Author: albarclay

I’m in an Uber heading back from Boston. My bank has frozen my account, bless them, fuck them. I’m not stranded. I’ve got an overdraft on my Starling, hence the Uber. Barclays would have me stuck in Boston for my own “protection and safety”. Because, like HSBC, they are trying to shut down competition at the expense of their customers.

Thank God I’ve got accounts with banks that are more evolved than the one I thought might be amusing to go with because of my name. HSBC did the same thing to Katherine a few weeks ago around her new Monzo. It’s the old monoliths deliberately trying to shake faith in the new contenders, by inconveniencing their own customers. I’m trying not to spend from my main account, which is Barclays, because it’s so much cheaper in terms of fees and charges if I go through Monzo or Starling.

Katherine and I hit a train into town from Wellesley. We didn’t have any plans. I thought I might catch a friend in town so I’d left the day pretty loose. We decided breakfast was important so we found South Street Diner and I ordered Eggs Benedict. Great way to start the Boston day. We had no choice, really, but to be tourists. We only had one day in the city, as happens on this tour with too many cities. I’d like to have spent more time in Boston. I was hoping that a friend who lives there might help our haphazard itinerary. But as it turned out it was us vs the city. We got a lot done.

Walking. It’s a good city for walking, Boston. It’s much more organic and walkable than many of the newer cities we have been bouncing around in. Katherine and I pounded the streets a little and it was satisfying to pound streets that are poundable. We had no real destination so we just bounced around. I like pinballing myself around an unfamiliar city and Katherine was a good companion for that. We ended up at the ICA. We wanted to see Yayoi Kusama but she had been booked out months ago. We watched and experienced a bunch of stuff instead.

Whenever I consume somebody else’s art a part of me always wonders where my particular art in that medium lies. It seems my art is twofold at the moment. To live a life. To write about it. But there’s so much more to be made. Of course I make stories with time. Time is my primary medium. Then it’s whatever. My face. My voice. Your head. Hello, I am time face head bazzzzzaaaaaam. The bulk of my art dies the moment it’s created and I don’t give a fuck about it until some tit with a suit on asks me to prove myself.

Words. I just hope that people get something out of this ongoing deluge. I’m tired tonight. Of course I want you to go “I get this” about this human I’ve become and the thoughts I’m expressing. But I’m done now. Night.

I’m tired tonight. We are post show, a tight knit little group just hanging out in the green room. Julia is playing Irish folk tunes on guitar. There was quite a lot of pizza and probably a spot more beer than strictly necessary. I’m just soaking up the atmosphere in the corner, letting it wash over me, knowing we are pretty much done with Wellesley once more. I’m still joining in the chorus when I can. There’s lots of singing in here.

Julia is great. She came to Much Ado five years ago and watched every show. She managed the same with us this year. She’s an alumni and a superfan. She was front row centre every night. A reliable presence. And now she’s entertaining us all as we wind the week away together.

I was tired in the show already. One of those nights when, instead of thinking the ogrelike simplicity of character thoughts and connections my brain was extremely conscious that it was on a stage doing the acting. I was aware of my heart rate at one point at the start of the show, quietly noticing the adrenaline kicking in, curious about how I couldn’t switch my brain into the show entirely, skipping over the surface like a stone until I finally managed to sink into it about halfway through act 2.

One more day in Massachusetts and then we are off again, this little welcome crowd of rogues and vagabonds. The Wellesley crew have been kind to us. Charlotte and Marta have a good handle on our needs. Free food and booze, a warm place to consume it, music perhaps and good conversation for certain.

