Month: March 2025

I’m feeling absolutely strung out this evening. I only had a tiny bit of blood pulled out of me, but it was enough. I fucking hate needles. Hate them hate them hate them. Plus I don’t particularly want to find out whether or not I’ve got prostate cancer. My half brother has a procedure not long ago. It started early in dad and spread everywhere before he found it. Ditto my uncle. So yeah, maybe worth checking, I reckon.

I first got the printout from my doctor maybe 8 months ago. Had to take it to the hospital. Didn’t. Lost it.

This morning, finally, I hauled myself in. But they couldn’t do anything without the printout I had lost. I almost just gave up. But the voice that says sensible things like “If something is wrong it is better you know early,” that voice bubbled up. I went twice in my forties and twice just had a doctor tell me “yeah you’ve got an enlarged prostate” like they were popping bubble gum after having shoved their finger up my jacksie. ‘oh yes, I am very aware of this,” I replied and thought that was the extent of it. The second time I asked “How does this actually check for cancer,” and they shrugged as they pulled the plastic finger thing off. I only found out about the blood test from my brother. If they find anything and it is developed, I’m gonna teach crows to shit on that doctor, no matter how long it takes me. I’m getting known by the local crows. I feed them nuts when I think the neighbours aren’t watching me through the window. One day I’ll have a crow army.

So yeah I drove over to my gp and persuaded them to print it out again. Then somehow persuaded myself to go back to the hospital. She was pleased to see me again. I had given her the impression I wasn’t gonna go to the effort. “Health is important,” she said. And it is. God bless the NHS.

Right now though I’m just gonna sleep while the blood comes back and dream of happy outcomes. Lou has got some homeopathic bee stuff to put on her London related hives, so hopefully she’ll be comfy next to me. I’ll sleep fine in this state so long as I can shut my head off. Probably about ten days to wait before they tell me I’ve got no Prostate Specific Antigens. Oh hooray.

My friend had a painting of a Welsh beach exhibited in London. It was going to go to Wales but she didn’t know how she’d get it back so she asked if I could grab it with her this morning and it was a nice way to start the week. I’m popping out of myself at the moment as I’m not sure what’s next and it makes me mobile and restless. I moved her painting and then got on the laptop and sent all my invoices and now at least I did something today. Darren rang me up, who I briefly lived with in the Olympics. He was curious about what might be in the wind so it’s clear that I’m not the only one trying to work out what’s next. He asked about one race I’ve worked on a bit in the past and I told him they are clueless and probably laundering money, cutting where they would do better to spend and spending when they would do better to cut, led by donkeys. “twas ever thus in racing,” he told me, and he should know. Like dad was back in the day, our boy has done his fair share of rallying. I feel comfortable on a racetrack just as “shall we go visit daddy?” He feels comfortable on a racetrack as “vrooom”.

So I’m home, all up to date with the paperwork, full house. Brian and Maddy, Lou and I, Tom Bellerby and two cats. And I’m tired. I whizzed up a pesto with mushrooms and spinach and so forth, fed it to everyone and now I’m feeling ready and happy to turn in and see this day off.

My downtime has been spent obsessing over vlogging equipment, having watched a couple of very well received people in my spheres of interest so are very very good at tech but have had their personalities removed surgically. Maybe I can make decent infirmative videos well enough that they offset the cost of the adventures I want to go on. It might be worth the effort based on what I’ve just spent hours consuming. Perfectly informative, but nobody knows why, nor do they have a handle on story. It’s missing something fundamental. But yeah that’s a long way down the line. Right now I can’t afford any stupid excursions.

Bedtime. I can enjoy this week for the fact I’m not crazy busy. I might do some attic movement of stuff. Can’t be a bad idea. Have oubliette, should use, better than it all being in plain sight in boxes.

That’s for tomorrow Al.

And suddenly Lou. The cats have been exhibiting all their most seductive behaviours, and of course Lou is totally taken with Misty who is just a slow and soft madam while Boo zooms all over the place like a typhooon.

