. I’m in Wales. I’m deep in dark and quiet Wales, holed up in a vast and beautiful ancient stone hall, about to play loads of different parts in Julius Caesar with The Factory.

These incredible thoughtful compassionate people have been in my life for decades now. A rolling company. We have made things quickly and often. Sometimes they’ve been wonderful. Sometimes they haven’t. But always they’ve been alive. There must have been over a hundred actors through The Factory over the years and there isn’t one that I wouldn’t call a friend and mean it. We are forged in and united by a peculiar kind of pressured fellowship around the work. I’m so happy to be with them here and now. Great humans.

Last night I met the people in my house and year group at school. An odd lot too, but not MY odd lot. I wanted to see what they were like as adults. “Why the fuck did you put yourself through that?” I was asked by multiple friends who have known me long enough to have full context on it. Girlfriends in the past have opened conversations about the scars on my back. Other scars are less visible.

For two years I was growing up in a little building with one psychotic bully and a bunch of people either too sociopathic or too scared to intervene. Mostly they didn’t have the tools. None of us did. We were children. It was a really shit two years. I rarely think on it now. But it’s a part of my life and maybe it’s worth reconciling these things.

A reunion dinner? I just needed to see them. To see if they had developed. I shouldn’t have gone but it’s my past. I was curious.

“You know that time when Harry was whipping you and I was the only other person in the room and I didn’t do anything?” “Yeah, I think you were laughing?” “Well no I don’t know if I was laughing that time, that was another time. But I’ve been talking with my wife about it and I don’t know but maybe there’s something I should have done?” “Are you apologising?” “Well, I mean, when you think about it, you could have done something too though really. Maybe I could have done something, but why didn’t you stop it yourself?”

What’s most fascinating is, it felt like an attempt at something positive. It felt like an honest try at some sort of apology. I tried to stick a bit of challenge into it, and maybe using the word “coward” was overly provocative as it led to a surprising “So why are you still talking about it?” when I have barely given it the time of day for decades and he brought it up. I slammed this stuff out of myself in my twenties. I don’t give very many fucks now.

But I haven’t looked at it fully… I texted him today to just acknowledge that he’s started some sort of process. Spot the Dog does Compassion! He’s a parent now. Perspective comes with work. I told him I respected his thinking. I do, even though he very quickly tried to absent himself from any responsibility.

I went to the dinner because I was curious and there I found that there’s still stuff that will never be finished because it makes no sense to any of us. We were all just children and there was a psychopath in the room.

I know now that I have no hard feelings to any of them. I was happy to see them. They looked well. I was perhaps a bit disappointed to feel how separate they all felt to me – they’ve clearly all stayed in touch and I’m just this weirdo. My world is not theirs though. One of them who was capable of empathy and kindness almost refused to accept that I still liked him. “No, I was a dick to you.” he insisted. With full context I had to ask: “Were you?” I suspect it’s still not “cool” for them to be nice to me.

But I had a big chunk of my formative years where their “majority” set what I thought of as the benchmark for normal. I felt I didn’t fit, because … because I didn’t fit.

I’m sure they’ve all framed things like I have. I was an awkward little fucker and I knew I was clever. Maybe I should’ve helped myself like the man said. But the kid I was then couldn’t make sense of why it was happening and hadn’t learnt how cruel and arbitrary life can be.

Me now? I would have either broken both his fucking arms or died trying. But me now is a very very different beast to that happy broken open hearted clever protected trusting confused little boy who couldn’t understand why he was being bullied unless it was because he deserved it somehow.

And now I’m in Wales with these incredible hearts, and wonderful Lou. And I know what it is to have true friends and people in my life who think and care.

Wales. I’m in Wales. I’m deep in dark and quiet Wales, holed up in a vast and beautiful ancient stone hall, about to play loads of different parts in Julius Caesar with The Factory.

These incredible thoughtful compassionate people have been in my life for decades now. A rolling company. We have made things quickly and often. Sometimes they’ve been wonderful. Sometimes they haven’t. But always they’ve been alive. There must have been over a hundred actors through The Factory over the years and there isn’t one that I wouldn’t call a friend and mean it. We are forged in and united by a peculiar kind of pressured fellowship around the work. I’m so happy to be with them here and now. Great humans.

