Author: albarclay

I declared war with Germany before 9am. Three times. Busy morning. Neville Chamberlain’s declaration of war is not the most stirring piece of oratory. I gave three versions. One that was a Chamberlain impression – his piping voice, his dipthongs, cracks and edges of weakness. His downflections. Then I did another one as if it was Churchill. Deeper, harder and more skilled, but in the same linguistic world. Then one more throwing everything out and going for pace and drama. It’s for a US reality show. They probably don’t give a whale’s arse about historical accuracy. It’s nice having my own studio. The basic fee will pay for the soundproofing. If it gets used then I could buy myself a whole new studio. Or just spend it on cat food.

Recording submitted, I got some writing done. The adventure day still needs to be written out now it’s planned! I tell you what, when it’s finished and done I could resell the thing. I couldn’t tell you my hourly rate now but it’s really low and I care not in the least because I’m still enjoying it. Even the writing. I enjoy writing thankfully. How else could I have have remained consistent so long with this blog?

In the afternoon I went and looked at a black cabbies’ café in High Street Kensington. They were just closing up when I arrived – they’re open from 6am to 3pm. All the cabbies can stop and get a bit of food, have a hot drink, chill out and bitch about cyclists and uber drivers and drunks etc. It’s tight in there. I was taking photos to assess it as a filming location. You’d barely get the crew and equipment inside to be frank. But I just send the photos.

That done I got on a bus to Euston, writing all the way, festooned with my crabby handwritten notes. I got off and volunteered at my regular Tuesday after-school club. It’s lovely now. I’m getting to know the kids. They’re coming out of their shells. We wrote a scene where a shop assistant arrested a giraffe for stealing a scarf.

Then I picked up Tom and Matt from Euston Station. They’re staying. They live together in Manchester and work together too. You wouldn’t believe it to see how they unthinking placed themselves when they were waiting for the tube.

Now I’m home, listening to Leonard and writing this while Matt cooks up a storm in the kitchen. When Tom and Matt come they bless the house by tidying. They haven’t cooked before so this is next level, and it lets me get this written. This week is generally extremely random. I’m beginning to feel brainfried. I’d love to be able to justify a holiday in the next few weeks. It would be nice to just have some consistent work again. It’s been so long. I love the jobbing life and I’m good at it. But from time to time it’s good to have a few months of knowing.

Well, last night was carnage. I showed unusual restraint by pulling out early. It was sort of a necessity. I hadn’t eaten all day and I started drinking at 2. By about 7 I was already pretty much useless. I took myself out of the equation.

I have a robust homing instinct. I’ve been slipped a roofie before and have just made it home, admittedly by emergency black cab and forcing myself to keep awake. That was weird. I’ve never had a headache like the next day.

I don’t know how I got home last night but I definitely did and it definitely wasn’t uber because I haven’t installed the app. And my head was fine the next morning. I reckon I passed out at about 9, and was up and fighting all of 11 hours later, feeling hungry but rested.

Today I did admin in the morning. Sexy. Then in the afternoon it was back on the worst hourly paid job ever, but I’m still enjoying it. Putting together this adventure day for next Saturday. All the pieces are now in place. It’s become an excuse for me to walk around looking at fun stuff when I’m not working.

I know this town so well now. There’s always more to learn, but part of the reason I’ve spent so much time doing this is because I have been enjoying challenging my knowledge and filling in the gaps. It’s a good way to spend the unallocated time.

The strangest part of the day came when I had to get the number of a specific moving statue. A company I work for spotted her a few weeks ago and wanted to employ her to do a bit of filming. All I had to work with was “The bronze lady in Piccadilly Circus.” I saw this person in front of Eros. Dropping a pound in the jar I took this photograph.

“Is this the woman you mean?” I send. And then I wait for a reply. Meanwhile she is, of course watching. What she has seen is a man come up, drop in a pound, take a photo and then stand for ages looking at the phone, close to her. Eventually “Yes that’s her.” Great. They want her contact details to offer her some filming.

