Author: albarclay

As I was walking away from the venue this evening, I noticed the intersecting street was blocked off by paramedic cars. Small groups of people were standing around on the pavements watching. In the middle of the road, somebody was being rolled in what looked very much like a tablecloth. They were in the middle of the road. There was no sign of a fucked up motorbike from my angle, but the road had been cordoned off. I had no idea what had killed the person. But the human shaped thing wrapped in a cloth was very much not an alive person, and it was in the middle of the road. As I walked further I saw a full size ambulance approaching, sirens on.

Fuck knows what happened there. But there was a dead human in the road, right next to my work. There is a structure in this society that covers over death. I’ve never been entirely comfortable with it. Whatever happened to this human, the first reaction was to cover their remains. The road was blocked and a local business lent tablecloths once the paramedic cars had drawn a flatline – unless the paramedics have tableclothlike things. At the time I walked by, the paramedics were rolling the body in cloth. The ambulance came as I was walking away.

Maybe it could’ve been left for longer. Maybe more people could’ve seen the body. Maybe. Because we really don’t get death in this society. It isn’t seeded into our understanding of life when we are young. It should be. But death comes as a shock to too many people. I was young when it took my parents, but there are plenty who are younger and less prepared.

I think we shouldn’t be as protected from it as we are. I think that we should encounter it more closely. Halloween for instance. How much more healthy if it’s about the people we loved who are gone than if it’s about pretendy ghosties and skeletons. These tropes have come out of avoidance. It can still be about ghoulies and ghosties but you can set a place at the table for grandpa in front of the kids or something, and just bring in that helpful thing about memory and the fact that we are not forever.

Anyway, I walked across London today after another lovely show, and forgot to take any photos until I thought I might wait for a bus. The performance space is about an hour on foot from my house, and forty minutes by public transport. I tend to walk back, although it’s tempting to get a bus and write as we drive. Tonight the timings were all wrong though and I was on my own. I wandered past all the huge Christmas lights. Mixed in with all this brightness, young homeless women in supermarkets try to persuade you to buy them nappies. I bought two packs the other day. Why not. Angry eyed men ask for change. Others prostate themselves with signs.

We are into election fever. People are starting to polarise themselves. Liberals are idiots. Tories are sociopaths. Corbyn is stupid. Boris is dishonest.

Fuck the personalities. All I see is the NHS. Life vs Death. I see the American system. I see how extraordinary our system is by comparison. Yes, if you’re rich, vote Tory. They’ll help you stay rich. If you’re not rich though, don’t get sick or you’re dead.

That body in the road. Two paramedic cars. A full on ambulance. Without the NHS, the next of kin would’ve got a bill for actual thousands of pounds. For their dearest dying unexpectedly in an inconvenient place. “Remember when we lost everything because mum died in Mayfair at Christmastime?”

Fuck that. But it’s where we look to be going.

Home again. Nobody but me tonight so far. I haven’t spoken to my flatmate about the sociopath yet. Time will find it’s way. I’m gambling that she doesn’t read my blog. The catchment is deliberately small so here’s hoping.

I went to a new theatre space today to read a lovely play. It’s a three hander – two men and one woman – dealing with musical people from nazi Germany. It’s about guilt and about the things we choose to remember vs the things we choose to forget. It’s a well researched and cleanly written piece of theatre.

I was in a room with two other very proficient actors. The writer was also in attendance as was a director and a designer and a producer. It’s always a ceremony. You get coffee. There are snacks on the table. There’s water. People are convivial. Then, at a certain point, no matter where we are sitting, we start to read.

I am no expert on Nazi Germany. Alma Rosé is mostly unknown to me. My character speaks her surname the first time it’s mentioned in the script. And there is no acute accent in the script I was sent, so I pronounce it like the flower, only to have the reading stopped for a go-over. There’s a lot of assumption of knowledge here. I’ve spent my life geeking out in other directions than Nazi Germany. I’m not made to feel bad for my ignorance, mind. I’m just made to feel it, as if I should know all the things in the writer’s head by instinct having had no time with the script, sight-reading opposite an actor who has had TIME and laid down their performance, German accent and all. I decided that despite my good German accent I wasn’t going to follow suit as accent would come at the expense of meaning so early in the process.

