Author: albarclay

And it’s London again. Traffic noise from outside the window almost sounding like it’s amplified just as I’m not used to it. Noise noise noise. This city is a constant mess of it. As I write it’s car doors slamming and the nattering of passengers, and the rotor blades of a chinook that might shake the house.

It’s the worst time of year to be in Chelsea, because just a few doors down the oblivious people are looking at garden options. Chelsea Flahhh Show. This week is why my brother has consistently found unusual insects in my flat. A gypsy moth. Various flower beetles. Things that shouldn’t be in Chelsea. They all come in with the displays and stay long beyond their welcome. People like me who frequently drive long distance pull them around in our vehicles and inadvertently disrupt ancient biospheres.

I was supposed to be running a workshop tomorrow but amazingly a recall audition dropped. Acting is always my #1 so I pulled myself from the job. We will actually get to go into the room. There’s a great big ensemble being cast up north and I am in with a shot of being part of it. A community for a while. Something that used to be familiar but COVID helped us forget. A real life audition, instead of curated zoom. I’m a real boy!

It’s barely nine and I’m off to bed. This recall – it was the tape I sent after the party I was working last week. 3am exhausted audition with two shots of Blue Label? Not a habit I want to get into but something maybe worked. Likely it was the being too tired to try and be perfect. You can’t fake that shit.

I’ve been thinking about this possible gig more and more. I’ve discussed it with Lou. For many reasons I think this could be a glory to do. So many years with so few opportunities, largely seizing them when I could. But things have been sparse lately and I’ve hung up so much to still be here. A consistent job over a period of months, doing what I set out to do? And deepening aspects of my craft? Yeah. I’m sold.

I went and saw Michael Frayn pitching his memoirs at Charleston today with Lou. He knew some remarkable people growing up. I think of the slides I stood beside last week, and once again wonder why I so desperately wanted them to accept me. I’m having a delightful time forging my own path.

Sleep calls though. Audition tomorrow in the flesh. Hurrah

Lou found a circular walk online that started near where we woke up this morning – at Brown’s Store in Llandogo. It’s a location in Sex Education, which was largely shot around Symonds Yat. It is also a much beloved country store, established 1923, family run until mister Brown died. It no longer comes up on Google maps though, and the location is a building site. Why? Because Londis bought it and they are putting all their branding in. This is strange to me.

Nobody in the history of the world has ever gone “Oh hooray, there’s a Londis! Let’s stop and see what it has.” At best they’ve gone “Oh Christ the only option nearby is a Londis. Beggars can’t be choosers.” Londis is the three legged dog of supermarkets. But they still feel the need to replace well established branding with their own branding, and shut the place in the process.

We went on the walk. The walk is named after a very famous poet. The connection between the poet and the walk is at best tenuous and at worst completely specious. But yes, in 1798, Eminem may or may not have sat on a rock at the top of the walk and composed some lines.

First we walk down to the river. There’s nothing about Larkin here. There’s a closed shop that might be open. There are some brown sheep. Did Plath think about those sheep? Down to the river and turn right and perhaps blind Homer took a boat down the Wye Valley on some forgotten and nearly impossible trip to England. We follow a railway track. Maybe Owen took a train this way as he went to sign up? Through some gardens, and we start to forge up way up a long hill, not running like Kate Bush. Steady walking. Step by step. A predictable meter of steps like much of Chris Marlowe’s work. One foot after the other, but no oysters following. Old closed pubs. Maybe Byron would have stopped at one to see what he could pull. Trees and ancient land, fit for a goblin market. A waterfall! Was this Coleridge’s Xanadu? We reach the top. A stone, where the poet Byron could have lazily lain, as he did on the Peachey Stone. He didn’t. None of you other poets did either. And nor did Wordsworth. Yeah sure he wrote his poem a few miles above Tintern Abbey, and sure he could see the sylvan Wye. But this place only offers a tiny stretch of the Wye, and it is miles away from the abbey. Weird to name the walk the Wordsworth Walk. It’s like putting on a production of Waiting for Godot and writing “Tom Cruise as Godot” on all the posters. Mind you, you’d put bums on seats if you did. Get sued too.