Right now I’m being plied with beer, pizza, cookies, crisps, chocolates, STRAWBERRIES, music and conviviality. The live music makes us feel more at home especially as we aren’t making it. Some of us have taken our shoes off. At some point we will have to get over to our beds with the show in tow I suppose. It’s all packed up in the suitcase again. My horrible sweaty costume is quarantined in a canvas bag next to the accordion. Everything needs to get back somehow but I’ll work that out later. I’m going to plug back into the party for a wee while, and likely finish this exhausted in an hour or so…

Jono was sober enough to drive us all home. Now I’m in my room and ready for sleep. Boston tomorrow, and hopefully I’ll get to see Dustin from Camino. I want to consume lobster and clam chowder and will likely have to hive away from the group to do so, as there are two vegetarians one of whom is allergic to shellfish.

The problem with this whistlestop tour is that it’s exhausting. Teaching in the day, acting at night then drinking with good people. Next week it’s a naval academy, so the days start in the morning, but we’re done early. Also I imagine next week will be reasonably sober by comparison – and perhaps that’s for the best. I’m knackered.

This is late. It’s inevitable. I just got home from the Shakespeare House at Wellesley.

Five years ago it was the same, but I wouldn’t be writing this for another three hours. I found the time to leave and managed to do so.

The Shakespeare Society is a very old society at Wellesley College. There are no sororities but there are societies. They have a replica of Shakespeare’s birthplace on campus. It’s done up in mock Tudor, made entirely of wood, with a great big fireplace built into it which nobody has ever lit because the whole place would probably burn down if they did. The members of the society are all the geeky fun people I would’ve been friends with at university. After the show on Friday we are traditionally kidnapped and brought there for a party.

This evening I was reminded of my attempt to cook beer macaroni and cheese at about 3am five years ago. It was successful, as much as anyone involved is able to remember it. Most culprits have moved on in order to become astronauts or supreme court judges or leading biochemists. This place isn’t fucking around. These women are being taught by excellent humans, and these excellent humans are doing the best they can to teach well. It’s a remarkable institution, and one that I’m so thrilled to be able to teach masterclasses at. This afternoon I taught a memory class. About ownership of the words in a poem. Trying to get them to know the meaning of the words for them. Helping them learn a frame of memory that is not just about rote. I worked them through sonnet 29.

It’s not one I knew, so I took a walk around the lake beforehand and learnt it as I walked. It’s about an hour, the walk, and it took me the walk to know it, but not safely. Still, I wanted to test the memory methods I’d be teaching empirically, as otherwise how could I have faith that my method works for anyone? I think I gave them a frame. I reckon one or two of them will take on my advice to refresh it before sleep, and test it before opening eyes for two days running. If they do that diligently it’ll be theirs forever. If they don’t it’ll go the way of all short term learns. Three sleeps is how you make a short term learn permanent. Or spongebrain. I’ve learnt it now. Nice to have another one.

I’d have loved to be at this college. It’s remarkable. These young women have such space to create and examine their creativity. There are walls and walls of pictures of significant graduates, in all walks of life, some famous, but many more significant without being immediately recognisable. For every Hilary Clinton and Nora Ephron there are thirty huge influencers who haven’t hit the public eye in the same way.

As we walk home from the Shakespeare House, one of the members tells me how, on the day that the blonde haired entitlement narcissist actually won there was a sense of mourning generally on campus. I get that too. I’m sure there would’ve been a similar atmosphere in the huge branded penis substitute I encountered in Chicago had it gone the other way. But I find a lot more in common with these incisive and unusual thinkers. The president of the society was wearing a “Six the Musical” T-Shirt. I’m happy to lay out my ground – these are my people. I’ve had a fun night, and great chat. Now I’m publishing this with an arbitrary photo.

We are all in a great big wooden room post show. It’s upstairs at the college club here in Wellesley Massachusetts. We are listening to Bob Dylan. It’s cold, by our standards.

