Author: albarclay

The launderette next to Lidl. If you don’t have your own washing machine then you are paying eight pounds in that place just to spin your wet sheets. You only need a year of that to buy your own machine, but you can’t buy the space to put it in. Stupid world.

It’s busy for a Sunday. A mum is there with teenage girls talking about Roblox. A man with a flatcap alarmingly similar to mine is intermittently coughing, and he’s largely on the phone loudly to the estranged mother of his child. He is gushing with intention. He talks of “love” like he’s read about it. It is colour and noise.

A bit later he panics that he’s put money in the wrong drier. His movement is wobbly. The Roblox mum intervenes. He feels strange and hostile, but she jousts him into being present with her. Her daughters have gone to Lidl. “You should get off the booze,” she tells flatcap. “It killed my brother at 36. His liver was the size of a football.” She is right in there with him, she’s helped him with the drier but she’s making sure he’s paying attention. He looks sad and evasive “It’s so readily available,” he pleads. ‘Yeah it is, but you make the choice.” “It killed my mum too,” I volunteer. “She was fifty five.” “That’s my age,” she says. “Close to yours too,” she sends over. He looks shifty a bit. She stays on him. She saw the alcoholic before I did. This is her mission. “Get yourself off that stuff. You can. It’s alright, but you have to stop or you’ll be dead soon.” He looks at her, and he leaves, saying nothing. He’ll be back when the timer is out but I’m almost done.

Remorseless and brilliant, that mum. “He’s a nice man but …” she confides to me. I bag up my stuff and bid her good day.

Sunday roast and I struggle about whether or not to have wine with it. We’ve all seen it, the disease. Booze is only fun when its fun. That man wearing my hat was dizzy at noon. He had been eaten by it, and she knew that the only way out was his intention.

I’m ok in my ivory tower. Rain on the skylight, the roar of the waves to my left, no booze. Sunday night. Just Tessy and I hanging out.

“How about we burn the chicken on the beach this weekend?”

I’m glad I sent that text. I hadn’t worked out the logistics yet. But we had a huge chicken to be rid of and it was basically made of paper. Burning it in London would almost certainly bring George. “Excuse me, sir,” says George. “Do you have a permit etc etc.”

So. 3.45pm. We get the thing out of the boot.

By the time we get it out the boot we have already purchased FIREWORKS. At ASDA. ’tis the season. We purchase a huge amount of gunpowder for 43 quid. We also rather gingerly load up a wooden bed that had been chucked in Kemptown. I am very careful about potential bedbug contamination.

We drive to Ovingdean. We unload. We seek a discreet place.

Francis Bacon the essayist died after trying to demonstrate to Doctor Witherspoon, physician to the king, that freezing meat extended its life. This was the sixteen twenties. Doctors were idiots. Bacon was correct but he got pneumonia shoving snow up a dead chicken’s bum. It killed him, but the Pond Square ghost, reported most frequently in the blitz when such things became significant, was the ghost of the chicken. I love that it haunted the square for nearly 300 years and was only barely marked, and then we had no food so loads of people chased a chicken until it went through a wall and then cried “GHOST!”

—

Siwan has kept this thing under her stairs for 5 years. She has flatmates. She’s used it twice in that time. It isn’t enough. It had to go.

We nestled it nicely between two rocks (above is prep). The tide was coming in. We then filled it and surrounded it with fireworks.

Fire happened. Littoral fire. The tide will cover this area. There are no homes with pets anywhere near. There’s no negative emotion about this chicken but for the fact it couldn’t be in my car or Siwans’s home.

I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t love fire. That’s our animal role. We keep the fire. No other adaptation of species understands how to create and guard fire.

We made a good safe fire. I was still worried about shitbrain FRIe MaRsHlAss saying “Dat Fnire iS BaDdd” Thankfully we respectfully burnt our chicken without Captain Me-dothing intervening. I’m thinking about the Hampstead Heath idiots who just go round and round forever achieving fuck all.

Shoe is already pretty much back in London. We did a good burning. I’m happy we left as little trace as possible.

I am getting better at using Lou’s kitchen, but my dyed-in-the-wool habit when away from home is to pay for someone else to do the cooking and the washing up. In digs there’s always a negotiation. Even here. I choose not to cook meat with Lou’s implements. That would just feel disrespectful, but taking into account that I’m savagely carnivorous despite the fact that meat is killing humanity, it means that if I desire my bloody feast of bone and gules then I must look up the local delivery options.

