Month: December 2023

Storm. I’m in my tiny hut. Wood and profound darkness. The roar of the air intake for my stove, the shout of the rain just feet from my head. Happy New Year.

I wasn’t sure what I was here to learn, but it has quickly become clear. I just followed my instincts as forever. They took me to this tiny hut with difficult windows and thoughtfulness required. This morning as I made my bed and cleaned and tidied and arranged things I found myself thinking how rarely I take that daily time to make my environs a little bit nicer. This missed habit, just a tiny bit of time a day, is something I learnt on Camino regarding work. I didn’t think of it regarding self-care until just now. My hut is lovely and clean now. I almost fucked up by leaving the windows open when a storm came. But the windows kind of have to be open or it becomes an oven with the burner on, or steams up.

—

I went to the car to get a head torch and ended up driving to a restaurant I had just read about on my Kindle. I’m researching a show and the place is only twenty minutes from me. “Can you fit me in for the taster menu?” “No, sir, only the à la carte.” Hmm

I ended up managing to talk them into letting me sit in an empty restaurant half an hour before anyone else showed up.

I had some very odd things. It’ll take a while to process it.

This year coming will bring shifts, but I’m very happy to have accidentally indulged my proclivities in the name of research.

I’ll go back to my little hut now and hunker down. Tomorrow I’m going nowhere. Next year I’m going somewhere.

Have a good one my lovelies, whatever nonsense you get up to.

I stopped on the way to Goldfinch in the town of Cullompton. There’s a church there the was created by my great grandfather. I thought it worth seeing. Locked, it was, in the dusk. A dedicatory plaque on the outside. Clean walls and evidently still maintained and cared for. Ahhh my godly forebears. Direct line to a Saint, dontcha know. He even looks like me. Not one of the baddies either. Bartholomew de las casas.

I just stopped and looked at it in the dusk for a while. Let whatever energy needed to shift around in me to shift. New Year is coming. I’m going off grid.

Goldfinch is a tiny caravan on a hill in someone’s garden. I arrived in pouring rain. I drove down the steep rutted clay track. Bergman is HEAVY with the beer kegs. I didn’t think about how it would be getting back up.

I walked into the site in pitch blackness. Smoldering logs in the woodburner. I threw some more in.

It is not soft, but it is sweet. It’s in two parts. The caravan sits tiny with a bed and the burner, some basic shelves. It is all on decking. There’s a table outside and a firepit. Then a little shelter hitched up to gas. There’s a gas stove, and a shower. It is lit by solar so on a day like this it’s dark. There are two mugs : A badger and an owl. Both animals I have identified with over time. I’ll explore further tomorrow. I couldn’t find a thing tonight. It was pouring.

I don’t really know why I’m here, in the rain and the dark, no reception. I’ve downloaded 4 books on my Kindle for work in anticipation. Things to make. I think that’s part of it. The process of generating things from nothing. I might do this blog for free, but there are things that I might have to put into the world in a more deliberate fashion. This just drops off me as I’m running. Time to consider my input closer. I want to have something made by summer. Make use of these kegs.

My body clock has been weird lately. I wake with a shock at around 4am and don’t want to go back down. On days like this I’m sleepy by 8. It seems I’m somehow synchronised with the light, since Carol ended.

Still, you can’t stop me going after the finer things. I’ve booked a meal at The Arundell Arms as it is warm and has plugs. Everything is charging. Books are downloaded. Tomorrow I’ll be cooking in the woods but today I haven’t got food to cook. I’m not driving up that hill any more than I have to either. On the way out I chewed a fucking hole in it, and took a load of damage to the clutch. Bergie is too heavy right now to be trying to get up slopes like that.

First things first, getting on the boat. I’ve got two compressed canisters of beer from the show. They’re in the back of Bergie, along with all the random props. Jack and I will find use for the beer, so long as we can dispense it. An early summer show… Over 100 pints. It felt shameful to bin it. It can be used. Still, there’s a question of customs, and of course I got pulled over. I had dead Scrooge next to me covered in a blanket so I uncovered him as an eccentric theatrical thing to try and help with the charm. Seems he likes theatre. He clocked the kegs but didn’t remark on them. “So you’ve been making theatre on the island?” I got on board.