Last night I met the people in my house and year group at school. An odd lot too, but not MY odd lot. I wanted to see what they were like as adults. “Why the fuck did you put yourself through that?” I was asked by multiple friends who have known me long enough to have full context on it. Girlfriends in the past have opened conversations about the scars on my back. Other scars are less visible.

For two years I was growing up in a little building with one psychotic bully and a bunch of people either too sociopathic or too scared to intervene. Mostly they didn’t have the tools. None of us did. We were children. It was a really shit two years. I rarely think on it now. But it’s a part of my life and maybe it’s worth reconciling these things.

A reunion dinner? I just needed to see them. To see if they had developed. I shouldn’t have gone but it’s my past. I was curious.

“You know that time when Harry was whipping you and I was the only other person in the room and I didn’t do anything?” “Yeah, I think you were laughing?” “Well no I don’t know if I was laughing that time, that was another time. But I’ve been talking with my wife about it and I don’t know but maybe there’s something I should have done?” “Are you apologising?” “Well, I mean, when you think about it, you could have done something too though really. Maybe I could have done something, but why didn’t you stop it yourself?”

What’s most fascinating is, it felt like an attempt at something positive. It felt like an honest try at some sort of apology. I tried to stick a bit of challenge into it, and maybe using the word “coward” was overly provocative as it led to a surprising “So why are you still talking about it?” when I have barely given it the time of day for decades and he brought it up. I slammed this stuff out of myself in my twenties. I don’t give very many fucks now.

But I haven’t looked at it fully… I texted him today to just acknowledge that he’s started some sort of process. Spot the Dog does Compassion! He’s a parent now. Perspective comes with work. I told him I respected his thinking. I do, even though he very quickly tried to absent himself from any responsibility.

I went to the dinner because I was curious and there I found that there’s still stuff that will never be finished because it makes no sense to any of us. We were all just children and there was a psychopath in the room.

I know now that I have no hard feelings to any of them. I was happy to see them. They looked well. I was perhaps a bit disappointed to feel how separate they all felt to me – they’ve clearly all stayed in touch and I’m just this weirdo. My world is not theirs though. One of them who was capable of empathy and kindness almost refused to accept that I still liked him. “No, I was a dick to you.” he insisted. With full context I had to ask: “Were you?” I suspect it’s still not “cool” for them to be nice to me.

But I had a big chunk of my formative years where their “majority” set what I thought of as the benchmark for normal. I felt I didn’t fit, because … because I didn’t fit.

I’m sure they’ve all framed things like I have. I was an awkward little fucker and I knew I was clever. Maybe I should’ve helped myself like the man said. But the kid I was then couldn’t make sense of why it was happening and hadn’t learnt how cruel and arbitrary life can be.

Me now? I would have either broken both his fucking arms or died trying. But me now is a very very different beast to that happy broken open hearted clever protected trusting confused little boy who couldn’t understand why he was being bullied unless it was because he deserved it somehow.

And now I’m in Wales with these incredible hearts, and wonderful Lou. And I know what it is to have true friends and people in my life who think and care.

Wales. I’m in Wales. I’m deep in dark and quiet Wales, holed up in a vast and beautiful ancient stone hall, about to play loads of different parts in Julius Caesar with The Factory.

These incredible thoughtful compassionate people have been in my life for decades now. A rolling company. We have made things quickly and often. Sometimes they’ve been wonderful. Sometimes they haven’t. But always they’ve been alive. There must have been over a hundred actors through The Factory over the years and there isn’t one that I wouldn’t call a friend and mean it. We are forged in and united by a peculiar kind of pressured fellowship around the work. I’m so happy to be with them here and now. Great humans.

Last night I met the people in my house and year group at school. An odd lot too, but not MY odd lot. I wanted to see what they were like as adults. “Why the fuck did you put yourself through that?” I was asked by multiple friends who have known me long enough to have full context on it. Girlfriends in the past have opened conversations about the scars on my back. Other scars are less visible.

