Month: October 2023

Someone shared a Facebook memory from 13 years ago. We were at The White Bear, a pub theatre in Kennington, doing a very well turned rendition of Bloody Poetry, a classic now, by Howard Brenton, about the romantic poets. He came to a Q&A. I made good friends on that show, but the thing we remembered most after all that time was the dressing room. It led to some reminiscing about “crap dressing rooms we have been in”. Various other pub theatres were mentioned.

Now I’m sitting in this tiny pokey kitchen at The Flask, about to go be shiny. Right now I’m just coalescing though, and looking around this is not a romantic place. There’s a papier maché dead chicken, loads of folded napkins, pots and pans and crates and old bits of material. It wouldn’t have been cleaned in decades. There’s one chair, where the junior guy has to sit when he’s folding napkins. My top hat and cape are slung over an empty chest freezer.

Outside in The Flask garden a big group of screaming oafs are bellowing at one another from their collared linen shirts and immaculate hairdos. “They’d better not be coming on the walk,” I say to Siwan. I’m tired. They aren’t.

This moment is in so much of what we make, the tired actor sitting in the crap room, resting and completely unlike the thing he will be when he walks out of the room. You see it in hotels and restaurants too – we live in a dressed up world. Go round the back and you realise the extent to which everyone is selling fantasy to everyone else. I like it though, that edge.

Growing up I didn’t care much for presentation. I didn’t really see the point in presenting a front – I was a zealot and I wanted honesty. Living with actors I have learnt the power of it, in context. At The Factory we work in our own clothes, and it is good for that particular work as costume can be another substitute for truth. But tonight I will put on a tall top hat and probably a bit of a voice and a front. The hat does so much work, and I have to be able to run my benign walking dictatorship for the next few hours. Might as well use it. I tried barking for a side show in minimum costume once as they weren’t paying me enough to provide my own. I quickly discovered that my look did as much work as my gab. There was a less gabby guy better dressed who was pulling in more trade. If the restaurant looks like the kitchen, even if the food is excellent you won’t trust it so much. We’ve got used to the charade to the extent that we expect it. When I was guiding the boats I would sometimes human myself “Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s my lunchtime and I’ve got a sandwich, and I barely slept last night, but it’s okay because the tide is coming in and so I’ll be guiding you on the way back up.” I learnt through TripAdvisor that you mustn’t do that. People don’t want humans in service. “The guide prioritised his sandwich over our experience,” someone would write, and I hadn’t. But people like the shine.

So I’m getting ready to be shiny again. I’m having a stealthy pint out of sight of the punters, which might take the edge off it a little bit I kinda need to be in that place tonight. Can’t let them see me do it, but it’ll set be up nicely for a cold walk. Here we go go go.

It’s interesting to observe the extent to which my mood is affected based on the confection of the audience I’ve just had. I guess I’m usually writing these blogs just after getting home, so my thoughts are always close to the experience we’ve all just had. Just because I’m leading the walk doesn’t mean I’m not experiencing it too, and when everyone is low energy I really feel it. That didn’t happen tonight.

Tonight was a delight, even though we had a contingent that was absolutely hammered from the get-go. Regulars, and dressed up with spiderlegs on their heads, but they had all been drinking since 3pm, and they were straggling. We cover a lot of ground, and until everyone is caught up I have to fluff as otherwise people at the back worry they’ve missed out on material. They took ages to catch up and then started to want to contribute, which would be fine if their contributions were interesting, but … I am tired and I really didn’t want to have to fight noise. I told them so at one point. “Don’t make me have to fight you.” We also had lovely Jo in with family, and she has been IN IT the last few years, so I wanted to turn in a good night for her. (I don’t think she liked the swearing)

Largely I was trying to balance their enjoyment with that of everyone else… I run a liberal version of a totalitarian walk. I have to be the leader and in control of the narrative, but if you want to participate then it’s usually more fun if I let you have your voice before I take it back. I’ve had some wonderful moments from punters. But there are times where it is nicer for everyone if you let me create an atmosphere and take you on a journey and be the domineering man in a top hat. Friendly drunk jokers are never gonna have an eye on overarching narrative, but I can always shut them down if I must. I just like to try to incorporate. There’s a whole journey within the walk if you want it… I’ve even constructed some vague narrative for my ghostly love rat landlord character.