So now the guy who took a photo and then spent ages looking at his phone looks like he’s plucked up the courage to talk to her. She thinks I’m hitting on her. I have no business card or anything to make me look official. I’m wearing a loud summer shirt. I’ve been standing there watching her for ages and now I’m blithering on about filming. “What sort of filming?” I hear her worry. I try to derail her concerns with my usual genial schtick and generally not being weird, but she still husband-bombs me three times and watches me hard for a reaction which I don’t give. She eventually gives me her stage name: “Violetta, The Gold Lady.” She gives me a mobile number, which may or may not work. I give her my employer’s mobile phone number. Hopefully she’ll make some money out of this interaction, for very limited work.

Meanwhile Charlie Chaplin takes an interest. He’s looking out for his friend. They’ve been speaking asides to each other in the time I’ve been waiting, punched through the air in an unfamiliar, glottal language. They stand about five feet from each other. Come to think of it, I’ve seen them together many times before. They share the same makeup. I bet they help each other get ready, go on breaks together, make jokes together and sort stuff out together. That must must make the days bearable, up on their hot podium. “Look at this twerp.” “Reckon’s he’s got the Midas touch.” “Thinks his first name’s Erno.” “Film fan – likes the golden globes?”

As I give Violetta my number Charlie Chaplin appears behind me like he’s going to bop me with his truncheon. “What’s happening here?” “Oh, um, I don’t think they’re looking for Charlie Chaplin but err it’s just to do with some filming… I’ve got the number now.” She placates him with unfamiliar language and he returns to his podium with a look of suspicion. I thank “Violetta” and wander off on my way feeling like I’ve just successfully hit on someone. Although the number I gave her is for a 7 foot tall bald northerner who looks like Buzz Lightyear, and who knows who the number she gave me is for.

It’s Brian’s 30th. I was meant to be at The Factory but beautifully they found people to replace me. That’s the joy of that company. So many people ready and willing to play. A community company. I love how nurturing and challenging my Factory community is. And my home life is the same. Nurturing and challenging. Everything is possible and everything is welcomed.

We live very well together, Brian and I. There’s almost always someone sleeping on the sofa. Food and clothes are shared as much as space. We both suck at laundry. There’s almost always lots of laughter in the living room. There’s almost always fancy food in the fridge. The last few years have been a happy and generative time in my life and in his. The flat has been a launch pad for ideas, risks and fun. We eat well and share well, and people drop in and out of that existence gloriously.

This morning we went geocaching in Battersea Park, as much for the joy of gamifying the walk as for the detail of finding the caches. Geocaching is basically the most modern reworking of playing golf. Making a walk into a game. “A good walk spoiled,” as Shaw had it, because yes it’s good to know you can walk and appreciate beauty without a reward mechanism. But I don’t think it’s a spoil. I like the game of it, just as I reckon I’d enjoy golf if I played it more. There’s a Geocaching app that you can pay a monthly subscription to. People hide things in public places. You get a description and a gps. You have to be cunning and stealthy to find the things without alerting the “muggles” who might blunder in after you and remove the cache. “Hey I found a box full of paper. Weird huh. There was a toy in it.”

Geocaches come in many forms. Boxes. Fake rocks. Magnetic containers. Fake screws. There are many that I’ve failed to find. They aren’t meant to be easy. You find them if you can, sign the paper, return them, and log it in the app. Today we were looking for boxes full of weird stuff hidden in random beautiful places around Battersea Park. We didn’t even bring a pen to sign the logs. But it was delightful. Although we couldn’t find one of them, dammit.

Now I’m in a bar in Victoria, hanging with some other people who love Brian and are free today. It’s early yet, but I can see where this is going. All I have to do tomorrow is send a letter. I thought it wise to take myself off and write this before I get hammered.

Happy 30th, Brian you fucking legend. Thanks for coming into my life. I’ve had so much fun the last two years thanks to you. More good times to come. But right now I’m missing out on your party and your friends in order to make sure that this blog – that you catalysed – goes out. And about ten minutes ago you came and looked for me, to check I was okay because I’d taken myself off. On your birthday. You went checking on your friend. I love you. We took this, but I was already fading:

I’m coming back to the party now. But yes, mate. Oh yes. You’re the best. Keep on just being. Glad you’re in my life. Welcome to old age, you anciently old old man of 30. Winning.