Behind me as I write, huge black windows open onto a vista down to the lake. Were it not dark we would see the trees around the lake as they start to shine with drops of blood out of Deer in the heavens as she runs from Wolf and from betrayal. They aren’t fully spun to red yet, the trees, but they are shocking enough to be unusual and beautiful. And so are we, the five of us, in our little circle of light after the show…

I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning because it was cold in the world. I had forgotten that feeling and there’s a little spot of melancholy at knowing that the winter is coming. We have been avoiding that reality, hiding from the weather in Texas. Now I’m in my coat as I walk through the woods in Wellesley. It’s time to acknowledge that the winter will fall. It always does. There are things to find in it that are beautiful. But it’s happened somewhat quicker than usual, after flying out of San Antonio. And many things are coming to an end. Brian will be moving out soon. Pickle will have shared custody. I’ll return to a home life that tastes different from the one I left. And I’ll return to a winter. And I’ll return to CHRISTMAS CAROL, baby!! It’s confirmed. So that’s a triple snowball.

This is the last stop for me that’s familiar. From next week it’s all new. I love this college though. I wore the T-shirt out completely and now I’ve got given a new one just after the last one went to charity. Next week I’ll be in completely uncharted territory. I’m ready for that. I’m looking forward to it. But it’s nice to be here in the familiar. Julia came to the show tonight. I remember her well from five years ago. Dustin from Camino might come tomorrow, which would be amazing. Katherine did Camino a year before I did and had a friend come tonight. This job and my Camino are linked deeply.

I walked the Camino a year ago because I knew there was a company doing this job that had almost included me but didn’t. I didn’t have anything in the diary and I had mum’s holy water, which I didn’t know what else to do with. It made sense to me to go and walk off the professional angst alongside the remains of grief. I didn’t want to make friends on the walk. I wanted to be solitary. But even despite that desire I started walking with Marie by mistake. Then I had a week or so alone. But despite my desire to be “antisocial Joe” I didn’t manage to remain solo. I made more friends than I could’ve expected.

I’m enjoying retrospective Camino. I might dedicate tomorrow’s blog to it, as it’s the anniversary of the day I had a comparatively short walk and took photos of every single marker. Meanwhile here’s a silly dressing room shot.

The title of the course is “Speaking Truth to Power.” I’m at Wellesley College, Massachusetts. One of the Seven Sisters. A women’s college, and one of the best liberal arts colleges in the world. This old and beautiful campus. Space to think, to make, to learn and to be. I go in early to meet the professor. She walks with two sticks so she doesn’t get up to greet me. We shake hands and before long we are talking about the political situation here and in England. These narcissistic demagogues who literally cannot see beyond their own meaty grasping fingers, and the permission they give for the trickledown of hatred and fear. If the head is sick, the body suffers. This is Hilary Clinton’s alma mater. I wonder what the world might have been if people had put aside their instinctive inbred misogyny. She doesn’t offer her position when I ask such questions. She just lets me talk. “I try to keep politics out of my class,” she tells me. “I’m giving them a voice. That’s it.”

“What do you guys think when you look at us over the pond?” she asks. “It’s the same on our side.” I reply. “There’s a dangerous self serving idiot inciting violence as he clings to power. And I genuinely think that the worst is yet to come.”

She points at my T-Shirt. I’m wearing a Wellesley shirt that I got in my goody bag. “This college was founded ten years after the emancipation proclamation.” She points at herself. “Now I teach here. We are all in a better place than we have been. But as I say, I keep politics out of my class. Let them make their own minds up.” I adore this woman. Utterly.

I’ve got 45 minutes with them. It’s not enough, but it’s something. I take them through a full actor’s vocal warm-up. All of my voice teachers at Guildhall were incredible women too. I cannot even begin to credit how lucky our year was with that. I select from my toolbox the things they taught me that I hope might be useful to these young women going forward into potentially incredible changing existences in whatever is left of the world.

