Author: albarclay

Today was spent partly sorting shit out and partly writing. I got up early to make sure all the bin bags were out. The kitchen was turning into a bin city after Christmas and New Year. Brian and I mutely carried bags in the early morning. Then I woke up with coffee and looked for work until about 3 when Jack came over.

Jack was Marley to my Scrooge. We have a duty to the show to record the working version. We might end up running it in New York while another company plays London. The working script has been forged in the fire of many audiences. But the only existing formal script has very little correlation to the words we speak. It was written by a good friend, for two actors in the back of a pub, two years before I joined. (Btw sorry if you thought we were done with Carol blogs. Nope. Another Christmas Carol blog… The last one for at least 10 months.) But the show works. We’d like to be able to pass it on.

So yeah. That immersive dining show started 7 years ago in York. Tom Bellerby who directed it had just finished working with Jack and I at Ripley. We did As You Like It in the grounds of Ripley Castle for the glorious Sprite Productions, directed by Alex Hassell with the combination of fixed and flowing that can make theatre particularly special. Tim Carroll, the guardian angel of The Factory, used to insist that great theatre is a combination of the fixed and the flowing. If it’s all fixed, it’s mummified. If it’s all flowing it’s unfocused. We try to balance the two in Carol. Jack’s taste moves towards order. Mine towards chaos. Both are necessary in a live experience.

Nowadays, dining theatre is actually a thing – we got shouted out by You and Yours on Radio 4 in opposition to a badly thought out experience with a lot more money behind it, and something at The National. We came over very well, especially considering we were the cheapest ticket. Everyone likes to think they’re doing something new. Because everyone wants to feel ownership of universal ideas. This shit has been around for centuries. But yes I’ll stroke your head and sing to you if it’s important that you think you were here first. I’ve encountered a bit of snippiness in the industry. I only joined this show four years ago myself. Tom and Alex were way ahead of the curve at the time. They couldn’t get Jack and I from London to York because there was no budget. You don’t get Jack and I for free. But when the opportunity arose we were lucky enough to join a complete show that was ahead of its time. Now it’s of its time and it’s great to have had a month of full houses.

So Jack and I argued about order versus chaos, faith versus nihilism, capitalism versus communism. And we drew up a script for any poor fucker that follows us in London. Plus a few ideas for our next show, the first proper Fable Feast show. Watch this space. Here I am, slave to the laptop whilst Jack prances around in my ladies summer hat and Pickle offers support in her own complicated laptop obsessed manner.

Some kid in my school traded me his entire Star Wars toy collection for “Buzz Off” from He-Man and the Masters of the Universe, forever ago. Buzz Off was a muscular man who looks like a bee. Black and yellow, he had wings and goggles. At the start of term I brought him in. I traded him for a bin bag full of Star Wars toys. He must’ve been under pressure from his parents because he instigated the trade. There was an AT-AT in that bag. And that was just the start of it. Speeder bikes, AT-ST, loads of figures… all sorts. I still wonder if he regrets it.

Star Wars has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I went with my dad to the cinema in Douglas to see Return of the Jedi twice. I collected stickers, and had one on my bedroom door, of a Gamorrean Guard, to keep me safe from the ghost.

Ugly pig faced creatures, the guards are, and technically on the wrong side of the conflict plotwise. But I didn’t care as long as Ann didn’t come into my room with her dead face and beckon to me when I was trying to sleep. Green pigmen with hauberks were a welcome break from rotting faced ghost women. 

The other day at Carol we had a kid in. Gabriel. He had a Star Wars jumper. He told me Christmas is about Star Wars. I can be mischievous when we aren’t running to narrative so I quizzed him on it before throwing it to the house: “Which is the “best” of these Christmas Star Wars nonsenses?” Universally I got back “Empire Strikes Back.” Even from Gabriel, who also insisted on “A New Hope.” as second. He was 9. A 36 year old backed him up: “It’s the most mature and complex plot.” insisted Daniel. I place this enduring love of the first trilogy firmly at the feet of Joseph Campbell.