Second recce day for this “adventure” I’m planning for a stranger and the rain came. Nevertheless we had a brilliant and full day so I’m glad it’s not weather dependent  – so long as you’ve got an umbrella. I’m knackered now but happy. My friend Marie came with me to acid test it. We’ve done a lot of walking and ended with a dance.

I tried to let her follow instructions rather than chip in live and direct her. We didn’t get lost. We started at Chalk Farm for breakfast, and then up Primrose Hill. The blossom is out at the moment although the wildflower meadow hasn’t taken yet so it’s still just a load of plastic. Still, a nice view over the plastic, and a good walk.

Then into the thick of it and Marie managed to avoid buying a tempting red hat. Camden on a Saturday is always noticeably eruptive. But before long we are in Hampstead walking up a glorious hill to a pond where we meet Dominique. She’s an artist from Detroit. She’s heard about a “secret garden” but she can’t find it. “Believe it or not that’s where we’re going,” I venture, and our happy two becomes three. But as we arrive, the weather sticks an oar in. There’s a chalk proposal for someone on the steps, unravelling as we enter. One step: Her name in pink chalk. I honestly remember it as “Shaniqua” Next step: “I love you.” Next step: “You are my soul mate”… You get the picture. All the way to “Will you marry me.” So romantic. Marie squeals when she sees it. And the rain starts falling. We still have a good stroll round the garden and it’s great. Dominique gets out her canvas but she’s clearly slightly thwarted by the rain. We tell her where we’re going next. She knows it. “It’s beautiful.” “You know it’s only 15 minutes walk from here.” “No way!” Marie and I strike out across the heath. Miraculously we don’t get lost. The rain is annoying but it’s not a game-breaker. We make good time and see beautiful things, and eat under an umbrella in the garden. I take this photo with what little battery I have in order to aid recommendation of where to sit. The guy hilariously thinks I’m pointing at him and I don’t notice until I review it later.

Then it’s into town for the urban section, seeing some sexy free art and checking out some old stuff. Everything next to everything else, as is the London way. We walk too far. My client will be on the bus but I had some places I needed to see on a Saturday in case they were mental. And I’m glad I did. One of them is off the list after we met a queue around the block. Now I’m pretty sure I’ve got the whole thing planned. Marie said “You’re going to a lot of effort for this.” I said “I don’t do things by halves.”

We then jumped to Waterloo from London Bridge. My “adventurer” will be going to immersive jazz age theatre in Borough. Marie and I went to Rock’n’Roll “Teddy” at The Vaults. It’s an extremely cool show. High energy grit. There’s a ridiculously cool actor-band fronting the show – Johnny Valentine and the Broken Hearts. Some huge joyful play going on with those musicians, and they are totally in charge of their medium and in tune with each other. Then there are two actors in a very different worldscape storytelling hard with their hearts and bodies engaged. There’s not a show like it I’ve seen and I loved it. It’s hard and soft and naughty and nice, a hymn to the darkness in the Teddy landscape, a generation before I was born suddenly feeling very alive.

Great day. Now I’m walking home down the river. My feet hurt.

Today I’ve been bouncing from friend to friend, enjoying the fact that my work is done for the week. It’s been a good week for craziness, and a good week for random jobs. In a month I’ll be very glad of this week. Right now I’m still a bit broke. I want more weeks like this one. As random and unusual and strange as ever, but properly remunerated.

The most impactful event this week in terms of this blog is that Iona posted me her old handset. It’s about 7.3 million times better than the brick I’ve been using. I can write with it. I can install my banking apps. I can blog and edit without fear of losing everything I’ve written. God Bless her little cotton socks. IF THEY REALLY ARE COTTON SOCKS.

Iona’s old phone is why my last 2 blogs have been a little less chronological. I don’t have to just spew. I can spew and then wipe it up if it stinks.

Yesterday I was down on tech. I was using my new found technological freedom to rail upon the very device that was giving me that freedom to rail. I do that sort of thing a lot. Like my habit of killing dayjobs and then kicking them until they stop twitching. I attack the thing that helps me. I’m getting better at not doing that but man, self-sabotage is a seductive mistress.