For two years I was growing up in a little building with one psychotic bully and a bunch of people either too sociopathic or too scared to intervene. Mostly they didn’t have the tools. None of us did. We were children. It was a really shit two years. I rarely think on it now. But it’s a part of my life and maybe it’s worth reconciling these things.

A reunion dinner? I just needed to see them. To see if they had developed. I shouldn’t have gone but it’s my past. I was curious.

“You know that time when Harry was whipping you and I was the only other person in the room and I didn’t do anything?” “Yeah, I think you were laughing?” “Well no I don’t know if I was laughing that time, that was another time. But I’ve been talking with my wife about it and I don’t know but maybe there’s something I should have done?” “Are you apologising?” “Well, I mean, when you think about it, you could have done something too though really. Maybe I could have done something, but why didn’t you stop it yourself?”

What’s most fascinating is, it felt like an attempt at something positive. It felt like an honest try at some sort of apology. I tried to stick a bit of challenge into it, and maybe using the word “coward” was overly provocative as it led to a surprising “So why are you still talking about it?” when I have barely given it the time of day for decades and he brought it up. I slammed this stuff out of myself in my twenties. I don’t give very many fucks now.

But I haven’t looked at it fully… I texted him today to just acknowledge that he’s started some sort of process. Spot the Dog does Compassion! He’s a parent now. Perspective comes with work. I told him I respected his thinking. I do, even though he very quickly tried to absent himself from any responsibility.

I went to the dinner because I was curious and there I found that there’s still stuff that will never be finished because it makes no sense to any of us. We were all just children and there was a psychopath in the room.

I know now that I have no hard feelings to any of them. I was happy to see them. They looked well. I was perhaps a bit disappointed to feel how separate they all felt to me – they’ve clearly all stayed in touch and I’m just this weirdo. My world is not theirs though. One of them who was capable of empathy and kindness almost refused to accept that I still liked him. “No, I was a dick to you.” he insisted. With full context I had to ask: “Were you?” I suspect it’s still not “cool” for them to be nice to me.

But I had a big chunk of my formative years where their “majority” set what I thought of as the benchmark for normal. I felt I didn’t fit, because … because I didn’t fit.

I’m sure they’ve all framed things like I have. I was an awkward little fucker and I knew I was clever. Maybe I should’ve helped myself like the man said. But the kid I was then couldn’t make sense of why it was happening and hadn’t learnt how cruel and arbitrary life can be.

Me now? I would have either broken both his fucking arms or died trying. But me now is a very very different beast to that happy broken open hearted clever protected trusting confused little boy who couldn’t understand why he was being bullied unless it was because he deserved it somehow.

And now I’m in Wales with these incredible hearts, and wonderful Lou. And I know what it is to have true friends and people in my life who think and care.

I’m in a cross town uber at lunchtime. I’ve had three and a half hours sleep. Tonight I’m supposed to go to a party with a load of strangers that I went to school with. It’ll be nice to sit down. I’m supposed to be in a dinner jacket but I think given the state of my wardrobe that it might genuinely make more sense for me to bung on a regency frock coat and have done with it. If I show up in a suit I’ll be in their work uniform. And I’m not sure what I can cobble at short notice for formal dinner wear. I’m not even sure I have all the accessories for my kilt at easy access. Haven’t seen my sporran for a few months.

Last night I stayed up to do this audition tape. My phone kept running out of space, my brain didn’t work. Blue label and fatigue and total lack of time for prep. “Good acting through song,” says my agent, which is code for “atrocious singing done with charm”. I’m visibly reading my lines in the scenes to a tape of dear Tristan hamming it for England. Knowing the state I was in its amusing to watch through. It’s bound to crop up when they do “This is Your Life!”

I didn’t want to get an uber, as they are too expensive these days and so you might as well get a black cab. Three cabbies with the lights on drove past me in five minutes though. Three. I was livid after the third one. Absolutely fuming. I thought maybe I’d write an excoriating blog about how nobody should ever get a black cab ever again, but then I calmed down and realised I was just really tired.

Audition is sent. Now I’ve got some lines to learn, but I’m at least going to be home. I should just about have time for a bath and a power nap if I source my formal dinner-wear quickly and efficiently… Here’s hoping.

My heels are a bruise. My hands are raw. My head is full of wool.