The reading was a good example of the play as it is right now. It’s in development. People speak at great length and then cede ground to other people who have just as much to say. I found myself partly longing for that sort of work. God. It would be so pleasant for a change. Rather than having to be constantly alert, sweating through hours and hours alert, you could just decide on the shape of the argument and the nuance with the director and then just cookie cut it every night. No need to be awake to each individual audience member. Very few quick exchanges. Easy work…

I enjoyed reading the part. Even though it came to me last minute, it was excellent casting for me for many reasons. But my primary feeling was that the whole part was unnecessary. The play deals with two figures who actually lived, and explodes an imagined interaction between them. My character is a pretend therapist for one of them who time-hops into a made up waiter in a hotel where they were stuck back in the dark times. Both my parts are invented, unlike theirs. If my character time-hops, why can’t it be hers? She should double as the made up therapist and as Alma. It would be tighter, neater and cheaper. Not to put myself out of a part. But part of my job is to make things as efficient as possible and if I can save budget now, I might reap it later. Life is long.

Meanwhile, humbug. Come see Carol. Appropriately, John Hopkins, an old friend, has been on my debt board for five years. He was freed from penury tonight, of all nights, when he is going to press as Scrooge at Bristol Old Vic. Strange convergence. Something auspicious perhaps…

Here’s a nice review of our show.

We will certainly sell out. I can’t get you comps because of the food. But come play if you can.

Well. A calm night at home. No sign of the new temporary flatmate or of her probably sociopathic amigo. So I’m winding myself down towards bed ahead of a read through tomorrow. I’ve got myself home early. I’m already mostly able to sleep, which is good as now we are open I’ve got to start activating my days. I’ve still got the hammer on my bed just in case they show up at midnight fighting in which case I might have to appear backlit in my pants with it casually in one hand like I’ve been doing repairs. “Where are you sleeping tonight, Mark? The tubes stop running soon.”

I slept most of today because I could and because I was awake most of last night. It’s like when I had to sleep in the top bunk above a Brazilian fascist on Camino. I start to imperceptibly vibrate when I’m too close to poison. I can’t shut down easily in the vicinity of a dark personality. I didn’t last night. I ran into K in the morning before I was awake fully. I told her I didn’t want him staying the night again. That’s the best I’ve managed so far but I only had 30 seconds. I care about her enough to not want her to be swept up in his shit. I also despair of her enough to know already that if there’s shit to be swept up in, she’ll sweep herself into it if she isn’t swept. And I’m utterly certain that I’m too old for this crap so she’s getting her notice the next time I can sit with her. But I’m busy. So who knows when that’ll be.

The show was great tonight. It always is. That’s the anchor. We had some excellent notices over the weekend including this one – (although the mulled wine mentioned at the start was only for press). None of the reviews got my acting name right, which is a Christmas Carol tradition – (this time I’m Alexander Barclay). But they all got the show although The Stage were unnecessarily sniffy about our designer, who transformed a horrible impossible shooting range that had never been used as a theatre into a good looking and viable performance space with only a few days on the job, mostly through goodwill. Shitty for her as she did something out of goodwill and it burnt her unnecessarily. And that’s the nature of theatre criticism. All of the opinion, none of the context. The Stage couldn’t know her budget or how long she was employed or what she had time to look at.

You have to have a perspective, an area of expertise, an opinion. I’ve hauled out young actors before for refusing to have an opinion. If it’s all beige, that just makes your work beige. But fuck. Of all the people for them to have been mean about… #stagerage

An old friend from school said this evening “you’re a writer, why don’t you go into theatre criticism?” I told them that if I was honest I’d lose friends, and if I was dishonest I’d lose integrity.

But if I was writing about this show I’d be all for it. It’s a glorious show. “Alexander Barclay and JimJack Witham were wonderful as Scrodge and Merlay. Considering the constraints the design was superb. Everybody is working really fucking hard to make this land. Five stars. ”

My door is always open, and over the years a large number of people have slept on the sofa in my rundown boho flat. It’s a calm place, or at least it’s meant to be. But I think I might have made a mistake in the person I’ve rented a room to.

