Pickle in South Ken

Uber is in a pickle in London. And now Pickle is in an uber in London. And London is in an oober-pickle.

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We are trying to cross town, but typically the person who has agreed to cat-sit for Brian and I lives in Finsbury Park. On a good day, that’s a horrible drive. Today it’s the seventh circle of hell. It’s not a good day to be on London’s roads. We have been trying to go north but after half an hour we are inexplicably in Waterloo. Every other route is closed.

There’s a demonstration at Park Lane by the Football Lads Association against extremism. That’s pretty evolved of them, considering their association is likely to be rife with extremists like the EDL and UKIP. (I’m being arch – they think the word “extremism” only relates to belief systems they don’t personally subscribe to.) They are all in the road so traffic has to get around them. But now something has happened in South Kensington, directly outside my brother’s work. Some crazy shit has gone down, most likely connected to the very form of extremism that will confirm the bias of the guys marching.

My sister in law was very close, and she reported hearing seven or eight gunshots, which have not been mentioned yet by the media. She grew up in Communist Russia and I understand that gunshots were a frequent part of her childhood experience. So she may have biased towards that. But she thinks it was an assassination from one car to another. All we know is that someone drove onto a pavement and some people were hurt.

There are police everywhere on the roads in London now. The radio is spewing conjecture. Ok, the road markings are confusing on Exhibition Road – it’s hard to tell what’s pedestrianised and what’s road. Maybe it was someone making a mistake? That’s unlikely though with the heavy heavy footfall in that area on a Saturday. It’s a target area.

Maybe the guy who has been detained was a spook who shot someone and then crashed. Hence “detained” not “arrested”. I guess we’ll probably find out in due course, but we might not.

From my point of view it just means a slower journey and maybe being late for work. My driver is mightily pissed off. “You know what,” he just said – “I’m getting off the roads. This is my last trip today. It’s not worth it.”

But life goes on because it has to. I’m going to have to get a tube south once I’ve dropped the cat off. Then I’ll be working in a crowded warehouse all evening. And I’m not that bothered because I can’t be. What’s the alternative? Stay at home forever? This is London. People want to kill us.

Still, I’ll be glad to go to Milan tomorrow, if for no other reason than for a change of pace and perspective. But also, this is too close to home. I like living in this town. But this morning I walked with Brian to pick up my car from the corner of Exhibition Road, exactly where all this shit went down. I was there two hours before it all kicked off, enjoying a morning with a friend and grabbing my car to pick up a cat box. My brother works at the Natural History Museum. His wife was working there, as she often does on the weekends. If this was a thwarted bomb threat, or someone trying to kill pedestrians, it’s troubling.

Stay safe and stay active. The whole point of these actions of extremism is to shake the people that you have decided you hate. Recent deliberate actions have led me to the expectation that it will turn out to be one. And that DOES make me feel shaky. So I’m going to go to Gatsby now with my party face and my trusty 3 piece armour on, and throw positive energy everywhere in the hopes that some of it comes back in my direction.

Constant chatter

Two nights running I’ve struggled get this out. Usually I just get loosely to the end of the day, shit out 500 words and roll over. Sometimes I get the bit between my teeth and run. Sometimes I munch a thought or neigh out a little story. And sometimes I meander aimlessly through fields of ideas until I fall asleep standing up from booze.

Now I’m taking a bit of time off that booze, so I’m thinking too much. Which always happens when I’m on my own and sober. I can’t shut my head up. Constant chatter.

So yesterday and today I wrote multiple drafts and then deleted them. Why? Because I didn’t like them. They were probably fine, but when I get like this I get very uncompromising with myself. Pickle makes a difference. She needs food or warmth or play and can pull me out of my head. But right now she’s asleep on my feet again. It’s past 1am. Whatever crap I come up with this time it’s final or I’ll never get to sleep. I’d better not admit that it was me that ate your goldfish.

Today I’ve been plying my trade, in that I went for an audition. But my attitude towards it has been, somehow, a little more serious than usual. It was just a commercial casting. Nothing to write home about. Although the buyout is astronomical, and I know I could play the part. I’m aware of the change in my circumstances such a job could bring. I’m ready for that change, and just as I’m able to intellectually feel happy for someone else getting that call I reckon it’s about time it was me again. I unashamedly want that job. Because I unashamedly want that buyout.

My attitude in general has been subtly shifting of late though. Yes, I love my work. That love has caused me to say yes to things in the past that have swallowed time and cost me money. Recently there’s been a shift in me. I need to be properly compensated for my time either monetarily or artistically. I’ve put a lot of time in, seen a lot of beautiful places, done a lot of crazy random stuff. That’s not about to stop, but suddenly I’m not putting myself imaginatively out of the running for the things I really want to do, or the ones that will pay big money.

