Author: albarclay

Right now the back half of an artic from that great big Stanley Mathew or whatever they call themselves depot in Bognor Regis has been stuck into the scene dock at the RST, unloading panels and whatever the hell they have. It isn’t turkey burgers. I just can only remember the single t in Mathew. The van looks like a huge rectangular dyslexic mosquito feeding. It’s doing the opposite. It is pumping things in.

All the people with tools are currently running around in the theatre, likely working late shifts. There’ll be drilling and painting and sawing and dust and noise and shouting and it’ll be a very very familiar world in there to my recent life. Hard hats and hi-vis obligatory. Cherry pickers and forklifts. This is a big old build, but it’s not a temporary sport stadium. I don’t have to show up with all the kit plus a fucking expensive harness and work something out that a day worker has abandoned. There’s a whole team to do that and all I need to think about is “so shall I cross the stage when Desdemona enters?” Because I’m a creative now, darling. And we are traditionally clueless. And I’m happy to be there, clueless, pART of the ART.

Lodivico needs to remember to ask his character’s questions properly. Lodovico needs to think about why he is taking a breath in the middle of one of his verse lines. Lodovico doesn’t have to worry about whether or not the floor will shift, or how we’ll fly that thing in. Someone else will worry about whether Lodivico will be capable of standing in the right place when they do the whatever they’re gonna do. Lodovico is the athlete in this equation, the one who is supposed to think that there’s been no hard work, that nobody has been freaking out about the fact that all the screws provided are too short, or there’s no fucking drills, or you can’t secure the panels properly. We’ll walk onto this huge work of thought that is underway as I write. We’ll be told where it is safe to stand and how we are supposed to negotiate with it. I’ll have to switch off all my build thoughts and just be obedient. We won’t be allowed on it until they are happy it is safe for us, the liability actors, to mix it up there.

“Thespians”. That’s the name of the local Indian restaurant. I am a gentle man but I’ll break your fucking jaw if you tell me I’m a thespian. It’s like telling me I’m “resting” when I’m out of work. “Good luck, oh I’m not supposed to say that…” Say what you like. That stuff was all about self-mystification. The same impulse that led Larry to have the lights imperceptibly raised as he came on stage. I’m not a thespian. I’m just doing my job. I might have things in common with Thespis but you don’t own my attachment to him. But yay I’m doing what Thespis did at a nice place with a team attached and using Iambic Pentameter as opposed to dithyrambs. Still pointing the purpose through the same ritualistic deities. Dionysus will rarely be out of the equation when I’m in the equation, wine or no wine. But you can wish me good luck as easily as broken limbs, and you can talk about all the Scottish kings you choose. I’m a happy man doing a happy job, telling a sad story at a cold time.

The little road outside my digs is busy with life. You go through the door and immediately you’re in someone’s conversation. This evening it was Cassie Stuart.

I just walked out the door. “Do they still lease those out to the company?” she asked. “Yes. Yes they do. I’ve just arrived.”

Cassie played Phoebe in 1986 in As You Like It directed by the lovely John Caird. I just saw a woman who was clearly going on an emotional journey. Memory Lane. I opened up to her so we got into conversation. It was lovely. Being with this company now puts us as part of a community that has existed and breathed through the heart part of the industry for so long now. Shakespeare is about that. Meeting Cassie and hearing her memories and giving her a hug felt like a true welcome to this town. “Do you still act?” “No, I’ve moved to Spain.” But she tells me how it all was, how the company was around her. I told her “I was Silvius once.” “My Silvius was Alan Cummings.”

Colin from our company walked out of his door and assumed the pair of us were old friends. I hugged her goodbye and went with him. “You attract people, don’t you, I envy that,” he observed. I think he does too with his impish eyes, and I told him so. He’s a great heart. Tonight’s little moment felt so auspicious when I’ve just landed in this town. There’s history indeed on that street.

It’s a small world here. The roads are likely full of those who love Shakespeare, of actor types professional amateur and retired. Not just Americans, it turns out. I opened the day with coffee two minutes from my door, catching up with a Scene and Heard actor and friend who has moved up here recently and fractured two fingers on stage last week. I’ll probably be round hers with a power drill before the end of the run just as she’s got a tumbledown property here and no fingers to fix it up in time for winter. Life is more interesting when there’s stuff to do, and I’m cursed and blessed with helpfulness.

I’ll think of Cassie for a while now. Here I am, on this grey winter night, full of hope and joy for what is to come as the winter closes in. She was there in the opposite timespace from me, her eyes turned back to 1986. We momentarily shared a present before she walked deeper into the past and I walked into the future. I wonder if she goes to the Dirty Duck. I thought about going for a pint with her just to bring her into a welcome, but I’m not in the headspace where the Duck is a helpful influence right now.

