Author: albarclay

I’m listening to politics on radio 4 and here it is so clear. The Tory has a lime in his mouth and his voice ticks the boxes of practiced RP. His rhythms are establishment rhythms. His inflections are familiar but I’m bored of them. But then the opposing voice has the upflection we have come to associate with campaigners who have no grounds for their campaign. It’s a vocal habit that expects full agreement and judges dissent in advance. “The thing I’m saying is common sense to every decent person who thinks correctly.” I always want to shout “ARSEHOLES” at people employing that voice, even if I agree with the content.

Both people are snakes. I do not want either of them anywhere near policy. But yeah they are talking about the possibility of election. I don’t know who either of them are, but I reckon you’ve heard of both of their schools. One has identified as establishment, the other has identified as anti, and has been in opposition long enough to never have been an adult when the prize was being part of establishment. It’s just one huge shitpie Hydra. The talking head moves around, occasionally might even come from a different neck, but… it is always part of the same Hydra. Undefeated. The Greeks knew what they were talking about.

Putin is clever though. See how he has pointing to Ukraine despite the IS taking credit for the attack that maybe he funded. This is the post truth world. And he has long made it evident that the laws our current peacekeepers have made don’t apply to Russia. Cuz they aren’t him. This is a big old geopolitical shift even if it looks like grandpa Tsartsar wanting the old Soviet Union back before he dies.

The worst part is that there’s gonna be so much killing. I’m still making sure I know where my iodine is, in case the first nuke isn’t on top of me. Pragmatically, these warheads have a best before date. Putin is a practical man.

I have been doing shows for the young of London. Perhaps they’ll have a world. I hope so. My guy wrote a political piece. And one of the motifs in one of the songs sticks with me: “You’ve gotta have guts to do big things!”

Maybe there’s hope.

Once more up in the morning and over to Ruislip to let a dealer into my friend’s house. Her dad blew loads on art before he died. This old guy was one of the people he was buying from. Less of a cutthroat than many of the other people who’ve been going round, but he really only wanted to buy back the stuff he’d sold for a bit less than he had sold it for.

This again though really blows into my feelings about art as an “investment”. I don’t know where I inherited the notion that art was a good investment but it was unquestioned for decades. I’ve never personally seen anyone selling a work of art that they bought for more than they paid for it, even despite them owning it for decades and inflation. Things that cost £750 in the nineties are going for £120 now. I’m sure it must be because of all the interruption between artist and purchaser. The above theoretical nineties picture probably went to a dealer for fifty and then to a gallery for £250 and then from the gallery at £750 with £1200 on the price tag crossed out. The art is still appreciating, but as with music etc etc the creator isn’t the one profiting, it’s the people with money and space and the sheer balls to ask for all that dosh.

They are attractive paintings that are being sold. Someone will love them. But her dad was buying them to stack up, probably thinking he was making clever investments. He’d have to live forever. He was not the sharpest tool in the box.

I discharged my obligations and then spun home, power nap and then off up to Camden to be an accidental revolutionary chewing gum. One more day of that tomorrow and then nothing in the diary until Japan. I’m enjoying the focus. Always nice to work with clever actors like Milo, and genuinely refreshing to be the youngest of three practitioners when I’m pushing fifty.

I walked into Pret a Manger in Mornington Crescent preoccupied and a bit sad. I’d just heard about the attack on the Russian concert hall, and my mind was on the whole WW3 thing that has been emerging on so many fronts at the moment. Ukraine as the flagship for a combined destabilising of international trust in the peacekeeping of NATO. Gaza as an example of how our allies behave – but VETO to keep it burning. Taiwan coming up, the prize for. And then this attack on civilians in Russia just as we are forgetting they are human. It’ll slightly dial back Putin’s ebullience after his inevitable election win. Sudan is killing itself as well, and much of Africa is in the balance. Spring is often the time that ward escalate, and here we are. There’ll be a great deal happening in the next few months. Likely a concerted attack on many fronts in Ukraine and new recruits burnt on the altar of one man’s dislike of the idea of NATO. They’ve started to call it a war now, The Russians. It has certainly been an extended trail of persistence, motive and resources. It’s far enough away from us still that we can all get overexcited about the colour of a cross on a football shirt. But longer it goes on the closer it gets.

This is why you shouldn’t listen to the news when you’re tired. I walked into pret despairing for the world, and the single member of staff behind the desk must have seen something in my demeanor. I got my soup and my sandwich for free, such a bright gesture over such dark thoughts. I love how Pret let’s their staff do that occasionally.