They finally let the boat go. “Condor are a law unto themselves,” I’ve been told. Weather stopped it for days. But… the first hop to Guernsey was a wallopimg, and I can see why they cancelled earlier sailings. Someone had propped the door open to The Club Lounge. There’s a coffee machine in there and you can see out the front. I colonised a seat looking ahead. I was too green for coffee. By the time we got to Guernsey I was sick.

All of Guernsey was waiting to get on. The boat packed out and there would be no more sneaking into club. The door got closed. I asked to pay – was happy to. The vendor told me to wait, and then had an argument with two nasty old people who had paid for club lounge and it wasn’t what they wanted. They got a cabin but not before their club passes were handed to them. I took a surreptitious photo of the pass. The door is coded. Now I had the code.

The moanies left, and by way of transferring bad energy, the French vendor snapped “There is no room in club. In anywhere.” I had the code anyway so fuck it. I thanked them and walked away. I had intended to pay, but 27 pounds is a lot of money for a seasick prevention seat so they did me a favour. I let myself in when I knew I wasn’t being watched and ended up back in my old seat. Perhaps it was cheeky of me to “forget” my denim jacket on it.

The sea was calmer in the channel thank God. I’m in Portsmouth now in a cheap room above a pub. I’m still moving from sea. Gonna turn in and then tomorrow me and dead Scrooge are going on a road trip!

Half four I woke up. Now the show is done I’m habitually falling asleep around the beginning of Act 2 and waking up at ungodly hours, although this hotel room at dawn was enough to make me cancel my cancellation. I watched the sun come up after hours of restlessness. I went down to St Aubin. Tide was high and lapping over the wall.

I generally hate winter, but Jersey is excellent when it comes to providing light. This was an underwhelming sunrise but one of the last ones I’ll get here. It was depressingly late as well. At least we are pastv Solstice.

Costa was already open. Nothing else. Back in the day there were no chains in Jersey. I bought a guilty vanilla latte and in so doing knowingly contributed to the homogenisation of everything. I am evil.

Later I walked with friends and donated my uncle Peter’s 1960’s metal plane collection to my friend’s son. I’ve been wondering what to do with it. Energy and shift, as you know, are important to me. I don’t like to be the endpoint for things – I like to move energy. And family felt like the right place to put that particular thing.

We went across the west. I saw loads of people I’d Scrooged for. They wouldn’t have clocked me in mufti. Those that did just gave that familiar look you give a neighbour and then realised when they got home who that guy was.

Och though. I like it here. Despite the smallness. This is a good island.

I’m glad the weather gave me an extra day. Ferry tomorrow looks like it’s going ahead though. I’m gonna be thrown around like a leaf but it’ll get there. I’m holding off booking accommodation in Portsmouth, as I’m not confident we will leave. But likely I’ll be in some awful hotel tomorrow evening.

For now, maybe a quick whisky nightcap before the bar goes and then these lovely sheets for a second night. Yes this hotel is God’s Waiting Room. But it is comfy.

Since the boat was cancelled, I’ve checked myself into a posh hotel. It’s above St Aubin and I’ve always been curious about it. It commands a great view.

The place purports to have a good restaurant, and you know me and good restaurants.

I can’t tell you for sure if it’s a good restaurant or not. The tasting menu was unavailable. They brought me the wrong starter and then told me they couldn’t fix it. My insurance company (hopefully) is covering most of the cost of the room here but it’s expensive being here and when you’re binning this much per night you might expect more than a sea view. This is an eighties hotel in feel, like many in Jersey.

Credit where credit is due, the venison was extremely good. Chef has run out of loads of things. Everything is expensive, and nobody is under 60. I’m starting to realise that I’m bringing the average age down by about twenty years. Off to get a drink.

