Category: Uncategorized

As the sun sets I’m sitting by Fistral beach with a pint of German Pils. The receptionist in the hotel was German. I have already heard many conversations in German. I hadn’t realised the extent that one woman’s writing has affected the way in which people choose their destinations. Cornwall is a good choice though. It reminds me forcibly of Jersey. Similar landscape and seascape, but also customs and slang. (I’m a “grockle” here, a Cornishman is a grockle in Jersey.)

It’s peaceful here too, outside of the constant roaring of the waves – and it’s beautiful. Those waves are rolling in, rolling back, rolling in, dotted with surfers. I count 30 of them holding themselves in place waiting for the right moment. Occasionally one of them takes that moment and they’re up, cartwheeling their arms, trying to make it last, dancing impossibly on the water before absurdly sinking back down upright and then swimming back through the waves to do it all over again. Dozens of little black dots in the evening sea getting fit by mistake while having fun.

Nearer the shore, dogs play in the spume. The air is cleaner here. The smiles are more genuine. The waitress likes my suit. I’m in a selection of three pieces while I’m filming, on and off set. Good to look the part. My uncle Peter’s Gucci shoes could’ve had as much of an effect on my getting this part as my delivery of the lines in the audition did. They’ve made it into the costume which is unusual and amusing for filming at this level. I should probably get them polished. For however long I’m in Cornwall I’m dressed sharply. And why the hell not?

I’m here because of this German relationship with the crooked ancient leg of England. There’s a well trodden path from Germany to Cornwall now. Hence the fact I’m drinking “Schwaben Bräu” on the Fistral as I write this. My hotel room overlooks the sea from a headland. There’s a four poster bed, and a ghost maid who tucks you in when you’re sleeping. They left fudge for me on the bed, and nuts and water came from the production company, who had the perspicacity to empty the mini bar of all but water and juice before the actor hit the bedroom. I only checked out of curiosity honest guvnor.

Lots of lovely cards to say hello, some from the hotel some from the unit. I’d forgotten this, about filming. People can treat you so well.

Flying here was a strange luxury. We spent more time sitting delayed on the stand at Heathrow than we did in the air. There were only two people wearing hats on the plane and the other one sat next to me. She had a banjo. I knew she’d be something to do with the production but decided to fall asleep instead of making small talk so I said literally nothing to her but “punch me if I snore” and fell into happy sleep until I was surprised by the landing.

When I met my car the driver said “I hope you don’t mind. Max’s girlfriend is on the same flight.” Max is the male lead. “Yeah she’s in baggage reclaim with a Stetson,” I said. “She seems chilled. I slept next to her for the whole flight.”

Sure enough it was her. So we had the smalltalk in the car instead which was far less awkward. I thoroughly like her. But now I’m back on my own, doing that thing you do when filming of making sure you remain available and near unit base whilst also making sure you don’t get too bored. My pick up is 9.30 tomorrow which is very civilised. I’ve had cars at half five before. So maybe I’ll have another German Pils and give some money back to the economy that made this all possible. And then some FISH. omnomnom

Halfway through a game of rounders, I get a call from Germany. It’s the unit base. Bad weather contingency filming. There’s been lots of bad weather in Cornwall. More bad weather even than they’d catered for. The downside of filming by the seaside. It must be the same in The Isle of Man. They need me on set on Tuesday so I’m flying to Newquay tomorrow. Flying. To Cornwall!! Indulgence. Joyful. I get to take a checked bag because they’ve asked me to bring the Gucci shoes I wore to audition. I’ll probably bring some even more bullshit shoes as an option. I have no idea how long I’ll be in Cornwall for. So I’ll just load up with pants and socks, and take a stack of smart clothes and the means to play music, the means to charge phones and the means to read books.

It’s worth mentioning that I’m better at rounders when I’m on the phone than I am when focusing on the rounders. Who knew? When I wasn’t in the middle of a work call, I missed the ball three times. When I was on a work call I tried to wait until the call was over before playing my turn. But I ended up having to play mid call with people shouting “What you doing on the phone?” loud enough that they definitely heard it. I had to tell them. “I’m playing rounders while we talk.” I informed them. Then successfully  whacked the ball and ran to second base while on the phone to the unit. They employed me for the truth of me. Why lie?