Showtime shortly thereafter and Milo and I once more enjoying the little revolutionary tale we are telling. It’s a happy little group, the Scene and Heard lot. I needed the focus at the moment so I’m glad they asked me. I’m in the process of pulling my socks up. Lovely while I do it to be in the room with such a wide selection of good practitioners, all craft positive, all kind.

I’m home now and even though I didn’t stay for drinks after the show again it is still later than normal people go to sleep. Morning won’t be super early though, and it’s just a bit of driving tomorrow and another show. I’ll likely listen to music so the news doesn’t spin me out again, even though it got me a free dinner.

A few hours ago I was sitting in a room with a dead body. Now I’m dressed up as watermelon gum listening to the audience laughing at an old mate who got famous.

Life is… life.

My mum’s old boyfriend died after breakfast. I found out just before I went to work. I drove over to the where he was and brought daffodils. When I found mum someone had put a daff on her. I said my farewells and did the same for him.

A dead body really is just dead. I’ve only seen a few. That spark that makes us all the things we can be … once it is gone we are just husk. Almost unrecognisable as human. The body is really just a vessel for… something.

Here tonight everybody is flashing with that something. Men and women dressed as the weirdest things. Mad scenes, friendships, songs, politics. Breath and words and eyes and the things that pass between us all that we can’t see.

Where is he now, the charming rake I used to fight with as a teenager? Where’s the slow old fellow having a smoke on the bench outside Tesco? Where’s the man who made a charity and gave me my first job designing the annual report? Nothing of what he was could be felt as I sat with him. But I spoke to him anyway, as some of us do with the dead, feeling the prickle of what might remain of him in the air, in the shiftspaces beyond the easy reach.

I’ve got to go join the Killy Revolution now. I’ve got to team up with a bunch of keys and defuse a hamster bomb. One day I’ll be that husk, but not today.

All the worries and the wasted time. All the things we spend so long with. We are not here long enough to forget the spark that makes us what we are. Kindle that spark, let it burn bright while it burns. And if that involves looking like an idiot in front of loads of people in order to raise the self esteem of a young man from Somerstown, then do it and do it with pride. This is Walter Extra, the limited edition watermelon gum, signing off for the day.

Without really thinking about it, we’ve been sitting on benches outside at dusk. It’s twenty to seven. There’s still a tiny residue of light in the sky, and it isn’t freezing.

Equinox. The first official day of spring. When I get home I’m switching off the central heating and then to hell with it, if there’s snow in April I’ll just freeze.

I’m at Theatro Technis up in Mornington Crescent doing dress rehearsal for Scene and Heard. Milo and I are on towards the end of the show so there’ll be no sneaking off early. Likely it’ll be a long night and I’ll get home late and sleepy. And hungry.

Invigilating this morning which always involves hauling myself out of bed earlier than I want to. Much groaning. Thank God Imperial College is in my borough and I can just bang up to South Kensington in Bergman half asleep. Plus they sell coffee at the college so as long as we get set up quickly I can indulge my addiction before all the students come rolling in. Then I had to post a package to Prague for Lou. I got home about 4pm desperate for a power nap. Got my head down for half an hour. Then up again and over to Camden for this long evening. You forget that about doing a show – you have to do the show. It really shapes how you budget your energy through the day.

It’s a lovely thing to be doing with a pleasant group of people as the winter shrugs away. I’m gonna get off the writing and enjoy the fact that I’m still outside and its dark.

I now have two boxes of corgi and dinky cars in the back of Bergman. Virtually none of them were made before 1986, so it is just bulk, but they are easy to list and I have an eBay mountain at home that I’m gonna have to climb anyway so it is time to start. When other people are involved it always gets easier so I thought I would take that “toy” category as I have plenty in that category to so I can put that whole “look at my other listings” thing and sell everything a bit better. But it is fascinating how the world of stuff-movement is clinging on, clinging on… Despite my desires.

My delight of a downstairs neighbour is struggling. But this evening she collared me cos she has some stuff and needs to realise some capital. I told her I am not really doing that anymore, but never underestimate my ability to get myself in too deep out of kindness and curiosity. She’s gonna need some help. There’s nobody else in her life with that skillset. What’s the point in knowing things if the knowledge never profits anyone. I might end up in Biarritz.

I do enjoy the whole energy transformation process. That cannot be ignored. With the internet it is much more possible to identify things quickly. My friend today had a “my dad had a porno statue” that she wanted to get rid of. A quick ignorant look on the internet and I had the material it was made from, the artist it is “after”, and an idea of what people have paid for such things in the past. It isn’t nothing.