I can give them the nuts and bolts of speaking out. Resonators. Intoning to speaking. Taking up the space and the time. Connecting their voice to their breath. Basic stuff, to make sure their voice doesn’t shake when they say the important things, or that at least it doesn’t shake utterly. I want two hours with them. I’ve got time for the exercises but not the discussion and the back and forth that clarifies the exercises and embeds them. I hope they’ll take things from it. I’m sure they will. But…

Well I just got a text from the professor saying the work showed in their presentations. So there’s a start. It’s a hell of a thing to have been asked to do, and it carries a weight of responsibility, to come in as a practitioner and to work with people at this age. To try to give them their own voices. We mostly have our voices taken from us by habitual tensions over time. Everything magnifies on stage, or under pressure. It takes awareness and time to win back the ability to speak clearly in public with relaxation and clarity – without our habits and tensions and blocks coming in. But gentle awareness without judgement is a starting point. And hopefully I’ve sewn some seeds here in America at a time where we need to hope the future will grow brighter. “It’ll take two generations,” someone said. God. Really? Maybe.

The crazy people are more eloquent in Harvard.

I’m here by the college and somebody is trying to sell me their poems. Someone else attacked us verbally earlier and wished us all a horrible day. So far it hasn’t manifested itself. Quite the opposite. It’s been lovely here.

I’ve been soaking in the feeling of familiarity. Talkative mental people. Airy autumnal streets. Wearing a jumper. No more wet heat. The sky is a reassuring and familiar shade of threatening grey. Buildings are made out of stone. There’s a bit more logic in the layout. It’s more haphazard than the layouts in Indiana and Illinois and Texas. It feels like it responds to reality rather than an idea of a plan. There’s a bit more history up here in Massachusetts compared to where we were for the last two weeks. There are graveyards from the early 1600’s, old enough to actually feel like they’re old. Memorials in stone. Lots of stuff about the war of independence.

I went and touched John Harvard’s foot. This college area is named for him. He died at 31 and left money to the college. They took his name. That’s one way to make yourself immortal, I guess. Already have money and then give it to someone when you die. Everybody wants to touch his foot, this long dead clergyman from Southwark. Most of his family died of plague. He came all the way over to a new world after leaving Cambridge, and died of TB, bequeathed money to the college and now people touch his foot so much that it’s really shiny.

I bought the street lady’s poems. Tammy, she’s called. They’re eloquent and sad. I’ve been reading them and thinking about how much ground I’ve covered already and how much more there is to cover. Christmas work is sorted now, and I think I’ve found a friend to move into my flat. This time last year I was striking out, challenging my body, walking long and hard in heat and dust in order to lay to rest the vestiges of inner pains long carried unobserved. Now I’m here. Boston. Wellesley. Harvard. New England. Just a stone’s throw over the ocean from home.

Our accommodation is on campus in Wellesley College. This beautifully landscaped women’s college. There’s a lake, flanked by trees bleeding to red and gold in the Massachusetts fall. We have all been given pamphlets warning us to put on bug spray because they’re worried about the mosquitos carrying an equine encephalitis that’s untreatable and often fatal. It’s also incredibly rare and I’m not going to let it stop me strolling around the lake taking in the colours. If my brain swells up just trepan me. Then if I survive I’ll have a different head on things (ha ha). You can take this as permission and intent if I’m lying in a bed mumbling like Rocky post bout.

I think I’ll go into Boston tomorrow and fill up with seafood. One of my Camino buddies lives there. Perfect opportunity! A full circle, and a great thing to be able to see someone from that huge walk here on the other side of the ocean.

According to my Fitbit, I slept for three hours and ten minutes. It took me ages to get to sleep. I had my room arranged for immediate exit, which is just as well considering I slept through my first two alarms. The emergency one pulled me from deep sleep at 4.27am. I was throwing my clothes on ten seconds later and checked out of the hotel within about eight minutes, but still under a cloud as I was the last one down and made to feel it.

Travel days in groups are always stressful and this one is probably the worst of this tour in terms of hours. 2100 miles or so, with a connecting flight in Charlotte. I was flying on my own lots when I was 8, so I’m pretty chilled about the process. Show up. Do what you can. Recognise that everybody wants you there earlier than you’re needed. Once you’re checked in you’re in. Once your bag is checked your doubly in.