Today I’m fond of tech. And that’s fine. I’m allowed to change my opinion as much as I want. I’m allowed to change my behaviours. We all have that privilege. We should be able to shift. Often we see journalists telling someone “You said this 5 years ago. Are you saying that you’ve changed your mind?” As if changing our mind or our outlook or our behaviour is somehow transgressional. This is further cemented as a received notion by the old echo chamber that I rail against from the inside, where it tries to feed us opinions we agree with. It’s perplexing. It can only narrow us down.

And yet in my social media echo chamber alongside me I see some remarkably diverse opinions and backgrounds. People on both extremes of the right and left spectrum, although mostly on the libertarian side of the authority gorge.

We all need to be careful not to entrench. Politics, religion, human affairs – there is no absolute. We are hacking this together as best we can communally. Over here in my opinion we have a swamped leadership and a divided opposition, haunted by an inevitable shift into an isolation that feels like poison. We have an increasingly secular populace despite much of the land belonging to a church that is trying perhaps too late to shift with the times. We have a campaign of accountability that is already being marginalised as the product of my industry, whereas in fact it’s present in every single walk of life but the people aren’t yet ready to speak out. But that’s my perspective.

There are people I admire who think Theresa May is strong and stable. Who think Brexit is a shining hope for the economy. I have many very strong beautifully faithful Christian leaders who I count as friends. They are effecting massive positive change in their communities, whatever another section of my friend-base might have to say about their beliefs, almost as if those beliefs were not hard won and harder kept. Faith is unbelievably difficult and I admire them hugely. And I have friends who would say “Oh come on all this #MeToo stuff is just attention seeking.” And I’d engage with that. Because we can’t just decide we are right and other people are wrong no matter what our emotions yell at us. We have to isolate from the majority and assess things coldly. Or at least that’s what I’m thinking today. I can change my mind. I probably will.

Goodnight from Hampstead.

In 2013 I went to Thailand on a job and I reckon more than half the weight of my pack going out was made up of paperbacks. I love a long novel and I read fast. I did an English degree and the pressure of getting the book at least mostly finished before going out and having fun – it really raises the word per minute rate particularly if you’re not enjoying the book but you’re still going to have to talk about it.

I bought a Kindle shortly after Thailand but I couldn’t get behind the lack of cover and pages. I still tend to keep a book by my bed. But not always. There are gaps now. I hate that.

I’m waiting for a bus right now and I haven’t got a story to take me home. Instead if I wasn’t writing this I’d dip in and out of other people’s stories on the internet, and find opinion pieces nudged my way by algorithms that I detest.

The tube has no mobile phone reception but you can access WiFi at stations. I’ve watched people with nothing to read just … scroll through the apps in their phone or refresh something that will never refresh. It’s even more vacuous than reading those cruddy adverts or picking up the daily fear and prurience sandwich offered up by The Metro.

Even 5 years ago everyone actually seated on the tube would have had a book in their hand. I’ve accidentally missed stations for exciting moments in books. I’ve cried and gasped. I’ve seen people react so strongly to what they’re reading that I’ve made a note of the title and bought the book myself. I found The Time Traveler’s Wife that way, and it made me weep on an escalator going up at Angel. How would I have found that book from the back of a Kindle?  (Ignore the film btw. It’s a book about form and it doesn’t translate.)

Among the heavy books I carried to Thailand was one of the Steig Larsson Dragon Tattoo trilogy. I ended up chatting to someone on a ferry from Koh Samui because of it. Two weeks later she took me on the ultimate Bangkok exploration night. Mushrooms and hummus and flowers and water and lights and smells and walking. We wouldn’t have had a conversation opener without that book. We probably would’ve just sat next to each other telling someone miles away what we could see.

What are we collectively doing, as we stoop over these reflections of ourselves, reading and making content curated to a narrow computerised view of who we really are? We are gaining something, yes, in terms of convenience and connection to information and to people remote from us. But intimacy is suffering as one group of friends sits messaging other groups of friends. And books must be suffering. These amazing novelists – will their deep stories really be replaced by people like me hacking opinions into the ether?