I’ll walk around the dusk streets of Stratford and then cook up something simple in my little kitchen.

There’s a sofa bed in my flat. This makes friends possible. But I’ll definitely have to go to ASDA and get another set of sheets and a pillow or two.

I’m in my little cottage on Waterside.

This morning… well this afternoon, I woke up and quickly established that my lenses were still in. Clawed them out and made a breakfast hamburger for the bread and grease of it all. Finished doing something that might be described as packing, if you were inclined to be positive. Things were certainly put into a case. I also brought up the 10kg of rice from my birthday party. Birthday rice is nice. “Every time you have rice you’ll think of us,” said the ladies from the lady flat and frankly that’ll keep me smiling for a long time.

Then I got in the car and picked up two passengers and we drove to Stratford. I didn’t tell them I couldn’t wear my lenses, as people worry and I can see fine until it gets dark. It was great all the way until we were in the little sleepy town, and then I was really having to concentrate as it was dark dark dark. Couldn’t see a fucking thing. Still, we got there fine and now I’m in my cottage.

I think I slept here once before, over twenty years ago, in this bed. Kesty had this cottage when she was doing Lion Witch and Wardrobe. We drove up for press night to support and I had full on alcohol poisoning after trying to match a septuagenarian O’Toole drink for drink at The White Cube. Scott drove, I occasionally yarked conversationally out the window. There was a bunch of Guildhall friends in the cast of it – it was a pleasant starting time for our year group. I sat at the back for the matinee, occasionally exiting to discreetly spasm. I ended up having to sleep a few hours in this bed after it while they did the evening show. Recovering myself so I could show up at the press night party afterwards looking like a human being, and get back on the crazytrain. We were all in our twenties. That sort of thing was possible.

But now I’m back in this bed again. It’s a windy night and I’m not having to shout into the porcelain every twenty minutes. The heating is on and I think I might dry out overnight but I’m immediately happy and comfy here. The WiFi password doesn’t work, but phone is fine. I’ll settle in here and get on with some joyful work. Who knows how many old friends have slept in this bed… how many curious characters… Exposed beams in the ceiling, there is a whole bath and actually the ceiling is high enough that I’m not gonna brain myself.

It’s already past midnight though. The wind is whipping the skylight and I’m tucked up warm and happy. Sleep will be easy tonight.

I’m sitting with Shama and Emma and it’s half 2 in the morning and it doesn’t feel like this conversation is ending anytime soon so I’m starting writing now.

Alanis Morrissette. nineties music. funny how

nope things happened that thoughtline died

4:37

I’ve just said goodbye to the last guest. I’m only half packed.

What a night. I didn’t want it, in the end. I really wasn’t in the mood. Tired, whatever. Done with it. But there it was, an opportunity to be with people who have been part of this absurd journey so far. The people who came were absolutely the people I needed to celebrate for my fiftieth. People who opened thought doors. Old weird friends. I got a kilo of rice out of the ladies from the lady flat at Sprite, and it’ll be happyrice up in Stratford. They know how I like to eat in self catered digs. That’s my next few years of Thai curry sorted.

But. It’s ten to five. That’s posting time. How am I supposed to finish this? I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ve been careful to limit the booze. Still a long night though. To give myself any chance of rational packing, I’ll call it s night now and see what sleep feels like. Got to drive tomorrow as well. yuk

More restlessness and head noise. I think getting out of town will help me level. I’m generally feeling a bit wonky at the moment, but like as not it’s just the change of seasons and this perpetual cold. We had a huge temperature drop this morning, and the gods saved it for the last day to drench me as I cycled in. I used to cycle to Guildhall back in the day, from Fulham, so I’ve got the waterproof trousers, but I didn’t put them on. Pre rehearsal ball kicking was done with half the lads in the room putting up with soaking wet trousers.

A good final day, and I’ll miss that regulatory of Clapham and the Forest bikes, the ease of the home base, the routine of the bath and familiar wind down into sleep, or the attempt at it. I’ve used all my minutes with Forest, just slightly prematurely as I’ve one more journey to make tomorrow, across the river to Culvert Tyres where Bergman is waiting with his shiny new wheels and wipers. They’ve been a good investment, especially considering the weather. I’d do that again.

A bit of a party tomorrow, nothing too crazy, after all I’m fifty. The flat is crowded with stuff and I’m halfway through packing for my time away so we will have to take things as they come. There should be enough chairs and if it gets busy we could go to the park if the weather turns good again. It’s hard to predict it right now.

And once again I’ve left it ages to write, got knackered, put my head down and remembered I haven’t done it yet. I might be well served to rejig the writing time, as this routine is out of the ordinary for me and my systems are getting spun out.