I went to a therapist for a while until I couldn’t afford it any more. She said “It seems to me that you’re doing a thing where you say “If I can’t have exactly what I want then I’ll have nothing.” I think to a large extent she was right, with the added stricture that I was running interference on what I wanted as well, just to make sure I didn’t get it. Brian is very aware that the inside of my head hates me. His wisdom, combined with the Buddhism I’ve recently embraced, have helped start to derail that. It’s been a while, but I feel new minted somehow, despite the headchatter tonight.

So yeah. I want things. Nice things. For myself as well as those around me. And I am allowed to have them. Even though I’ve already got some nice things I am allowed to have some more as long as I’m not a dick about it.

I’m going to try not to think about this gig now I’ve vented. You have to forget auditions like that once they’re done.  I mean, I bought a euromillions ticket and I’m not fretting about that. I might be worth 169 million quid! If I am, none of you will ever need to worry about money again. Hell yeah.

This is Nicole and I, post meeting. We are both going to be doing this gig together, when we get the call. I’ll have to come back from selecting which island to buy with my lottery windfall.

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Businessmen

I think I might have to become an overnight expert on engine oil. It appears very likely I’ll be needing to ad-lib fluently about it on front of hundreds of people on Tuesday in Milan. Not that I’m concerned. I absorb knowledge as quickly as a well lubricated piston absorbs all the friction, making for a smoother driving experience and an extended lifespan for the vehicle you love.

Today though, I’ve got more immediate concerns. Business. I need to absorb information about business.

“We connect businesses dealing in high value assets to buyers.” I just asked Tom for a one sentence description of what he does. I would’ve told you he makes high end websites. He’s staying in the living room a few nights. He’s a young entrepreneur who is also somehow a pleasure to be around. I just wanted to see how he phrased it. There’s an art to the deal, as someone once pretended the President wrote. And it’s interesting the language of business. Often there are little pockets of dialect, where small groups of people have complicity subscribed to a word use that, outside of the bubble in which it is accepted, sounds like highblown rubbish.

I’m auditioning for the role of a venture capitalist tomorrow, you see, for a short job that would essentially allow me to BE a venture capitalist. Well no that’s a huge exaggeration. But still, enough for me to fix that goddamn boiler. It’s getting colder now and I’m going to start to notice it. It’s a lack of the sort of mathematical thinking that makes good business that leaves me clinging to a hot water bottle with a cat on top of me for warmth as night falls.

Besides talking to Tom I’ve been able to observe lots of budding entrepreneurs today. I’ve been watching them all take their exams at Business School. One of my many very part time jobs is invigilating them.

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Maths and Statistics Foundations for Analytics was today’s joy. “Create a function that calculates the derivative of sin(x) + 9x squared for integer values of x from 0 to 10.” I just made sure they weren’t cheating and sorted out any problems with IT. Mostly I was just calm and friendly, while watching their body language and debating how to present myself tomorrow.

Then, after a brief evening rehearsal for something else, I crashed home in time to watch The Apprentice. It’s still going. It’s still astonishing. These hateful cretins in suits and dresses who insist at every possible instance that they are infallible, despite all evidence to the contrary. This festering culture of front above all, blind shallow vessels of humans who’ve locked their truth into horcruxes and are shambling around trying to prove to themselves, each other, and the camera that they are fundamentally better humans than those around them. Lord Sugar sits in the UK where Trump sat in the USA. The focal point. The aspiration point. He appears to have more humanity than his American counterpart. I can watch him without feeling slightly sick. And there is something magnificent in these early weeks about the sheer space between how these people describe themselves and how they present. Sure, they’re stitched up in the edit. But nevertheless, they have responded to the prompts off camera with the material they deliver to it.

Is it comforting to see that people who can make more money in a month than I do in a year can be so toxic and incompetent? Or is it galvanising?

I’m going with galvanising. I’ll start by booking this job playing one of them. Then when I’m toasty warm in my flat over winter I’ll use the rest of the money to plan the piece of work that will roll in the Kindness Revolution…

Right now I need my ugly sleep.