It appears I’ve agreed to fly to Newquay tomorrow afternoon. There is no return booked. We are a slave to the weather. They’ll do what’s possible when it’s possible and I’ll be on standby in my smart shoes. I’ll be part of a huge machine making it possible. I love filming for that aspect. So many people simultaneously specialising, using time in a very odd way, making stories in this clever disjointed beautiful community manner.

Glad I get a suitcase. But what to put in it? I’ll decide tomorrow morning.

My Sunday afternoon was a delight. Lots of very grounded people. No alcohol. I’m lucky to have influences like that in this somewhat unpredictable and haphazard existence. Especially considering what was to come, where a spontaneous decision to make sure I didn’t miss the party of a dear friend – who has always been there for me – spiraled into a potentially lethal situation with some of the most efficient party friends I’ve got. I somehow managed to call it at just 1am. I’m getting better at calling it. But going into this long run of work its a good practice.

This coming period is what I’ve been waiting for. What I’ve been working for. When I feel like my time is not my own I’ll be good to remember that. All the work I’ve done finding income streams that don’t tie me down in advance is validated at last. And looming large on the horizon is a period where I take the booze out of the equation in order to maximise my time and emotional availability because I’ll have to maximise it. This is the cusp of a great summer. Bring it on.

I went to Guildford. Dan and Jules are there . Dan is an old old friend. He’s making things with virtual reality. “How many times in your lifetime has there been a new storytelling medium?” he asks rhetorically.

Loads though. Loads. What a lifetime for storytelling change. Technology changes and storytelling changes with it. Text based Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Twin Kingdom Valley. Adventure and Raiders of the Lost Arc on Atari 2600. Pools of Radiance on PC. Eye of the Beholder on Amiga. DikuMUDs using early internet. I remember talking live to someone in America from Reading and having my mind blown about how it could be possible. And having to type “eat bread drink flask” in the middle of my conversation to stop my text avatar from being hungry and thirsty even if I was hungry and thirsty myself. Those MUDS are still extremely deep games. Some still exist. But we went to graphics.

Wolfenstein to Doom to Half Life to Garry’s Mod to Minecraft. Forward to backwards to forward. GTA 1 to Red Dead 2. Unrecognisable, but trackable. The capacity of computers has multiplied and multiplied in the time I have been alive. So has the money available. It might be that in retrospect we are at the peak of the golden age right now for computer games. We are building the pyramids out of slave labour. Human rights and regulation might make future Red Dead 2 type games impossible.

In the early nineties we all thought that the people with mobile phones were needy. “Oh come on. Like you need to be contactable at all times!” “What a tit. Like he can’t arrange the evening before it starts!”

Now we all feel anxiety if we are parted from it for a second. “Ok Google, where’s my phone?” It’s our placebo. Our database. Our external memory. Our knowledge base. Our crutch.

I’ve been flailing around at Dan’s on Oculus. It’s incredible. Less sickmaking than PlayStation as the frame rate is better. Your brain is less aware that it’s being lied to. The potential for this medium is limitless, as soon as the base tech becomes affordable. If there were demo points all over the place where you could sample it for free, people would be happier to stump up the cash for the initial outlay. But as it is it’s a huge outlay for something that failed to take off in the eighties. Like 3D film, it had failed once before. Despite people being quite evangelistic about it, it seems that 3D redux is still an expensive flash in the pan and now you can go see Avengers without having to pay 3 quid extra for shit glasses. VR though… It’s here to stay and it’s only going to get deeper. You can do so much with it. Brian bought Super Hot, which is unusual but a deep demonstration of the medium. This evening I’ve played Tsuro VR, which is Dan’s own creation – although not on PSVR yet. Beat Saber. Res. You can be transported in these pieces of work. It really is like plugging in to the matrix. Terrifying and brilliant at the same time. We will make a whole generation blind. We will destroy human contact and replace it with stories. And we will smile and say “This is good.”

I’ll keep making theatre. I’ll do random stories where you have to come to the room where the story is happening. Where the actors can see you.  I’ve enjoyed being a mischievous mini golf pro today for A Door in a Wall, fucking with strangers in real life for clues. And then I’ve spent the evening plugged in to a headset, flailing like I’m having a dementia nightmare, my brain thinking I’m the lightsaber wielding dancer. To the world outside looking like the spasmodic helpless gimp. Now my eyes can’t focus.