Cleddon Shoots. Wordsworth or no Wordsworth its a powerful place up there. It actually IS where the incredible clear thinker Bertrand Russell was born. No mention of him on the walk even though you could crawl from his place of birth to the top of the falls in half an hour or so.

I have fallen in love with that part of this stupid country. We all hate ourselves and everyone who isn’t like us and we are isolating and fracturing and making ourselves smaller and smaller and smaller. It’s hard to love much about such a self destructive state. But I could lock myself in an annex of Cleddon Hall with loads of animals and books, and look out the window at the woods and the falls and the people, and I’d be perfectly happy. I could go out in the wee hours and dance under the stars, or let the waterfall soak me to the skin. Occasionally I could tolerate a visitor with news of the outside world and I’d vanish to the cellar and come up with something covered in cobwebs to be strained through muslin. Lou would have a key to my annex from the main house.

£500k minimum though for a pleasant place to live over that way. My choices needed to have been different from the outset for that to be in reach. I’ll just go sleep in a rented cottage for a night or so and recharge like I just did, and try and work out how I’ll still hit the big time money pot before I kark it.

The village of Trelleck where we are staying is old enough that nobody knows how to spell it. Here in the disputed Welsh Marches, close to Offa’s Dyke, it has likely changed hands more than we know. The last Saxon king Harold Godwinson won a great battle here against the Britons in 1052 when he was still just Earl of Wessex. His followers or supporters named three prominent menhirs in a field near here after him: Harold’s stones. They mark the graves of the Briton chieftains he cut down. Violence breeds violence. Four years later the Normans shot him in the eye and that was that.

We went to see the menhirs. They’re bronze age, so if they mark the graves of these chieftains then it’s because the bodies were dragged here. They just sit in a field, pointing towards the midwinter sun. Long grass all around them and likely it pastures sheep now. Below them, deep underground, an iron rich stream runs. Track the line of them more or less directly eastwards and you come to their counterpart, where the water bubbles up to the surface and is housed in a well. Rich healing water, almost completely neglected, even more so than the stones. A collapsed bridge leading to it, and then this Yin to the Yang of the menhirs. Big hard stones thrusting themselves up in the air, opposite a healing wellspring bringing iron-rich waters.

In between the well and the stones is an archaeological dig where they have found a lost city. It was huge by early standards. The biggest medieval city in Wales. One farmer worked out it was there when moles turned up some pottery. It takes the right kind of brain to make that connection. Some smart and bold people have made it their passion to try and dig into the bits of land they can dig into. Fascinating things are turning up. The problem is that land is expensive here and the usual crowd want to buy to let. The more they can dig the more they can find but the archaeological interest means that speculators are trying to get the land around it. In so doing they’re gonna make it harder to get the interesting bits dug up at a pace where you aren’t going to smash stuff. It’s not heavily trumpeted that this stuff is here. The stones are easier to find than the well, but none of it is even close to the fanfare surrounding many ancient sites around the world. Just some old wooden signs and little signs on metal gates over 75 years old.

I’m rather taken by this part of the world. The history of it. The peace here. There are some ghastly properties coming up, but the older ones have charm and the bones of this place run deep. The earth and the water are strong, the stars are bright at night. I can’t afford property here but if I could I’d be seriously looking, if for no other reason than to stop these people putting plastic houses full of beige crud on top of somebody’s ancient buried forge.

Now we are in deep country, just Lou and I, somewhere near Trellech in the Wye Valley. My plan is to do as little as possible now just for a few days. Events and parties and awkward dinners and shows begone for a few days. I’m already half asleep and it is just gone 8pm.

It’s quiet out here. The bluebells are late this year so they are still scattered at the edges of pathways. Rich bird life to look at and to listen to. To get here we drove through the black mountains and I stopped at all the stables I found and inquired about intensive courses. One of them might be able to tailor something that feels like what I’m after. Others were incredibly friendly. I have a premonition that the word “horse” is gonna be showing up here more and more. I think I’ve still got my jodhpurs somewhere at home. Shit is gonna get real. I just have to find the right place. Going and looking in person might yield a better one than the ones that are easy to find on the internet. IT and marketing skills maketh not a good equestrian trainer.

I was gonna learn some lines but then I decided that’s just cos I’m really bad at not doing things. For the next 24 hours I can have my actor’s weekend, have a restful Monday, stop doing doing doing, be.

