Author: albarclay

Hello Kitty doesn’t have a mouth. Apparently that’s because she “speaks from the heart”. Or perhaps because then people can project their own feelings onto the kitty. It’s not trying to be a cat. It’s a cathuman hybrid thing. It’s not trying to be just a cat, or just a human. It is what it is.

“Apparently she likes friends,” says Siwan, seriously, as we have our morning hot drink on The Kings Road. “I’m not gonna talk,” I respond, just as seriously. “I’m just gonna make cat noises”. An actor prepares.

A party for a six year old. This is the daughter of the artist friend who employs me to be a panda. I’m just moonlighting as Hello Kitty and I’ve dragged Siwan into it. It’s only a few hours, but it’s a few hours when perhaps I would much sooner be lying face down grunting into my own weekend filth.

“I can see your beard!” “You’re not a cat!”

Not as much of that as I’ve had in the past. These are decent children. Still, about 36 of them. We are all in Caroline’s art space above the Kings Road. It has been laboriously turned into a Hello Kitty palace. “Keep it like this and I’ll do my fiftieth here,” I said, but they have to break it all down this evening.

“Meow meow meow”. That’s about it. If I try sentences in an American falsetto I sound like Michael Jackson. I’m wearing a blue top hat anyway. I’m clearly a boy Hello Kitty. But no mouth technically means no voice with mask work.

The lack of a mouth is troublesome. Mouth holes are very helpful. Windows to the world. With a great big head on, you have extremely limited visibility. I could see nothing below my nose, as the gauzed eye holes are tiny. It was a very disorienting few hours, trying not to kick children and trying to add value. Weird work or not, I’ve taken it so I’ll do it well. That’s the game I always play. Siwan and I found enough to do, and we did it. The hours passed. Now I’m home and I’m going to do double the relaxing I wanted to do today. Don’t expect me to rise before noon tomorrow.

I now have a Hello Kitty birthday balloon. It will be MY birthday balloon in a few days. And I’m knackered.

Exactly ten years ago today, Claire and I were together about to fly to Utah with AFTLS, alongside Jim Jack, Paul and Georgina. The five of us were on my first tour with Actors From The London Stage. It’s a lovely lovely job, and you get to not only make a crafty Shakespeare show but also go to all sorts of fascinating parts of the huge country that is the good old US of A, and meet a wide range of people. Students and professors, military personnel, prisoners, philanthropists…

The model has existed for decades now. The actors build a show that fits in a single suitcase. You have to delineate the stage somehow, as you never know where you’ll be asked to do it. The five of you then go out to institutions scattered all over the states. You work with students, often not arts students, and you very quickly learn how good you are at sharing.  There are company roles on the road. “Travel” deals with the office and how we are all getting to the airport etc. “Social” blogs and does the outreach stuff, “Education” organises which of the five do which workshop, and liaises with the uni staff, “Stage Management” sorts out the theatre spaces before we play and works out how it’ll happen and if there are chairs, etc. That’s a double role.

I’m thinking about them a lot at the moment. First because of Winedale Theatre Barn. They are spreading joy for Shakespeare in Texas, and were beautifully led by James Loehlin. He passed away a year ago, more or less to the day. A huge force for good gone from Texas. I wore my Shakespeare in a Stetson T-shirt the other day in his honour.

Today I wore my Wellesley College shirt, a gift from that remarkable institution. It’s a women’s college in Massachusetts. They’ve got a replica of Shakespeare’s birthplace in the grounds. Every time we go we end up being delightfully nerd-collared after the show by enthusiastic young American ladies who really know their Shakespeare.

We had a donor in the room, observing rehearsals. I was mildly concerned, feeling the pressure to “be good”. I took my jumper off, likely sweating from the pressure, and I noticed the donor lean forward in immediate recognition. Sure enough, she went to Wellesley back in the day. Of course she did. We spoke after rehearsal and she took a photo of me, and it was a lovely little moment of alignment. I could’ve worn any T-shirt…

Jobs like AFTLS have helped me keep my sanity, make friends and deepen my craft. I’m happy to see the souvenirs from them still bringing a bright moment. And it is remarkable to think that, from my most recent tour with them of Twelfth Night, three of the five of us are in Othello. Shame not to have the full house, frankly, they’re a lovely lot.

Today we all got an email about the businesses in Stratford that give discounts for RSC Company Members. It makes a lot of sense for them I guess. I know that I’ve been in Carluccios up there plenty more than other late night eateries and now I know why – there’s a discount. Same with the Dirty Duck.

It brings it home to me that I’m gonna be away again for a long time with this one. Sprite used to feel long and it was shorter than this even with rehearsals up in Yorkshire. The quilt from Lou is definitely going to be welcomed. I’ll want things that feel like home. I might take a leaf out of Lou’s travel book and start packing a long time before I leave, be exhaustive about it, bring some home comforts.