I wanted hot food too. Spicy hot. Frank had a cold when I left. All of us are leaking from the temperature shift. Heat heat heat.

There’s a local sit down Thai where everything is served with vanilla and ice cream. I once asked for a dish to be extra hot and they poked it with a stick a little bit and then blew on it. Nah. I went to the rival takeout only place over the road. Kemp Thai. It is closer to what I learned to love in London in the nineties. Back then every pub in the south west had a Thai kitchen. They blew your head off for cheap. The last one, at the Rose and Crown… it finally died in lockdown. I was so regular at The White Hart opposite Fulham Broadway Station back then that I interviewed Jan and Ang in 2001 for my friend Jeanette who was vocal coach on The King and I. They got free tickets and loved it. I used to stop there for dinner and a pint after drama school, two or three times a week. I just… got used to properly hot Thai spice.

It’s possible I shot my palate to hell back then, but I can still tell the nuance in wines. I think it’s a raw palate, but it’s still pretty full of shapes in my tasteface. I really noticed it when COVID took my smell for a bit.

I remember being in Bangkok and ordering the hottest thing on the menu and being fine with it though. I still can’t do Indian spices to the same level, but Thai and I get on fine. Until the next morning which can be interesting.

But I’m happy and full of heat this evening. I’ll turn in soon and let myself be dictated to by the night. It is cold and dark. I have nothing I am supposed to be doing. I’ve raised my internal heat with food. No harm in matching it with a hot bath and an electric blanket thereafter. Joy. Tessy is fine. She has her box.

Ahh the sea the sea.

Tessy is staring at me. I’ve come down to the edge of land in order to see her little pointy ears. Frank is looking after Boy, but I’m carrying his scent. “Who is this?” she asks of the boystink, and I can’t help wondering if they’ll get on. Pickle almost had Boy’s eyes out the first time he stayed at mine. Tessy would likely disdain to be so hands on, but she would be plotting his intricate demise. This is her domain, by the crashing waves. Here she has her snacks and expectations, her medicine and her strokings. I am here under sufferance and largely permitted because I can give her food.

I’m happy to be away from London for a few days, down here again in the wind. Parking outside here rots your wipers. We are in the salt wind. Nothing is safe. Lou’s bike is tough as boots and she still got it inside before she went away. Ahh Brighton.

I’ve only packed the basics as ever. Underwear and technology. Socks and chargers. This flat is cosy and warm so I don’t need more. It is very much missing a Lou, but pleasant even without. If only it didn’t get so dark in the world so fast.

I’ve got the weekend here to relax. I’ve brought that fucking gargantuan papier maché chicken in the boot. I’ll be carrying it wherever I go before we finally finally destroy it ceremonially next week I hope.

I’m in bed already. Happy and chilled. Tessy isn’t sure if she should come and hang or if it’s my territory, so I’m just gonna let her make her mind up. Lou joined the electric blanket under a mattress topper revolution, so I’m happily in a familiar heat as I write. I’ve got a permit to stay where I am all day with Bergman tomorrow, so no need to be adventurous. The seaside, even in winter, can be relaxing. I’m gonna breathe out.

I’m absolutely spent but loads of people have been positive to me about my “energy”. Apparently it was a hugely successful fundraiser and charity auction. Their best yet. Wow. Over £83000 profit.

So yeah. Phew. A lot of my energy over the last few days has gone to being ready for this. Sure, I’ve done a couple of charity auctions over the years. I’ve learnt a bit. About enough. Speed is of the essence. You need to know the lots. And a realistic idea of minimum is crucial. Once I was trying to flog a hideous bracelet with racing cars on it and they weren’t going to let it go for anything approaching fair price. Stuff like that means you die on your feet, especially if you haven’t been told in advance what they think its worth.

This one we had realistic prices, mostly. Some of the experiences were hard sells, as they needed you to book your own transport etc. Berlin was not popular, Venice was. A room full of haze and I had to do loads and loads of talking, and we had some really solid pledges made at the end, but I had to ask for water at one point as I was working very very hard behind that mic. Was MC /Compere as well, so introducing speakers and calling to dinner and all that, with a Shakespearean nod just because it’s the 400th Anniversary of the first folio and we are under The Globe.