I got to ride in the front of an ambulance though. Result. They were on a call for my friend who had picked up a heatstroke alcoholic. I helped them find him and got a ride. The real world can be as random and interesting as games. And less curated. How many of you have ridden in the front of an ambulance. And it just … happened.

Well so much for William. Antique identification is a lifetime of work and interest. Time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted. But William didn’t seem to know much more than me really, despite him being close to me in age.

His interest was mostly in the stuff that I’d already identified as useful, although he did put his interest into one thing which I hadn’t rated so I’ll send that lot to him. As for my mum’s extensive and expensive porcelain habit, buffered for years by my dad’s auction addiction, he either couldn’t help me or didn’t fancy it. Maybe I didn’t help him too. I was deliberately downbeat about it all.  He’s probably used to people telling him “All these pieces are Ming dynasty, my granny told me.” I thought I’d go the other way for refreshment

Of some of the stuff I’ve saved from the smoke:

“These are probably good,” he says of troglodytic children proffering flowers that were covered in a membrane of tar until I sprayed them with bleach and chlorine, left them overnight in ammonia, went at them with oven cleaner and a wire brush and finally scraped the residue off with a tiny screwdriver. When they were smoked the contents of the trays looked like deadly mushrooms.

“They’re probably Derby by the patch marks.” I respond. “But they’re hideous. It’s like they’re trying to poison you.” His interest flicks away. It’s like I’m talking to a customer, not a potential ally, where I’m supposed to sell things. Come on mate. “What about these ones with the nodding heads? I haven’t cleaned them yet. They’re probably crap.”

His gaze passes them. Probably as I haven’t cleaned them but also as I suspect that they’re bad and he’s listening to me rather than using his gumption. Because he knows very little. Mum loved them though. I have to be careful not to be that guy who thinks his parents’ stuff is the best stuff in the world. Still, William doesn’t even lift them up to look for marks. Because he’s here to find the magical million pound piece. And this guy works for the bottom of the pile in my (maybe flawed) estimation of auction house ranking.

He picks up a platter. It’s very attractive. Mel picked it up too. It’s out because it’s interesting. I know it’s ribbonware. I think it might be German. “I like this,” he says. I say “Yes, me too. What is it?” He’s the expert. He turns it over to find the nothing useful that I found. *He keeps on doing this behaviour, as if I haven’t done the basics before calling him. Why would I call him if I hadn’t drawn a blank?* He draws a blank. “Well it’s ribbonware,” I prompt. “Any idea where it’s from though?” Nothing. Still. “Might be German?” He shrugs. He moves on.

“These pieces are definitely Nanking Cargo”, I say. “Some of them still have the Christies label from the original sale. Others I think are the same provenance but the label’s fallen off.”

He responds to the words “Nanking Cargo” with the silence of the person that doesn’t know about it, which is fine if you’re not “an expert” in porcelain, but shoddy if you are. I am deliberately vague about how many pieces there are. He shows no interest anyway. He’s losing points hand over fist now.

In 1752 the Dutch ship Geldermalsen sank with a consignment of porcelain from China, who had worked out how to make porcelain long long long before Europe did. The goods lay shipwrecked under the sea for over 200 years before Mike Hatcher found and salvaged the boat in 1986. It was a huge discovery, intact after all that time. Christie’s sold it all, broken up into lots. The pieces are valuable enough for their age, and more so for their provenance. Blank looks coming from our boy though. He’s overlooking things left right and centre. This is the wrong person and the wrong place to move this stuff. That much is clear.

“Seven years ago, we’d have taken all these boxes, organised them into lots, and sold them  all for you.” “But now?” “But now the market’s changed.” “So what are you going to take” “The things you already identified as valuable and told me were valuable. Those are the only things I want. Plus one surprise.” (Not his exact words but his content.) So he wants to cherry pick, and there is only one single item he has made me understand has value. Screw that. I’ll bring them the surprise item to sell because it surprised me. I’ll trade their 15% of that for his time – certainly not for his knowledge. He didn’t even want this cast iron clockdude.