I’ll be driving up, and John Paul and Claire will come in the car. Good company and, brilliantly, John Paul has a parking permit that goes with his digs and he won’t be using it so that’s Bergman sorted for his time up in Stratford.

I’ve got to be organised tomorrow though and take him in for a service and an MOT around rehearsals. He’s not gonna pass with his tyres like they are so I’m expecting to bite the bullet, but I’ve got to get it done as I’m gonna get fucked by parking wardens soon without being able to renew my permit at home.

I’m home and feeling sleepy again, bath is running, a constant mix of humans coming in and out of the flat at all times. Tonight Tom is on the sofa while two friends of Brian are watching Johnny Flynn at The Apollo. I remember him in a play at The Globe forever ago. Funny where life can take you if you address it head on.

Another short but joyful rehearsal. Time to wind down now and the guests just got home so maybe I should be all sociable for a bit, but it’s late… I’m gonna have to switch up my sociability before I go. I’ll lose my evenings. Worth getting up the energy to go see friends, I reckon. I’ve got plenty of credit on the Forest bikes to use up.

At lunch time I went to the local dentist surgery and asked if they could fit me in to file the sharp bit that has been slashing into the root of my tongue every time I swallow. They had nobody until half three, and I was due in rehearsal at half three to be Lodovico. He speaks well, we are told. It hurt to speak well.

I’ve started chanting again because last time I spoke well I was chanting. All this stuff is linked weirdly. I’ll be driving up to Stratford and I’ve only just realised that I’ll carry my sodding butsodan up to Stratford with me, because it’s all very well mister Nichiren Buddha and whoever came after telling us that we need to be connected geographically with other people who practice… I love my “district” but I don’t feel at home when I’m at home, I’ve always been rooted nomad. The roots give an idea of something to come back to, but I’ve always felt I’d be fine rootless and trusting… Who knows, maybe I’d panic.

But yeah, with cuts all down the muscle on one side of my tongue, and my job being to speak well, something had to be done.

“Your tongue will wear down the tooth eventually,” was one of the things someone said. Thankfully my fingernail and persistence is stronger than my tongue. A washed hand at lunchtime and about an hour and a half of thoughtful filing thereafter and I’m largely out of pain. I’ll still be sleeping on my left, but thank god for that. My whole face aches, but at least in the short term I’m good to not be in pain all the time. The next week or so my tongue root will be healing, but man our mouth is a quick healer. Why can’t the rest of us be so quick? I guess our mouth and our bum are the only open sores we have left, skinless, moving towards our insides. It’s why I am thrilled to still have my tonsils. Useless? Just because nobody knows what something’s for, doesn’t mean we don’t need it. Human arrogance is much younger than evolution. 

So I’ll wash my teeth in a moment and use mouthwash, and hopefully by tomorrow it won’t hurt to speak. The fact that every sound I made today cost me in pain though – it was useful. “You’ve unlocked something in your bass,” said James, the voice guy. I was in survival mode. Better to make a good sound than to be lazy, if it hurts either way.

Two weeks to go. Joy. Ow. But I think my fingernail filing hotfix was enough for now.

Since I’m approaching fifty I suppose it’s legit to be slightly falling apart. I ground a tooth in the night and it chipped and the jagged bit is cutting into the root of my tongue every time I swallow, which is making me much more mindful of eating, breathing, talking and so forth. In many ways it’s good to do things with awareness, but when the payoff for forgetting is a constant low level dull pain then it’s not so good. This didn’t stop me from going out for a lovely meal, but any excuse for that as you all know by now.

Lou came to town. Last time I’ll see her before my birthday as she’s off to Mumbai to tell actors what to wear for a week. So she brought me my birthday present early. It was quite emotional to receive just as she had evidently taken a lot of time and thought over it. She knows I like to have something heavy on me when I’m sleeping and she knows I don’t really have any decent blankets. So now I’ve got a quilt.

Being Lou the materials are all great, and it is patchwork. She spent ages thinking about the patches. Mushrooms, owls, seasons, insects, big cats… There are reflections in it of the patchwork of some of the curiosities I’ve built into my interests in this life. I’ve hacked things together for almost fifty years now and assembled a motley collection of interests. Some of them are built into this warm heavy linen quilt. It’s beautiful. We sat in Battersea Park, next to the pagoda I can see from my bedroom, on a little hill where I’ve had a birthday party before. A little bit of evening sun in the smoke by the river. She made a cushion for me too. Now I have comfy things to bring with me to Stratford in a few weeks. Personal and thought through things. Such a lovely present to receive. I’ll treasure it.