When Brian moved out I had a message from an acquaintance who was looking for a place. I was in America and couldn’t organise anything very effectively. I agreed for her to move in and she immediately haggled the rent down. Again, I was not in a place where I could negotiate easily.

On Saturday night I got a message last minute to say that she had a friend staying on the sofa. I changed my plans as she said they were heading to sleep and I thought I’d let them have space.

Tristan and I had been planning on coming back to mine for some drinks and a catch-up. We went to his instead.

Last night he showed up again with her and I met him. I didn’t like him. I found his energy quite hard to deal with. Punchy alpha male type, oneupping and playing status games. It never blends well with my energy, that sort of shit. I was heading to bed though so I just welcomed him and called it a bit early for myself. Just because I instinctively dislike someone doesn’t mean they can’t have a bed for a night. I didn’t think he’d be back.

They were gone in the morning. But then when I got home from lunch, he was here again with her.

This time he was angrily cooking in nothing but his pants while she was in the bath. The pants and the cooking – it takes me weeks to get to that stage in shared accommodation. Here he is after two nights sleeping on the sofa happily throwing things around. I went and locked myself in my room while they fought and he made himself at home.

There’s big piles of unpleasant manipulation going on here that I can’t even comprehend.

They had a massive fight and went out. Now they’re home, both in her room next to mine, and the argument clearly hasn’t stopped. The atmosphere is so thick I could cut it with a cheese knife. He’s 56. She’s mid twenties. I don’t like this one bit.

He’s a controller and I don’t want him in my home. This place is and needs to be a calm and relaxing place. I’ve literally got no headroom for this bullshit, but I’m not sure what to do with it short term. It’s close to bedtime tonight so I reckon I’ll have to look at it in the morning, but I’ve brought a hammer into my room and I’ve locked the door because I don’t trust him not to kick off about something and go on a rampage. I’m feeling extraordinarily tense just picking up on their energy. This is no way for me to wind down on my day off.

She has an extreme nervous energy even without him in the equation. With her bringing people like this in here? No way. Just no. I won’t have it long term. Three nights is already too much.

I’m not sure how the conversation will go tomorrow but I’ll need to have it. I suspect I’ll be looking for a flatmate very soon.

Midnight. I’m home. Likely to be in bed before long. Monday is my day off and I’m looking forward to it. Last week I had a Twelfth Night on my day off and this week has been delightful but costly. My plan for tomorrow is to sleep in and then take it easy. I’m going for lunch with my downstairs neighbour who got flooded out by my dishwasher when I was in America. I still don’t really know how it all fell out but it was a stressful time and I have a strong suspicion that he is going to slap me with a large bill. I saw a bunch of workmen changing his carpets last week. I had told him by email I’d pay to have them cleaned but he went one step further. I wonder what sort of numbers he comes up with…

We are into the run proper now, and there will probably be some notices on Monday to raise sales as we move through the season. Tonight and last night were just joyful. Exactly what we want. Unruly but respectful silly fun people enjoying the story and playing the game. Lots of people exchanging contact details after the show. Not many people being weird. There are always one or two. There was a guy today going on about the portion sizes. He was huge, and had a full plate. The audience serves themselves and each other, and he was surrounded by full platters of food. If he wanted more he just had to give it to himself. But he wanted to have a moan. It’s weird how some people just like to kick off. Jack and I got to sample the food for the first time today as the chef overcatered and there was tons left over. It’s marvelous. Weirdo.

Now I’m home, enjoying the quiet, running a bath and about to watch Rick and Morty. I’ll probably be up for another hour but no more, as I’m engaged in the wind down now. There must be a more efficient way of pulling the adrenaline out, but I’m yet to find it. Time, booze and warm water. Tomorrow I’ll try not to talk much and I’ll try to steam lots.

