Author: albarclay

I’ve always been a sucker for a story with monsters. There’s just something about the human in the face of these things that are big and weird and hungry and simple and cruel. I get swept up in it. I love the monsters as much as the ones that fight them. It’s no coincidence that I played the Cyclops more than anyone when we improvised The Odyssey. I never ran out of ways to be curious about why he behaves like he does. Maybe there’s something in the way I’m battling my own set of demons. We all are. Maybe I recognise my own little demons in these loathsome interesting dense twisted charismatic foul things that others have made up. Maybe I see myself in the little people who set themselves up against them fearlessly. Who take hits and get back up again.

“What are the monsters afraid of?” asks Lettie Hemstock. “They’re afraid of us.” I’m paraphrasing. This is from The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I read the book when I was in Jersey fighting childhood demons of apathy and fear and grief. Now I’m forward from that but still struggling to beat off the wings of the anti-life creatures at the edge of my thoughts. I’m drowning myself in dayjobs or in booze. I need to shift my attack. But tonight for a few hours I went back to that story about childhood. It’s on in the West End. I know the designer, the puppet guy, the adapter and a bunch of the actors and I love the story. Still it has taken me this long to get to it. They’ve been soldiering on through Covid. It was shut yesterday as one of my friends has caught the fucker. I really wanted to see her, but her understudy was on for the first time today and there’s an edge in supporting somebody in that first show that is just impossible to duplicate. There must be a lot of people coming on as last minute cover right now in the theatres that are daring to be open. I used to get employed for that all the time because of my absorbent line learning brain. It’s a rush. You simultaneously feel amazing and terrified. I kind of miss the rush. Haven’t been on stage for too long.

Two nights running now though I’ve been to good theatre. Much Ado was wonderful and creative and cheeky and observant – doing what lo-fi theatre does best and honing in on the clarity and truth of moments that can often get lost in noise when money comes into the equation. Tonight, Ocean washed over me. This came out of The National, and so they have budget for great puppets and long rehearsals and clever people making things. With all the lights and trickery they never lost sight of the human. Another wonderful night in the theatre, and the place was packed. Every seat in the stalls was full and they were seeking wine at a tenner a glass at the bar. Good to see, because these old buildings will end up as flats if the current crop of governmental fuckwits get their way. Stories can be dangerous if you’re a monster. They help us understand that even if we feel small, the monsters feel small too sometimes.

Neil Gaiman’s mythical thinking and the profile he has gained through hard work and consistency – it’s a very good thing for the world of modern stories. I love that a weird little book like Ocean can get enough traction to transfer to the West End from The National. Bloody right. It’s a story about so much. Childhood and fear and freedom and the eternal. The things that we crave and the things that kill us. I’ve had a lovely night and the only thing I don’t want to do now is go to sleep but I have to because tomorrow I’m out of the house at 7am. Buggerit. Good night.

Hard work today with the Energy Workshop thing. It keeps me honest, but you get a school like that and you realise why it’s pretty well paid. I was in the dining room with a load of tables thrown in and I felt very alone up there with no relationship between me and the pupils and the only teacher using it as an opportunity to do some marking. It’s not that they weren’t engaged. Complete silence would have perhaps been worse. But they just had tons and tons of pent up energy and silence was not a thing that could be achieved when I was putting across information. There’s a long section where I ask them to talk about what they think about things like Artificial Intelligence, but every time the energy dropped for a second as I waited for somebody to formulate an answer then the room exploded into talking – often on topic, but usually loud enough to obscure whatever the person was trying to say to me. It made the whole thing into a long hard slog.

“How were they,” asked a teacher at lunch time. “It was barely directed carnage,” I told him honestly. “They’re a noisy lot. I’d normally have them for PE in that lesson.” It all suddenly made sense. “Hey kids, we are skipping sport in favour of Al coming and talking about engineering! Yay!”

I like this work so long as it’s just filling a gap in the diary, but I think I should talk to the company that books me about the workshop I did today. Having a noisy and distracted group highlights the weaknesses of the material I’ve been given. It’s weighted heavily on intellectualism and even though there are some videos to play they are all a bit woeful. They get the school to print out tons of handouts – too many handouts – all in colour, most of which will only be used for a few seconds, many of which won’t usually get handed out at all on a normal day. I snuck a load home in my bag today so the teacher wouldn’t see how much waste there was.