We went walkies and it was lovely, but the happy drunk guy started speaking his internal monologue about three quarters of the way through and it meant I had to double my energy right as I would normally be winding it out.

Still, yet another lovely night, and we were lucky with the rain. The nights are dark now, and the moon is just off full and makes a wonderful background. Only two more nights, and yes, if you’re in London Monday night just message me as I can tack you on. We start at half six at The Flask Highgate.

Three years I’ve been part of this team now. A lovely way of doing it. We all work hard, and we share it evenly. A working friendship group. I’ll miss it when it is done.

Saturday night, but the threat of rain decimated our audience. Not that it affects us really as they’ve already paid. But I took a bedraggled lot out into the elements tonight. When they’re wet it’s harder to transfer enough energy to them for them to remember to have fun. Also the sound of rain on their umbrellas necessitates more projection. I’m good for it, but I’m still recovering from whatever that sickness was last week. I took them out in the rain but I was marking the moments, counting down to the first pub stop. Using what I could but I’ve learnt not to empty myself into bottomless pits. Still knackered myself.

The Star is warm and dry, but who the hell has a baby shower in a pub? The whole place was full of people and presents and balloons when I showed up with 30 people in tow. A baby shower. What even is a baby shower? Bloody Americans. Just another excuse to go to the pub en masse. I suppose it’s harder to get stuck in once you’ve got babies, and having an official shower thing helps people remember that they’ve still got that pram in the attic. But all this has only crept over from America in the last few decades. Like having a prom. We never had a prom. People are having proms now. Next thing we’ll be doing Thanksgiving.

For now though, I’m part of making a fuss out of Halloween, which really is another very American thing. Over there right now it’ll be gardens full of cobwebs and pumpkin patches. Here we might just occasionally see a jack o lantern but mostly it’s just another night, Halloween. And for a few lucky people an excuse to tramp out into the streets of Hampstead for peculiar stories and boozy fun. We’ve still got a few tickets left on Monday as we threw in an extra night at short notice out of optimism and greed. Come get stuck in. I’ve had surprisingly few friends come walkies, but then I never really strive for it as it’s just another random thing I’m doing.

I was shot to hell at the end of the night. Got myself home in short order and now I’m trying to wind into sleep with the happy knowledge that we get an extra hour tonight. Or is that tomorrow? Soon anyway. I’ve got three walks left and then I’m back open for business until Jersey. What next, I wonder.

I’m having a cup of coffee here at The Flask in defiance of the prevailing Friday night “let’s get drunk” energy. I think I’d like to get home completely sober and just … treat tonight fully like a job. Friday night crowds are always a bit larey. I want to be alert for them. It’s cold and I’m gonna be doing this every night until Tuesday. No point knackering myself at this point. Do the tour, go home sober, sleep well. That’s the plan. That’s the dream. It should be easy, but there’s always that moment when someone offers to buy me a drink. Oh, self control. I knew thee once. Or did I?

I’m still using those Dott Scooters to get up Swain’s Lane, and get back to the car at the end of the night. There’s something hilarious about gliding along on one in the gloaming with my top hat on and my riding cape billowing out behind me. Black on black on the winter night roads though, so again it is best if I have had absolutely no beverages. That would be a supremely dumb way to kark it. I’m sure I’m adding to local legends though as people drunkenly catch a glimpse of me shooting past like a witch on a broomstick. Next year I’ll be telling stories about myself.

It’s too cold to have my phone in my hand though. Oh God winter is coming. I’m gonna jump up and down for a bit before kick-off.

—

“You’ve got a big booming voice,” says Ethan, folding up napkins while I sit trying to warm up in the little kitchen. “It gets tired though,” I tell him. “How long is it?” “Almost 3 hours.” “Of you just shouting?” “Pretty much. People pay good money for that.”

—

And they did. It was lovely. Some regulars in big groups. They come every year, and they made an effort tonight. We had to think hard for the costume prize. In the end it went to Red Riding Hood and The Wolf, but it was touch and go. There was a birdwatcher with robins eating her brain, but it didn’t take the public vote. Too weird perhaps. You needed to look closely.

I’m home now and I did accept a drink. Only the one as I didn’t want to have to leave Bergman in Hampstead. Still I’m wired instead of sleepy. Friday night London energy and I’ve picked up on it. I reckon I’m in for a marathon Kindle session before I can turn my brain off, but I don’t have to leave the house tomorrow until 4. Luxury.