A peaceful evening, where I finally got round to Kondoing my underwear. Threw away a load of socks and pants. Wasn’t necessarily a proper Shinto fascist as if I only kept underwear that sparked joy I’d be going commando most of the week. But dumped a load of tattered, ragged or mismatched things and put the rest into my case for Stratford. A sojourn into clarity, but I’ve still got tons of clothes I literally never wear. The only things that get constant heavy duty are my T-shirts, and the rehearsal photos came back with me wearing one of my beloved old ones with massive holes in it. I know it’s about sentimental attachment, but an outsider might just think I’m a slob. Hey ho.

The last day in Clapham tomorrow and it feels like it’s gone very quickly all of a sudden. There’s a lot in a five act play. Every day has been full but still we have just started. I guess that’s why these plays have survived. They are rich, layered things. Different productions bring different shades to the fore.

I’m sleepless again and it’s late. Forgot to write this and then just as I thought I was going to drift I remembered with a jolt. Could do it tomorrow morning but I’m happier with the idea of rolling out of bed straight onto a Forest bike and into the song call. I might even lay out some clothes.

Cat related practicalities mean that it is likely we won’t be collecting in time. I’m off sooner than it feels like, and will probably stay up on the weekends as it’s all part of the adventure of it. Time is moving fast. Got to get to sleep as well. Tomorrow is act 5 which is most of my content. A last opportunity before Stratford to make sense of this guy I’m playing in the context of this show we’re making.

It’s a lovely group of people. London rehearsals tend to mean you don’t go out after with the cast just because everyone has homes to go to, so we will probably get to know each other better once we are out of town. I managed to get Bergman into his MOT in time so I’ll work out how to get him back tomorrow and sort out tax in time. Full car up to Stratford, three passengers and luggage… Which reminds me, I’ll need to pack.

Restlessness kept me up late and noisy head. I’ve had some emergency actifed and hopefully that’ll take me down to rest in time to get the hours in. Much to do. Packing, washing, tidying, and securing all the Othello work in time for things to get serious up in Warwickshire. Bring it on.

The Ivy Asia really has got nonsense food down to a fine art. They gave me the most remarkable birthday meal. I hadn’t even really noticed how The The Ivy crept into my neighborhood, in the old Henry J Bean, where teenage Al might have been found dancing the night away opposite Pucci Pizza. Now they’ve tricked it all up in their unique way, even down to the extremely odd fake samurai standing at one of the urinals who says “konichiwa” when you stand next to him.

I didn’t really know what to expect but it all kept coming, with good company and good conversation and good red wine. Having been off that stuff it took me by surprise a little bit. I certainly enjoyed myself but I can’t quite remember getting home. Despite a full belly.

Cake had been made for me and this morning I noticed that almost half of it wasn’t there any more which means I must still have had an appetite, or at least wanted something to soak up the booze before bed.

Cape work in the morning was revelatory. Not just swishing, but some really helpful thoughts about what it might mean to be a senator, comportment etc. I love the luxury of work with time for this detail. Sure, I enjoy just making quick decisions, learning the lines and putting the show on. But there’s delight in mining. Tim doesn’t do table work, which can get out of hand. But he does build the imaginative world. The magic and the logic are coming together now, the literal and the non literal. We are telling a story while pretending to be other people. The deeper the thinking goes the more fleshed out it’ll all feel. I’m still very much game on to be part of this even if it’s not as big a part as I might be used to playing with smaller companies.

Still, I was hungover again. Reluctant on the rainy morning bike. Just a bit slower and gummier than usual. Serves me right, but it was a luxurious spoiling of a birthday meal. Soon I’ll lose my evenings, so let’s grab these moments while they are still possible. Yum. And there’s still some cake left for this evening. It really is quite something.

Oh I was so happy with myself for getting myself into an early scene. “Lodovico should surely be in the senate in Venice,” I expostulated, but I was needed for my singing. So I proposed a version of the scene live where Lodovico sings and then comes into the scene. And it worked. So now I’m at least going to be visible to those many friends of mine who have never seen a Shakespeare and are going to end up watching Othello to see what the fuck this guy they know who sorts out the screws is gonna do with iambic pentameter.

But it means I’ll be in rehearsal first thing tomorrow morning. For “cloak work”

When I auditioned for Guildhall I was asked about what theatre I’d been to recently. I had been to Hong Kong and watched a group of dancers rehearsing a cape dance in a shopping mall. It had fascinated me to the extent that I’d watched it for hours. The director was a tyrant. The dance was relatively simple but the precision demanded was nigh on impossible to the extent I felt it was much more about the ego of the person demanding the precision than it was about how possible the precision was.