I’m worried my tooth isn’t going to get any better quickly – I might need to get a dentist to file off the sharp bits. For now I’ll likely have a very restless sleep and then find or make the time out of rehearsals to get someone to sort it out for me. If it’s nasty dental work I need then at least I have a lovely comforting quilt…

It’s my birthday soon and I’ve not really thought about it. I think I’m just gonna have a party in the flat on the weekend after, as it is just before I go to Stratford and I’ve got loads of wine that needs drinking.

It’s strange to think I’ll be living in Stratford for quite a long time soon. I know that small portion of it around the theatre pretty well now… Minnie was there loads over the years. Plenty of other friends too. These plays have big casts. Lots of jobs for lots of people.

This morning I poached a Forest bike out from under someone who was standing right by it.I saw them trying to use the QR code and booked it on the app. Instant karma. He was a bit put out by my “oh sorry were you trying to rent that? I just claimed it on the app”. As soon as I sat down though it became apparent that one of the pedals was totally fucked. I limped away from him and over the bridge, hooking my foot under the pedal to try and turn it, too proud to just give it up immediately. Found a better one just south of the bridge and swapped it. Served me right. My hamstring still feels funny. Thankfully the battery kicks in with a single downward push of the pedal. I’m surprised more of them don’t turn up fucked after the weekend, as for every guy like me who is using the things there’s at least three people getting drunk and kicking them around for fun, not too mention the guys who hate them on principle because they’re new, and are trying to mess them up and make the business unworkable. Unless the mayor takes against them they are here to stay I reckon – and they lip service environmental tick boxes so long as we don’t think about the diesel powered maintenance trucks and the air miles and precious minerals needed for the batteries. But everything is smoke and mirrors and until we start trying we don’t have any chance of success.

Tomorrow quite a light day in rehearsal so I want to homework it to really be able to be free with my lines. We are past script time now and those of us with small parts should certainly lead the charge…

Tristan came. A Sunday night but ages ago I booked a table at St John’s Restaurant, for two, for tonight. It’s an anniversary and they are doing nineties prices.

Tristan used to work at St John when it was a hotel in Soho. He was assistant manager and shifted through a number of service roles. There’s a review where he is given a very funny and totally recognisable review as a sommelier. He read it to me dead pan when he was staying on my sofa.

Fergus Henderson his boss has become legendary in my mind as much as his. “How many capers should I put in this dish?” “I want you to imagine you have a dear old friend, someone you haven’t seen for a long long time, and one day you are just going about your business and you feel a gentle hand in your shoulder, and you turn round and it is that friend and you say ‘oh, it’s you!’. That many capers.

When I watched the Wes Anderson film Grand Budapest Hotel, I rang Tristan up and said “Fiennes is doing YOU!” Tristan told me that Wes and Ralph had been dining at St John’s during R&D and he kept on serving them. I like the idea that Fiennes got his character energy and manner from my dear Tris.

We had a lovely meal. We caught up and chewed the fat. But he’s no fixed abode so now it’s the bit where I normally pull out and go to bed. Tom is staying, so I’ve put him in my bedroom. I’m rehearsing tomorrow and I’m taking this job seriously, but it looks like I’ll be up later than I might want to be. I took him for €30 euros at backgammon last time and he has likely been online reading up game theory. One day he’ll beat me, meantime I’ll keep fleecing him. But this evening is going to involve some play. I’m not going to get off the hook without it.

A very varied meal. Lots of meat but perhaps my favourite bit was the white beans, chard and sheep’s curd. I’m chilled and happy, ready to go into the last bit of rehearsal, but wanting to be absolutely tight now on my part and my beats etc so we can work as deeply as we need to. A night on my sofa with Trist won’t be the best lasting l launch into things but it’s what I’ve got. insha’Allah.

Brian and I having a lazy Saturday at home. His expressed intention was not to leave the house all day and he’s done well. I briefly went out under the autumn sun and stopped by The Troubadour in Earls Court. I first went there aged about 19 when my mate Mellie was staying with Lottie up the road. Mellie was a model and a Christian, two things we had in common at the time. I actually can’t remember how we met, but it was one of those friendships where we occasionally kissed each others mates but never each other. As a result we are still friends now, as much as I’m able to hold down any friendships these days with all the jobs eating my head. Mellie is an artist now and still pursuing performance work.