A lie in tomorrow. Then a drive to Wales and learning lines lots. One thing at a time though. I’m working down the list. Next item on it is “Old School Dinner”. And I’ve got the blog done early!! *waves flags*

I’ve just realised I have no clue when I’m gonna write this blog apart from gradually over the course of the rest of this evening’s work.

I’m on this big drinky event in Shoreditch and I’m stone cold sober as they all stagger around talking loudly about booze. Right now they are all over the Johnny Walker Blue Label, and she offered me a shot but I declined. Not just because I’m working although that’s part of it. Also I’ve got a fecking audition to send by tomorrow morning and no time to record it.

Theatre. With a song.

It’ll either be me in my pod hotel room tonight after work absolutely shattered, or it’ll be me after a restless few hours, awoken at 5am and rushing it before breakfast at 7. And somehow that appeals to me more at the moment, but comes with the risk of sleeping through the whole thing.

The job would be three months in Leeds. It would be lovely to be back in god’s own country. I am happy in that part of the world now. I’d probably do the old man on tour thing and rent a nice place a short drive away from town, rather than a room above a pub two minutes from the theatre. But I’d need to get it first.

And the state I’m in any audition I send is gonna be a sleepy man yawning.

—

Damn it’s hard to get the cork out of these prosecco bottles.

Yeah so we built the event, now we are working the event, and later we will break the event. Blessed be the name of the event.

I’m pooped.

Ooh they’re going to feed us though. Meat. So far today it’s been three packets of crisps, a burger, pork scratchings, and a coca cola.

—

Yes we get food. Yes it’s meat. We can sit outside and eat it.

—

Good lord that was one of the best meals I’ve ever had on a job.

Maybe later on I’ll have some of that blue label.

Then I’ll do the audition and nail it and they’ll offer me the part and I’ll only be able to do what I did after Lamb with celeriac remoulade and a shot of expensive whisky. That’ll be my rider.

oh God my feet don’t work

–+

We don’t need to move the tables yet because dessert isn’t out but they want us to move the tables… hmm. I should have had that whisky.

The band is playing. We moved the tables. Emotion and celebration. 29 Fingers are the band. Rather than wondering which of the three of them is missing a finger, I’m off to have a finger of Blue Label Whisky. You see. I did a clever writingness. Because you measure whisky in fingers? oh fuck it.

—

It’s very good. I shared most of it. I am happy. We did work to make others have fun. And a lot of that is why I’m here this time somehow.

Must remember to do that tape though.

Uptown funk?

Almost half eleven. I’m back here at half seven. They’re still dancing. Even without the whisky I couldn’t audition after this madness. Early morning singing or apologetic call to my agent or both, coming right up.

Up in the Ayrshire morning and for a few hours I’m Julie Andrews, dancing around my little IKEA flat packing bags and cleaning up. No bin bags anywhere so a neat and guilty pile of empty Kronenburg cans by the bin. Two half finished bottles of red wine down the sink. Everything else into my case and then off into a sleety morning to pick up the ancient scientist again. He’s a brilliant human and his wife comes with him adding value. We notice and comment on similar things, Peter and I. The silhouette of a crow on a traffic light. The behaviour of a woman at the petrol station. We would be friends.

His wife gives me his card and I’ll look them up if I’m in Turin. I drop them at Edinburgh airport and then nothing remains but to get myself to Glasgow. My journey there is slow. I listen to music, stop for a long contemplative sandwich, gently dispose of all the detritus that has accumulated in my car. Detritus… I was roundly corrected at school for pronouncing that word debtrit-us. At the time I complained that deTRITEus sounded American. But I adjusted my pronunciation. Peter said it in the car the first way and now I’m thinking my way might be the English way and the people who corrected me were steeped in American English… but I digress.

So I got rid of all the crap and dropped the Suzuki back at enterprise after just shy of 3000 miles together. I even ripped off the Frankenstein’s ariel I had improvised for the second race running. I left it on in Uruguay, reasoning that a Uruguayan car rental employee was more likely to appreciate a hot fix than to raise an issue about health and safety when they see a copper rod gaffered to the car roof.