Joseph Campbell was a mythologist and a brilliant post Jungian thinker and perhaps philosopher. I would love to recommend his book “The Hero with 1000 Faces” because it’s an incredible book, but his prose will make you want to spoon your eyes out. If you’re fine with dense prose, his thoughts are extremely important and powerful and worth getting through. If you prefer to listen, there’s plenty on YouTube. I firmly place Campbell’s existence as the reason why the original three films are satisfying, and the second three, long after his death, didn’t land. 

Cambell locked himself in a shed during the great depression and read every book on world myth he could get sent to him. He swallowed universal mythology whole and saw the tropes that individually arose in different forms. He took 5 years just reading and absorbing. He learnt the trends in these stories we tell to make sense of the world and our place in it. He saw through the stories to the basic human needs the stories filled. And he further developed the Jungian story archetypes into a “monomyth”. A New Hope is one example of a film following his structure of a hero’s journey very closely. The Wachowski Brothers used the same frame for The Matrix. This structure works. It chimes with something ancient in us.

Lucas is an amazing world-maker but he needs someone else to chart the journey through the world. Cambell did that for the first three. Then the three nobody likes, with lovely characters ill used – (Darth Maul!!) Now we have these new films with the weight of money and numbers behind them but not the structure of myth. I won’t be sticking any minor characters from these ones to my bedroom door to keep off ghosts. But perhaps that’s because I’m no longer Gabriel’s age. And the ghost of Ann is a long way away. And I probably just made her up anyway. With her dead face. And her beckoning fingers. HELP ME PIGFACE!

But I enjoyed it. It was a Star Wars film…

Before concentrating on me, like I was so optimistically saying I would yesterday, it’s been one more day of Carol related madness. 13 hours straight through, driving, loading, unloading, driving, humping, dismantling, carrying, loading, packing. I had a massive great big Luton. Of course the budget van hire place gave me one with a fucked tail lift. Nothing you can do about that on the job. At one point Tristan, Jack and I had to shove the lift up manually.

That massive great big freezing empty warehouse in Liverpool Street? Remember, where I spent the best part of a week stapling and painting. We made it look like Scrooge’s Parlour. People would walk in and go “ooooh”. We did a month of marvels in there. It was so full of life, so full of laughter, so full of Christmas cheer. Now the season is over, the year is turned, the rain is washing us clean in buckets. Scrooge’s Parlour is a great big empty warehouse once more. And as I was loading out the bags I saw my first evidence of rats. Just in time. As we leave, they come. Little fuckers. Too late. Just. But all the stuff is now loaded willy nilly into the playing space for Gatsby and our job is done for the day.

I’ve eaten nothing but 2 weetabix at half 8am. It’s gone 11pm. I feel fine but perhaps I should shove something down my throat before I fall asleep. It didn’t help that for most of the driving portion of the day it was windy and pouring with rain. I feel I’ve completed one of those appetite suppressing computer game marathons I used to be capable of in my late teens. Also I probably stink and there’s no hot water. 

Feed angry cat, feed self, boil kettle, sponge bath, curse loudly, hot water bottle, bed. That’s the order of service. That and oil my beard. It’s itching like hell. I’d like to shave the thing but I’ve got two self tapes pending that I had to record with this dead dog on my face. If both of them come to nothing I’ll celebrate by liberating my chin and triggering all the “oh you look so young” flattery.

I was writing the above in an uber. At this point Mamriz the driver gesticulated at the road. They’re all flooded and there’s a gale blowing. It’s horrible. “What the hell is this?” he asks rhetorically. I put down my blog. “Tell me about it. I was in a Luton through this crap earlier. I saw two people between here and West Sussex that had lost their back end. One of them hit the central reservation. They were getting loaded into an ambulance. It’s worse now. I’m glad you’re driving not me. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

“I can’t wait for summer.” He mourns. We both sigh, as if we’ve been friends for years. Then we start naming summer things. “The light.” “The long days.” “You can wear your T-shirt.” Mamriz and I become companionable – nostalgic, like two old friends remembering the good old days. Like two lifers remembering the outside.