What gorgeous people.

We had Oliver tonight, who was dressed like I am but had made himself up to look like he’s dead. He does German speaking tours of the cemetery. He was with friends who also do walking tours. We’ve had this in the past, where established walking tour makers come to see if it is worth shitting on our doorstep. They usually conclude that, with the momentum we have and the fact that we aren’t idiots, it’s a losing battle to set up against us. These guys tonight – we all had a brilliant tour. They can try their damnedest. Art is theft. They might turn out to be better at internet, or with more time to curate the website. They’ll never be better on the ground though and I could certainly help them see that. This is a friendship group that has emerged around the work. Good luck trying this territory. Cosa Nostra.

Why am I protective?

Because we had our first ever negative review drop today, from one Valentina who didn’t like the makeup and costume compared to previous years. 2 stars in what is a transparent attempt to drop the five star rating, and we just have to hope that she doesn’t activate her shit friends to do similar cos it hasn’t affected it.

Previous years we have had an active car, moving around the area, with all the stuff needed for changes etc. This year we just have Bergman parked halfway. We no longer have our set-piece actress queen with a driving license and her own easy attach facial boils, ready to cry for you. We have a present and immediate replacement who is doing something new and interesting. But … It feels like Valentina just likes things to be always the same forever.

People like that should be boiled.

I’m home. Chilling out. Sleep soon. The usual picture, with the electric blanket on, but the cleaning lady came today and put on Brian’s jet black satin sheet. I’m feeling… very fancy but just a tiny bit like I’m some guy called Colin in the early eighties who thinks he’s got the ultimate babe pad and thinks you’re the ultimate babe and you’ll know it as soon as you see his sheets.

Ahhh games.

One of my oldest friends makes computer games for a living. He always has. He’s extremely good at it.

When I met him I was playing games on my BBC Master System. It was 128k, which is NOTHING. Still, some games managed to give a sense of depth. Twin Kingdom Valley. Repton 3. Thrust. Stryker’s Run. We started to care about how these games were made, even as we literally couldn’t afford any of them at the asking price and had to either occasionally watch someone else play them occasionally, hear someone talk about them, or… or …

“All you need to do is tape over the gap in the disc.” “This crack will generate the correct passcode…” One whole generation of us got adept at ripping off games and basic hacking. We still paid premium when we knew it was good and we could afford it. But by 1990 every kid with a computer knew that you could spend as much as £30 on a game that was virtually completely pointless. We all had discs in our library that had cost loads and would never be booted up again as the game was just terrible. Sometimes, out of desperation, one or the other of us would get excellent at an obscure or badly conceived game. They were expensive, copies were hard to get right, trainers were not an exact science. Commodore 64 and then Amiga. Paradroid and The Last Ninja through to Turrican. One sick weekend I got extremely good an obscure Frankie Goes to Hollywood game on C64. I still feel affectionate towards the learning curve it took me on.

One of the maintenance staff at my posh school set himself up selling hacked Amiga games. He would have been fine if he hadn’t made himself too visible to the lawful evil people in my year. He lost his job but not before my close friends and I had been given access to most of the big titles in this growing industry. Monkey Island 2. Supercars 2. Speedball 2. Alien Breed. Epic. Xenon 2. FF7. Lots of great sequels. Lots of people working out how to do it well.

I was gaming pretty thoroughly until drama school, and then I found I needed to work and be creative… I tried to keep up with the big big titles but it became more and more involved to log into a device that took forever to boot up. I tried a gaming laptop but the fan was crazy and if I played it in bed it would overheat in no time. It all got too complicated as the graphical requirements got too involved. I stopped for good in about 2007, but my STEAM account was very full, and my wishlist was such that, when a game I wanted was reduced to £2.00 I bought it against a rainy day.

Lou is on tour. I’m working evenings.

I bought a Steamdeck and it is the best thing in the world.

It is £500 handheld device that lets me play my whole back catalogue. It is portable. It loads up quickly, doesn’t overheat or weigh a ton, and is absolutely perfect for touring.