Once again I find myself disappointed in her daddy, who was either naïve about the resell price of art or just was easily manipulated. He was the generation that decided they can’t work the internet, so very easy to fleece as everybody knows the going price of things but them. The piece itself? I mean even if you’re into bondage it ain’t that sexy. I think. It’s basically Rosa Klebb in nothing but heels and stockings, holding a riding crop and looking a little bored. It’s pretty big. There have been a few of them made, celebrating the work of Bruno Zach, and if this is an early enough copy it is a lovely thing for anyone who enjoys muscular domiatrix riding crop art. It’s certainly not original though, and as such it isn’t an investment and it might prove hard to display in many households if the in-laws are coming etc. It’s a statement sure, and in some contexts it works. I have some friends I know would stand into it. My friend’s pa had it hidden. I remember Cecil from Lost Theatre though back in the day, and his flat was a palace of cock. The right person would love this monstrosity. I’ll use very different words when I sell it.

There’s no photo. I left it in the car ahead of ‘auction Tuesday” next week and it isn’t mine. It’s enough of an invasion for me to write about it, but that’s been my day.

The model is clearly very diligent with their gym membership. She has mastered coordinated whacking while wearing stilettos. She will be carefully wrapped on my passenger seat and I’ll bring her up for a photoshoot before I go to dress rehearsal tomorrow …

Another exam in the morning and then over to my friend’s house again. Her dad died and there’s so much stuff it is a brainfuck. But she had an open house today hoping to shift things. I was really there as rentapal. No heavy lifting or anything. Just being upstairs if people were upstairs and being downstairs if they were down. And being a human friend who has her best interests at heart.

Listening to her I was impressed how she held her ground on prices. Everybody always wants a bargain. It’s why I stopped being interested in the antiques thing after taking all the time to educate myself. I realised that I didn’t like the story on either side. People gleefully tell you how they got the thing off some old lady, “she didn’t know what she had”. They tell these tales like they did something clever, giving some poor old woman fuck all for something worth loads. Not all dealers, of course. But too many.

Auction houses are better but there are too many people dying in London. You won’t get people taking job lots in this town as they won’t sell. Nobody has room for more stuff. Get out of town and it improves. It’s why I like Tennant’s In Leyburn. Diane told me one time about a truly precious vase they sold for millions that was on a windowsill in a house in York, unregarded. The joy she took in telling me was partly related to the fact that, in that case, it was spotted by an auctioneer not a dealer. So they sold it for the owner. Rather than got a bit sweaty on the back of the neck and said “Oh I might take that little vase off you, might get a few bob for it, how does fifty quid suit you?” The fact I won’t do that sort of thing though means that I am never gonna make real money from antiques. I’m either gonna end up with loads of stuff that belongs to someone else that I’m selling slowly over time, doing all the work and then taking a small percentage and swearing about it, or I’m gonna end up with a load of stuff I’ve bought for about what I can sell it for. You need space to do that sort of thing so it doesn’t just all end up in piles.

“He was our client for five years, and we always wondered how he hung all the pictures,” said a dealer today who came to the open house. “Now we know that he just… didn’t. It’s sad.” He was buying art at gallery price out of compulsion and piling it up. The prices he paid don’t speak of investment. It’ll be hard to get a fraction back of much of it. “Art is a solid investment,” I’ve been told many times, and my experience has almost never backed that up. Sure, buy a Picasso and it’ll gradually go up over time. But these galleries everywhere are flogging big pictures for big prices that you can’t get a return on – you’re gambling on the success of the artist of course. There’s the shot at insider trading if you know in advance which artists are gonna get pumped up out of college – (and you can usually read that).

I had a picture my dad bought from a Scottish gallery. He paid £450 back in the nineties. My half brother had tried to sell it at auction in London and it hadn’t made the £150 minimum. It was huge. I took it up to Tennant’s. It sold for £220. I was glad to be rid of it, but also aware that it was devaluing the guys work. I took another picture to Gorringes after someone offered me £100 on eBay and I took it down. I ended up seeing about £30 for that one. So even some auction houses suck.

If you want to sell anything for a good price, you need to be a fast talker with no scruples, or you need a shop and time. With that you can stick a high price on it and wait for the right person to walk in and love it. That happens. But rarely does it happen quickly. So the stuff accumulates in unregarded piles encroaching on our energy and time until eventually someone ruthless just hoiks the lot into the fire.

As I left I asked if I could have a particular overcoat. I lost mine. Now I have one again. Virtually unworn, but it fits great and will go with the waistcoat I have from another friend’s dead pa. I love it and it feels like a positive transfer between my friend and I, energy for energy, time for stuff, and a thing I will use and love come winter…

A proper Sunday lunch at The Chelsea Arts Club courtesy of an old family friend. “You should be a member here,” I get and sometimes I think I should start that process before I’m geriatric but then it’s a monthly subscription and will I be in Chelsea long enough to make use of it? As often as not I’m happy to go out to the local pubs. There are some great ones in the area. The Phoenix on Smith Street, just a short walk from mine, is one good example.