Now I’m in an uber across town. AFTLS – the company I toured the states with – are back in London after a tour of Much Ado. That was my first tour with them, many years ago. I had a brilliant time and actually my first experience of running workshops was in Indiana doing Shakespeare with the students at Notre Dame. Very different there, and with all the college football there’s no way they’d be skipping PE.

I know some of the company this time around. I’m off to see them and it – performing tonight at The Cockpit up in North London. It’s not the easiest venue to get industry folk to, but it’s a pleasant place and I’ve had fun there in the past and done work I’ll stand by. I’m really looking forward to it. I’m trying to remember the rehearsal process we had for it, in Brixton all those years ago. I’m thinking of the things we had to solve as a company of 5 playing all the parts. It mostly exists in my memory now as a series of colourful flashes. Utah. Wellesley. Weeks in Texas. Spinning up to Rhode Island to see a friend. NYC and the last time I ever saw Louie. Maybe 8 years ago now? Man life moves fast…

I do like a quiet Monday. No work today and back at home with comfortable things and heating. I haven’t left the house. I slept until just before noon. Food was brought to me by Deliveroo and this evening I’ve been just sitting with the fish watching the last few episodes of that terrible compulsive TV programme The Apprentice.

It’s fascinating. It’s hideous. It validates my life decisions. I might have gone chasing a very elusive unicorn with this acting malarkey. But if I had gone after the money I might have had to hang out with people like them.

Writing now at the end of the day I can remember my good intentions for today as I had them this time last night. As I write I’m still surrounded by interesting clutter. I sorted none of it, and I’m not gonna today. It definitely needs to be done, but I wanted a rest. It’s been pretty full on and schizophrenic in the last week. I also have plenty of things I need to write. Nothing today. Nowt. Nil. Nada. Not today. I’ve been in my pajamas all day. It’s very comfortable. The heating is burning away. I’m okay with that too. I’m back into the world tomorrow talking about responsible energy use and I’m about to get into the bath again.

It was lovely to be up in Stratford yesterday, and then visiting friends back home. I think in a normal world days like this were very rare because they’d always involve not showing up to something sociable. My neighbour did invite me to something at the local pub this evening, but I’m not feeling very sociable and I’d have to put some trousers on to go out. Plus I’m working early tomorrow so pints would be silly.

My friend and I tried to book tickets to Ocean at the End of the Lane for tomorrow. I read the book recently and I know a few of the creatives involved. But more or less as soon as we booked it they got cancelled and returned because the cast have got Covid. I’m glad they were refunded, but what a bollock. I really want to see it, and the idea of going to the theatre just appeals to me right now as it’s been so hard to do. If I go watch something maybe the universe will remember that I’m supposed to be doing it. Haven’t had so much luck with the self tapes recently, which can be disillusioning. I always prefer to be in the room to audition so I can radiate charisma dahhling. But something has got to give before long. Or if it doesn’t I might well get to go somewhere interesting again at the end of April…

Not that anything is ever as simple as we want it to be, but if I were to organise the last three days including today, and if I were to give them labels, I would say they represented Past, then Future, then, today, Present. I’ve been juggling these timestates quite a lot lately. Two days ago I communed quite deeply with the past, looking through the possessions of that maternal figure who had shuffled off her mortal coil. The smell of medicine and the touch of the end. Yesterday was Stratford Upon Avon, and seeing a friend from past times in her forward looking state, meeting the babies and children that make up the future for her and for us all, and looking forward with her to six months of wonderful work in a powerful place. The smell of milk and hope. Not my future, but a future touched by me. Today I woke up in that little waterside flat and felt the power of NOW. The sun was shining. There’s so much still to do.

They are tiny, those little flats in Stratford and people walk by the whole time and push their heads against the windows to peer in. They know the actors stay there. “There was an old couple in sunglasses,” said Minnie. “They were staring in the window, so I moved, and it only made them move closer to look!” Weird. People know that actors stay there. Perhaps they are looking for the famous ones. They won’t usually end up staying in Waterside… But the whole of Upon-Avon is skewed towards that theatre and the industry of Shakespeare. I guess that, for now, Minnie is part of that and people want to look at her. It’s crazy. Everything is Prospero this and Arden that. It must be hard for young people who don’t give a fuck about Shakespeare, when they get the job in the tea shop and they have to wear a ruff and all the tourists are quoting at them.