Which is good as I love him. “He’s made of wood!” says William for a second, with a sneer, revealing the shape of  his expectation with this stuff. I almost wang him with it when he goes that far. In that moment I’m done with him. He’s an idiot. He’s a keen amateur, sent over when they can’t be bothered to send someone good. I hope that’s the case, because if that’s what passes for an expert I’m catching up with him after just three months of applied learning. He told me nothing new. But he missed a lot of stuff with value.

I stopped selling on eBay, which has been going very well, in order to make space for that doofus to come with his “big lot” potential. Seven years too late, he says. The bugger. He cost me a week of maximum one pound listings.

A man called William is going to come to the flat tomorrow. He is laconic and spare on the phone. His tone is downbeat and deliberately faintly patronising. He’s already expecting a load of tut. He’s going to look at these naval placards and spitfire bits, these weird porcelain gewgaws, these shiny things from my uncle and my grandparents and my mum and my dad and the recent smokehouse clearance where I’m choosing what I keep as I reckon I’m living in a flat in London for another decade rather than a stately home. It has got to the point where I have to have someone else take stuff away as there is actively no room. I have a horrible feeling he’ll try and say “I’ll take it all for a fiver.” In which case I shall (carefully) hound him out of my property with a broom. Or I’ll set Pickle on him.

I’m off out in July. I may be some time. Oxford for two weeks. Insanity and motorbikes for two weeks. London for two weeks. All over the place for a month or two. Back blinking into Christmas Carol. January is a mountain waiting to be conquered. But I’ve already won the rest of this year.

When I’m gone I’ve got two choices. Either sublet my bedroom in my nice flat that isn’t full of antiques, or turn my bedroom into the terrifying antiquehole of doom and occasionally allow shivering friends to curl up alongside ancient relics and wonder why the cat still wants to sleep on top of them in this hellhole. I’d sooner option 1 if I can find the right tenant. And for Brian as well as for me I’ve got to get this shit solved. Plus there might be money at the end of it and I’m going to need to buy me a 650cc motorbike. All reasonable offers considered, although right at this moment I haven’t got the 1.5k I’m earmarking for it. I’d sooner not buy a shit motorbike like I do with cars. I can get away with driving shit cars because if my engine suddenly dies at 70mph I’m much less certain to die too. I’m spending if it’s two wheels. Four wheels good. Two wheels bar.

God I hope William isn’t as much of an asshole as he sounds. Maybe he can help pay for the bike. Maybe he can’t. Nothing is ever a solution to anything as life is constantly evolving. But even if I’m not looking for a quick fix, the current home situation is untenable. If I can find a system and put all but one box away then I could happily make this my secondary income stream for much of the rest of my life. Learning and selling. It’s joyful. There’s a load of stuff shared with Max that’s in storage. There’s similar stuff in the Isle of Man. Stuff in my attic. Stuff in the fecking living room and the damned corridor for goodness sake. It has to go. But William might not be the help I’m looking for. I have a feeling he’ll be a self righteous arsehole. He’s coming at ten tomorrow. I’ll know in seconds of meeting him how it’ll go… Right now I’m debating as to whether the best tactic to de-arsehole him is three-piece, tie and plums or if it’s slacks and “well I’ve got all this stuff mate.” They’re both authentic me but one of them will play better than the other. I have a feeling he’ll arrive in a shabby suit with polished shoes and long hair though, frankly. I can’t do the long hair but maybe that’s the costume…

There is nothing like returning to the scene of a trauma.

A while ago I wrote a relatively emo blog. Disclosing very little. Upset and angry about a non-specific bad thing I had done.

Yeah so I got parked in a car park you should only use if you’re doing science things. I went in with the Soul Van for not specifically scientific reasons. It was after my resident’s permit expired, when I was paying £40 a day to park the thing, and having to move it every 4 hours. I made it possible through someone’s work. He did me a favour in exchange for picking up some stuff for him, and I was able to invigilate at Imperial – a day of work that would have been essentially pointless if I’d had to pay for parking.

Everything would’ve been fine if I hadn’t accidentally fucked up somebody’s lovely car.

“Hi I’ve punched a hole in somebody’s bonnet.” (Don’t ask)

“Which car is it?”

“That blue one.”

*Long sucked inhale* “That’s X person’s car…”

“Who’s that?”

“They’re in charge of the whole building.”

Twenty minutes later I walk out into the car park to hear loudly spoken indignance. I make myself known. They make the connection between me and the person who let me park there.