There’s a little Indian restaurant in someone’s house, about fifteen minutes walk from my door. It’s been there for six years but somehow I never realised. It’s called Kutir which means cottage. A family business it seems, but they’ve gone right after the fine dining angle. Looking for the old Michelin stars, they are. There’s a taster menu. The lunchtime set menu is £35 or £40 with pudding. I had some masala prawns and then we shared sea bass and a truffle kedgeree with lots of dhaal and different breads and things. “The portions are unlikely to be big,” Lou worried, but I came out full enough that I haven’t wanted dinner. Evening taster menu comes in at £75 with £55 wine pairing and I have a horrible feeling that’ll be a few hundred quid of my hard earned dayjob dosh going into my belly at least twice before summer is done. It’s the sort of thing I might impulse book for me on my own if I’ve just had a long workshop earning £300 and feel like experiencing the luxury that such ridiculous work exists to sponsor.

Need to bring in the spondoolicks now though. Dayjobs clicked back into gear, I’m optimistic about the prognosis regarding the acting work, but I’ve got expensive tastes. Lou being here will mean I’m not blowing any money in booze which is a blessing, and the bills are mounting up. Gotta think practically if I’m gonna be able to meet myself in lobster pollichatu with trimbach reisling.

For tonight an early bed and no work tomorrow, just have to sort out my residents permit for bergie as it ran out and the fuckers gave me a ticket today which is another £65 out.

Still, the cats are fluffy, it is warm, Lou is here, all is right with the world apart from the fact I’m gonna need a good big job asap.

It’s international women’s day.

I woke up and stripped the bed in Camden. Went out onto the high street and paid for an American breakfast at Fridas, where they’ve themed the place on Frida Kahlo and they play salsa music on loop. They call it an American breakfast. Maple syrup is Canadian, pancakes, sausages, bacon. Nothing American there. Various fruits… it’s a Mexican diner, there’s nothing specifically American about the breakfast but for the name. In light of the fact that the redundant nation that used to think of itself as important has forced Google to rename the Gulf of Mexico, all these businesses should rename that breakfast. Frida would support it being a Mexican breakfast. Make it so.

I was on my usual deal of moving my car every two hours. Cat sitting has been pleasant but I’ve spent £86 on parking and that’s with my friend organising 4 hour permits for each day (couldn’t get more). My own fault, could have left it at home but I’ve been glad of my car. It’s just that as soon as you’re out of your borough it is really punishing having a car in London but that’s been the case for years. Discouraging yadayada you shouldn’t blah etc go swivel.

I caught Claire again early afternoon. She came with me to wrap party when Lou knew she was too busy making trousers. It’s always joyful hanging out with her. A walk with her, getting myself back into my body. That’s her thing. I am so glad of our friendship.

Then back across town to vote for M. She’s exhibiting in a gallery near me, there’s a people’s vote. I put my slip in. It’ll be a popularity contest, but worth punting it to my friend. Her art deepens year in year out. She is selling them now, as well she should, even if the galleries are taking incredible percentages. 40% from one today to the gallery, but she at least prices herself where she should be so it’s not a pisstake. Gallery will get almost as much as she gets, but without the gallery, no sale. Art is hard. You need somewhere to display it if you’ve made it and want money. I gave up on art as an investment when I took some of my father’s investment purchases to auction and realised that they would have to work hard to even get what he paid in the nineties. Since then I just look at what people want to charge with a calm wonder, and stop myself when I start to enjoy a piece too much. I’ve still got an attic full of art things that won’t even make what I paid on parking over three days.

Still I had a lovely city break, sleeping in a different place, rethinking this town. I’m a Chelsea boy, but North London has its charm and that’s where most of my friends are. Much easier to be social when I’m up there. Much as I managed it, but I did for a bit. And I’ve got friends ten minutes drive from here that I keep almost seeing and then not. And yes, I’m talking about you. Let’s hang.