I used to resent the solicitous people who are assigned to “unaccompanied minors”. “I’m fine on my own,” I’d tell them. They’d continue to patronise me. But this is me solo. When you have to move a group you have to move as a group. And I was 5 minutes late for rendezvous so it’s likely the people who weren’t late were aware of every second.

We all made it in fucktons of time, had our flight been leaving when it was supposed to. The slightly tense mood soured considerably when the 6.25am flight we had all got up so early for was delayed until 10am.

We finally made it to Charlotte without killing each other. Lots of sniping from tired people who love each other. The little things magnify. Now I’m in the air somewhere between Virginia and Massachusetts. I’m in a middle seat, and the woman in front of me has put her chair all the way back. She’s right at the front of her section, so has loads of legroom. I reckon she’s the only person on the whole flight who has done it, as it requires a level of selfishness that’s off the scale. Sometimes it causes dominoes, but I often feel it’s my duty to break minor patterns of bad karma. Plus Katherine is behind me and I’m not going to do it to her.

I had my Notre Dame water flask in the pouch in front of me and she must’ve felt the lump and pushed against it so hard that she’s actually shattered it. The first I knew was when I felt water on my leg. I’m shocked. I saw her put her feet up on the section break in front of her so she could push against it. At the time I had no idea what she was doing. It was a pretty robust plastic flask and it’s totally smashed.

I hate her, this spread out aggressive plane lady. She will probably never know the extent of my hatred for her, and she certainly wouldn’t care if she did. But I’m wishing all sorts of creative and unpleasant nastinesses on her and I’ll probably never say a word to her my whole life. As I said, though, little things magnify. Right now it’s hard not to think of her, with these big blokes either side of me and with her chair in my face and on my legs. Because of her I’ve got no room at all, my flask is broken, and my legs and my passport and my Visa are all drenched.

She’s reading a fecking Mills and Boon by the look of it or some other complete snot. “The semi sweet hereafter.” This photo is basically the view I’m left with as I try to put up with her space invasion. As for my legs, don’t even talk about them. It’s like I’ve got none anymore.

The Semi Sweet hereafter, chapter 1.

Al was angry when he first looked at her. His Spanish eyes flashed with fiery distaste. She had taken up space he wanted. She had broken his flask. How could he have known, back then on that airplane in Boston, that before Christmas she would break his heart?

All Melinda had wanted was freedom. Trapped in this airplane, just like she was trapped in her loveless marriage. She had kicked out in the plane like she never had at home. She had wiggled and squirmed, arms and legs flying in an explosion of frustration. Now, in the aisle, this man was looking at her, water dripping down his pants. What was that expression in his dark eyes? Was it passion? Was it hatred? Was it lust? She couldn’t remember the last time her husband John had looked at her like any of the three. Maybe he never had. Apart from once, that balmy night on The Rio Grande. But now on this airplane in Boston, clutching a broken flask, this roughshod looking man was staring – staring wordlessly into her eyes. His lips moved. Was it love at first sight? Did he feel it too? Where could they run that would be far enough from John and his international detective agency? His words came tumbling from his lips in the bustle of disembarkation. “You selfish bugger. You stupid sad mean motherfucking bastard of a human being. Rot in hell.” he said, rolling each word.

“I just want freedom,” she responded. “Space to be myself!”

“Well, you can start by looking outside yourself enough to notice that you’re not the only person with needs, you fucking catastrophe. It doesn’t matter where you’ve come from – listen. Be aware. Think. The world is crowded. Look at the crowds as people, not obstructions you fucking sorry excuse for a human being. Know when you are doing things that hurt other people. Know, and know why. Until you can have that basic awareness you’re nothing but a parasitic vegetable.”