We touched base, Minnie and I. We had easy time with one another and ate roast chicken. We remembered. It was such a relaxing Sunday. Inches from her door there’s a Sunday market flogging all sorts of fun hand made crafty things alongside good meats and coffees and veg and cakes. She can be in Marks and Spencers five minutes from the door, or Poundland. I went to both, to get flour and sellotape respectively. The immediate concerns of her two small children who have recently had upheaval meant that much of my time was spent entertaining myself which is something I’m very good at, but the sellotape was to help entertain your oldest. I stayed in the busy company of my friends and their young ones until it made sense for me to get the van back to New Cross. Two and a half hours. Not bad.

I didn’t want to just hit home though after dropping the van so I got a surge Uber to Jethro’s. He’s on the way home from New Cross and I found myself in the state of mind where I wanted to just keep connecting. Jethro is good for that. I had a second chicken dinner unexpectedly courtesy of a generous neighbor. Then we had a moment together in the hut at the bottom of his garden. It’s like a version of my altar that you can walk into. It’s great in there. I walked in and rested there a moment and remembered why he’s been important in my life recently and will continue to be. Ahhh friends. It has been too hard the last few years.

Now I’m home. I thought I was working tomorrow but it’s a down day so I’m going to try and use the last three days worth of time-thinking to start forging a future for this delightful flat full of gubbins. Plus maybe have a lie in. Oh the joy of not having kids. Oh the hell of not being in rehearsal for a lovely job. Life, eh? Always something to do…

I have never held a baby for so long before.

Yesterday I went into that decayed flat, moving stagnant air, parsing papers, remembering the past. A place of death. An ending. I needed this for contrast.

Today I went to Stratford and I held a baby. A place of life and renewal. A beginning. Four months old. I have never met her before, even if I have been sent videos. Last time I tried to actually see her, mummy had Covid. We spoke, but I was outside and she was shouting out the window.

Today I drove the van with all the baby stuff in it. I’m likely gonna do this job for cost. This is my best friend and her family. They’re going up to Stratford for six whole months. What a wonderful thing.

Back when this job offer was made I know she was worried. A new baby and childcare and all the unknowns. I’m good at trying to be impartial but I remember it bursting out of me to beg her to try to make it work with the baby. The part. The company. Fuck. I have wanted to work up here forever but if I can’t at least I can do it vicariously through her. As a young actor I wrote them some of the most sincere but mawkish letters they’ve ever had. Maybe one day I’ll get a meeting. Maybe not.

Minnie is going to be here at the RSC for something like six months this time. She did two years before, when we were younger. She’s playing a consistent part through many of the histories. Margaret. It’s going to be off the scale good. We all went up to Stratford today, with me behind the wheel of the rented van.

The upheaval has been hard for her eldest girl, so I ended up holding the youngest while they focused on her. We were together for a long time, that little one and I. We got to know each other.

I was in one of those Waterside houses that the actors stay in – just opposite the RST. I’ve slept many nights in them over the years. I wonder how many of them I’ve been in… Usually I’ve been post show, swept up in the breakdown and whirl. Companionably drunk, as often as not. In the company of contemporaries. Sometimes when younger very aware of the fact I wanted to be considered. Best behaviour, or nervous fool? Both, alternatively, and many things in between.

Today I was given a small child and left on my own. Much better.

A milky headed tiny human is suddenly looking at me here in the centre of where I’ve always wanted to work. We are alone together. I’m responsible for her safety. I’m being appraised and communicated with constantly in silent ways, in between drools. I’m short term responsible for scope of vision and basic entertainment for this complete being. This small human – it is not yet good with moving itself around, let alone clear communication. We share some basic sounds but their meaning is not shared. A fresh minted human is gargling at me with spitty mouth and huge eyes.

Immediately I feel my dust. I feel all the mess of me. She is so new and fresh. I feel ancient and cragged and filthy. Her milky head brushes against the badger stubble that I hadn’t even noticed was grown. I sing to her, instinctively and semi tunelessly. We start with “For What It’s Worth,” by Buffalo Springfield, being my attempt to vocalise the interest and confusion I witness in her. We cover a lot of ground, musically and in terms of talking. She likes to be included. She’s not desperate to be entertained so long as there’s something going on she can be part of. I told her tales. We made friends. This is my star turn here, for now. Storyteller for a tiny baby.