It’s a self contained section of a little farmhouse tucked up in the Welsh hills. Cheap compared to many such things. Walks around here are plentiful and it is pleasantly decorated and comfy. I can barely keep myself awake enough to write this and that’s partly to do with the fact it’s just cosy here.

There seems to be a lot of interesting ancient stuff around here. Plenty to find tomorrow. We have two nights here, then I’ve got one more in Brighton before I get back to all the work.

The internet here is not great hence the triple post last night. We really are isolated in the best possible way. There is community here all year owing to the generosity of our hosts. We are surrounded by interesting crafty people.

Today we had two shots at Julius Caesar. A rolling company as ever. I enjoyed joining everyone. I’ve been busy so had to slot in and missed all the work in the lead up. Previous years we have had long intensive weeks with the likes of TC, our patron saint who is currently firmly lodged in Canada, and the wonderful Louie Scheeder whose death last year made the world much poorer.

Once again it has been The Factory at The Willow Globe, and once again if I had been paying attention I would be scattering links and adverts and who knows what else. I will certainly say that, if you live in the vicinity of Llandudnod Wells, go and find The Willow Globe. God it is a powerful place. I’ve written about it frequently, as I’ve been there many times since this vast life-blog experiment went active.

Everyone from the company is in the kitchen being animated. I’m in the living room writing to you. “Can you occasionally do a short blog?” Scott asked. “I can do what the fuck I want,” I responded.

I’ve been bearing that thinking out the last two days. This is a new project. Games are yet to be found. I bring mischief. It’s part of my purpose. I’m happy with my offers and the reasons for them. I know I can be better, do more, be braver. I think this play with this company offers opportunity. It’ll be a long long time until we have milked it. Mostly today I observed my talented friends being bold and hard-working. I am looking forward to the continuation of this.

But I’m gonna rejoin the throng. Good night, blogfriends. Xxx

Wales. I’m in Wales. I’m deep in dark and quiet Wales, holed up in a vast and beautiful ancient stone hall, about to play loads of different parts in Julius Caesar with The Factory.

These incredible thoughtful compassionate people have been in my life for decades now. A rolling company. We have made things quickly and often. Sometimes they’ve been wonderful. Sometimes they haven’t. But always they’ve been alive. There must have been over a hundred actors through The Factory over the years and there isn’t one that I wouldn’t call a friend and mean it. We are forged in and united by a peculiar kind of pressured fellowship around the work. I’m so happy to be with them here and now. Great humans.

Last night I met the people in my house and year group at school. An odd lot too, but not MY odd lot. I wanted to see what they were like as adults. “Why the fuck did you put yourself through that?” I was asked by multiple friends who have known me long enough to have full context on it. Girlfriends in the past have opened conversations about the scars on my back. Other scars are less visible.

For two years I was growing up in a little building with one psychotic bully and a bunch of people either too sociopathic or too scared to intervene. Mostly they didn’t have the tools. None of us did. We were children. It was a really shit two years. I rarely think on it now. But it’s a part of my life and maybe it’s worth reconciling these things.

A reunion dinner? I just needed to see them. To see if they had developed. I shouldn’t have gone but it’s my past. I was curious.

“You know that time when Harry was whipping you and I was the only other person in the room and I didn’t do anything?” “Yeah, I think you were laughing?” “Well no I don’t know if I was laughing that time, that was another time. But I’ve been talking with my wife about it and I don’t know but maybe there’s something I should have done?” “Are you apologising?” “Well, I mean, when you think about it, you could have done something too though really. Maybe I could have done something, but why didn’t you stop it yourself?”

What’s most fascinating is, it felt like an attempt at something positive. It felt like an honest try at some sort of apology. I tried to stick a bit of challenge into it, and maybe using the word “coward” was overly provocative as it led to a surprising “So why are you still talking about it?” when I have barely given it the time of day for decades and he brought it up. I slammed this stuff out of myself in my twenties. I don’t give very many fucks now.

But I haven’t looked at it fully… I texted him today to just acknowledge that he’s started some sort of process. Spot the Dog does Compassion! He’s a parent now. Perspective comes with work. I told him I respected his thinking. I do, even though he very quickly tried to absent himself from any responsibility.