It’s a long way until Spring and we both know it. A gust of wind blows solid bits from a tree into his car, disrupting our reverie. He curses. “What time are you working ’til?” I ask. “Normally I work until two,” he says  “but I’m going home after this trip. I’m not driving in this.” I don’t blame him.

Staggering around Chelsea this evening I stopped to contemplate the moon. It’s full tonight, and at its perigee – the closest to the earth it will come this month. It’s big, bright and stark. I like that it falls tonight, on the first day of the year. A wolf moon is a good moon, and on the right day.

It’s an opportunity to look for positive change, a New Year. And tonight’s wolf moon speaks of good things to come. I’ve got a lot to sort out this month, but I feel the augurs are in place. Change doesn’t happen by mistake, but I’m in a good place to drive it in my life. That’s what I’ve earmarked this month for. January is for sorting my shit out. There’s a lot shit to sort and it’s been left a long time. Plus I’m already a day down as, outside of a little walk in the dark I’ve achieved very little today. 

I’m coming up to a year of this blog every day no matter what. It’s pissed me off from time to time, especially when I’ve been exhausted or smashed. It has interrupted social occasions, but my friends are extremely understanding now. “Sorry guys, gotta get it written, I’ll stay here but I’m out of the conversation for a bit.” On balance it’s been very positive. There are some people in my life who are a little cagey about spending time with me in case I write about them, which is weird. But mostly I’ve felt more connected to people because of it, although in this digital age there’s no substitute for spending actual time in the company of friends. I’d like to do a bit more of that in the year to come.

Right now everyone is playing Game of Thrones Risk in my flat. I’m sitting behind them on the sofa, under the cat and a blanket, writing this and thinking about positive change. I’d love to tell you that my New Year’s Day was spent rising at dawn and swimming in the sea before going for a jog to the market to load up on healthy vegan food for Veganuary and then kissing a puppy. New Year, new you? We’ll – this new me staggers home at 6.40am and passes out until noon, gets up for painkillers, manages to keep down half a bacon sandwich and a can of coke, sleeps for another 3 hours and then goes for a walk to look at the moon instead of watching Star Wars. Then he wraps up warm with beer and friends and puts the Braveheart soundtrack on Spotify.

I’m probably allowed to have a rest today. Yesterday was the last show of Carol, followed by the crazy party. Tomorrow we’ll be dismantling all the stuff we built for Carol, driving a Luton all over town, tearing down the wallpaper, and likely moving a fucked Suzuki from one motorcycle shop to… somewhere it can be until we decide what to do with it.

Happy New Year! Tonight is the desperate party. It’s also my last time in the nightie. Good old Scrooge. A reminder that we can all get out of whatever cage we’ve built for ourselves.

When my parents were alive I used to go to dad for New Year – usually in Switzerland. Aged 14 I’d end up on the dance floor of The Dracula Club until 2am when dad would drive us home down a flight of stairs. London always feels too crowded – not alpine enough. I’d much prefer to be in St Moritz being cold. There’s skiing and The Cresta and less catshit. Perhaps we should take Christmas Carol out there one year and do it in The Sunny Bar of The Kulm Hotel. I need to go back to swill some whisky on dad’s stone and see if I can get even vaguely close to my old best times from top. Or more likely break my neck trying. Maybe I can somehow get out this season. But money… But as I said, we can all get out of that cage.

I’m writing this early because I suspect I’ll get incomprehensible quite soon after the show. I’ve also got to lay down two self tapes before work and somehow transfer them to my manager from my phone before I fall over.