Meantime I’m back with my sexy fluffy international women. Boo and Misty, dark and light, crazy and lazy. I’m there with them. All is well.

I was very glad not to be working today. Had wine on an empty stomach yesterday evening and it is something I just mustn’t do anymore. I barely remember my evening, although it involved sending an  overconfident WhatsApp pitch and inexplicably having it accepted. And writing an oddly angry blog which I’ve subsequently taken down for review.

I’m rolling into the weekend with Boy in Camden, but for today I just needed to get myself into a state of mind where I could be at a wrap party for a lovely job and not make a fool of myself.

It was over at All Star Lanes in the Westfield Centre, and Claire and I went together. I couldn’t bear going on my own. It’s quite solitary being an actor on these big sets, everyone sees you but you don’t see so many people. You need to be predictable and easy to find. They usually give you a place of your own and sure, the costume and make-up will have interactions with you but outside of that you get passed quickly through the ADs but spend most of your time just being ready and on your own.

Seventeen live days and they’ve got the feature film in the can. Incredible. “I watched through it all today,” says the director. People are happy. People are exhausted. Even the short time I had felt electric. I was very happy to be there, to be part of it. The director knows how much of me he’s kept. I haven’t seen the rushes. It will always be something I’ve done now and that’s joyful. Work breeds work. This has been an excellent period, and I feel positive about the onward journey from here. If you’re only as good as your last job then right now I’m pretty damn good. What’s next?

So I’m in bed and it’s only just gone ten and we’ve already had a party. Free chicken bites and mini burgers, a Pacifico out of the bottle which is what I liked to do in LA. A game of ten pin bowling with Claire, a couple of nice chats with creative people I liked when I met them on set, the ear of the general for a moment.

I didn’t need to be there any more really and I knew Boy would be shouting about food by now. So I’m gonna take myself to sleepland here in talkative Camden. Tomorrow probably back to Chelsea although they found some WW2 ordnance near the CPL venue in Paris and predictably enough they’ve used it as an excuse for everyone in Paris to stop working, so there’s no trains back. My friend might get delayed home. I’ll be on hand to mind the friendly hairball if so. Maybe the good people of Paris will decide to come to work tomorrow.  Maybe not. Bof.

The Intrigue podcast feed from BBC Sounds has me absolutely hooked. Loads of different thoughtholes. Perfect for driving when you don’t have passengers.

I ended up with passengers today but they were theatre people so reasonably chilled. I’ve got a pair of sunglasses that double as a hands free kit and earphones. They aren’t bone conduction though, so passengers can hear if I’m listening to stuff and it puts them on edge so I don’t do it unless it’s a brief voice note. Still, the work part of the day was largely squared off by the end of the morning. Then it was just about squaring off details for my impending catsitting jaunt and getting my car close to The Vaudeville.

There’s a restaurant they use as location when they put their scenes in Slow Horses at the Anna Livia. I’m maitre d’hotel in a particular episode there and let myself hope they’d come back there again and use me again. A line here or there in something like that is golden and I had a few and want more. Maybe it’ll come good in a later episode. I drove there knowing the workarounds the crew drivers had found cos I was paying attention, figuring that I would find a spot to leave Bergie in while I go to the theatre. Turns out something is filming there this evening, which made it harder but not impossible for me to find a parking spot. I scrutinised the crew, hoping it wasn’t Slow Horses filming without me. I’m credited as “maitre d’hotel” despite my attempts to charm the writer into making me the regular maitre d and giving me a character name. I’m happy with the credit though, we learn by doing, I didn’t win the close-up and I think I know why. Cos I cared about it. Experience makes wisdom. There’s a skill in letting go. But … yeah, so I parked Bergie up by the scene of a happy learning credit from a few years ago, and now I’m waiting at Embankment barriers to pick up Lou and go for pre theatre dinner. She’s all dressed up. I’m in my driving clothes. Not the chauffeur hat, only special jobs get that. But I’ll be underdressed beside her.