Watching and then later in class with Wendy I tried to be amazing at cloak. Halloween walks in a riding cape for years added to my activation. I know cape work. I’m very good at it.

Tomorrow, the morning after my fiftieth birthday, because I got myself into the scene, I’m called first thing to do “cape work” with the movement director for an hour before I have nothing else for the rest of the day.

You make your own fucking bed.

Still I’m thrilled. I’m in a scene I wasn’t in. I didn’t want to just show up at the end and be in a totally different energetic place.

But it means I’m off to bed. Drinks and food with friends tonight who I won’t see on Saturday. Friends on Saturday. If you are reading this and are wondering why you haven’t been invited it’s because I’m avoiding social media. You ARE invited if you can text me and ask me where and when. x

The evening is closing down, past the equinox, here at the time of year I’ve always earmarked as the official end of summer. There was a glorious big Dartmoor Warrior spider webbed over the doorway at work this morning. Araneus diadematus with a cross on its back. Orb weaver. Garden spider. Excellent efficient hoover of late season mosquitos. It was still there when I left as testament to the grounded nature of the current acting company. Too many groups of actors have someone who starts running around looking for attention when there’s just a wasp. Spiders make the daddy thing even bigger for the “look at me, there’s a wasp” crowd until someone has to take it away or murder it just for sanity, and then there’ll still be twenty minutes of “look at me there was a spider”. Either that lot didn’t notice it or that lot aren’t in the rehearsal room. Phew.

Still, that spider, hovering in the centre of the window web, is one of the two heralds of autumn to me. The other is the crane fly. Usually I see one of them first but this year the spider won the race, and the day before my birthday – too early dammit. But the days are getting shorter than the nights now. Once more Persephone is in Hades, and the world will mourn her absence. Light will fade. Rain will come. The cold. The cold.

My Forest bike month has been a most excellent investment. 40 minutes to rehearsal by public transport. 25 by car before you’ve parked and that’ll be forever pounds because this is London. 15 minutes on a Forest, so long as you’re prepared to be ruthless and pull it out from under anyone you think might be planning on renting the one you’re after. 30 quid for all the days I’ve needed and I’ll still have a couple of minutes in the bank. Sometimes you get a fucked one, as again this morning when the back wheel was flat, but I still used it to get to the next one. And it is still warm enough that it works beautifully.

People hate them, and indeed hate cyclists in general. Drivers because the rules are different, pedestrians because other people are annoying when you are in a crowded city. “You should watch out for my children!” “I did watch out for your child!” “No you didn’t.” That’s some guy who crossed in front of me and I waited for Izzy his timid daughter to cross in front of me too before I carried on. I probably should have left it there really, as a dismissive smiling “Oh just … go and fuck yourself” kind of loses any argument there might have been. As I continued the journey, any number of wittier less sweary comebacks occurred to me. He probably felt like an idiot for putting his child in danger and his shout was a confused expression of gratitude for my care, but I swore so now he can think I’m a yob while I know he’s a douche. insha’Allah. “Daddy doesn’t like cyclists. He goes all red and shouty.”

I’ve got an hour or so left before I’ve officially been on the earth half a decade. Christ. I’ll likely be asleep as it comes in. And now the winter comes.

I’m in my pajamas. I never got out of my pajamas.

“We don’t cook in this household anymore,” Brian announces, correctly. Just two days ago my downstairs neighbour, who is broke, offered to cook for us. “You get a lot of takeaways. I could cook for you.” “We are both very capable cooks, Christine. We are just being extremely lazy.” I think she wants the company and the ingredients. We are entirely after the convenience and the fact we can spend all Sunday in our pants.

Meanwhile my accountant shows me the reality of my tax return and I’m gonna be broke again in no time so I’d better start battening down the hatches. Today I can temporarily justify spending every penny I made from Hello Kitty on a Dishoom, but when the lucre runs dry I’ll look at that decision in a very different light.

This morning, before the Dishoom, I considered paying someone to cook something I am perfectly capable of doing myself. Breakfast is an easy cook, and easy to do well if you can be bothered to go to the shop. In Brighton maybe it’s nice to go out because cooking meat at Lou’s is off the menu. But here, in the place I’ve attached all my bad habits to? No need.

I’ve got a week before I go to Stratford. Just a week. I might be able to sort my life admin out, feed myself cheaply, tidy up a bit… It’s not very likely though, is it. Someone might want to stay in my room. They can’t if it’s like this. Oh and there’s a cat coming on Tuesday. I’m sure she’ll add a degree of unknown to proceedings. Important to have cats around though. She’s a pedigree breeding mum that’s just been retired. Black as night. It’ll be good to have some company in dreams.

I had the day off I wanted. Nothing happened, I spent money, I consumed things. Now another week is about to happen and it’ll be a busy one.