I’m probably going to spend new year in a warehouse in borough, surrounded by people dressed as flappers while I’m wearing a ski jacket. I haven’t dressed up for the show, and I’ve got no change of clothes. If I didn’t have friends who are going to the warehouse, I’d be seriously considering getting on an aeroplane and flying to some anonymous youth hostel in a cheap hot country to confuse my body clock and swim in the sea. Or maybe I’d just cash out the boiler fund, and hack through Zurich towards a sports room at The Steffani to see if I can get a reasonable handicap in the Baron von Oertzen whilst keeping all my fingers.

But no. I’ll need that boiler fund. 2 more months of winter… So it’s too many people in a warehouse. That’s the plan. And a hope for a good year ahead with no boilers breaking. I’m not too worried about 2018. I think it’ll be a good year. It surely can’t be worse than the last two, unless Trump finally manages to get us all killed.

I’ve made it to Gatsby. I’ve mostly been slinging around crates of alcohol, building the after party while the main event takes place above us. I’m full of a desperate need to just chill the fuck out and I might cross London to do just that. But Brian has just appeared in a gold suit, which simultaneously looks like a statement of intent and a full body sweatrash.

I’m going to sign off and work out what party I need to have. Everyone reading this, I wish you a huge positive change in the coming year. I’m hoping for one myself.

We cut Pickle’s claws for her this morning. “She’s surprisingly good about it,” we said. We gave her some treats. She seemed calm. Last time, she hid and stared balefully with vast, cool and unsympathetic eyes. Little did we know that slowly but surely she drew her plans against us.

It wasn’t my bed. Dear God it could’ve been. It could’ve been my bed. But no. Brian made the cuts. Brian receives the punishment.

An hour has passed since we first found it. I’m in the tube, and I can still smell it. Thicker than marmite, the smell of her dirty protest. This was a smell with a name, and its name was Tartarus. We shouldn’t have clipped the nails. WE SHOULDN’T HAVE CLIPPED THE NAILS!

There it was, lying on the bed. Perfectly central. Soft and wet. Settling gently into the fluff, sending it’s airborne horror far and wide. Pigeons died outside the window. Across the river a bloodhound vomited. Mutant fish bobbed lifeless in a line across the Thames from the bedroom window. A long way from here, the man from Delmonte said no to a perfectly good crop of oranges.

Retching, scarf over nose, I gathered it up in loo roll. It was reluctant to do my bidding, this soft cat shit. It rolled and broke and stuck. It tried to attach to my clothes, to jump in my face. It did not go softly. It raged. At one point it growled at me. All the while a small cat looked on passively. “Nothing to do with me. Love me.”

It’s gone now. Or I think it’s gone oh God I think it’s gone. Mel and I are on the tube into work. But we can still smell it. It’s like we’re still back there. YOU WEREN’T THERE! Mel and I have just checked each other’s clothes. It’s like we missed a little bit of the sinister shitworm and it’s hiding in our wake, reforming as we head for Carol. When the meal comes out in the matinee, there it’ll be, bigger than ever, plumb in the middle of the table, laughing maniacally as the audience dissolves.

Well. There were no turds on the table. Just food – believe it or not. Now, post show, six of us are all loaded into a crammed uber XL, with shitloads of clothes, bits of a fuel tank and shielding for a Benelli Tornado, and a load of old “fairings” for the same bike. It’s just as well that Mel and wee Bobby are small. The driver didn’t think there was any way of getting us all in. But we are. We are going back to the flat where today, almost as if it knew that I had finally saved enough to power flush the system and get the central heating back on, the hot water has packed up too. The boiler is fully dead. Now we have no hot water AND no heating. FML. I think – I hope – that Pickle has got her rage at the claw-cutting out of her system. If I get home filthy to a cold flat where I can’t wash and something like this morning’s toxic shitworm is lying on my pillow… I’ll just go sleep on the riverbank. I’m so fed up of being cold…

This season never stops. This morning I hauled myself out and headed to Putney for yet another Christmas meal. Lunch. Red meat. And loads of salmon and salads and lumpfish caviar and blinis and FOOD FOOD FOOD…

Inevitably everyone was hammering excellent champagne and beautiful wines. I had a cup of tea and some water. I have a lifelong rule never to drink before I work.