Then I flew to Gatwick, got the train and a cab to Shoreditch and met some new people. Now I’m in a pod. It’s 11pm and I’m up at half six. I won’t be driving anywhere though which makes a change. Some of us went for drinks in the bar. I had one pint, started a second one and realised I couldn’t. I’ve taken the glass back to my pod. It is rebuking me from the only tiny surface I’ve got in this room. I’m gonna waste it. My brain and body want to shut down without processing anything else. I’m listening to them.

This pod is run by Premier Inn. If it’s the future I want out. It’s all touch buttons and beige and you have to put your own duvet down and the loo is just behind your sleeping head through glass and there is a constant low level static noise plus the rumble of trains and if you turn off the air conditioning it is quickly very stuffy but you have to or it keeps you up all night. I’m here to work though. I’ll miss my little apartment in Ayr with the little living room. I’ll miss that nippy little Suzuki. And I’ll miss the spirit of the people working that Extreme-E gig. They’re goodies. Motivated and kind. Trying to be part of a positive change.

This event is managers having a jolly. The team is lovely but a very different head will be required.

I’m glad to go from job to job but a crash is coming. I only need to push it back a few more days…

Ahhh horses. I do like horses. These companion animals that were so crucial to the process that built the world we have. These days they are a luxury that few can afford, needing space and exercise.

My mum did well for me when I was young. I learnt to ride small and confident, so there’s always a muscle memory despite the long gaps. Now though I’m tall. I have weight and I haven’t my own horse. As an unknown at a stable, they’ll put me on a plodding old shire horse for safety. We might hack a bit but it won’t really be listening – it does that walk every day. The only real way to build up is to ride consistently. To find a good stable, build a good relationship with the hands and the horses. That requires a consistent pattern of living that I have never really had. So my love of horses has been parked for some time. Lou is bored of me saying how I want to find a way to start riding again.

Problem is, it’s a useful skill for my primary job. If I’m known to be confident on a horse then there are lovely parts that open up.

Today I turned down a beautiful opportunity because it required a good rider and it isn’t worth my reputation to say I am and then not live up to it. On set there are a lot of people who just need the actors to turn up and do their part of the web. If you hold things up you harm yourself. People talk. Yes if I bagged a big enough part then the riding lessons would be part and parcel of it. But I’m not Christian Bale.

Saying no to that chance today? It has spurred me to finally stop talking about it and start doing something. I’m gonna get back on that horse, get my confidence back and then make sure that casting director knows it. I’ve been digging around looking for active and varied residential courses in summer. A bit of basic confidence and hell, maybe a grounding in horse archery or similar.

It’s amazing how far we have moved away from horses. All the mews flats in London – they used to be stables. Ponds at the tops of hills. The layout of pubs. The most visible house in the village often used to be the blacksmith, making much of their revenue shoeing horses. In England now it’s almost a lost art and firmly associated with the rich. There must be ways to ride when you’re six foot tall, live in London and you aren’t minted.

I take such great pleasure making something GO while I’m in it. Just a few days ago in an A-class merc I howled with joy as I took it down active and clear bright country roads with good visibility. I think that giving a horse its head and joining a living thing in the joy of speed – it’ll add to my happiness and it’s much more alive and ancient than these fiberglass and rubber toys we have made.

If you know any courses let me know. I’m happy with some jacked up Latvian fight choreographer who talks about the horse psychology, just as much as I’m happy with some troupe of keen jousters who drink real ale and wassail every Friday. I just need people with a horse that won’t hate me, and time to remember the things I have forgotten. I can make the time.

The upskilling today was about the trailer. I had to carry a great big battery, and a tower light. It was loaded onto this shaky looking trailer by the telehandlers and then checked in great detail by the wizard. Then the boys from powerlog ratcheted it all until we knew it wouldn’t move. I was helping / making damn sure this explosive stuff I was carrying was properly secured with the straps. But then I realised I would be driving for hours once it was all secure. I jumped in my Suzuki and spun up to catering while Daf checked the batteries. Brilliant food as ever, but I was in a hurry. I selected a white spaghetti with peas. Alfredo, I thought. Or maybe a carbonara. I put it on my plate, put the plate on the passenger seat, and spun back down to the loading area. One of the stewards suddenly put their hand out for a hard stop, so I hit the brake. Oops.