I’d never be a Mills and Boon writer.  I could try. It wouldn’t sell.

He reached over with his big manly hand and hit publish.

My car says 85/Gasoline. I have no idea what that means. The pumps just have bullshit words on them to make them sound appealing, and numbers – all of which are over 85. None of them say diesel. I miss the colour coding in the UK and the clarity it brings. I try to ask at the counter but the guy just looks at me like I’m a fucking idiot. Occasionally he says the word “gasoline”. Either his English is atrocious or he thinks my English is atrocious. I think that there’s just no diesel here.

This country is so different, in so many subtle ways, to the multicoloured shitexplosion that I grew up in. Most of all in terms of history.

History here starts about 200 years ago. Everything before then is summarised in a disinterested and vague sentence. “The native Americans lived here with a religion that was to do with nature. Then we came and built a fucking great stone mission and provided them with shelter and food.” They had shelter and food before you brought your stupid ideas. They lived in harmony with nature, we live despite it. It’s such a destructive pile of arse. The arrogance and ignorance of religion! You find a new world and the first people over come to try and persuade the people there about how this ‘idea’ that someone hammered into you as a child is the only right ‘idea’ about why the moon shines, why we find beauty, why we are capable of love, why we can be momentarily breathless with happiness at something outside of our understanding.

It takes a zealot or a speculator to shoulder the risks related to being in a place that’s as raw as the wild west. Those missionaries had the money from the church. They literally were on a mission. They went out and probably spread more disease than they spread the word but managed both. We in the lazy West had a much more interesting selection of diseases. Good will sent them, sure. But it was good will fueled by the idea that people that don’t think like us or understand the world like we do are wrong. Aka spectacular ignorance. Still, better than it just being the Columbus types, who were about plunder, rapine and self importance. Bring on my ancestor Bartholomew de las Casas, out at the same time, trying not to be a destructive force with all his being, making a positive difference in “the West Indies”.

The amazing human beings that would have walked these wilds would’ve been working examples of Darwinism in humans. Sustaining themselves in nomadic communities over the size of this huge country – their only real dangers being each other and wolves. Problem is, survival of the fittest pays dividends over generations of time. You can’t evolve guns. It all changed too quickly as wet faced Europeans shuffled over in great big boats with bullshit beliefs, impossible weapons, incomprehensible rapaciousness, entitlement and microbes borne of decadence.

These stone buildings would’ve been so irrelevant to the true inhabitants of this place. And now those same men and women are often confined to reserves, most of which are under threat too in the ongoing drive for oil and plunder and land, as this blustering orange tyrant sews seeds of personal wealth and power through division, money, hate and fear of the other.

So yeah. History. Sure, we too in the UK were conquered in 1066 and they built a fuckload of castles which we didn’t know how to bring down. The oppressed population eventually assimilated. Some people think it’s important to use multisyllabic Norman words to appear refined. Pardon instead of Wot. Toilet instead of Bog. And other people think the opposite. Fuc those Frenc Dics.

I like this place. But I always feel like I’m living on borrowed lands, as people tell me how they’re Irish or German or Swedish or Scottish or French, but not American in the true sense.

I suspect the pumps have nothing but adverts on them because there is no way you can put the wrong fuel in the engine and blow it up. This constructed society has been sharpened towards the market and the less people have to think the less they think.

Where is the actual history? Lost to all but the specialists. Here we all are at a mission…

Everybody is milling around near me. They’re closing the show bag, or packing their own bags, or snatching the remainder cakes, or recycling plastic bottles, or signing autographs for those few audience members resourceful enough to find us in our basement. We are in a recital hall again, after that beautiful theatre yesterday, but it didn’t take away from the experience of doing the show together. It was sold out and they were up for it. Maybe 400 people and lots turned away. Our last show in Texas and word is out. We are involved in the bag pack, but my bit of it is complete. Now if I were to get involved in any aspect of it I’d just be a hindrance. So I’m starting this in the hopes I get it done by midnight.