It’s occasionally frustrating, that rule. But I know myself and I know I’m a man of extremes. If I make it hard and fast that I just never ever do it then it prevents any potential disasters. My work is terrifically important to me, and a lot of the work I’m called on to do requires me to be quick witted and present. If I relaxed the rules I’d potentially get swept into a situation where I couldn’t adequately do my job. Safer to avoid that by being an extremist. All my friends know I prefer to go big. Even my biggest wreckhead friends understand and appreciate that they won’t be able to talk me into drinking before I work. Frankly if you try I’ll just lose respect for you.

Nonetheless I was in a room full of people who were bouncily getting Christmassed on lovely fizzy things that I wanted. I ate lots to make up for it.

Then I went to do a show and realised I’d screwed my routine. I husband my energy quite carefully before I work. And part of that is having a small meal with lots of carb about two hours before showtime. Today I went with a big meal with lots of protein about 5 hours before. What I really wanted at the half hour call was a snooze. Thank God I hadn’t had champagne or the story would’ve been very different. It would’ve been about a man who occasionally mumbles humbug and then falls over.

I love that generation of pissed actors. You could never do it now with the numbers stacked against you. There’s something wonderful about the stories you hear about Ollie Reed. I never met him, although I drank a bottle of gin with O’Toole once and it was an elucidating and fun evening, with alcohol poisoning as a consequence. I’d just left drama school at the time – it was the wrap party of my first job. I got a lift the next morning to Stratford to see multiple drama school friends on The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe. I puked out of Scott’s car window about 4 times during the drive. It would’ve been around this time of year. When I got to the theatre I spoke to the ushers and explained that I was sporadically vomiting. They gave me a seat right at the back by the door so I could discreetly run out of I needed to. I did, once, just after Lucy first arrived in Narnia. Post show, I slept for about 3 hours in my friend Kesty’s digs. And then I hit their last night party and danced with a load of people who are still my friends now.

Onwards!! Three more shows for Carol! There are apparently a few tickets left for these last ones. I might be able to get you cheapies (still 25 quid). Just in case you fancy more turkey and some humbug.

A year ago today I booked the flight to LA which kicked off this whole blog thing. It was a glorious, sunny but expensive way to start off the year. I had a punishing cost on accommodation and the exchange rate was not favourable. I did budget LA perforce, and wrote about it every day – as some of you know only too well. Then I came back with a suntan, a writing habit and a manager who is also a friend.

I’m considering going back. There’s a guy I know who says he has a residence in a ridiculous hotel in Beverley Hills that I can stay in. He also says he has a car I can drive but he says it’s a sports car and when I asked him the excess on the insurance he quoted a figure that blew my face off. It’s tempting – if a little overly luxurious for my tastes – but frankly I’m being pointedly skeptical. If it’s just affectionate bullshit and I book a flight and arrive in Beverley Hills with my bags to find a confused concierge, an eye watering price list, and no alternative place to sleep, then that’s me firmly rammed up shit creek, or back to the pink Airbnb in Compton. But also, sometimes these things are true, and sometimes nice things can happen. I’ll sort out life at home first though, before fucking off over the Atlantic on a shoestring and a prayer. If I can get to a place over here where I think I can take the chance and not come back broke then I’ll roll the dice again. Can’t do any harm. It’s warm over there, and things are definitely being made. And living in bullshit central directly underneath mister superfamous will mean I can probably open a few doors. But things are being made here too and I have a network of lovely genuine people who don’t give a shit where I live and what I’m driving. Maybe my money and effort needs to go towards updating my showreel and getting to know more lovely people in this country before I blow everything on a plastic month in the sun. Either way I’m very aware of it being the anniversary of booking the flight. It marked a positive change in me and my patterns.