We’re going to Six the Musical. Brian sorted tickets and I know it’s a good night at the theatre. Did some driving for them at one point and ended up having a vivid dream that I was accidentally on stage at the top of the show and had to hide myself in an onstage chest for 80 minutes so the audience didn’t see me.

—

Ahhh Six is joyful and ridiculous and full of skill and silly and clever and sassy. I’d forgotten quite how tight it is. No wonder it just runs and runs. No dead space, they’ve kept it sharp, it’s how it works. You never want time to think on a show like that. Everyone in the theatre was up on their feet at curtain call. We had the best seats in the house for free and fuck it, sometimes it’s not what you know it’s who you know. I’ve given enough time to the production in tiny ways behind the scenes that this little gift of seats and this chance to see a new cast felt glorious. Lou and I loved it. I could sit on my arse and enjoy it for the fun it brings and I bet Lou was digging the costumes almost as much as the voices. She loves good costume and has a better ear than me for singing voices after all Opera. It’s a sharp game, brilliantly leveraging something a whole generation and more learnt before they can even remember learning it. Divorced Beheaded Died Divorced Beheaded Survived.

How the hell can we make a musical out of “The Square on the Hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides?” With Bertie Carvel as the squire on the hippopotamus… nah. BOMDAS the musical?

It’s a once in a lifetime shot. They took it. They hit.

It’s just gone twelve and I’m processing the fact that I woke up this morning in Brighton. Today has been a number of days all wrapped up together. There were a few things needed moving around London. I move things around. Everything was time sensitive though and the locations were typically London awkward. I ran up against my fair share of traffic wardens, ran away from two of them. “Can I get in through the arch to where all the cars are parked unmonitored?” I asked. “No. That’s not possible, you’ll have to wait with your car.” So I did until they were ready to collect and then they let me in through the arch after all. I fucking hate London when its like that. I’d have been happier hoiking the stuff up the road after all the warden dodging they made me do unnecessarily.

I loaded up the car but they hadn’t finished the ironing so they pretended like they weren’t happy loading ironed clothes into a car with other things in it. Why can’t people be more transparent? I slung back to The Arts and dropped a load of costume bags, then back up to “you can’t get through the arch” land to load more costumes than I had seen first time. My expectation was that they would be neurotic about loading them flat into my empty car, but it turns out the neurosis was a front to disguise the fact the job wasn’t finished and to buy them another hour’s ironing as I rushed around to empty myself up. I’m shit at that sort of deceit as it requires the person making it to be capable of being embarrassed. If you’re slow at ironing you’re still faster than I am. I might suggest you get a steamer if you’re a bloke about my age and type but any other dynamic and I’ll keep my mouth shut and rant about it in my blog instead. Just ask me to wait and I’ll save the petrol.

I unloaded all the ironed clothes at a little studio in Camden and then a brief catch up with a friend before it was time to go back to Mordor for a friend of mine who directed a nice piece of new writing for six women – I needed to be there with an empty car to pick up some easels lamps and canvasses and take them back to Questor’s. It’s nice to see good new writing, and I kinda wish it hadn’t been in Mordor – still I’m home now and the universe is only a little bit wider than it was when I started the journey. I hope my contribution helped them in some way. You know how I obsess about helping the young actors. There were five of them and a colleague closer to my age who does Scene and Heard. All excellent thank God and working with a good script. I’ve driven enough today that I listened to the entirety of the BBC Podcast Intrigue The Ratline, as well as the last episode of Murder at the Lucky Holiday Hotel. This stuff makes the licence fee worthwhile. It kept me engaged and in a visual processing mode. The hours shot by and I only missed them once I stopped.

I’ll pass out with the cats now. Tomorrow is another day.