It was fish pasta. The plate slid off the seat and upended in the passenger footwell. The car immediately filled up with the smell of fish. I was waiting for a recovery vehicle to pass, so I leant across and gathered all of the fallen fish spaghetti in one dusty stinky smelly handful. The woman on security, who has become a working friend, then wanted to make small talk. In order that she knew I had other FISH to fry, I stuck my pasta filled right hand out of the open window. She let me pass. No roadside bins. Obviously. It’s an event site. I drove all the way to the staging area with a fishy fistful of pasta incomprehensibly sticking out the window. I didn’t want my car to smell of fish. Too many people saw it, but I also didn’t want to be seen to be thoughtlessly throwing anything anywhere on this race where we race for the planet.

When I got back to staging they were still checking the battery on the trailer, and I still had a handful of fishy spaghetti. I discreetly threw it into a hedge for the birds.

Lots of people saw me with this inexplicable handful of pasta. It’ll take me a while to live it down. Will I be spaghetti-man?

Pasta-Person has things to do.

I drove the load to Fairlie and reversed down a long jetty with the trailer. That was a new game with high stakes. Trailer reversing with explosive stuff down a narrow jetty with no barriers between you and the sea while hungry. Turns out my hand-eye coordination is still pretty good and I can parse the logic of the trailer going bassacred to the steering. You’ve never done something until you’ve done it. Next time I’ll be more confident and just as careful. But I’m happy with myself for the whole delivery and yeah, it feels like a small upskill.

No time to stop though. Straight back for transfers. I ended up taking a lovely journalist to Edinburgh. Then back, in time to join a big evening of “hooray we did it” in Wetherspoons Ayr while the lucky few made sense of the lighting tower on the Fairlie boat with the famous DJ.

Now I’m home. Earlier than I might normally be. There was talk of a karaoke bar but … the thing with driving is you have to be alert. I’ll be getting that trailer back from Fairlie at some point tomorrow, all interspersed with being charming for interesting humans. Not as punishing as my karaoke friends, who will be rolling up the tents and pulling up the posts and labouring. But I want to be clear headed. So I will be. Night night.

I’ve put some money on Eurovision.

I tried to watch it. I have now seen the two acts I wanted to see. Now I’m going to bed.

Sweden are the favourites. If they win I’ll get some cash. If they don’t I’ll get most of my stake back so long as they are top six.

My main money though? I put it on Australia.

Why the fuck are Australia in Eurovision? I don’t care. They haven’t made the finals in a few years. They pulled all the stops out tonight and sent a throwback eighties rock band who put one finely turned leg on a vintage car and play stupid instruments. If they come top six I’ll get about eighty quid and if they win I’ll be a fivehundredaire.

I did all of that weeks ago. I didn’t realise it would be race weekend. It’s race weekend.

Once again I’m here, surrounded by all the teams and the excitement and the glamour. Once again I’m the driver. I took some people to the boat for a party. One of them knows about this blog – they are part of the legal team. Cover all possibilities! I mean it took me a whole race before I named the event on this, and even then it was only after lots of umming and ahhing and a discussion with her. I live surrounded by NDAs. Friends of mine are doing projects that nobody is supposed to know even exist. I frequently get scripts across the desk where I’m not supposed to have a friend read opposite me because the thing has got legions of those mildly insane fans.

I want those jobs. I’m never gonna risk my precious precious reputation by being leaky because I want those jobs. Also, years ago, I fucked up when I rage-blogged about an old dayjob with poisonous office culture. I made some speculations about people’s motives that were just wrong, and in so doing shut a few doors on myself. It’s hard to be honest and also be vague. I’m trying to tread the line. It’s aided greatly by the fact that this event I’m working on is right-headed and isn’t run by narcissists.

But even though Eurovision is in full swing, I’m not watching anymore. Too much to do. Race day tomorrow, and then the breaking apart, and I’m wanting to make certain I’m useful and used. For which purpose, an early bed once again. Sleep time.

The new wordpress fuckery is that if I try to attach a picture of doesn’t publish the blog. I pay a hundred a year for this shit and I can’t even put a kofi plug-in. Thieves.