Apparently “thankfully we’ve got a lovely garage. They’re very fair. They will give a very reasonable quote.” To my ears that sounds like “Hello, *first name* lovely to see you *first name* we will make it as good as new for you don’t you worry, and we’ll do it at a knock down price as well, as you’re here so often, *first name*. Ok. Bye now *first name* LOVELY to see you again! Send my love to *other wallet* won’t you! Bye! Say goodbye Sam! Bye. … … Ok Sam – make a note to double whatever they quote for the touch up. We can make some money here.”

I still haven’t seen the quote. They asked for my email address yesterday so it’s coming. It’s gonna make my eyes water for sure. I’m hoping they really do have “a lovely garage” but whenever I hear that sort of line delivered in the accent it was delivered in, I think of the armies of “lovely” people who were constantly on standby waiting to scam my mother – “Just call whenever you need it Mrs B.”

I took a van into the same car park today. Different van. Loading and unloading some “Science” things. It’s not the first time. Won’t be the last. Good to have a reason to be there again as for a moment I found it emotionally quite tricky just to be present in that place. Even though I have no idea how much the “lovely garage” will be asking for.

It might well be fine. This person seems extremely competent and they run an important building very well. Maybe they’ve genuinely found a lovely honest garage despite this expensive accent. I don’t think they live in London, so the chances are higher that they have. But until I know if I’m going to get stung for tons I can’t and won’t stop worrying about it. Not budgeting, mind. I couldn’t do that if I tried. Worrying. I even told them at the time: “I’ll make this good. But it might take me some time.” Yes. But how much time? I guess I’ve got all that to look forward to. There’s always a loan… Hooray. etc

Just as the party is starting to get too much, the end of the party looms large. A phone call comes in today which might well result in me commuting to Oxford for two weeks, rehearsing in the daytime in London and performing in the evening in Oxford. My initial reaction is “of course I can do it. I’ll just have to stop drinking to maximise my headspace.” It might also prove valuable to get a motorbike. I can scream up to Oxford after rehearsal that way, be self determined, and never have to worry about leaves on the line. Just diesel on the road, and various eejits trying to murder me. It would be a hell of a warm-up for the show, an hour and a half howling down the M40 in leathers. It’ll make for an exhilirated performance, which is probably no bad thing. But it would mean no drinkies after the show. Also probably no bad thing. It’s good for me to have externally applied reasons to get off the juice. I’m always better at abstinence if I can sublimate the reason for doing it into doing it for somebody else’s benefit. And what a lovely problem to have, that every single one of the ducks went quack. Now I’ve just got to pluck them.

I’ll be glad of an enforced period of temperance. My liver won’t meet my eye when I look at it these days. It’s always quietly crying. “Remember when you used to look after me?” I’ve been look looking for an excuse to give it some TLC. This might be that excuse. A summer of Shakespeare.

The work will be lovely, if I can make it work. Lovely people in the room. Lovely places in the world to go to. I’m not going to allow myself to get excited until I’m certain I can do this. But seriously, the sober motorbike route sounds pretty good to me. It’s the right time of year for biking. I’ll get there sweating instead of freezing. But there ought to be less rain. And the drive up will be a very good space and time to change my head. I’ll be playing two parts that would’ve been played by the same guy in Shakespeare’s company, in two different shows written many years apart. If I can make it work. And I think I can. I’ve been experimenting this year with partitioning – with taking on more than I’d normally take on. I’ve discovered that I’m calmer now than I used to be. Multitasking comes easier now. And easier still if I take the old liquid forgetfulness out of the mix. There’s a little fire burning in my belly at the thought of what might be to come. But I’m so used to disappointment that I’m holding back on celebrating until I’m totally sure I won’t have to wave goodbye to it as it flies away.

Tonight though, one more party. I still haven’t been home. I’ll sleep there tonight though at last under my own sheets and Pickle. And I borrowed some socks and pants from Tristan so I don’t feel like a toxic liability anymore. It’s the little things.

Surprises can be exhausting. Not to mention the fact I had to obfuscate it in my blog.