Minnie has been a solid friend through so much. Her children are as important to me as she is. She will always be there for me and I will be for her. Thank God for her. Life has given her this opportunity and she has grabbed it and I’m so so proud of her. I suspect I’ll be up in Stratford a fair amount in the next six months now – yes to see her work but also to just continue this odd dialogue between these two new minted humans and hoary old me. I’m glad to have been part of the beginning, and Minnie has wisdom in asking me to be – she knows how I function. This is on the map now for my sporadic focus.

In my bedroom, there’s a picture of Tony Sher as Richard III at the end of the bed. He will watch over me as I sleep. I might even have slept in this bed before…

“We are outlasted by our telephone bills…”

Funny to think so. But I know it now. From my uncle. From my mum. There’s still things of dad’s to be sorted as I’m so rarely in The Isle of Man.

This morning I took myself over the river to Battersea on the request of one of my oldest friends. His mother died recently. She had been ill for some time.

I remember her well. I remember her imperious and poised, baffling the other adults with her perfect manners. I never saw her through the course of the long illness that eventually helped her off, so I will always remember her as that. Vigorous. Beautiful. Tough. And kind to me. She always supported my friendship with her son.

He lives far away, but the probate office needs certain documents. I had to look for them. “While you’re there, have a look for things that we might be able to take to Lots Road Auctions.” “One thing at a time,” I tell him. I can’t be flooded in this sort of thing. Looking through documents is a very intimate thing, and no matter how close we were in life she would never have imagined it would be me in there doing it.

I have a very quick eye in reading. Despite trying to switch off my curiosity, I knew one of the documents was handwritten so I was having to cast my eye over much of her correspondence. All this life. All these conflicts and victories. Much of it so carefully stored, but now with no real purpose – with no hand at the tiller. Stories with a vanished hero. Artifacts connected to a lost culture that I was part of.

A wax impression of a key in an envelope. Letters to loved ones and ones not so loved anymore. I’ve done this enough now that I’m better at it, but all the triggers still fire and I think of the inevitable march of time and the ones that are gone from my life. And I worry about the state of my flat if I were to vanish tomorrow. Somebody would have a hell of a job. I don’t even really know what’s in here myself and I’m the one that orchestrated this bazaar.

I was careful and thoughtful, and inevitably happened on some items that might fetch a price as I rummaged. I restrained myself from photographing things though, or starting on the route that often leads to disappointment. Value shifts with the generations and your grandparents best crockery is usually only good for a Greek wedding. But on a first visit it was enough – too much – to confront the reality of yet another death of an energy I coincided with. Fare forward, brittle bright forthright light.

The morning having been spent in contemplative rummaging for my old friend, I rushed to the Southbank for a production meeting near Blackfriars. A little story we are making. A new creative partnership and one that I think might bear fruit. A few hours were spent in bandying ideas and remembering that I also make theatre. Then I picked up a van in New Cross. While I’m in this life thing I’m gonna keep it varied. Off to Stratford tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll be back at that sad flat again before long, as there’s much to do and I might just be the correct energy to do it honestly and kindly. I took a photo of her empty chair, address book next to it of course and an unopened delivery box of flowers. I’m sad. We don’t get long.

Familiarity is making these workshops easier, and today flew by in the sun. It started well too, with a short chant with my friend who was staying. Damn its good to have somebody stay. I remember when there was always somebody on the sofa and somebody else in the spare room. These years have not been convivial.

The work was in Twickenham alongside a salt of the earth from Huddersfield – he’s an engineer and not reliably engaging if given his rein – “they’re 600 metres wide and 100 metres long with a surface area of… …” but reliably amusing when he tries to be. He’s a dad. Very much a dad. He has his dad jokes. He’s cute. We truck along nicely together and it passed the time over a long wait between our two sessions today. The best part of working in schools is that it finishes so early. After a brief visit to the post office to send the huge parcels of feedback to the office – unchecked – I was sitting in a garden in the spring sunshine by 4pm. Helpful that the school was only ten minutes from Tristan and Tanya’s. We had a cup of tea before deciding that a pint of Guinness would be more topical for St Patrick’s Day. Early evening pint and a good old springtime actor’s rant, and then we joined Tanya for a dog -walk. Their neighbor has tested positive for Covid and doesn’t want to leave the house so we all took her delightful pudding of a mongrel on a wander around the lawns and riverside pathways of Twickenham. I can really taste the beginning of spring now. Considering I’ve been in the desert, it’s surprising how much I’m hankering for sun. The red sand has blown over again, and hopefully brought with it the desert heat for a spot.