Now I’m in an uber home and it smells of horrible air freshener. When I get home it doesn’t stop. Gonna set up the lights and tripod and film myself talking for an audition. Then packing for a week away and I’m off to Brighton and then Reading to see first Lou’s cat and second Lou herself, who will be in Reading eventually. As I write she’s in Liverpool washing sweaty dancer underwear that she could flog on eBay cos they’re off a talent show on the telly. She wants me to see her little cat. I want to see her too, and get out of the smoke after Halloween and this. I’m done. Cat = yay but I like the idea of seeing Lou much more. I could sleep for a week right now though.

Nice to be in an Uber. Sometimes it’s ok to treat yourself. I don’t want to do this self tape audition right now but I’m in the suit I want to wear so it just makes sense to do it before bed. Then I can slightly lie in. This cold holds me in bed longer than it is strictly normal. Tessy will have medicine in the morning. I just have to sleep in Brighton tomorrow.

I’m feeling pretty happy. This auction has taken up loads of my headspace. As the CEO said: “You’re an actor. The auction is a different skillset. Often you find people can’t do both.” I needed to allay such concerns and prove to myself I can do it at this level. He was happy so I was happy. Record breaker etc. And the thing I call acting totally blends with the auction requirements, as it’s an energy exchange. It’s a channeling exercise. If I can be alive enough you will remember to be alive too. Money is energy. Hooray! All done. Uber almost home. Time to do some more work. Then sleep at last and a less busy brain for a while.

Trying to take it easy today ahead of what I’m anticipating as being quite a stressful day tomorrow.

This won’t be the first charity auction I’ve done but it’ll be the first I’ve done where I’ve put these stakes on myself. I’ve tried to ask and right questions and be in the right state of mind. In the past I’ve been given no information ahead of time and then had to go improvise frantically. This one is pretty solid and actually I’m not too concerned about it. I watched an old friend working as MC when there was a charity auction. He’s off Corrie so he was there as personality rather than expert. When it came to the auction he passed the baton to this grey man in a suit, who understood the mechanics of auction but had no vigor. I was disappointed my friend hadn’t done it himself. When I spoke to him after he said “I refused. It seemed like too much work.” He can do that and still get the gig because he was on that Corrie. I had to be the Jack of all Trades in the pitch. My CV really doesn’t match my skillset.

This time tomorrow night I’ll be in the thick of it. “And coming next…” I might have to default at “Ladies and Gentlemen” just for speed and confidence. “My dears my darlings my pleasures my treasures” is too informal for the charity I’m representing, and perhaps adding “… and everything in between” is too fussy when I’m doing it repeatedly. I might do it reflexively though. Just generally I prefer to be informal and this feels quite buttoned up. When you’re trying to persuade rich people to be generous you don’t want to confuse them with something kind that they mistake through their prism as politics.

I’ll be up tomorrow fretting about ties. Likely I’ll bring multiple options to the venue and I might even change halfway through the event.

Bedtime now. Like yesterday it is late and I’m tired. Perhaps my body is trying to teach me to be healthy.

Night night my darling.

Once more I’m clean shaven. It’s cold in my face.

The dark closing in so early is making me really sleepy.  I put myself into an early bed with the electric blanket on and I’m not concerned that I’m calling an end to a day that barely really began. I’ve been Monday weekending again. Doing a bit of research, read a script, looked at some lines for a self tape. But despite the beauty of the crisp clear winter day, I resolutely stayed at home and did as little as possible. A bit of Alan Wake, a bit of reading. The inevitable bath. But I am feeling like I can barely keep my eyes open.

Having a late night last night probably doesn’t help, even though it was lovely to sit at table and put the world to rights into the small hours. I can barely keep my eyes open. I even had to switch off the electric blanket to even give myself a tiny chance of completing more than one paragraph before I have to just give up on this and pass out.

Old Soho, running up against New Soho, running up against tourists.

I sat in The Coach and Horses tonight and watched Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell. I recognised Hilary from The French House sitting just next to me. With her, a well known cartoonist, an epoch maker of old Soho. Through Maddy and The Factory in the past I’ve been made welcome by that shrinking crowd. The cartoonist tonight was angry about tourists. “I was there, you know, when he decided to kill himself.” This is a play about a personality, magnified, localised, amplified. You can’t be like that any more. Ollie Reed. O’Toole. They all died their wet deaths, and what remained? This kind of thing. Eulogies to people who threw their colour at nothing.