Now the show is open I’m starting to think about Christmas. The flat doesn’t look particularly Christmassy right now and it’s filled with bricabrac. I’m going to have to dress it up – maybe get a tree – and do the lights and tinsel and all that. Otherwise my workplace is infinitely more Christmassy than my home. There’s a lot to do but if I work out a better wind down I’ll get my days back and then I’ll have time to do all sorts of things.

If you know anyone who will be stuck in London for Christmas, Orphan Christmas is going ahead here with Brian and I. If you know anyone who you think would enjoy Christmas Carol – or if you might – here’s the link for tickets! Hooray / Humbug.

It’s suddenly so crowded in London. Thousands of people huddled up in coats with shopping bags being physically dominant in empty space and avoiding eye contact. The Christmas shopping weekend. The tube is a battleground for seats and handles. All the angry people are wearing cheerful clothes. I’m going to work. I don’t feel my best and it’s all my fault. I think I consumed the best part of an entire bottle of whisky last night. Thank God there’s no Saturday matinee this week. Two shows would likely have finished me off. It’s evening and I’m angry with everybody just for existing near me. I suspect food would be a good idea but I’m not very good at it these days. I’ll force something in before the show, and then my intention (haha) is to go straight home after the show, cook a healthy meal and to to bed. Now we are officially open it won’t be as emotionally expensive doing the show, so I’ll be able to decompress without hammering myself. That’s the theory at least.

I haven’t been online to see if anyone wrote anything about the show yet. I expect somebody will tell me if they did. So long as we get decent houses for the run then I’ve got nothing to stress out about. I can actually start to relax into a routine for a month or so. Maybe see some friends in the daytime. Maybe do some work or writing. Who knows.

Show finished. What a crowd. Now I remember why we do this madness. The audience was exactly what I remember from previous years. Tipsy fun people, making a lot of noise, getting stuck in but also getting swept up in the story. God I love doing this show. Every year it’s a joy. I’m so thrilled they’ve found a way to get it back on. We had a few people in the crowd who waited around afterwards and told us they’d found us for the first time back when we did the show upstairs at The Arts and I ran out into the actual street. Now I get a face full of fake snow instead, which apparently is still lovely to witness and involves less actual chance of me being stabbed. I need a pot to spit into as I always have to come running on for my final speech with a mouth full of non specific chemicals. The packet just says it is “not toxic when ingested,” which is comforting but I would prefer them to be more specific.

I’m going to love this season. I adore the team. Apparently I adore them so much I came on to one of them when I was smashed last night, which I’m both ashamed and pleased about. It’s not usual for me to think of myself as a valid part of that world, so if drunk Al is trying to get laid again then maybe sober Al can look at some legitimate offers he would normally ignore. Game on Christmas. Bring the Scrooge. Bring the fun. Bring the love. Let’s see where life goes now. I might be a little emotionally volatile right now, but perhaps that’s because I’m alive again…

December starts tomorrow. This blog is going to be very Christmassy, I’ll warn you. Merry Christmas. Humbug.

This evening, we had journalists. They came to our show. It was a night named after them. Press night.

I don’t know how I feel about such events. I don’t like having my work crystallised through the minds of people who perhaps don’t have any handle on the art. I’d be surprised if anyone was capable of writing something unpleasant about what is one of the most bonkers fun and christmassy things I’ve ever been involved in. The chances are people will be positive. But that doesn’t stop all of my tiny anxieties from magnifying. It doesn’t stop me using all my creativity to establish reasons why THIS EVENING the writer human might find means to denigrate my work, or the piece in general. It’s always up for grabs. This is a marvelous show. Nobody is going to be mean about it. It’s just that if someone writes shit about you it can follow you for years. Based on post show feedback we’ll all have good write-ups. I’m good at my job. Impostor syndrome is just part of the furniture. How is it that I am paid to do what I love?

We had Lyn in – the adored grand damme of theatre reviewing. God knows what she’ll make of it. She cracked a smile. She might not even review it now she’s not full time. But she seemed to enjoy it, and she was surrounded by her industry. We presided over an early Christmas party for the theatre reviewing industry.

It’s weird thinking about Lyn. I mostly don’t know the name of theatre critics. I know hers, because she’s been an exponent of the kind of work I love for years now. She’s become the only theatre reviewer whose opinion I value. I’d be devastated if she hated it. She didn’t, of course. But insecurity springs eternal.