I had a van parked outside Tristan’s. It had a brand new barbeque in it, plus loads of marinading meat and some booze. There was no way that could be successfully hidden any other way – particularly considering Tristan’s curiosity. He very nearly stumbled on the propane canister anyway, which would’ve been a dead giveaway. My WhatsApp was pinging off the scale with people Tanya had invited. I tried to add some people she’d forgotten, remembered some, forgot some, got it done as best I could. Sorry if I forgot you. I also had to get the van empty today and return it to Kentish Town. It’s not due back until 8am tomorrow but I don’t fancy my chances of waking up capable of driving tomorrow.

People came. That’s always the worry with a party, isn’t it? Will people come? There was enough food for everyone and only a little bit is left over. It’s 9pm and I’m chilling finally. It feels like we won. Everybody left is sitting around fire pits as the light dies. A good playlist. Spots of laughter. Hoovering up the leftovers.

First there were kids. We are all at that age now. “You were talking about LOVE,” says a six year old girl to me. “Yes we were.” “You were talking about love, and then you HUGGED.” “We did. People hug all the time. People talk about love all the time…” She sits with this information. Then she hugs both of us suddenly, to test the information. Then she parts, but fires a last volley. “You were talking about LOVE for AGES. And I was LISTENING.” She’ll be a reporter one day. If the profession still exists like that…

The kids have gone and it feels like the night shift is beginning. The theatre people have started to arrive. There’s not much food left but there’s a wide selection of drink. I’m very obvious, in the far corner of the garden, writing this into my phone. People come and sit with me from time to time. “Are you alright?” “Blog, mate.” Most of these people have featured at some point so they understand it is a part of my day now. If I don’t do it now it’ll just be 500 loosely connected words and repetition. I’ve done a few too many of those lately. I even fell asleep halfway through one last week. Looking back on it I made some decent sentences even in that. It’s very much time to use some of my downtime to make more considered structures out of words. To tell a story. If this  daily practice has taught me anything it’s that lots of little things over time add up to a big thing. Like friendships. It’s just about being there over time. The time and the repetition does as much work as anything.

Happy birthday you cantankerous beauty. I’m rejoning the throng.

 

I’m staying in The Petersham Hotel in Richmond tonight. It’s Tristan’s birthday. They’re in a suite, and rather than have dinner and then struggle home on the tube I took advantage of a cheap deal they had open to blow a day of van driving fee on a night of clean sheets and softly spoken young slavic men telling me the location of things and pointing with open hands. I’m in a single room in the bad bit. No river view for me. No cows. I’ve got a tree though. I’m thrilled to have a little impromptu holiday in Richmond. Why the hell not?

It all came in rather last minute. I thought I was going home last night until a sudden change of plan happened. I ended up carrying some stuff for Tanya before collapsing on a sofa wearing a “Ross Kemp on toast” T-Shirt and full of Riesling. I woke up with a cricked neck, an appetite for bacon and a craving for good coffee.

I haven’t got a change of clothes or a toothbrush which never makes one feel at ones best. But now I’m staying at The Petersham for this second night of stopout, and I feel a bit hairy – although I’m not expecting to run into the amazing woman I’ve been waiting for all my life so maybe I can be a bit loose and just vaguely whiffy. They’ll give me a toothbrush but they probably won’t give me clean underwear.

Everything is very clean and white here in my room, and warm despite the beige weather. Tristan being Tristan is bringing me some of his ridiculous clothes to wear for dinner – but not pants. “You can’t join us for dinner dressed like THAT.” – he  says with a twinkle. God knows what he’s got planned. I’ll probably have dinner looking like Ollie Reed.

It really is rather delightful here in an “ooh isn’t this nice, Nigel” way. Richard Harris kept a suite at The Savoy for years. This little room is a distance from that, but I’m not on untrodden ground here, in the charming disordered aristocartist stays in grand old building and simultaneously raises and lowers the tone of the place by his presence. I should probably have a Guinness in Harris’s honour, although at the rate things look like they’re going I think it’s more likely I’ll end up taking the highballs in the bar, and a bottle of champagne or two in the bedroom. I’m rather hoping Tristan brings me a pocket watch on a chain, a monocle and an ivory cane. If he does I’ll see how long I can sit on a chair in reception saying literally nothing but “Fwa fwa fwa” until they ask me politely to move along.