I went to the dinner because I was curious and there I found that there’s still stuff that will never be finished because it makes no sense to any of us. We were all just children and there was a psychopath in the room.

I know now that I have no hard feelings to any of them. I was happy to see them. They looked well. I was perhaps a bit disappointed to feel how separate they all felt to me – they’ve clearly all stayed in touch and I’m just this weirdo. My world is not theirs though. One of them who was capable of empathy and kindness almost refused to accept that I still liked him. “No, I was a dick to you.” he insisted. With full context I had to ask: “Were you?” I suspect it’s still not “cool” for them to be nice to me.

But I had a big chunk of my formative years where their “majority” set what I thought of as the benchmark for normal. I felt I didn’t fit, because … because I didn’t fit.

I’m sure they’ve all framed things like I have. I was an awkward little fucker and I knew I was clever. Maybe I should’ve helped myself like the man said. But the kid I was then couldn’t make sense of why it was happening and hadn’t learnt how cruel and arbitrary life can be.

Me now? I would have either broken both his fucking arms or died trying. But me now is a very very different beast to that happy broken open hearted clever protected trusting confused little boy who couldn’t understand why he was being bullied unless it was because he deserved it somehow.

And now I’m in Wales with these incredible hearts, and wonderful Lou. And I know what it is to have true friends and people in my life who think and care.

Wales. I’m in Wales. I’m deep in dark and quiet Wales, holed up in a vast and beautiful ancient stone hall, about to play loads of different parts in Julius Caesar with The Factory.

These incredible thoughtful compassionate people have been in my life for decades now. A rolling company. We have made things quickly and often. Sometimes they’ve been wonderful. Sometimes they haven’t. But always they’ve been alive. There must have been over a hundred actors through The Factory over the years and there isn’t one that I wouldn’t call a friend and mean it. We are forged in and united by a peculiar kind of pressured fellowship around the work. I’m so happy to be with them here and now. Great humans.

Last night I met the people in my house and year group at school. An odd lot too, but not MY odd lot. I wanted to see what they were like as adults. “Why the fuck did you put yourself through that?” I was asked by multiple friends who have known me long enough to have full context on it. Girlfriends in the past have opened conversations about the scars on my back. Other scars are less visible.

For two years I was growing up in a little building with one psychotic bully and a bunch of people either too sociopathic or too scared to intervene. Mostly they didn’t have the tools. None of us did. We were children. It was a really shit two years. I rarely think on it now. But it’s a part of my life and maybe it’s worth reconciling these things.

A reunion dinner? I just needed to see them. To see if they had developed. I shouldn’t have gone but it’s my past. I was curious.

“You know that time when Harry was whipping you and I was the only other person in the room and I didn’t do anything?” “Yeah, I think you were laughing?” “Well no I don’t know if I was laughing that time, that was another time. But I’ve been talking with my wife about it and I don’t know but maybe there’s something I should have done?” “Are you apologising?” “Well, I mean, when you think about it, you could have done something too though really. Maybe I could have done something, but why didn’t you stop it yourself?”

What’s most fascinating is, it felt like an attempt at something positive. It felt like an honest try at some sort of apology. I tried to stick a bit of challenge into it, and maybe using the word “coward” was overly provocative as it led to a surprising “So why are you still talking about it?” when I have barely given it the time of day for decades and he brought it up. I slammed this stuff out of myself in my twenties. I don’t give very many fucks now.

But I haven’t looked at it fully… I texted him today to just acknowledge that he’s started some sort of process. Spot the Dog does Compassion! He’s a parent now. Perspective comes with work. I told him I respected his thinking. I do, even though he very quickly tried to absent himself from any responsibility.

I went to the dinner because I was curious and there I found that there’s still stuff that will never be finished because it makes no sense to any of us. We were all just children and there was a psychopath in the room.

I know now that I have no hard feelings to any of them. I was happy to see them. They looked well. I was perhaps a bit disappointed to feel how separate they all felt to me – they’ve clearly all stayed in touch and I’m just this weirdo. My world is not theirs though. One of them who was capable of empathy and kindness almost refused to accept that I still liked him. “No, I was a dick to you.” he insisted. With full context I had to ask: “Were you?” I suspect it’s still not “cool” for them to be nice to me.

But I had a big chunk of my formative years where their “majority” set what I thought of as the benchmark for normal. I felt I didn’t fit, because … because I didn’t fit.

