Month: June 2024

Getting to know Paris a bit better but I’m still an amateur in this city, and cities have to be read. A morning of organising and cleaning and then I took a gamble that the newly rented “warehouse” hire car would have enough capacity to take six dustbins. I jumped on the metro.

I’m right by Bobigny station. Line 5 of the Metro. They still produce the slim tickets I remember from my teenage years. €2.15 for 8 stops from Bobigny to Gare du Nord. Any old fool can drive a train. If I wanted to do the same thing every day I’d push forward / not forward for the 65k a year they get in the UK. It puts it all into perspective though when you pay two quid to go from suburb to central. Travelling is not so much of a luxury in this country. Sure there were two “How did that happen to you? What were you before? How do you afford the booze?” humans. Just two though. Men close to my age who had drifted until they couldn’t drift back. Expensive tattoos, branded clothes, lost eyes and faces and movement. But… only two and neither of them puked even if there was a moment where one came close. Something like meth maybe? Not there anymore. But it felt like puke would have been dealt with swiftly had it happened. They were mobile because they could be for only €2.15.

I had forgotten to take my Paris 24 hi-vis off. I kept on having to fend off lost people. Gare du Nord was designed by Daedalus for King Minos of Crete. I’ll leave Theseus to find out what’s in the centre. “Je veux m’echapper cette gare,” I told the lady after I had seen the same barrier three times and been refused. She let me out. No Minotaur here. The Minotaur works for EasyJet, boarding passengers to the CDG plane.

I picked up the rental car. A Dacia. 64km on the clock. Poor thing. Greg will be commuting with it and claimed it. He’s my direct boss but I have a strong feeling I’ll be getting a lot of use out of that whip.

Back at the hardware store. The crowds of workers hoping to get cash to carry your heavy shit into their van is genuinely intimidating. Usually there’s one van between four, and at the Stalingrad Street Brico, half the car park is absolutely colonised by people with the van door open and engine running waiting to engage anyone who isn’t them. If you make to reverse into the space next to their van they get out and stand in it. The car park is THEIRS. That or they’re sitting on the big bags of stuff hoping that you might come to buy some fertiliser or gravel so they can carry it to your car for cash. God forbid if you want to carry the gravel yourself. Back in the mists of time there was a philanthropic person here. “Could you help my friend and I carry this single bag of firewood to the car? It’s such a cold night. And it’ll rain later. We can give you fifty euros? Is that fair on this cold rainy night?” Now there are hundreds of people who need cash, in so much competition with each other that it just feels unpleasant.

I picked up a collection order of tape and spanners and some full sized dustbins. I quickly wished I had someone with me. I was having to drop the back seats to fit the dustbins, but the guy who was asking if he could help me load a few tools felt like he was trying to see if he could lift my spanners without my noticing. I was in a hurry and suddenly I had to slow down to look behind me. There’s instincts I’ve honed over decades of active observance in some pretty fucked up places so it would have been just an observance had they not slowed me down when I was under time pressure. Whatever I think of my own instincts and the work I’ve done to hone them, there’s always room for improvement.

Bah. I’m too tired for sentences. Night night.

Tired enough that I messed up scheduling

I learned my basic French on a brief job cutting wood in the Lot Valley for cash in my early twenties. Long story but I’m glad of that job when I look back. I learned tools and language and social skills, and fuck me was I an awkward bastard when I was a teenager. Not like now, eh? Now I’m just so socially capable, like the social ninja of social, never looking like a lemon oh no oh goodness no. But yeah, I learnt something even if I can’t remember any of their names.

Marianne Faithfull wrote a song about driving through Paris in a sportscar, as if it was something to aim for. Awkward teenage Al was driven through Paris in a very fast car but it wasn’t open top, and I never really think about it as anything clever. Today I was in a Luton van and it was just an annoying drive really.

Every fucking vehicle in Paris has damage on it. Priorite à droite doesn’t really work. They all just try and drive through each other. Nobody has any compunction about blocking lanes, they undertake and overtake suddenly and without need. It’s not as bad as Saudi. It’s worse than London. By a long way. London – not counting the South East – tends to have a certain honky politeness. They will insult and intimidate you but they won’t just drive at you so much, like they’re the Terminator. “On your right, in the right, right? I’ll be right.”

I’m back in my little hotel room. I like it here. It’s beige. There’s nothing but my clothes and a shower that smells like cat wee. But … it’s mine, and last night my god I slept well. I woke up naturally at half five, put myself back down for just an hour and then got up and entertained myself before wandering across the road and helping chop up some timber. My only annoyance is that there’s no kettle. I don’t want to be spending on coffee anymore. It’s a trap.