Now I’m home. I’m spread out. I’m happy and warm. I think back to two years ago when the boiler was fucked and I was freezing and sick. I miss Pickle. I still think there’s a share that can be negotiated. Meantime I’ll go to sleep to an empty space. But I’ll sleep well, knowing we did a good job of it. We had a fair few catastrophes tonight with tech – stuff that’s never happened before. Someone stole Jack’s lighter so Fan being a candle became Jack whispering. I honestly think it worked anyway. Maybe there was a spot of lost magic. But we have learnt how to make things fly now. It was a moment of complicity between us, seeing him come on with no fire. We made it work.

I blew out my only candle while acting. The logic of the candle is fucked as I’m lit by birdies. Health and safety has made it impossible for us to properly use candlelight, despite the tremendous loss in atmosphere. Once again I praise every single human involved in the Sam Wanamaker Playhouse. I know how hard it must be for them.

We only have the few limited stubbies that are permitted by risk assessment. It means lighting is desperately shitter, and there’s no possible solve when one of the crucial candles goes out.

Still, we’ve got birdies and clever people whose job it is to provide alternatives to the lovely thing we used to have. I do miss the truth of fire. I miss the light of candles. But it’s still a lovely space. And such a happy show. Humbug.

I forgot to take any photos as usual. Selfie.

It’s 4pm and I just noticed that I’ve eaten nothing for almost 2 days apart from three salmon sashimi out of five, and a mouthful of turkey from an audience member. The lack of predictability in my waking hours means I often forget to eat. There are no “mealtimes” and I’m terrible at noticing when I’m hungry. My friends often know I’m hungry before I do. I started shivering about an hour ago and didn’t even work out that it was hunger for another 30 minutes. I then went to Itsu and pushed around a teriyaki rice bowl but could barely swallow it. Everything tastes like ashes right now. I think I need to go home after the show tonight and sleep long and warm. Thankfully now we are into the run, so I’ll be able to do just that.

I’m on the way in to work, with my costume in a bag. I took it home to wash after the show last night which is always worrisome as I’m liable to forget things like that and we have to do some nonsense at the Christmas lights in Bond Street tonight. I gave myself palpitations in the process of discovering that when it’s wet it looks pink, but then it dries cream thank God. I was picturing a fuchsia Scrooge tonight.

I think I’m basically exhausted so things are magnifying. While I was writing, a woman on the tube shouted at somebody else’s child “Can those dirty feet get off the seat please,” and the rage in her voice made me feel a bit sick. I probably should stop writing and try to have a lie down. I think I’m nervous about this lights ceremony thing. I’m imagining being clueless in my not pink nightie in front of hundreds of people.The reality is rarely as bad as it is in my imagination.

We did it. I humbugged to a bunch of bemused people standing about 20 foot from an improvised stage in Mayfair. Gatsby was there with sound and light. We just talked to them and got them to sing “falalalala” for a bit.

Then we did the show and – brilliantly – Katherine Jono and Kaffe from Twelfth Night were all able to come. Jack even got Jono and Katherine involved in Christmas Yet to Come. It was a glory. So wonderful to have them come and understand this strange beautiful show with me after the months of Twelfth Night. It’s press night tomorrow. I’m finally over press night anxiety, after too much experience of the things. I know it for what it is now – a show with an artificial audience. I’m just going to humbug as hard as ever, and the bit where I find out about them over dinner will hopefully not be too awkward. We will see. Either way I’m going to get a good night’s rest. A little part of me is dreading it, and a little part is looking forward. It’s a delightful show, proven and still alive. We want box office – (I’m not famous enough) – so hopefully the writers tomorrow will help sell the show…

Suddenly Carol. The traverse makes things a lot harder for Jack and I to keep the string tight between us. I don’t actually have to be in work until afternoon tomorrow thank God because we all went out and decompressed after the show and then I got home and had the first evening I’ve had so far getting to know KitKat who moved in after Brian.