By my standards a very chilled day, but we are still knackered as it all had to be responsive and last minute. It was like a treasure hunt. Lou had the hours of daylight in which to assemble a strange list of items for use in her work while she had access to my car. These items were scattered across the length and breadth of The South Downs, some in the possession of other people in Lewes, some locked in workshops in Port Slade. Meanwhile the good people of Brighton were running round in circles outside Lou’s flat and down the seafront, achieving a half marathon for charity. Lining the streets, the half-enthusiastic clappers. “yay oh you’re doing so well oh yay well yeah keep going ooh yeah go well done you hooray go on keep running woo oh gosh you’re doing so well etc etc” clap clap clap clap tired clap clap clap bored Coffee shops doing a roaring trade. Bars open. Spring light. “Fuck it shall we get a pint?”

We had coffee to boost the beginning of our adventure, in the sunshine down at FIKA. An actual shock of light despite cold, somehow warm in the sunlight, remember this? It happened once. We could be in the outside without consequence, light on the faces, sun energy into the eyes, come back come back Persephone come to the world again and bring the light you bear. We got all the things. We didn’t want to cook so Kemptown Cuisine provided Indian food and then a hot bath and relaxing with the cat. It’s half eight. Last night we didn’t get to sleep until 2 so I’m happy at the prospect of an early down ahead of another long week. I’ll be off into the smoke again, straight into a driving job like the one I just sent a tape for but in real life. I think I’ll need to be in Finsbury Park at eleven. Nobody has been entirely clear so get up and go seems the right policy. London to Brighton at that time can be thorny on a Monday. All the chaps wot bought a second home in the eighties but still have to go into the firm three days a week coming back up from another weekend shouting about their investments in the sauna before parading through the lanes in their dry robe howling about quinoa.

I’m feeling very full and very chill. Lou literally actually gave me a foot massage while I was writing to you, I think because she feels I’ve been patient and attendant to her needs, which I have been but you all know I enjoy being responsive and useful. Hence the event work. Hence a lot of what I do. Theatre, when they let me.

And so to bed. Chamomile and snuggles.

I’m meeting a flight at Gatwick. Got my chauffeur’s cap in the car. Today a spot of convergence where I sent a tape for the part of a driver. Dayjob meets jobjob. I’d be pleased to land it, a fun little scene. Driving someone famous and not knowing them and asking all the benign and slightly clueless questions that drivers ask performers. I’ve been on both ends of it frequently. I drove over to Frank as I figured he’d know who the person was. I was as benignly clueless as my character, but they’ve just won a load of awards and it’s good. The tape was a spot of manifesting. “I could really use a tape this weekend, just to keep momentum rolling,” I said to myself out loud half an hour before it came in on Friday afternoon. Busy weekend so the window was early but now it’s all done and dusted I can know that I’ve pinged out some energy and intention. Now I can sink into the weekend.

We parked in the vacant doctors area of a local surgery closed on the weekend. I had a tripod but I ended up tying my phone to the rearview mirror with a mobile phone charging cable. Natural light through the side window, a perfect day for it. My first outdoor self tape. Some background noise, the usual London things, but no interrupted takes and it was easy to get the full length shot that is often fiddly if you’re inside, I just had to stand against a wall. Boxes all ticked, caught up with Frank, didn’t take too much time. Two contrasting versions, one largely keeping it dry, riffing at the end, one in my chauffeur’s hat being looser. Fly, my precious. Fly!

—

Met Lou’s flight and took her back to Brighton. It’s 2 in the morning and I’m absolutely exhausted but haven’t seen Lou for ages so trying to balance the imperative to write this with the desire to catch up. She’s had lots of experiences out there. North Africa. I’ve never been. Likely I’d do well out there with my French and my love of heat.

Tessy is being extremely vocal, I think a bit discombobulated by the changing of the guards. She’s looking for Moss who looks after her and gives her snacks. I’m too tired to be kept awake but hopefully she’ll settle.

Tomorrow a calm day by the seaside hopefully. A decompression. Little sparks of energy have been sent out to the world at large for the vocation so I can legit relax for a moment before starting to run with the torch again on Monday.

And so to bed.