The dog was fun. Terribly badly trained. I think if I were to ever get a dog I’d invest in a trainer at the start and then try and stick to it. There’s something satisfying about a dog that tries to get good at things. This was was delightful but just totally indolent. Nevertheless we had a good old wander and looked at a few balls.

Back home now, winding down, looking forward to a day without early start tomorrow. I’m probably up later than I should be as a result. I’m gonna try to wind out with a cup of chamomile. I’ll probably put some whisky in it…

Man it’s rainy in London today. I fought my way onto the tube this morning with my laptop in a bag. My job was pretty simple – to sit next to a friend when she ran an online training, and to be calm and unruffled. She’s been doing this sort of thing for ages but just felt she wanted an extra body in the room with her. I provided the extra body and changed my name on Zoom to “tech support”. I watched her being amazing for two hours, and helping a bunch of corporate people halfway across Europe. She never ran out of useful insight and material. She was at Guildhall with me but now she trains people and she’s worth every penny of her high price tag.

We went for Pho afterwards for lunch, and then I slogged back across rainy London and into my flat. Finishing earlier than usual, I was finally motivated to give the fish the great big old clean-up they have been needing for ages. They are now visible again. And it was while I was living in a world of slime and buckets that the doorbell rang and I remembered that I have a friend to stay.

It’s March 16th today. My friend is the person who switched my interest back into what I thought of as the weird chanting thing that my ex girlfriend used to make me do sometimes. It’s a simplified Buddhism. It fits my busy lifestyle very well. And March 16th is Kosen Rufu day. It’s when we all angle towards world peace. I mean, we are angling towards it constantly. But, you know … Today we do it more. She and I just sat and practiced together and it’s a powerful thing for any of us who have any sort of practice, to occasionally do it with somebody else. I’m feeling a bit more grounded and a bit more connected. Call it what you like, shared breathing, spiritual connection, it doesn’t matter. I’m pretty open today after having drowned myself in vino yesterday. And it was a really really good idea to have a moment’s chant together on a day like this. I’m in bed now listening to the rain outside and glad of my expensive heating and happy to think that we might be coming out of winter at last.

I’ve been burning things obsessively all day. Tons of frankincense. It’s like I’m trying to burn out the end of winter. “It smells like a ceremony in here,” my friend said when she walked in. It kinda has been like that. I’m banishing winter. It’ll work eventually…

Hard long day. Another one. I was once offered the shot at being a teacher years ago. A decent shot at it. A serious chance. I often think about that chance I deliberately didn’t take. And I look at days like today when I went into a school and worked with the students…

I reckon I would have shot my entire heart out in the first week and then tried to shoot out my blood and veins and bones and marrow until I was trying to keep firing the bits of toenail and hair I had left until I just ended up totally empty of anything. Then I’d have reformed. Then I’d have done it again until I eventually lost structural integrity and just became a wobbly mess.

The school asked for my personal number today, bless them. I told them I would only go there if I was sent by the company. She had been asked to get my number though and it was important to her not to fail in her task. I gave it, and told her she’s better booking me through the company.

It was flattering. I hit a vein of something that morning. I had no choice, but it was noticed.

Inner city school. I’m there on my own talking about engineering first thing in the morning. I’m in a massive hall – it’s the assembly hall. They are still moving tables and chairs around when I’m due to start. Somebody hands me a microphone…

I ignore the microphone and take the ten minutes they are using to set up to go around and talk to individuals. I try to use my short term memory to remember ALL of their names. I try to use my charm to get them to give those names to me and enjoy my attempts to remember them all. I cannot get to everybody in the room. But I connect and connect and connect. And then when I stand up there and I start doing a workshop with the microphone, I’m mobile and they all somehow just engage. I don’t have to shut them down at all. For an hour or two, at the start of the day, I’ve got a difficult class in a difficult room and I know they are behaving surprisingly well because I can see the teachers are surprised. The day continues with high engagement.