I hope not. I’m going to start reading a new novel tonight when I get home. Let’s all try to do the same soon. Books are great. Much better than strangers telling you about their cat or their day or their politics or their genitals.

How was my day? Well. Since you’re here, I wouldn’t have been able to do what I did tonight if I hadn’t been an extremely confident reader. I was given an hour of constant sightreading, alone on stage delivering to a few hundred people, with one small glass of water and 0 preparation time. It was mostly doublespeak and acronym and industry jargon, and I had to drive through it and make it audible and fun. I smashed it. But I’m gonna read a book when I get home to reclaim fun-reading.

Coincidentally I’m writing this on foot as I go past Oscar’s house, one of the greatest wordsmiths. Here’s his plaque. As ever I took no photos so you get what you’re given. God rest his soul.

I’m sitting in a nondescript room with seven other actors. Everyone looks fabulous, but right now we are all slumped in chairs, shut down, as if we’re androids who’ve been switched off momentarily to recharge. It’s hot out there. Those of us not in corsets are in layers. I’m the only one with a bloody crinoline though, so I have to sit upright.

I just delivered the Maid of Honour’s speech. Not one I’ve ever thought I’d get to do, if I’m honest. I’ve done Father of the Bride and Best Man so now the only one left is Groom. I’ve avoided that successfully for decades. I wonder if I’ll ever get the full set! They’re certainly happening in an unusual order.

Full disclosure: I wasn’t actually the Maid of Honour. She hid behind me and whispered her speech to me, and then I spoke it out. It was partly a joke and partly because she’s very shy, but it was rather lovely. “I’ve known her all my life and some people think we’re twins.” At the end of the speech she did sonnet 116 through me – The wedding sonnet. It was lovely to have all control taken from me and just be a conduit for her. She made a mistake which I took a call not to correct as it’d be way too pernickety and might have been an in-joke. So many writers in the room. I was very aware that there were people in the crowd – writers and a singer – who I have admired for many years and whose first and possibly only experience of me will be as a falsetto Thisbe in a crinoline hamming it up at their friend’s wedding celebration. Although one of them once retweeted me which bulked up my follower count something chronic. Still “Hi, I’m the guy that played the slightly suspicious Thisbe at that wedding at The Globe. You did retweet me once too. It’s a coincidence that my Twitter handle is almost the same as yours. Um… Yeah so hi. Love your work. And your activism. I’ll be off over here now. Need to… check this corner.”

Anyway. It’s all done. As ever the worst part was the not knowing. There was a terrific amount of goodwill in a room full of highly intelligent motivated artistic people. It was a lovely way to earn a crust even if I came off stage after Thisbe’s death quite literally cooked in my own grease. Drowning in the stuff. Dripping like Vanassis’ lamb on the spit yesterday evening and smelling considerably less appealing. I didn’t get to have an awkward conversation with any of my favourite novelists. I’ll just have to write a book that they love to have

Now I have to work out how to get a load of suitcases full of clothing over to my flat without losing them, after I’ve wound the adrenaline out of my system. These jobs are very welcome at the moment, and it seems to be a good time for them. If only they didn’t involve wearing thick clothes in an oven.

I started today in Trafalgar Square, with the sun smashing down. An audition, at 9.30am. What a day for it. Like the sun, I smashed it and then waited for my friend who went in right after me. We wandered through sunny Soho dreaming of what might be. And yet I had places to go. I had an appointment with the holy rail replacement bus service. I had to get to Hither Green. I ended up walking from Lewisham though. The rail replacement gods are shit. Don’t put your faith in them.

Hither Green is where my girlfriend lived at the millennium. I haven’t been back since I basically fucked that one up. Why go back? But with a lamb spitroasting in a different garden on the same streets? And many good people hanging out to help consume it..? I am not made of stone. It was the right place and the right time to reclaim Hither Green. Despite stupid stupid young Al stupid.

I had a turn turning the spit. If we are going to eat meat we should know what we’re doing so I thought it right to turn it and thank it as I turned it. I’ve been friends with a lamb before and I still eat lamb. Which means that I’m capable of eating my friends. Hi! Come stay. One day it might catch up with me. Today I turned the spit while Golfo’s dad basted and seasoned the thing. He fed me the kidneys. I ate them from his hand. Then we cut it up into little pieces and fed it to everyone. When can you stay? Great. Bring some fava beans. And a nice Chianti.