I’m sure they’ve all framed things like I have. I was an awkward little fucker and I knew I was clever. Maybe I should’ve helped myself like the man said. But the kid I was then couldn’t make sense of why it was happening and hadn’t learnt how cruel and arbitrary life can be.

Me now? I would have either broken both his fucking arms or died trying. But me now is a very very different beast to that happy broken open hearted clever protected trusting confused little boy who couldn’t understand why he was being bullied unless it was because he deserved it somehow.

And now I’m in Wales with these incredible hearts, and wonderful Lou. And I know what it is to have true friends and people in my life who think and care.

Wales. I’m in Wales. I’m deep in dark and quiet Wales, holed up in a vast and beautiful ancient stone hall, about to play loads of different parts in Julius Caesar with The Factory.

These incredible thoughtful compassionate people have been in my life for decades now. A rolling company. We have made things quickly and often. Sometimes they’ve been wonderful. Sometimes they haven’t. But always they’ve been alive. There must have been over a hundred actors through The Factory over the years and there isn’t one that I wouldn’t call a friend and mean it. We are forged in and united by a peculiar kind of pressured fellowship around the work. I’m so happy to be with them here and now. Great humans.

Last night I met the people in my house and year group at school. An odd lot too, but not MY odd lot. I wanted to see what they were like as adults. “Why the fuck did you put yourself through that?” I was asked by multiple friends who have known me long enough to have full context on it. Girlfriends in the past have opened conversations about the scars on my back. Other scars are less visible.

For two years I was growing up in a little building with one psychotic bully and a bunch of people either too sociopathic or too scared to intervene. Mostly they didn’t have the tools. None of us did. We were children. It was a really shit two years. I rarely think on it now. But it’s a part of my life and maybe it’s worth reconciling these things.

A reunion dinner? I just needed to see them. To see if they had developed. I shouldn’t have gone but it’s my past. I was curious.

“You know that time when Harry was whipping you and I was the only other person in the room and I didn’t do anything?” “Yeah, I think you were laughing?” “Well no I don’t know if I was laughing that time, that was another time. But I’ve been talking with my wife about it and I don’t know but maybe there’s something I should have done?” “Are you apologising?” “Well, I mean, when you think about it, you could have done something too though really. Maybe I could have done something, but why didn’t you stop it yourself?”

What’s most fascinating is, it felt like an attempt at something positive. It felt like an honest try at some sort of apology. I tried to stick a bit of challenge into it, and maybe using the word “coward” was overly provocative as it led to a surprising “So why are you still talking about it?” when I have barely given it the time of day for decades and he brought it up. I slammed this stuff out of myself in my twenties. I don’t give very many fucks now.

But I haven’t looked at it fully… I texted him today to just acknowledge that he’s started some sort of process. Spot the Dog does Compassion! He’s a parent now. Perspective comes with work. I told him I respected his thinking. I do, even though he very quickly tried to absent himself from any responsibility.

I went to the dinner because I was curious and there I found that there’s still stuff that will never be finished because it makes no sense to any of us. We were all just children and there was a psychopath in the room.

I know now that I have no hard feelings to any of them. I was happy to see them. They looked well. I was perhaps a bit disappointed to feel how separate they all felt to me – they’ve clearly all stayed in touch and I’m just this weirdo. My world is not theirs though. One of them who was capable of empathy and kindness almost refused to accept that I still liked him. “No, I was a dick to you.” he insisted. With full context I had to ask: “Were you?” I suspect it’s still not “cool” for them to be nice to me.

But I had a big chunk of my formative years where their “majority” set what I thought of as the benchmark for normal. I felt I didn’t fit, because … because I didn’t fit.

I’m sure they’ve all framed things like I have. I was an awkward little fucker and I knew I was clever. Maybe I should’ve helped myself like the man said. But the kid I was then couldn’t make sense of why it was happening and hadn’t learnt how cruel and arbitrary life can be.

Me now? I would have either broken both his fucking arms or died trying. But me now is a very very different beast to that happy broken open hearted clever protected trusting confused little boy who couldn’t understand why he was being bullied unless it was because he deserved it somehow.

And now I’m in Wales with these incredible hearts, and wonderful Lou. And I know what it is to have true friends and people in my life who think and care.