—

Oh dear. I called the barman “darling” instinctively. It was a mistake. I immediately backpedaled. He couldn’t let it go. “Did you just call me darling?” Asked with hostility, not curiosity. Rather than “I call everyone darling,” I tried to double down: “You could be my darling if you want?” He spat almost as if I had fed him poison. “No. No thank you.” An enemy by mistake.

Now I’m in the bar but they don’t like me. They are massively on my case. They told me I was sitting incorrectly because part of my trousers was in touch with the corner of a chair. As anyone who knows me would know, I don’t put my boots on soft furnishings. I was dragged up well. But I did have my calf on a corner. Bringing the tone down.

I’m sad I booked two nights here at that price. I’m in an old folks home.

It’s well placed. But … everything here is dated and evidently they want to stay bound in leather. This can’t be fixed with a refurb. This problem goes deep. Maybe when it dies, artists will find a way to make use of the building. And call each other darling.

Once I’ve written this I’m gonna see if I can get my second night refunded. It is rare that I don’t feel comfortable in my clothes, but I went and changed into a 3 piece suit so I wouldn’t feel quite so fringe. This is the place you book for your grandma.

—

The manager tells me he will refund the room for tomorrow but I can’t book anywhere else until I’m certain I’m not paying for here as it isn’t cheap. I’ll wait and see how that all pans out. Shame.

He’s a good manager. The location is great… Just Crab People Crab People Crab People Crab People

This tiny island.

I’m off to sleep here tonight now anyway. Comfy sheets, comfy room. As Lou would correctly observe, it only went wrong when I had a drink. Easy to prevent.

“You’re Ebenezer Scrooge!”

“Oh. Goodness. Yes, thank you. I hope you enjoyed it. I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you immediately, but I meet so many people over the show. Where were you sitting?”

“I didn’t see it. I just recognise you from the adverts.” This exchange has happened to me much more than meeting people who actually saw the show. It’s weird. They’re still invested in the conversation with me somehow, but they don’t know what they are invested in. The advert reached them, and despite the universally positive notices, they still decided to say “no” to it. And still they talk to me like you talk to a person you’ve seen on that tellybox.

This is a fine iteration of the show and people are royally entertained. Nathan and SD Catering are providing excellent food. We easily sold this out one year at £120 a ticket in London, a proper show and a proper meal. Jersey is small but the audience is certainly here. They were just… being weird and hiding. It’s a Jersey thing.

With tickets tiered from £70 – £100, we rarely flogged the top tier in Jersey even though everyone has had my bearded dancing face shoved into their eyes every day. Perhaps because. We even had some empty seats on the final night which is rare. I’m very very surprised, frankly. I said to Adam, I need to work on my profile. This is why they get Joey Cantact from the TV Talent Show to be Prince Charming, or why the guy playing the dame is credited on the poster for having been on El Dorado.

But … financially it’s not on me and bless mister laptopJack in his new head. I didn’t need breakfast on my room. I would’ve eaten it about twice. My head need not be on production. I can just prance, and I’m officially finished now. Yeah I’ll do some helpful driving of things and maybe poke some things in the get out, but my work here is officially done.

My ferry to France was cancelled though. High winds. All my plans got fucked. Thankfully it was all cancellable and I think I can get the two extra nights in Jersey on my travel insurance. I’m surprised I haven’t had an official powwow with production about it as I could tell them it is their responsibility, but production is either busy or it’s Jack. I’m stuck here two more nights. I’m self sufficient and not prone to panic so it’s fine.

I’ve booked a nicer hotel for my last two nights. Paid extra for a sea view. Gonna make an advantage of being stuck here. I still can’t cook in it, but at least it isn’t the fucking Premier Inn, where even though I like a lot of the staff, they are paid in string so they can’t be expected to care, the sheets are made out of sandpaper, and people let themselves into your room while you’re sleeping.

The picture is my Christmas Present. Every day I’ve been haunted by Death. A timely protection, and thoughtful.

A little rented flat in Greve d’Azette.