Back then, as now, Chelsea wasn’t the right place for Bohemian hanging out, but Earl’s Court was excellent, right at the centre of one of the queer scenes at the time. Lots of cheap good eateries for dates picked up at The Coleherne. A great drama school just down the road, Webber Douglas, and a friendly pub theatre nearby – The Finborough. The Trobadour was and is right on the main drag. It has a downstairs performance space which has hosted stars as much as scratch comedy nights. It’s a place with personality. I’ve been there when a friend had her pet frog out and it was climbing the walls. They serve coffee, used to be artisan before the hipsters came. Bucket of brown sugar. They also have fine wines if you’re the type. Daytime wake-up, evening slapdown. We sat in the window and had a pot of Dale’s Hangover Tea despite no hangover. I helped a friend with some lines. It’s much easier and nicer with two.

It’s nice to find somewhere in London that is so unchanged. The door is memorable, a crafted heavy wooden one. It is clearly still well frequented. Groups getting drunk in the back, about ten musicians came in and out with instruments while we were there, people in front having coffee, really personable staff members. Is it getting old when you seek the places that make you feel young? It reminded me of the possibilities of those dreamy days of late teens. I’m not drinking at the moment and in London in the evening on a Saturday you’re hard put to find a place where you can sit and have something and not feel like you’re the only sober in the village.

A weekend, and I’m glad of it. Change of seasons and dare I blame lack of habitual alcohol for bad sleep and lowered immune system. I’m snuffling like an aardvark. Went over my bit at the end, and again I’m thinking about Jo Blatchley, lovely teacher, insightful man, back at Guildhall. “The worse it gets the more you smile,” he said once. It’s a coping strategy, to drive hard towards the positive, to give the appearance of comfort. But it’s not necessarily helpful when you’re coming into a room full of bodies.

I haven’t been called so much this week but I’m thinking I might start coming in anyway because the game changes fast, and it’s useful having bodies around for the process. Besides, what else am I gonna do, admin? Not when there’s a fecund and interesting room to be in just fifteen minutes from home. I’ve seen some lovely work from others, and bits of my work have rung out. It’s a long play. Loads happens before my main character arrives, so I’m gonna benefit from soaking up the energy of it all going forward, as long as I’m welcome.

Right now though a weekend is wanted to recover from this change of seasons cold. I think sleep is one of the things you’re supposed to do when you’re not well, so the fact it’s half midnight isn’t working in my favour. Bath is run though. Brian is shooting people in the living room. I’ve been playing a game set in Venice in the late 1500’s. I can call it mood research… But rest is more important. You can lose track of time playing those silly things… But some of them, like this one, are extremely well plotted and thought through.

I’m feeling quite pampered today. I don’t really need a cleaning lady, I could very easily do it myself. But all the washing up is done, all the clothes are washed, I’ve got clean sheets and the bathroom is nice. I had a wallow in it earlier to warm up a bit and now I’m luxuriating beneath my crisp new sheet, and the electric blanket is on. I even ordered Deliveroo. Brian and I demolished a crispy aromatic duck. Taste of the eighties. Gotta love that plum sauce and strange fatty bits of bird. “What type of duck do we eat?” asks Brian, and I tell him with confidence that they all taste roughly the same. And then I guiltily think of all the ducks I’ve tried to befriend over the years. Still. Tasty.

A fight director came in today, talking of fights and violence in real life. I think of the times I’ve been involved in actual violence, in an actual fight. Very few. Shouty bits. Pushy bits. Throwy bits. Apart from when Max and I used to roll around on the floor like wolverine, which felt natural as breathing until it stopped when we got too big, I’ve never really been involved in actual fisticuffs. A man offered to take me out of the tube carriage at the next stop and beat the crap out of me, but then when I stood up and said I’d prefer not to buy was willing to give it a try he backed down. Two guys calmly and quietly told me they were gonna break my arms and rub my face into the pavement just because they liked doing it. They didn’t realise the pub was full of my friends and Dean caught on that something weird was happening and solved it. In both instances I was cataloguing at high speed what I might have to do and how I might do it, while relaxing my body and tuning in to it. Both times the first punch never swung.

We spend more time in that space, just before the punch, than we do in the punch. As often as not the punch happens before anyone sees and all we get is the reaction. Malcolm kicked me hard in the bollocks and I was almost sick, nobody saw the kick. Tana knocked my down, I stood up and asked him why and he did it again. I stood up again and he knocked me down a third time. People saw the third one. I was still incredulous. He was huge. But Malcolm and Ang and I were twelve, thirteen, fourteen years old. Max and I stopped fighting when we got strong enough to genuinely hurt each other.

I’ve seen adult violence rarely… been involved hardly at all. But it’s part of the job as people hit each other the whole time in stories. Plus back in the renaissance people carried swords so things got a bit stabby. There were likely more murders in Sussex in 1596 than in the whole of the UK last year. So Shakespeare is writing in a time where violence is more normalised. We are going to start looking at the moments where weapons are involved, going forwards. It’s quite fun when it’s pretend.