I’m surprised how quickly I’m remembering my conversant french, but with very little time here I’m finding there are ways I can really be helpful in that regard. There are, of course, a vast majority of French people working here. Then there are many other nationalities who share English but have very little French. Another façon in which I can add value. And if I’m in the warehouse much longer I’m very much hoping I’ll have to cover a forklift before the end of the month, even supervised in a quiet moment. Useful skill to have. Better if provable, but we learn by doing.

Anyway… bedtime.

This hotel is about ten miles from the Champs Elysee, not that it worries me. I’m here to work and that’s what I’m gonna do. We are essentially in Tottenham, Paris.

Only about an hour of actual sleep and then I was off to Victoria on a grotty morning. Monday. Nobody is happy first thing on a Monday. I met one of the worst humans I’ve met for a long time at the boarding gate to my Easy Jet flight to Charles de Gaulle from Gatwick. I ended up on the flight wearing half my clothes, with what I couldn’t fit of the contents of my carefully packed and fully paid for overhead cabin bag shoved into my under seat bag. What didn’t fit went in a little tote kindly donated by a Frenchman who could tell that I was banging into a rock.

It was Brian’s new bag, bought new and sold as being cabin compliant. It almost fit in the stupid cage. Had I the tools I could have pulled off a plastic handle to make it fit. But… Monday morning. And these people are like traffic wardens – they are the societal outlet for people who might otherwise kill babies. The nice face of the sociopath. They’re in for the kick. I remained outwardly calm and polite while volcanic inside. They were intractable and robotic. Knowing that they were probably secretly excited and sweaty at the possibility I might say something that allowed them to throw me off the plane, I avoided all snarky comments that occurred to me apart from a few grumbles, and a polite shout up the queue : “Forgive my sudden volume but I find I really need a plastic bag. I don’t mean to trouble anyone but should you happen to have one you don’t need, please pass it to me.” “SIR PLEASE DON’T SHOUT,” they responded, and then I think stopped as they realised the double standard.

“You dealt with that very well,” my neighbouring passenger told me once I was on “I’m so angry,” I told her. I then had to breathe consciously for the first half of the flight. In retrospect it was funny.

I owe Brian a bag. Had to just … leave it there by the gate. Grumble grumble.

Then I landed in Paris.

“What’s the weather been like?” I asked the taxi. “Terrible.”

This week looks like it’ll be logistics. There’s a great big warehouse full of things that need to be sorted or moved. I was there and work was needed so Ali and I got stuck in and now I’m absolutely shattered. It’s ten local time. I’m in bed, had a shower, gonna give myself a good rest. This’ll be a big team and a huge event. I know how I can add to these things, and I know I’m understood and trusted. Just got to work hard and it’s gonna be a good month or so.

Two outdoor shows. No rain. Now I’m home and I got myself to packing. I wanted to try and undo some of the spreading out that I’ve been doing lately, just as I won’t be home for ages. I’ve packed my diary. There’s still things to juggle. But I’ve got a point of focus coming up and it is likely to keep me very busy.

I’ve been given invoice information for the shows about The East India Company at last. I really hate not being paid anything until I’ve finished the job with stuff like this as it is totally disempowering if they turn out to be no good for it. These guys though, they’ve sold enough tickets, plus have multiple streams of funding. I guess I should treat it like low paid filming work. With rehearsals and no buyout… I’ve sent an invoice and I’m sure it’ll convert to being marginally less broke.

But tomorrow I’ll start sorting out the being broke thing post haste, back into the unknown but the nicely paid unknown which is the best unknown.

Packing packing packing. Trying to pack light. I had the kickyfoot on the tellybox as they are actually making this tournament possible for people who are only mildly interested by putting it on the BBC. I don’t have to go to a drunk pub to find out how we are all doing.

Boy got dropped off for Brian to look after when I’m away. The original plan was for me to do it but Brian is gonna be here and I’m off being Captain Random again.

Chargers. iPad for admin. Converters. 7 underpants. 5 T shirt. 2 shirt. 2 Trousers. 1 jumper. 1 Hoodie. Nothing fancy. Although I might shove the Steam Deck in there in case there’s ever downtime. Likely it’ll sit there until I leave.

Passport. Driving licence. Multiple cards.

I’ve laid out my clothes for tomorrow. I packed the aeropress for cheap coffee and a flask for environmental water.

Charging my Fitbit and headphones overnight.

Powerbank A and Bose Soundlink Mini Speaker both got traded for crack in Brighton last week by Car Thief 01. Don’t need Accordion so Car Thief 02 has done no harm.