I’ve spent the morning taking advice about money. I’ve mentioned before the irony in me playing Scrooge, who does numbers but not people. I’m habitually baffled by money. I’m trying to recalibrate and change that story so I can stop getting myself into trouble. Thankfully there are many varied kind people in my life who are giving their time to help me. Just today I was floored by the kindness of some of my friends. I sat on a bench underground in Euston Station and wept with bitter joy at how my friends have been helping me out – the unexpected acts of kindness. I couldn’t have asked for a lovelier network of people than those I have found through theatre. 

I’m back home after a great show. Tom, the director, came down from Hull Truck to see it. We had a potentially tricky audience, but we knocked it out of the park. Jack and I have this down to a fine art now. In previous years I’ve been ready for the end by now. This year I’m wishing we had more shows

No pictures today. I always forget. Once again it’s Pickle, in her usual station, purring like a train as I wind towards sleep. She’s another lovely new friend.

The charity collection after the show has been going very well. We’ve raised over 2k for Centre Point now, which is amazing considering we only have 75 in the house at capacity. I’m thrilled we’ve done so well. But I say at the end of the show (because it’s true) that since I’ve started doing this I’ve definitely seen more people sleeping on the streets of London at this freezing time of year.

There are so many people in this city, so many stories, so much need. Last week I was doing my old game of trying to read people’s stories on the tube. It’s how I pass my time if my phone battery is low. 

A woman walked into my line of sight and my immediate recognition was “Shit, she’s a meth addict. That’s rare in London.” And then she spoke to all of us. “Hello ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to bother you…” “Looking for her next fix,” I think. Which I’m sure she was. But worth noting that that’s where I went first. But then “My sleeping bag was set on fire. I’m covered in burns.” I can see some of them. A grey haired man, clearly moneyed, responds loudly but as if he’s dealing with an aggressor: “Go to a cash point, they’re free.” We all think “What?” She says “What?” He says as if he said it the first time, same inflection “Go to a hospital, they’re free.” I don’t understand his slip, it’s strange. Which is why I’m recording it. She says “I’m going there now. I go there every day to change my dressings. It costs me money to go there and back.” We are at a station. The guy, who was stammering as he replied to her in his excellent RP, silently exits, without acknowledging her words. His whole body is tension.

I remember a guy about a year ago. It was summer and I really needed to blow my nose. We were on the Bakerloo at Maida Vale. A woman put a pack of Kleenex out, with a note. She wanted a pound for it. I took the Kleenex and gave her a pound and gratefully filled one with snot. The gray haired man opposite me, with defense in his weak eyes, blustered to me “You’re funding crime.” I was wearing a suit at the time. I responded, a little too quickly: “You’ve got a bank account haven’t you? So do I. We’re all funding crime.” Not the best, I know. But I didn’t have time for better. We both got off at Warwick Avenue, and awkwardly walked towards Little Venice, one of the richest parts of London, on opposite sides of the road.

Traveling back from Liverpool Street at this time of year I’m hearing more stories and seeing more pain than I’m used to. Of course some people are gaming it, but others aren’t. There are meth addicts using the NHS. And then there are people who think it’s legit to set fire to their sleeping bags. But if they didn’t do that, then there would be no need for their victims to use the NHS. How do we work at undermining the hate, finding the people that burn others and teaching them somehow not to hate – despite the fact that their victims are on the fringes of society and they’re being encouraged to blame the fringes for their own shortcomings.

Like bullies, the weak attack those who they perceive to be weaker than they are. Not only are they costing the taxpayer, but also they are selecting who they dehumanise. Clearly they’ve experienced damage themselves and need help. It’s fucking thorny. Even writing about it is weird.

Both of these grey haired men were nervous at speaking out, yet they both did so. Both were in roughly the same age bracket. Both appeared to be frightened by and hateful of a younger, vulnerable female outside of their frame of reference, who needed something. I doubt that those two terrified but outspoken men are setting fire to any sleeping bags. But their processed and legitimised fear and contempt witnessed is giving permission to the idiots that are.