Will got a flat cos he’s a new dad. There are stage managers to put up, and yeah maybe it was cost effective to put us all in the Premier Inn. I’m here now, in the town where I was born, where I want to move back… In a Premier Inn.

Christmas was at Will’s though. He had an oven. I wish it had sold better. The show was brilliant. But all that aside, today we made Christmas.

Over in London, Brian was doing however many for the annual orphans. Here in Jersey it was me, Will and Ciara, Aylar and Brad. A new community. I still blew loads on unnecessary fripperies.

Christmassy Christmas.

I am so proud to have brought professional work to this island. It needs it. But they don’t expect it. I imagine it would be even worse in The Isle of Man. There’s fuck all happening in Jersey. But the theatre things that have happened over the years have been enthusiastic amdram for a tenner a pop. “Jersey really needs this quality of thing,” said literally everyone. That’s all very well and true, but if they rehash an opinion piece from their smaller paper as an extremely late review in their main paper… I rarely get on my high horse, but this is not about my or Will’s performance: The producers made a tight and complete piece of theatre. Next year it might sell out… This year everyone had a ball. But we were totally fucked over by the local paper and by the admins of the local groups. Small town mentality, sadly. I had to learn it hard. Next year, if it is practical, we need to build in opportunities for locals. It is nice that I want to move back. But I’m not a local. And Jersey is a boat in the rain, full of people who think they are the captain.

Hopefully I will sail on the 27th. Who knows where I’m going.

I’m backstage. That fucking playlist is going round and round. The audience only have to hear it a few times while they wait. We have grown to loathe it. Jolly Christmas tunes played by cartoon pirates. I only enjoy the Coventry Carol, and that is because neither of us know the words so we improvise protomedieval devout bullshit while we put our socks on.

Blue light and I’m in my nightie and dressing gown with longjohns and slippers. I’m clutching a fake invitation from my enthusiastic nephew Fred, and five coins. Only one of them has Victoria’s head on it. The rest are later. Brad grabs them at random and as part of our preshow we guess how many monarchs he has grabbed. We have enough Victorias for it to always be them, but it’s nice guessing. I’ll be putting them into a pot in a few minutes. I’ll be ripping up the letter shortly after. Last time for me to go round the old redemptive arc for another year. It always pings on Christmas eve, as that’s when the thing is set.

I’m tired. Very tired. My voice has taken a pounding but it is still there and recovers very quickly. I’ll be able to relax running into New Year.

…

That’s the announcement. Dante our local boy making his “short and quick” announcement. Gonna have to get into place soon. Preshow: Hug Will, then stand by Brad and wait for clearance. Then over to Will, one more sweaty hug. Then page a curtain for him. Then over the other side and peek through to see who is chosen to be Jeff the Pervert Strangler this evening. Wouldn’t want to double-cast him as Ponsonby etc. Then I get to listen to the house call and response with Will and sense how drunk / shy they might or might not be. Wait for the first big laugh. Kick of adrenaline. “Keep Christmas in your way nephew and let me keep it in mine,” and then I’m on. I then sit in a chair for a while and listen to Will and the audience while my pen moves over the page. I write the most random things. Often numbers. Then the audience and Will all lift the veil and I’m in Scroogehead until the end of the night. Lots of humbuggery, some dancing, a touch of accordion and a smattering of terror. Meeting lots of people. Social awkwardness. Ebenezer. All in a good night’s work.

Aylar coming on board has raised the game. Ahh the second announcement.

Here we GO.

—

What a lovely team. We came. We saw. The audience wasn’t quite what we hoped for. Would’ve been happier with more. But we know it can sustain a big house. Bigger than we thought.

I’m so happy I’m still on board. I’ve got very very good at this particular game now. And it is a lovely game, being played by a lovely team.

At the end of the show tonight Adam the producer said a few words of thanks and then actors and audience all linked hands and sang together and it was totally magical. The show has always been about bringing people together. I love it. I love it. I love it. I’m absolutely shattered.