After dinner we played pingy Victorian ball-hook game. It was awesome. Golfo’s little sister was unbeatable at it. I had no choice but to be her Olympic commentator and blast encouraging noises about her ability until I realised it was too late and I had to be home to see my cousin outlaw. I pulled myself away into a long long Uber journey shunning the false hell-gods of rail replace, returning to my happy home again. Now I’m home, trying to hold it together despite the fact that I’m bank holiday audition level drunk.

Bank holidays are always crazy. And hot ones doubly so. Everyone goes mental and all the infrastructure collapses. I suspect we are always just three consecutive bank holidays away from anarchy. I ate a friendly lamb and played ukelele and ball games, and auditioned for a part I really want.

I’ve done so much walking lately. As soon as the weather is half decent I shanks-pony it everywhere. Yesterday I went from Hampstead to Crouch End, and discovered an abandoned train track. Everything was in bloom. It’s such a glorious time of year.

“Have you mentioned that you’re drunk writing this?” says my (first cousin once removed?) Apparently that’s the relationship. I’m lost in these things but she’s hacked it together loosely. “Yes” I tell her. “Strangely I have this time.” But yeah . You need to know that. It’s effecting the cognitive leaps.

Tomorrow the world comes back. I’d sooner just hang with Golfo’s family and eat friends. I mean lamb. I don’t eat friends. Come stay. Phtp-phtp-phtp-phtp-phtp

I’m lying on a sofa bed in Hampstead, on Parliament Hill. Outside the morning is bright and still and warm. After yesterday’s walking I feel I can just lie here now, and relax. I’m wearing a baggy pyjama top and a pair of tights for decency. I didn’t bring a change of clothes and it’s all we could muster for sleeping at short notice. The tights feel strange on my leg hair but not unfamiliar. I’ve been in tights before too many times.

Bank holiday tomorrow, although I have an audition combined with laryngitis which should be interesting. I’ve spent most of the morning breathing gobbets of hideous gunk out of my lungs. Yesterday I went to Keats’s house though and he had it much worse than I do and still found time to write “To a Nightingale”. I’m eating oysters in reverse but at least there’s no ketchup. The very least I can do is write this blog, which ain’t going to be carved in stone for future generations to marvel at like that man’s structured thoughts between bouts of hacking cough.

Walking and thinking yesterday made me aware again of how unbelievably full this city is. From where I am now I can walk 2 minutes to the derelict pub where Ruth Ellis shot her husband. Five minutes and I’m at Keats’s House. 8 minutes and I’m at Erno Goldfinger’s brutalist home packed with art. There’s something of human interest in every direction. From where I’m sitting, dazzled in the sun, I can see the dome of St Paul’s shrouded in mist, or is that smog? And there’s The Shard, unmistakable – The Eye of Sauron, drawing me southwards. There will be so many people on the south bank today. I’ll be out in the sun soon too, I expect. Everyone in this huge ancient overcrowded jumble, crowding into the parks and pubs and ponds. Time to stop observing and start participating. Which is probably generally a good note for me to take.

There was a kid outside Hampstead Heath station selling his toys to passers by. Mel and I encountered him on the way to the charity shop, where we were jettisoning a load of her stored up emotional gunk. I can do it so easily when it’s other people’s stuff. And I understood how she was struggling. We gave him a keyboard, which turned out to be the right move because the charity shop didn’t take electrics so it would’ve otherwise found its way back into her flat. On the way home he tried to sell it to me for £7. We didn’t bite but I bought a toy cement mixer for a quid instead. Why not? As a kid I was fascinated by the things. Samiximentors. A hangover from that odd obsession is that I always notice them now.

Now I’m back where I started, thinking about the meeting tomorrow and playing with my samiximentor. I really hope the coughing improves a bit tonight. I feel and sound like I’m consumptive. This particular illness has redefined my whole relationship with catarrh. But when the sun is shining like it is I’m a happy man snot or not.