Got Powerbank B.

Paris is highly civilised. I will not be working 24/7.

Bedtime. Don’t want to miss this plane. Sleepy drink, do thy work. And come the morning Boy will fist me in the gob before my 5am alarm, I suspect.

Night night.

I’m not a good enough mechanic and I’m okay with that.

Morning found me downstairs attempting to wedge a doorstop into the backseat doorhandle of my car to start the process of changing the broken power window. I reckoned I could get the whole doorcard off before it started raining and then it started raining. With electrics involved and absolutely no time left before I fuck off to Paris, I opted to drive it to the honest saffer at Culvert Tyres in Battersea and ask him if he was better at fitting windows than I was. He really really was. Of course. And his Saturday guy came in. £60 window. £60 fit. £120 plus accordion. I can jettison the bad feelings.

I had to meet Lou. She was getting into town for eleven and I dropped off Bergie at ten past ten. Suddenly confined to public transport my bus only got to Victoria just in time and then we had to tube to Waterloo. Slumming it. I know the tube too too well. But honestly I avoid it when I can.

Brunch with Flavia and she’s bought a new vivarium for Hex.

I remember one time, years ago, when Flavia had to look after two weird tropical giant snails with Ivo, her son. It was some sort of school project. Different children got the snails at different times and had to make sure they didn’t die. Flavia LOVED the weird snails. When I needed someone who would not just take Hex but love him, I knew she was the right person and good lord she’s doubled down on that. It was nice to see him though. He’s definitely better off now than he was in Mel’s broken tank.

He’s a dude.

Rain was making everything tricky for the East India Company Walking Tour thing but I came over to Monument and slotted in for the evening. I’ll be back for two shows tomorrow even though no-one has been paid yet. It’s important work and they’re good for it.

Bedtime now. Pretty much gonna be able to drop everything and fuck off to Paris forever. Man, my life.

It’s June and the electric blanket is on and I’m not impressed, quite frankly. I shall be writing a strongly worded email to God if it doesn’t get warmer soon.

I wasn’t working today and last night got silly so I took it a bit too easy today and didn’t leave the house until late afternoon. Then a quick jaunt up to see the free exhibition of local artists that’s on in Chelsea Town Hall at the moment. Much more affordable than the usual fayre, prices largely a few hundred, very few over 2 grand. If you were inclined to buy art you might buy it there. I still haven’t replaced my drill since it got nicked, and there isn’t much space on my walls anyway. Plus I’m really not gonna be home very much this summer so I’m not inclined to spend money I don’t have decorating the walls. Still it was pleasant to browse. I went with Melody and we had a burger afterwards. She kept on offering me painkillers but I figured I’ve already poisoned myself enough last night. Don’t need to give my liver and kidneys anything else to think about.

I’ve got to pack a bag. Got places to be. The car window replacement arrived, and early tomorrow morning is looking like it’ll be my only window to take the door cladding off and fit the damn thing. I’m hoping YouTube will be helpful. In theory it shouldn’t be too hard and a mechanic would charge me loads to do it – although … I might bite the bullet if it’s raining tomorrow. I’m about to start a long run of work that came quite suddenly.

My next acting gig finally got announced today and I found out more about who I’m gonna be working alongside, plus I can mention it here at last. Finally going up to the RSC which feels like a wonderful validation of decades of graft. I’ll be in Othello in Autumn playing Lodovico and I’m stoked about it. Before that though I’m off to Paris in Monday to be another human in the huge web of humans who will be making the Olympics. With that all coming up I feel okay about having such a slow day today…

I woke up at about five. The plan was to get over to Hackney before things got too crazy on the roads. Bergie is still wounded. The new window came this evening and I’m gonna work out how to fit it tomorrow.

Current cost of stealy accordion: £60. That’s the new window. DO YOU KNOW ANYONE IN CAMDEN SELLING A CHEAP RED CHINESE ACCORDION? Looks like this but bear in mind I’m mocking myself purposefully.

I can likely replace it in the end, but it just feels weird. My crap accordion… my butcher instrument. I learnt a lot through it and then some bastard followed it from the lockup to the top of Hampstead road and put their hammer into Bergman so they could have their way in reselling my cheap instrument for fuck all.

I have spent so long wishing them horrible things, but in the end here is my curse to them: “They will get what they deserve”.

No point being unpleasant. I don’t know how or when I’ll be able to replace my instrument. I really wish they had at least had some kind of negative experience, but Camden police can’t be fucked to follow up so on and on we go. Crime is free, kids. Do what you want.