A little bit later and I write as we trundle to the minivan. I’ve got my accordion on one shoulder and my costume on the other. The cicadas cry in the wet heat. We are inevitably going to drive to The Flying Saucer, where a number of the people who have made this possible will be raising a glass with us.

San Antonio and Austin are both very vibrant towns in terms of the people, although the culture is certainly in Austin more than San Antonio. In Texas terms though they’re next door neighbors. Under two hours driving between them.

And the Flying Saucer happened. And I’m already an hour and a half after the (notional) deadline. Midnight is too bloody early for it to be six o’clock in the UK. But we are engaged in the slow process of saying farewell to the Lone Star State. This state has a special place in my heart, partly because of excellent childhood restaurants but as much because of the human beings who work with Shakespeare here. We have met and worked with so many extraordinary humans. People who are so full of understanding and of specialist knowledge, who give so much of their time and energy to making our time in their city into the most wonderful time it can be. Our schedule can be pretty hectic. It is often crazy busy and varied simultaneously. My acquired skillset of having no expectations and of efficiently rolling with whatever I receive with as much charm and calm as I can be bothered to manufacture – it works well on this job, so long as I don’t lose patience.

Tomorrow we have a day off – outside of lesson planning. We are going back downtown. We can hit up The Alamo again and see what else is available at the heart of this city. I’m going to soak up as much heat as I can! Next week it’ll be autumn and I’ll be wearing jumpers and shivering in the evenings. I’m gonna take advantage of this Texas heat while I can.

There’s still such a long time left of this excursion – of this wonderful crazy varied job. Our fellowship is locking in.

I’ve found a shady little bench in the grounds of The Alamo. Nobody comes here. It’s just me and the birds. It’s peaceful and people aren’t trying to sell me anything. I can sit here and calibrate my head.

We were persistently harassed by bees at lunch and it made it extremely hard to wind down. I’ve gone off to do so here instead. Strange that this little corner of this historic mission can prove to be the most restful part of downtown San Antonio that I’ve been able to find.

We are all a little bit sick. I blame the aircon, as we’re constantly going from hot climate to cold climate. Our bodies just don’t know how to prepare themselves. The fact we’re sick isn’t taking away from the work ethic though. We had an afternoon free today but we chose to spend it on the stage of The Empire running and activating notes to make the play flow tighter and smarter. I love that we still do that sort of thing. We still want this to be the best it can be.

The Empire stage where we’ll perform tonight backs more or less directly onto the stage at The Majestic. The Majestic is not a misnomer either. It’s incredible. We would be swamped by grandeur performing on that stage. It is perhaps the single most opulent theatre I have ever visited. We were all strolling around in muted wonder at the sheer balls-out ostentation of the place. It’s like a more permanent version of the set for a big budget Christmas Show at The RSC. It seats over 2.5k punters. Seeing it makes me want to make that Davy Crockett Musical, although I get the sense nobody plays for more than a few nights there. The walls are all made up of Cats and Miss Saigon. A hell of a theatre to visit but the 500 audience we have booked for tonight would be rattling around like dry peas in a bucket in there.

“You see that high up balcony there? That’s from segregation times. We never use it at all now. There’s a separate door, separate lift, separate waiting area. There’s no way to get between it and the rest of the theatre. And the the view’s terrible if you do.” If I was on stage I wouldn’t be able to see anyone standing at  that balcony. It’s designed like that…

Anyway, I’ve got a 500 year old play about love and death to make funny just down the road.

It was lovely. Again. Even if we are all sicker than we’re letting on. We all had to sign autographs in a line after the show. It was like we were at a convention. They all came through shaking hands with us all, and getting selfies, and now there are loads of posters and programmes with our names on them on shelves or in drawers or bins or cabinets in San Antonio. They’ll be worth millions one day, I tells ya.