There is nothing to celebrate with this story, but for the “glorious past. This is a fucked story of self abuse pushing to idiocy. This is a charismatic beautiful man who fell apart and took his own life, and the play we have about him promotes his monster. I really struggled not to hate it. It was located so perfectly, acted without bullshit and with compassion. We sat together in the pub where so much of it happened and he lost his fucking LEG to bad circulation.

Some very funny audience snipes after the show, particularly into the “20 grand an episode soho dwarf” now running private eye. I had a good night. I didn’t want to celebrate wet death.

This morning I woke up to remember we had guests for lunch. Mad rush to M&S to buy chicken and bits. Frank went tidy mad and I cooked the hell out of everything. Three hours after I left the house in a panic there was bird with cauliflower cheese and honey carrots and roast tatties and stuffing and gravy. Nom. I got to hang with old friends and Frank.

Now I’m happy to be home again post show. I drunk loads of wine. I’m good to stop. But Tristan, Frank and I are sat around a table, and Tristan is likely staying on the sofa.

Sleep? Hopefully. Soon.

Ahhhh quarter past one and oh yes I write a blog every day. This day doesn’t really qualify, but I tried to exist despite my desire to just vanish into plop. I did put my boiler on for the first time in ages. Only for a few hours. Just as humans were coming round my flat. Siwan came with my spare car key and a friend. By a quirk of geography I get the best view of the Battersea Park fireworks display. People line up along the river outside my flat. Boats anchor and hang out. I just get to look out the window.

A little part of me was going to do some Shakespeare tonight for my old school. Inch Thick. Knee Deep. I decided not to. I was making the decision about the time my teeth exploded. I’m very glad I said no this time. I might have stressed myself out for no great benefit. Now I’m home and never had to leave, and I saw some lovely fireworks.

I played classical music and we watched it all happen. No sense of missing out. It is better from my side of the river than if you pay and go hang with the humans. Still I was happy at the end that I can just chill out now and I don’t have to fight my way through crowds to get home.

However long I still have in this flat, the time is precious. Frank and I live very well together thankfully. Him being here came out of necessity but has become very positive.

I’m writing this late and sleepy and there’s been little new to report. So screw the notional word minimum. This is me, human, humanning out and into sleepy bed bed. .mmmmmm

Thinking to stay sober, I drove into Soho at half nine. Unbelievable traffic. Still no parking spaces. We were booked for a late night show at Soho Theatre. In the end I gave up and parked in Brewer Street Car Park. They want a tenner an hour plus change. We walked into the crowded Soho Theatre bar at ten to ten.

I used to exist in places like that. There’d be little pockets of mates by coincidence all over the place in there. I’d be catching up with old friends, meeting new ones, doing something that felt like making friends even if after a while you forget who you’re with.

It was familiar but different in that bar tonight. Still the same bar, the same noise, the same vibe. No familiar faces though. My lot have all moved out of town or they’ve got the kids to think about. They watch the show and go home. Considering the cost of parking and the fact I couldn’t drink, my plan was the same tonight. Things were made easier by not knowing anyone in that bar. Too many times I’ve ended up somewhere underground at 4am after a late show in Soho. Tonight I got home just after midnight.

I like that space at the top. I brought a show there once in the faraway long ago times. I’ve seen friends scratch the things that made them famous up there. Tonight Frank and I were in to see Lachlan Werner with his Voices of Evil. It was fab.

Friday night in Soho and the audience was gobby. Lachlan knows he’s quick so he’s built loads of audience chaos into the show which is always a joy for me, and he rolled with it. He held people to account. He doesn’t let audience fob him off with crap answers, and he quite rightly hauled out one audience member for responding in their “acting voice”. There’s memories of Red Bastard in the way Brew, the (puppet?) witch piles into people trying to get off the attention-hook or trying to show off.

It’s a clown show with ventriloquism. He’s a delightful mischief of a clown, and when Brew talks she really talks. The show is exactly the sort of thing I love, and I’m so glad Frank introduced me to Lachlan. His joy is apparent, he sets things up to be live, he sends himself up and shares vulnerability with us, but also he’s witty as fuck and there’s a backbone of extremely hard work invisibly holding the whole silly fun ritualistic joyful nonsense up. He’s worked hard enough that all the chaos can happen and it will always hold together.

Now I’m gonna try and sleep. My patterns are all out of whack. I’ve been going to bed way too late and waking up at lunch. No more of that.