I’m using it to catch up. One game at a time. This machine is capable of running Baldur’s Gate 3, the latest big talk game that I own, but I’m currently most of the way through playing GTA4 from 2008. The first big title I missed. Nico Bellic, morally ambiguous, in a grey and depressing simplification of New York City and I’m running around in it murdering and stealing with no compunction whatsoever and it is joyful. I’m late enough in the game already that I can steal incredible cars. I’m horrified and fascinated by the storyline. But people made it and cared. I’ve got such a backlog of games to try that I’ll never get up to date, but I never thought I would have the patience to catch up on these old school benchmarks so far. I’m thinking of working through things chronologically.

You couldn’t make GTA4 now. You play a proper baddie. I just went to the funeral of a guy I shot with sniper rifle, and his sister asked me to take her out for a burger. It’s fascinating and janky to play. I can only give it a short burst daily as my gaming stamina will never match my reading stamina. Still, the Steamdeck? Perfect placebo for an old school gamer who honestly can’t be bothered to keep up with all the latest tech anymore.

I thought that this morning a very grounded cypriot lady would be sticking drills all the way into my face and then filling me up with tree sap. I had kinda led myself into that expectation.

She did no such thing, and also went some way towards alleviating my tooth concerns. “Justin did my general scans, and he seemed inclined to tell me that nothing I had was worth saving,” I told her. “Justin specialises in all the cosmetic stuff. Saving teeth isn’t really his bag at all. If you need him down the line for looking great then you’ll be glad of him, but right now it’s dental work we need, not cosmetics.” I didn’t like Justin’s bedside manner. I like her very much, though, this tough headscarved toothlady. Just as well, as she does root canals which cost a grand a pop. I liked her colleague Charlie as well, who pulled my tooth out at the start of all this crap. I just don’t get on with people who are all about surface. She’s refreshingly honest.

The drilling and treesap will take place, don’t be mistaken. But not today. Today I could walk free into sunshine. So I went to Richmond and persuaded Minnie to meet me for lunch at The Ivy. We both had Steak and wine pairing on the daily menu and got out for fifty quid the pair of us. This is why judicious posh nosh can be a better idea than chain restaurants. We could’ve spent the same and left fat with white bread dough or msg after listening to hits of the nineties while someone shed their skin on the table next to us.

My lunch and a little walk in the sun – it kicked me into the rest of a bright October day where I’m FINALLY feeling almost normal again. Sure I’m still coughing. “I don’t even test for COVID these days,” says a friend of mine, and truth be told, the thing that just happened to me? Unfamiliar enough that I’m pretty happy to finger the old C. Bodyaches, deep fatigue… I kept my appetite this time but often just stubbornly eating to feed a cold, helped by the fact I didn’t lose my sense of smell. In a way I’d be glad to have just had the latest COVID, cuz I need to be on all guns this December. It looks like I’m gonna be in shitarse digs with the techies, locking myself in my room and crying my way through a million shows a minute where the audience ain’t listening to a word I’m saying. And I won’t have the Jackbond that normally makes it all livable. This will be the year when Christmas Carol becomes a job again.

Not until December though. Right now it’s walkies, sorties, messaroundies.

One more week of Halloween. I don’t have to fight to sell tickets which is why I haven’t. You can still come, even officially, if you’re fast. And we take walk-ups who are friends, at capacity shows, for cash.

A lazy day. The laziest possible really. I woke briefly to feed Boy at half seven. That was mostly a sleepwalk task. The narrative of multiple dreams rattled on and I returned to them happily and let my body rest. Coughing is constant, but doesn’t wake me. A year of double pneumonia and lung collapse helps me know when a cough is surface, and this one isn’t worrying me yet. So I cough in my sleep and my worrybrain stays disengaged. Hey, maybe I was lucky to lose that year of school to double lung collapse fun. It stops me worrying, but it also means my coughs can go deep. This one hasn’t though, and I think my body has beaten it now. I didn’t come to full consciousness until half past two. I then suddenly woke from all the dreams, with Boy’s head in my armpit. He wasn’t too happy with me for sleeping half the day.

I probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere all day but for Frank, who deals with his mental health stuff differently from me. He’s a younger generation. He has meds while I drink wine and bang my head against things. “If you find the right meds then everything gets easy,” he insists. But he had run out and I could feel the anxiety building. Nothing I didn’t recognise from previous flatmates who have fixed it with scag, but never pleasant. Whatever his prescription is, it’s much better than that crap. I needed to go to Boots and grab. So I did. Got some Percy Pigs too over the road. And some grub.