Anyone seeing someone selling a red accordion in an absurdly big flight case, just buy it back and tell me – bearing in mind it was initially just £40 on eBay. It’s a good thing. Likely it’ll end up on the tube in the hands of someone much better than I am but short term, I’d pay to get my accordion back, even if, frankly, I would prefer it if whoever took it was dying horribly as I write this sentence. If he does that, the accordion, to the Camden police please. Red, like the chest of all of the people who took and tried to play with the stolordion.

Whoever took it from the car? I wish pain on them. Degrees of separation… still… my accordion… if they get more than the forty quid I paid for it, it’s a fucking miracle. Nasty little shits.

The video doesn’t work. You just hear me shouting. It was meant to be about DEATH but it didn’t work at all and I don’t care. I’m no instagrammer. Go figure .

zxz

Over the last week I’ve had a bunch of edgy builders doing nonspecific work in the flat next to me. That’s the flat that overlooks the massive great big mansion that was built during COVID out of Royal Hospital land for Holly Valance to live in with Ritchie McRich. I couldn’t work out why there were so many people being so cagey. “What are you lads doing?” “Oh we’re making the roof so it can open up for fire safety.” “What are you lads doing?” “Oh we’re repairing the water pipes.” “What are you lads doing?” … Just… anything but what they’re actually doing. Like when I was part of that fractious team shooting a documentary about a famous person. Boring lie > Truth. You don’t want the stinky celeb followers shuffling around if it’s something involving famous people, you don’t want the hordes of “I’m an actor” twats if it’s creative filming. And you don’t want the mad fucker with an assault rifle if it’s a Trump rally. Although in all honesty, the mad fucker with the rifle is attending the Trump rally, and he’s only gonna go home and take the safety off if things don’t go his way.

Building a sniper nest for the secret service? Making the place nice for some republican dignitary? Who knows. Anything but what they told me. Hopefully nothing’ll go down in my block tonight.

Donald Trump jr is about 100 foot north of me as I write, along with many of big republican donors. All sorts of funds are being raised right now. The bottom of Tite Street was laden with paps this evening. I’m glad I didn’t go up on my roof last night as I might have been sniped.

I’m turning in early. Another workshop at arse o’clock and this one is in Hackney. Technically it’s only seven miles away but it would be better if it was in Reading. I was supposed to go to the same place a year ago, but then the teacher got COVID. No such luck this year. I’m going off to talk about careers and passion. Not one I’ve done before. But one that I’ll be decent at, as I’m not interested in compromise when it comes to the way our lives live us.

Bed bed bed bed.

I’ve been a laundry machine. Booked some last minute all encompassing work. I’ve had to cancel loads to make it happen but it’ll be consistent and it’ll definitely keep me honest. I’ve needed something like this. “Oh fuck you’ll be going on about the universe again,” Brian tells me. “It’s hard work to get into the position where people ask you. It’s not the fucking universe.” (It might be though? I’ll go with a little of both.)

So I’ll put myself to bed soon. Likely have some sleepyjuice. Gotta leave at 7 tomorrow. Can’t let down the Catholic youth of hackney. Plus I need the dough.

Roadhouse.

When I was perhaps fourteen, Kelly Lynch was the hottest human being on the planet to me. Bleached blonde hair and apparently she was a doctor, of course, yeah, even if when characters including people adjacent to the human she is suddenly smitten with get beaten up horribly she is only concerned with being the still heart of it all plus oh yes I always look like this hi hi boobs! She looked like Lou but that huge eighties HAIR thing, basically. Phwooar

I just internalised it all back then. The late eighties. I was being encouraged to internalise all sorts of weird messages. I ignored as many as I could but hair and boobs and snoood… Leggings???

‘You need to watch the original Roadhouse,” I told Tom, because the Swayze thing is rare. How many actors do we have who are body first? Fewer by far than we need. Buster obviously. Charlie C. Errol, yeah fine. Then noise. Cary? Marlon?!

Patrick. Keanu… Tom… Tom…

I’m talking about masculine male men selfishly cos I’ve spent more time thinking about the balance with people who look like me than with those who don’t. I’m going to bed now though. And really I’ve got nothing to add but observance. Plus Kelly Lynch. Yep. Just literally being female when I was thirteen.

I’m happy that my mate Bellerby tonight cut through the very obvious storytelling to engage with the original Roadhouse, despite the blatantly obvious mentor character being introduced just to give the hero a death of the mentor arc. We had a fun action movie night.

I’m off to bed having enjoyed watching silly movies.