I’m in a cross town uber at lunchtime. I’ve had three and a half hours sleep. Tonight I’m supposed to go to a party with a load of strangers that I went to school with. It’ll be nice to sit down. I’m supposed to be in a dinner jacket but I think given the state of my wardrobe that it might genuinely make more sense for me to bung on a regency frock coat and have done with it. If I show up in a suit I’ll be in their work uniform. And I’m not sure what I can cobble at short notice for formal dinner wear. I’m not even sure I have all the accessories for my kilt at easy access. Haven’t seen my sporran for a few months.

Last night I stayed up to do this audition tape. My phone kept running out of space, my brain didn’t work. Blue label and fatigue and total lack of time for prep. “Good acting through song,” says my agent, which is code for “atrocious singing done with charm”. I’m visibly reading my lines in the scenes to a tape of dear Tristan hamming it for England. Knowing the state I was in its amusing to watch through. It’s bound to crop up when they do “This is Your Life!”

I didn’t want to get an uber, as they are too expensive these days and so you might as well get a black cab. Three cabbies with the lights on drove past me in five minutes though. Three. I was livid after the third one. Absolutely fuming. I thought maybe I’d write an excoriating blog about how nobody should ever get a black cab ever again, but then I calmed down and realised I was just really tired.

Audition is sent. Now I’ve got some lines to learn, but I’m at least going to be home. I should just about have time for a bath and a power nap if I source my formal dinner-wear quickly and efficiently… Here’s hoping.

My heels are a bruise. My hands are raw. My head is full of wool.

A lie in tomorrow. Then a drive to Wales and learning lines lots. One thing at a time though. I’m working down the list. Next item on it is “Old School Dinner”. And I’ve got the blog done early!! *waves flags*

I’ve just realised I have no clue when I’m gonna write this blog apart from gradually over the course of the rest of this evening’s work.

I’m on this big drinky event in Shoreditch and I’m stone cold sober as they all stagger around talking loudly about booze. Right now they are all over the Johnny Walker Blue Label, and she offered me a shot but I declined. Not just because I’m working although that’s part of it. Also I’ve got a fecking audition to send by tomorrow morning and no time to record it.

Theatre. With a song.

It’ll either be me in my pod hotel room tonight after work absolutely shattered, or it’ll be me after a restless few hours, awoken at 5am and rushing it before breakfast at 7. And somehow that appeals to me more at the moment, but comes with the risk of sleeping through the whole thing.

The job would be three months in Leeds. It would be lovely to be back in god’s own country. I am happy in that part of the world now. I’d probably do the old man on tour thing and rent a nice place a short drive away from town, rather than a room above a pub two minutes from the theatre. But I’d need to get it first.

And the state I’m in any audition I send is gonna be a sleepy man yawning.

—

Damn it’s hard to get the cork out of these prosecco bottles.

Yeah so we built the event, now we are working the event, and later we will break the event. Blessed be the name of the event.

I’m pooped.

Ooh they’re going to feed us though. Meat. So far today it’s been three packets of crisps, a burger, pork scratchings, and a coca cola.

—

Yes we get food. Yes it’s meat. We can sit outside and eat it.

—

Good lord that was one of the best meals I’ve ever had on a job.

Maybe later on I’ll have some of that blue label.

Then I’ll do the audition and nail it and they’ll offer me the part and I’ll only be able to do what I did after Lamb with celeriac remoulade and a shot of expensive whisky. That’ll be my rider.

oh God my feet don’t work

–+

We don’t need to move the tables yet because dessert isn’t out but they want us to move the tables… hmm. I should have had that whisky.

The band is playing. We moved the tables. Emotion and celebration. 29 Fingers are the band. Rather than wondering which of the three of them is missing a finger, I’m off to have a finger of Blue Label Whisky. You see. I did a clever writingness. Because you measure whisky in fingers? oh fuck it.

—

It’s very good. I shared most of it. I am happy. We did work to make others have fun. And a lot of that is why I’m here this time somehow.

Must remember to do that tape though.

Uptown funk?

Almost half eleven. I’m back here at half seven. They’re still dancing. Even without the whisky I couldn’t audition after this madness. Early morning singing or apologetic call to my agent or both, coming right up.