Got home, cooked a load of food, spoke to Lou. Somehow it’s past 1am. I’ve just got out the bath. My biological clock is out of whack but tomorrow I’m off to play with root canals first thing so I’m gonna have to hit the hay post haste.

Maybe one day I’ll write something insightful again. These days it feels like I’m just surviving.

I’m home. I’m thrilled about this. I’m knackered and my voice has been suffering because of all the coughing. I’m feeling much more ragged than I normally would after just a few pleasant walks with strangers.

It was a quiet crowd tonight for Sunday. Sober and polite. Lovely to run but I was pretty much done before I started. By the time we were at the final pub I didn’t even want anyone to buy me a drink. Chris and I jumped on the same Dott and went tandem back across the heath to pick up Bergie. Then I loaded up bags and went home. Back to the creature comforts and to a place where I don’t need to speak to anyone. For a few days. I can just stop awhile. Well, for Monday. Probably got a root canal happening on Tuesday but let’s see what comes of that. Monday lies stretched out before me, official actor’s day off. Might even be decent weather, if I feel well enough to get out in it. The evening sun was a glory today, so with luck it’ll hold.

Normally when I leave the performance bubble I like to check in with the world, but good hell it just keeps getting more and more upsetting in terms of the everybody killing everybody else stakes. I dread switching on the radio for more horrors in Ukraine, in Gaza, everywhere. I’m just gonna stay warm, read my fiction, and stroke the cat. Might try and see my friend who the cat belongs to and see if she’s any better tomorrow, although part of me just doesn’t want to move a muscle all day. I can finally kick the rest of this lurgy.

I’m done. The bath is almost run. Rest and recuperation. Bring it. zzz

I’m starting to feel a bit less dead, although my whole body aches when it experiences even the slightest bit of cold. I put all my clothes on and I made a cup of tea about two hours before I was supposed to go to work, but then I chucked it all in, took it all off again and lay on my back shivering into my electric blanket.

Eventually time took its inevitable course and I had to put all the clothes back on and get the fuck out of the flat. This time I at least remembered to put the black shirt on top of the pink jumper. Stealth colour. I’m wearing my Halloween personality right now. He’s just as twinkly but a little sterner and everything is black. Just another aspect of the clown. Oh how I love to puncture you if you take yourself too seriously.

Here I am again in The Flask, listening to people who will be on the tour. Numbers will be down, but it’s shitting it with rain and they don’t use the rain app I have which shows me the clouds and makes me into a weather prediction demon (thank you Extreme E).

It’ll stop raining just after we start and it’ll hold off all evening.

—

So today I’m experimenting with these Dott scooters. I’ve brought my licence. Unexpected hurdle jumped. Chris forgot his stuff, so I sent him in my first ride all the way down and back up Swains Lane. It makes no sense for him to leave the doctor’s bag in The Star. But yesterday, for a brief impractical moment of idiocy, he thought it did. I’m glad I have this new and rather odd subscription. They’re very OCD about things but they kinda have to be so they can work out who chucked their scooter in the river.

—

I was pretty much ready to be positive about Dott until I tried to take it back to Bergman through the Heath.

No Go Area.

I got as far as the top of Parliament Hill when it decided to cut out and put a 2mph limiter on. I was in so far in blood that to go back were as tedious as go o’er. Even trying to ride it down the other side of the hill I had to occasionally kick the fucker. Then when I had finally slogged the bastard thing back onto the road it kept on switching the limiter on and off because for Dott, Rules>Safety. Fucker cut out under me once and very nearly threw me under a bus. Dott Scooters: Another Thing That Looks Like Freedom But Really Is Jail. There’s your new marketing strategy you chumps. “To avoid a fine, stick to the permitted route,” it says, and fuck you. If you issue that fine I will never pay it. And if someone else issues it then it’s none of your fucking business.

And that is what happens when I try to do things laid aside for those younger than me. I notice the freedom creep where I’m not supposed to. It is getting faster and faster, that creep, and we keep on getting baited into supporting giving away everything. Boiling frogs.

You can still hang someone for treason for playing bagpipes on Hampstead Heath. It doesn’t affect our day to day existence. Dott is an obedioconpany, but considering they almost threw me under a bus their thrust is not about protecting the rider, it’s about protecting obedience. It makes about as much sense as the bagpipe law. Twits.

Fuck I hit publish instead of schedule. Meh.