Seriously though, this is going to be lovely. What a treat. My room is peaceful and comfortable and I can hear birds in the tree. Mostly parakeets I think, squabbling bitterly for territory. I shouldn’t make a habit of this sort of expensive impulse, but honestly it’s far cheaper than it should be. I casually asked the receptionist how much a single room was when I was adding myself to the table for dinner. I had a figure in my head and decided that if it was lower I’d book the room. It was way lower, with breakfast included. They were running a deal. I impulsed it on the spot.

Ahh luxury. I just wish there was a shop that sells pants. I was messing with photos earlier from the balcony so that’s today’s offering.

Better than the cat food yesterday, but I need to up my photo game…

I thought it would be easy. Nothing is ever easy.

Lack of van plus ability to confidently drive van plus friends who need things to be moved in van equals early morning arrival in Kentish Town at a place that has vans to rent. They have lots of vans. Because they’re closed on bank holiday we have to rent it for the whole weekend even though we only want it for Saturday. When I express annoyance they discount it by just £40. Better than a kick in the face I guess. I lower my usual fee to compensate for the fact they’re taking a whack on the rental. It’s good friends, and theatre friends. There was a time one summer a few years ago when I toured with them and they helped me get out of a money and sadness hole. I usually end up friends with people I tour with, but these guys know me well enough to be keepers. They’re ace. Most of my work for decades came through recommendation. And these humans – FanSHEN – have been a part of my friendship group and my mechanism for survival for decades. Theatre is a network. Sure there are neurotics and egomaniacs banging around too, although mostly they’re desperate to get into exclusively telly so they can leave us alone and focus on their makeup. Some of them do. Others don’t and get a job in the city. Those of us who are still left after over a decade start to cluster together for warmth.

I was on a schedule this morning, but thankfully the time pressure was off. I was supposed to be doing the mini golf job for another bunch of lovely humans. I thought it might be possible to’ve done both jobs. It would never have been possible. Never. No way. Thank God they found a replacement for me. I was still on the way to Reading when I would’ve been due to start work.

It was slow to get the van. The guy at the van hire was a smiling mist. He was all insincerity, teeth and vim – all efficiency and front – nothing whatsoever to do with human truth at any point I was with him. I didn’t ask him his favourite colour as it would’ve been too cruel to watch him fail to understand why I’d asked the question, and flounder before saying “White. Because the van you are renting is white.” And then tried to smileZING me away from how that’s just an arsebag response.

I attempted a number of other conversational gambits plunging for humanity but they were shot down by his avian demonstrations of efficiency. He might be an actual Android. Interesting place to trial one I guess, a van hire. Maybe someone made an AI that passes. It’s not great yet though. It’s slow.

Coming to the end of our transaction I give him a different card to the one I paid with. We are going from “Al Barclay” to “AHL Barclay”. For a moment his programming malfunctions. “What’s your middle name?” he asks. “Hugo,” I say. “Because your cards have different names on them…” He continues, as if he’s found the reason why I’m a baddie and must be stopped.

It’s the only moment I slip. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” I utter in frustration, quite loudly, and very directly at him. His boss pops up in the background. The Android looks momentarily floored. Focus is on me. I need this van quicker than he’s let me have it as he’s already delayed me with his “demonstration of efficiency” fuckery. I say, mildly and with absolute honesty: “You’re very efficient.” “Thank you,” says his automatic response mechanism. Because despite this, he isn’t an actual android. He’s a human with a very different value system, trying to be seen to do the best job he can bless him. I’ve run into this value conflict before. Demonstrable customer efficiency > actual customer experience. I hate it.

Then he took me round the vehicle with the same inhuman efficiency. I actually wanted to eat my own head by the time he was finished with me. It made me late starting. Late continuing. Late throughout the day. But I thankfully had no time pressure and I got to catch up with two dear theatre making friends and eat nice food. But FFS. Upgrade the software or allow it more freedom.

Now I’ve got the van until 8am Tuesday anyway.

I don’t want it that long.

But I’ve got it.

So I’ll fucking use it.

I stopped at a pet store and bought like six times more litter than we’d get at Tesco for less than what they charge. Ditto cat food. Bastards at Tesco. Supply and demand. Capitalism. I’m doing it on eBay.

Then I realised I was around the corner from a friend’s, so I’m writing this early. Then I get to have an undistracted evening with an old mate. Out.