I’ve got no skin in the game here. That’s always the trick. You can’t manufacture it… If I get somebody who doesn’t like me – as happened with the boat guiding – I’m totally fine with that. I’ll do this job as well as I can for as long as I can, and I’m old and hoary enough now that if I sense anything even approaching the poison of the boat company, I’ll jump. With them – that was my mistake. I fell in love with a dayjob. Mum, dying, pointed her finger at one of the boats. “So and so is working on one of those boats. Why don’t you see if you can get a job there.” I was in “Hey mum, look at me, I’m doing the thing you said. You don’t need to be dead anymore,” right up until I met the blunt end of a very very bad HR department.

But yeah. Today was good. Long. But good. Once again I’m knackered. I’m getting everybody to think about their kilowatt use every day so I might have a low bath. It’s nice to know I can still pull in the Yoot. It might be because I’m interested in them. The last time I did this particular dayjob with any degree of consistency, they were all getting me to dab. That’s like ancient history now. I’m trying to work out what’s current these days. I might be able to report back. Lots of schools though. Am I gonna get COVID again? Hopefully not. I’m bored of it. I’ll try not to.

Well, that was lovely. I’m battered.

Part of what I was doing today was getting Year 9 students to start thinking about their individual power consumption. Now I’m running a bath. Right there – that’s the disconnect.

If I had some sort of device that captured all the energy I expend stomping needlessly from room to room in order to forget why I came there in the first place, I could use the energy from that device to heat my huge evening baths. No such device exists though. Shame. This evening it’s just going to be guilty bathtime as normal. I’ll perhaps be a little bit more mindful than usual as to how many kilowatts I’m burning. I won’t leave the kitchen light on all night. And perhaps by writing this, I’ll inspire some of you to be a little less profligate in your electricity use for a short time before we both forget again. It’s all I can do, really. It’s all any of us can do. But anything is something. The biggest deadener is the voice that says “There’s no point me doing anything.” That’s all we have to avoid really.

It’ll be another early start tomorrow. Then more. A week of the buggers. Compared to some of the things I get up to, it’s not much of an adventure anymore,  getting up early in order to help small humans think. But … it can still be elucidating in short bursts. I hesitate to say I enjoy it. But it’s certainly revealing. It was a good school today so I don’t feel like I’ve had my heart torn out by wolves. I got home and found myself looking longingly at my shelf full of playtexts. I’m bone tired and it’s only just gone seven. I’ll be dead to the world in two hours. About once a week I need to sleep for twelve hours to reset. I haven’t managed that long for a long long time and I’m starting to feel the deficit.

All of this could be academic before long. We won’t need to worry so much about global warming in a nuclear winter, and the shells are falling closer and closer to the Polish border, provoking NATO. Mutually assured destruction has never looked like a deterrent when insanity is in play – this is why it’s been important to stop all the countries depleting uranium. If you’re bonkers then you’re immune to consequence and there have been lots of world leaders over the years who are six hedgehogs short of a hatbox. At least there’s only a few countries where the damage can go global. The Russian Bear is mad though, suddenly. It has had a nasty little backwards thorn Put into its head. I can’t see a clean end to this, with the combination of war crimes, pride and a lifetime of being unquestioned.

I can’t use the possibility of imminent global war to stop me from getting out and talking about climate change to the Yoot, though. Life just marches inevitably on and on. The Yoot are the Fewtcha! And a lot of them are very angry with everything. I don’t blame them. We’ve made a horrible mess of everything financial, then we voted in a load of blithering meanies because they were familiar, then we just let them get too busy lying and getting rich to care about anything local or global until it was too late to do anything but stammer, delay and hope. Boris is our Neville. He’ll never be our Winston. Although we just have to hope that this war won’t spread. In 1939 we didn’t have nukes. I would argue that the existence of nukes is the only reason we haven’t been widely conscripted. Those young women I met today might have a lot more to contend with than where to charge their electric vehicle.

Oh, and my laptop fixed itself. I just had to leave it on all night so it could finally download the update it was queueing. I assumed it had been hacked so switched it off at every chance as I figured it was mining bitcoin or something like that. I can’t even solve tech anymore. Leave it to the Yoot? Or will they be too busy fighting?