Apparently someone will pay us all soon for doing important things about the East India Company – perhaps my hardest recent job to be paid for in terms of karma. But… loads of humans have given loads of time. We all obliquely trust we won’t be fucked over. We won’t be, at the end of everything. But the possibility of our need is noticeably down the production people’s list of priorities. I’ve had a few other people on it express concern, having worked a few weeks with nothing back. I’ve never done a job where the payment info hasn’t been properly expressed by now. We should have been paid. By now we should have been fully paid for the work we’ve done so far. There’s definitely money there, and lots of it, and trust is a thing. The show has been funded but the offer going forward to creatives has literally just been ITC minimum. The least legally possible. Having been paid nothing we got a message saying that we might get more shows at literally the least that can legally be scratched out. But HEY ARE YOU FREE??

I’m hoping that integrity will win once the writer makes sense of the word “collaboration” It’s a funded show that also charges for tickets, but… I’m also feeling the shadow of the employment model of the actual East India Company at play here where the workers are the ones deprioritised. PROVE ME WRONG?! I’m sure it is just a short term cashflow issue and they need advice balancing the payments to their creatives. But there are lots of people straight from drama school. Pay them. Don’t make them fight for it. Make it easy. Make them know how their contribution is valuable.

We have had a creative process, but we are not secure regarding our pay. We haven’t been paid anything yet even though we’ve been open to audiences, and I’ve quietly wondered how that can be justified. I trust that we will be paid before this weekend, just as I’m trusting we won’t have to fight for fair pay. There’s a respect that makes calamity of so long life. I’m writing this because I’m beginning to worry.

But actually, in my experience, pretty much universally, someone would have apologized to us by now properly and we would’ve been paid for some of our work. I’m sure it’s just an admin drop. Is it legit to withhold our next performance? Is it dumb for me to write my concern here? I’m doing it. I know that the writer is snowed under but they CAN pay. The writer is the producer. And she HAS TO learn that it doesn’t matter how lovely everything is for her and the networking and the show, she is EMPLOYING people. And they MUST be paid. Particularly young actors. No wonder she can’t get people to commit in advance for her July shows. We need to trust we will be treated with as humans. I didn’t do this job purely out of altruism, and sure as dammit I don’t NEED the work.

So yeah, it’s interesting, but I’m feeling right now like I’m being exploited by people making a show about exploitation. They’ve had some unexpected funding so the optimist in me thinks that maybe they are doubling down and they haven’t paid because they want to give us more than they thought they would to keep us loyal over the three years funding they’ve now got from the Skinners Guild. Another option is that they just don’t think paying actors is important. I reckon it must be that they realise they want to pay us more than this ITC minimum and they haven’t done the maths. I’m waiting to hear how they share the joy about what we should invoice for. Watch this space, I will share it loudly, when they apologise for their slow payment and explain that it is because we get however many times as much as we initially thought we would. That’s why I’m not going to be strident yet about the fact we’ve all done shows and had nowt. Nothing. Over weeks. With new practitioners.

Knowing we will be overpaid in the end makes it just about bearable that we are being made to feel like we are the bottom of the list. I’ll let you know the percentage mark-up we all get! It’s a lovely thing as for many it is their first job, and I’m sure they won’t be surfing into this acting game on a wave of exploitation.

I don’t know what to feel.

I was at the lockup in Camden with four other people. It was noisy. I like to keep it quiet there after the break ins happened as I know it is watched.

What was I thinking?

I loaded my accordion into Bergman. I’m gonna want it at The Willow Globe. Then everyone announced loudly where we were going, just round the corner to the local pub. I went there for half an hour mostly to be polite but also to see my friend a bit. When I came back whoever had broken into the lockup twice had gone there knowing where we would be – (I even described in detail where I was parking) – and had smashed the back window of Bergman in a busy street and hoiked the accordion out. Tinted windows, you couldn’t happen on it by chance. This was targeted.

It’s a £40 Chinese accordion off eBay. He’s not even gonna get enough heroin from it to touch the sides. Great big bulky flight case it’s in too. I’ll never get it back. My power tools and now my accordion. It’s fucked.

I couldn’t stop crying. After getting robbed in Brighton I’m starting to feel really vulnerable.

Glass all over the place. Now there’s a bag on the window.

I have to use my car for work loads in the next few weeks. I use him all the time anyway. This fucker.

I just…

I’m not very eloquent about it today. Early start tomorrow and I’ll be driving to East London for a job. Once again this same single human has brought negativity into my existence.

I’ve emptied Bergie. When they bust the window of the Micra I basically ended up selling it. I hate this. I hate it and them. From wherever it comes, crime like that is just fucked up. And there is no way that wasn’t targeted.

I hope he chokes.