Orphan Christmas will be happening at mine. I’m looking forward to the season. Jack and I just have to switch out the bit of our heads that is finding our light, and remember to connect with each other.

Our opening show was glorious, although not at capacity. The building we are in used to be a shooting club, and our changing room has turned out to be the gunpowder store. I have to put on my nightie in there and then wait by a load of empty gun racks to do the show. Eventually there’s a bit of frantic activity involving torches and smoke, and I get to listen to Jack working the crowd for a couple of minutes before I go on. In some ways it’s my favourite bit – I can get a guage on the nature of the crowd based on how they are with him. It’s my only downtime for the whole show really. They are always a lovely lot, and this evening was no exception. In half a decade this remarkable piece of madness only ever falls down when there’s a catering issue. I’ve not got to know the chef yet, but that’s because there’s a whole team of people headed up by Tristan who have that. This is the closest I’ve ever got to doing Carol as just an actor. It’s testament to the production. I didn’t need to build the set or troubleshoot the catering – it’s all in hand. The only things left that I do on tech are things that have been part of my show so long it just feels natural to do them. It feels like we’ve grown up.

I think back to Manchester with John, having a wonderful time with a much broader show. I think to the few shows John and I did in The Guildhall in York – how the music rang. I’m told I showed up on Good Morning Britain yesterday. It wouldn’t surprise me if the footage was from that counting room. Then we ended up at The Arts, with me running out into Leicester Place to the crowds. Beautiful and bonkers with India operating. Then Bishopsgate and the cold and the celebrity chef. Then up in Sheffield in a space we built for ourselves out of whatever was lying around Deli. And then this year. With a designer and a stage manager. It looks great. Once we nail down the “acting in traverse” skill then we will have a glorious show.. And frankly, we already have it. It needed an audience for us to see what lands and what doesn’t.

Here’s be an hour before opening. Don’t be fooled. Yes I was tired. But I also took the photo with eyes closed. Fake news!

I’m in an Uber in the rain heading to the theatre. Our last Twelfth Night show happens tonight. We have an extremely busy WhatsApp group for the show which is terrifically noisy right now with final costings and plans for the get out and so forth. Last night was a full house and I boiled. Tonight is a little less sold so I’m hoping it’s not going to be quite so hot in there. I’m expecting I’ll want to raise a glass with the other four post show, so I’m getting this down now. I don’t have that feeling like you’re running off a cliff that you often get at the end of a long job like this has been, because we’re opening Christmas Carol tomorrow evening. I can’t stop yet. Not for another month or so. That calm day with trees and bears in California seems a long long time ago now.

I’ve enjoyed working with these misfits. I’ll enjoy this one last show. But I’ll be glad to have only one show in my head again. Christmas Carol is still in flux, with some tweaks and rewrites this morning. We also have to bring some content to the switching on of the Christmas lights in Bond Street. I don’t think I’ll get to push the button, but I’ll get to say “humbug.” As a result of all this stuff yet to come, my head feels pretty full. Hence the Uber.

The Uber driver is listening to talk radio though, and as I write, the news is filtering in. Internecine bickering from mostly unpleasant political figures, people stabbing people, protests, exclusion zones, elections, Black Friday. It’s dark out there. I’m quite looking forward to going into that tiny circle of brightness for one final time and telling this odd story from the perspective of the “party goes wrong” character in the story. Then having a few drinks and getting home in time to sleep properly and recharge for opening night and a face full of fake snow.

I ended up leading a charge of actors into a tiny little club I’ve come across over the years. It’s one of the last actor’s clubs. Over the years I’ve performed in it three times, I think. It is anti nonsense and pro dive. It’s harder and harder to find places that just let you vanish into a place where nobody wants to talk about what they’ve done or what they’re doing.

I’m sad to say goodbye to this tour. We have had a joyful time. We have seen some incredible places, some of which are restricted for civilians. I know for sure I’ll miss these four strange beautiful humans. But friendships have deepened, and there is no way in hell I won’t walk into a rehearsal room with one or more of them at some point in the future.. That’s just how the industry works. Meantime, farewell Twelfth Night, hello Christmas Carol. No rest for the wicked. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Etc.