We all need to be listened to and understood. It’s a trick of humanity that we can only truly empathise with what we’ve experienced. So we do not know what it is to be older than we are and we have to shift our understanding to get there. I want to know why it’s only elders of my gender that I’ve seen publicly attacking young female homeless, because it makes no sense to me. Elders are supposed to be compassionate and wise. We are in such a mess – surely it’s time for some wisdom. Where are the statesmen? Where are the people with depth and life? In our country we have a scared little grammar school girl. In America we have a backwards child who has always been told he’s special. These are our leaders. No wonder people get so angry and strange. Is it possible to have statesmen when we have a media that excoriates anyone who shows proof of fallible humanity? No wonder we end up with these idiots.

It’s another tricky one. True life experience comes with thorns, and thorns are treated like they’re a bad thing by the media. So our leaders are either beige or sociopaths. But who are they to lead us? Those with little that is interesting, or those who have followed a track prepared by their parents obediently – almost slavishly – buoyed up by their own self-myth of superiority. “You’re my special and independent little darlingy poopoo. Be utterly obedient to what we want you to do and you’ll be the best.”

Anyway. I’m ranting. Three people came through my tube train on the way home and told a story. I gave nothing to any of them. Here’s a photo of the last guy’s back. I gave to none of them. That’s how inured I am. I hear his story, use his image, and don’t pay him. Well, that’s my chance at politics fucked. I’ve told the truth about my behaviour. Should’ve stuck with spurious bullshit about running through wheatfields.

Despite the morning being beautiful I pretty much slept through the whole of it. I eventually hauled myself into the living room, managed 2 Ibuprofen and half a banana, and lay down again, this time on the sofa. The company was better. One friend had stayed over – which was lovely. She came last year, and there was a time shortly after she arrived from New Zealand that she was a regular sofa guest. The three of us hung out playing cards and computer games and being silly. A proper day with no commitments, but the need to recover. I got smashed last night. I was varying my intake a little too much.

Brian got himself a Star Wars game for Christmas. I watched him play it a while before having a go. It’s not easy. It’s one of those games where you’re playing with lots of other people and half of them are trying to kill you, but death is merely an inconvenience. As far as I can tell, the longer you manage to not be dead, the more points you get. We have both realised that it’s a very good thing we aren’t involved in any infantry wars. Sometimes I was dying almost as soon as I moved. It got to the stage where we invented a character for Brian: “Stormtrooper Pete”, very well meaning, thoroughly incompetent, just wants to be a Stormtrooper, worried about his annual assessment, thrilled when he can not be dead for more than a minute, revelling in the small things “I saw him! I saw him before he killed me!” And so the day passed, interrupted by cats and dimsum.

By evening I needed to leave the house. My dad would always insist that we go for a walk down Marine Drive on Boxing Day, whatever the weather. If I was still in the IOM I’d probably have done that today, despite the volume of my complaining when he dragged us there as children. Without access to any windswept coast roads here in London, I’m making do with a stroll down the Thames in the rain, followed by a bus ride. Off to see a dear friend and healer.

Damn that was a fine evening. I just went to Waterloo and hung out. Good friends and good conversation. The perfect coda to a day spent mostly being killed by lasers. Despite my morning, I ended up having some white wine, and when I thought I was probably just going to be there an hour I ended up gladly staying three. Now I’m heading home feeling galvanised, to get stuck into leftover Christmas food.

I wonder if Stormtrooper Pete has managed to keep himself alive for a bit longer in the time I’ve been away. I wonder if maybe I should see if, after I’ve stuffed myself with cheese and turkey, whether I can help make sure that Pete does a little better in this year’s annual assessment.

This year has been pretty shoddy for many people, not just Pete. 2016 had a reputation for being shit. 2017 has been godawfully terrible. Another year coming. Time for optimism?

Here are my friend’s 2 diaries. One for 2017 and one 2018. That’s how different these years are going to be. Bring it, spangly 2018.