After lunch, after rehearsal, a quick pint of Guinness there because after all it is St Patrick’s Day. It left me feeling bloated though. Guinness is good for you, they used to say, but I was of a mind to yak it back up for a while.

A good Sunday though. This time of year is often sad for me. Distractions and old friends very welcome. Nina even paid for lunch so I’m gonna get one back for her. Is a good roast at that club, but it’s not the budget option. Lots of interesting art, not the youngest visible membership, no mobile phones allowed. A little snapshot of a different world.

I did dandle with the idea of a club. I liked the look of The House of St Barnabus but now that’s gone and Birch along with it, more’s the pity.

I’m happy and warm at home. Well fed and good company. Early start tomorrow, back on exam time. I should sleep but I’m wired. Gonna lie in the bath for ages. That’ll fix it. Happy Paddys.

What a delight of a day. The light of spring, but the cold of winter clinging on, and in the morning I drove up to Somerstown to have a costume fitting. This time I’m going to be a stick of gum. I’m trying to think back over what has happened to me in the past with this project. My first was a Travel Cup. I remember that well. I fell in love and danced with Barbara’s tin of sardines. It was a beautiful gentle piece of theatre, from the mind of an eight year old girl.

One time I was a mole, shot with missiles. An evil bacteria… COVID interrupted my turn about two years ago as an ice cube tray. All of a sudden we went into lockdown.

The costume often informs the movements. I’m not sure how easy it’ll be for me to roll on the floor. But as ever the costumes are coming together beautifully and it’ll do the child playwright’s proud.

We all saw each others work today for the first time since the read-through. These very difficult lines and strange thoughts borne out with as much diligence and integrity as can be mustered in a few short sessions. I’m very much enjoying working with Milo, who is a similar blend of spontaneity and rigor.

The plays are often very funny, as much because they put things so clearly. The young playwrights can often encapsulate adult issues in ways we forget as we grow old. Looking at the work today I was proud to be accepted by that little group. They’ve been a little solid community over the tricky years I’ve navigated so far, bringing joy and keeping the acting muscles in trim. Like The Factory, this working life has become about the little communities of people encountering the same ups and downs.

Sunday off and I’m gonna lie in. Then next week is show week. Joys.

I spent the whole day on the internet booking things. I honestly don’t know if I’m gonna stay in half the places I’ve booked, but they are there if I need them and they are all cancelable at the mo. I’m having to be organised and I hate it. But Japan is small and crowded. Even in the rural areas. And apparently spring is a popular time so perhaps I’m gonna be part of the human centipede when I walk this route.

It’s tiny. When I think it took me over 40 days to get to Santiago from Lourdes, this is just like a stroll to the end of the garden. If I walked my usual Camino days I would only need two nights maximum on the trail. I always think the Camino people online are behaving as if something easy is difficult so I still smell a rat when people do it about Kumano Kodo. I bet I get there and I’m part of a conveyor belt pilgrimage. But this idea they all have, that it is far flung and there’s only one bed and you have to fight sumo wrestlers to earn it? I’ll buy it as far as I have to. I’m not gonna risk getting stranded. Well, apart from one night, when I’m totally gonna risk exactly that because the internet is turning up blanks and the only way to book a night in that village is by contacting one of the travel agent resellers and I hate them so I’d sooner walk all night or sleep in a bush.

Most people regularly replying to Facebook groups only leave the house on special occasions. a the outdoors is big and scary. But they are right that there’s no online availability for these places so maybe that means something. It might not bear out when the real world is happening, but rather than take the risk of multiple nights sleeping rough I’ve reduced those chances to just one night and I’ve got a nice hostel in a town with hotsprings the day after.

To do that I had to book everything backwards, so I’m walking counterflow. The retired emperors used to walk counterflow anyway – it is only the tour groups that have imposed a direction on this walk. I guess it’ll mean I see a lot of people, but it also means I won’t have that experience I had a few times on Camino when I’m walking through a glorious wood and there’s group in earshot behind me making textbook small-talk about “What’s your favourite whatever the hell and why?” “If you were a glurk, would you be ergen or splurgen?” Like some people do on dates. yuk.

Then I went to a late Scene and Heard rehearsal. That is still fun. I’m happy about how it will all play out. A really lovely team and out of all of them I’m the youngest. Well, if you discount the writer who’s ten.