Tomorrow Christmas. I won’t be part of the orphans maelstrom this year though. I’ll just be with new friends, and we will all be fucked. I have no doubt I will still turn into a blini machine, and be laying out cheeses and washing up plates etc, as Christmas is joyful work. I’ll collapse thereafter.

Christmas Eve tomorrow.

This morning I had an interview on BBC Radio Guernsey. I remember having tables at The Auberge that had come over to see the show two years ago. If there’s fuck all going on in Jersey, I get the sense you can double it for Guernsey. And Alderney? Beautiful island, but just getting on with it. I’m curious to go visit. What’s going on there?

The DJ asked me about the lack of a fourth wall in our show. He called it “audience participation”. It was one of those questions along the lines of “If you invite chaos, how do you deal with it when it arrives?” I told him we build whatever the fuck we get into the show. I think I inadvertently used the word “wacky” while trying to keep it light. insha’Allah.

This evening we had a table that had clearly been drinking since morning, sitting at the front in a room of about 200 people. When Scrooge started doing basic maths, they just started shouting “seven” to every question. Initially I incorporated it by trying to give status to a question to which the answer was actually seven. That worked to a limited degree, but then the word “seven” started to pollinate from table to table. Scrooge thus became obsessed with the number seven, judiciously knowing that it had become a word that would carry an audience response. We layered it in and the show, which was filmed, became a seven-cake of a show because it had to. Future casts might get sent the YouTube. “This is how it works”. Good luck to them. “What’s with seven,” they will ask.

Will and I invite chaos because we both think we are clever enough to deal with it. Fire and Wood Tigers, we have found a quick and powerful partnership. We won tonight. We win every night.

The “seven” table were slow to leave after the show and the second slowest table members to leave pointed at them, still ensconced as they were leaving: “Oh so they were plants all along! The seven thing was scripted and now they get a lockin?” “No. No it really wasn’t. You try shifting them.”

Joy. Incorporation. I had to work very hard to shut them down when Yet to Come shows up, but … we won.

I’m knackered. Two shows tomorrow and then I’ll miss it. Zzzz

It’s coming to an end now, this little period in Jersey. Just a month. When I’m setting snooze alarms on my phone in the morning, fifteen minutes feels like a long time. With that in mind, a month is endless. And yes, it has been unfamiliar enough that the time has not been filtered away through experience. The show exists outside of standard measurements, as it always does. But the noise of life around it? That has not rushed by.

Showtime is a strange time extension. I’m there forever and it is gone in a moment. My first action of the show is to page a curtain for Will. Then he gets the measure of the audience and I get to listen and key in. By the time I’m in and humbugging I already know what to expect from them. I’ve been watching them with him just as I did with Jack. Then I flicker in and out of reality, and time goes odd. I’ll be deep in text one moment, and then I’ll be flying with an audience gift the next. I’m in wide angle showhead then, listening for random, focus outside myself, looking and listening and knowing that the text is so deeply embedded it comes when correct. I’ll then be solid in that showhead until I turn to look at Estelle le Brun, who had no idea two years ago that she would still be in the show. She’s Belle, Scrooge’s ex, projected in the mirror, second take, lines not quite right. Scrooge fucked it up by being too venal and she’s taking it out of him. I often find myself thinking “thank fuck. I’m out of the woods” because the lonely childhood and the everyone dying bit are the only bits that cost me. Once Past is done I can stop channeling and start playing, but Past is hard work as it is quiet and painful, and there are hundreds of potential hooligans out there necking wine and up for the craic.

Only a few days till Christmas. I had a lovely breakfast today with the people who bought my grandparent’s house. Granville. I was always sad it was sold as I probably would have moved here if it hadn’t been, but mum and Peter wanted spending money and I was but a teenager. I was always told I’d get Peter’s place when he passed, but he changed his mind once mum died I guess. So I’m in the Premier Inn.

Lovely to see the Blackies. To feel some sort of continuity. There is community in this island and family if I go looking. I’m just so busy with this show. BBC Radio Jersey live and online at 10:15am tomorrow. I’ll likely blither. zzzz