The early nineties. Bright coloured clothing. The town of Reading. Young people all aligned to theatre in some way. Kenneth Branagh in the cinema, having just been at the local Amdram “Progress Theatre”. Kate and Anna Winslett known well, loved well, both starting acting careers with some traction. Friends on TV once a week. Pills changing the way the weekend worked. Two pounds a pint. TGI Fridays. 20 Marlborough lights for £3.75. Radiohead before OK Computer. U2. REM. Finlay Quaye. The Beautiful South. Down the road near the Winslets, Chesney had his one and only house. “We used to sneak in and use his pool.” The Singing Detective on VHS. Lipstick on her Collar on TV. Trainspotting. The Chart Show on Saturday morning. Terry Pratchett. Stephen King. Braveheart in the cinema.
A faceless terraced house on Elgar Road. Mister Webb had rented it to students. Three of us. A gas oven where you had to throw in a match. Just one loo, through the kitchen. A big living room.
Adrian, Tim and I. Students. What were we studying?
Studying dreams. “I’m gonna be a writer.” “I’m gonna be an actor.” “I’m gonna be a director.”
None of us with family, precedent, contacts. All of us passionately clueless, and fervently generative. Making, building, causing, starting. The process of creation over the detail. Do do do do do.
I saw Adrian today. First time in ten years maybe. He’s won awards. Lots of them. Even back then, his output of books, all printed on that green perforated printer paper – he was prolific. “I think I’ve got the only copy of one of your early ones in my attic. If I find it I’ll send it.” “I’ll probably burn it.”
3am over thirty years from now, someone would have asked “In thirty years, where will we be?” “I’ll be acting, maybe the RSC, maybe a major American film director, maybe both, one after the other.” “I’ll be writing, maybe a few awards, selling well, sought after, going to conventions – you know up and down to London to talk at bookstores.” Adrian and I pulled a blinder. Tim too – his first feature as a director is in the edit. “That was a special year, a really happy year,” Adrian observed. And it really really was. All three of us the first time away from home, with a place of our own, working out what the heck made us tick. The late nights of it, the discussions, the projects we made. I had someone I’ve never met before who was at Reading after me ask “How in hell did you get the budgets they gave you for those summer Shakespeare’s?” Teamwork. Crazy passion. Luck. Chutzpah. I worked hard that year, just not on my English degree. We made decent shows, even if I wince at what I thought was good acting then. I had a long way to go, and needed that to go through Guildhall and Wendy and Ken and Chattie and Wyn and Patsy and Jeanette and Martin and Kate and Jo and all the incredible people who were being paid but still it was golden assembly of practitioners. I learnt what I needed to learn, including humility. Just not too much, motherfuckers.
But to have a coffee and just hang with Adrian felt like a tonic today. I’m happy for him. I never knew anyone else work as hard as he did on his vocation. Passion and commitment. Learn by doing. It’s the best way.
Hopefully it won’t be another decade. We are both still passionate and vital. I’m happy to have felt it.
AlBarclay 