Hot Tube Collapse

7.45pm on a Wednesday and this tube is completely packed. I’m traveling from South Kensington to Manor House. How is it still so rammed at this time? Everyone’s face is in everyone else’s armpit. There’s no room to take off your winter coat without elbowing a stranger. The driver has got the hot air blasting full whack into the carriage. Just as we get to Caledonian Road, a shout goes down the carriage. “Water! Water!” The urgency in it brooks no delay. Everyone is rummaging in their bags and in less than ten seconds a plastic bottle is handed back. I follow it with my eyes. There, through the legs of bystanders, I see a young woman lying on her back. She is unconscious. She went down silently. Her face looks ruddy. I am sitting comfortably in a chair less than ten feet from her, hot but fine, and I hadn’t noticed anything until the call for water. She’s fainted from the crowds and the heat and I’m not surprised, it’s miserable in this carriage. Someone is rubbing water into her brows. Everyone now has a water bottle in their hand, and they’re all waving them half-heartedly towards the guy who asked: “Pick my water!!” She’s dead to the world, and he’s already picked enough water. He has water to spare.

We get to Caledonian Road. A group of strangers lift her out of the carriage while others stop the crowd from surging in and stepping on her. It’s efficient and more or less completely silent. I consider getting up to help, but I don’t. There are lots of people between her and me. There are already so many people helping her they can barely get an arm in. They put her in recovery position on the platform and I feel a pang of guilt as I remain where I am. In my comfortable seat. Yes, I’ve been looking around at each stop, making sure nobody looks like they need it. Yes, someone pretty close to me needed it and I didn’t see. And then she collapsed. So long as I’m comfortable, eh?

The train barely stops. Nobody has pulled the emergency alarm so it just carries on, taking one slightly discombobulated carriage with it. We all look out the window as we pull off. She’s on the platform, surrounded by men. If she’s claustrophobic she’ll be crowded when she wakes.

A small child opposite is worried. “Is that person okay?” “Yes,” the mother says. “Look, she’s surrounded by lovely people. She’s fine.” I momentarily worry when I hear her describe the people as “lovely”. It was so silent and efficient. All of them were men. Could I have just witnessed the beginning of a professional abduction? Then I remember that I have a hard-wired tendency to question all assumptions almost as a matter of course. So I allow myself to relax. She was comforting her child by assuming they were “lovely”. Plus they were being lovely. It was very very hot in that carriage. They all helped. I didn’t. I just sat here and wrote about it, took a selfie and got paranoid.

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I didn’t even have a water bottle to wave. I wish I did. It was thirsty work watching them all be so helpful from this comfy seat.

Light and dark

One man with 23 guns in a hotel room. 59 concert goers killed on an evening out and growing. No discernable motive as yet. It throws into sharp relief this blog about an actor trying to make the best of a tricky career path. How can one man have 42 firearms – if we include the 19 more at home? How could anyone lose connection to their humanity and their consequence so much as to indiscriminately kill like that?

Winter is coming, and the cold is creeping in. I’m boiling a kettle for a hot water bottle and thinking about all those people and their families. People that bought tickets as presents and watched their loved one die. People who said “Don’t be late” to you and then waited with mounting horror, hoping you might come back. What sort of blank hatred can sustain a massacre of that proportion?

How the hell can one gambler buy so many guns unquestioned? I’m not going to open a debate about gun control – I know what an emotive topic it is in America – but it just seems impossible. It happened, though. The guy thought it through. Took his time. Went for maximum human cost and then took his own life.

I’ve been trying to write about my day but this just keeps inveigling itself into my consciousness. After the last few days, I’ve decided to ease off on the self obliteration and stop drinking altogether for a bit. Going to the shop tonight I had to wrestle with myself. I wanted a drink. Mostly I drink to take the edge off. The darkness and the cold have wormed their way into my skin, and my thoughts have been sharp images of gunshots, and a face in a hotel room window. It’s probably better in the long run that I work through my sense of horror at that man’s actions, rather than just numb myself to it. But I’m conscious that there’s a great big bottle of Brian’s home brew cherry brandy right there on the table. I could just reach over…

I suppose being a human is about managing these instincts and cravings. I’m not going to reach over and grab the cherry brandy for the same reason that you haven’t yet broken my nose when I’ve annoyed you. Even though you’ve really wanted to. We mostly learn to control our base urges. It doesn’t mean we don’t have them.

We all have the potential for darkness. We all have the potential for light. No matter how we persuade ourselves otherwise, it always comes down to a choice. Choosing light can feel harder, but it’s ultimately more rewarding. Already so many stories are emerging of acts of heroism and sacrifice in that untenable situation in Vegas. While one man took the darkest path imaginable after preparation, hundreds of others chose hard light on the spur of the moment.

We are afraid right now. We are under attack, we are told. Many of us are crammed into cruel cities and processed like chicken nuggets. We absorb flashes of hatred from good people in tube stations for walking slowly, standing wrong, existing. Right now, someone is howling outside my flat. “It’s only Maurice, drunk and angry again,” I think to myself. I go to the window and look down. He’s in company, getting out of a cab. He is filled with rage at his failing body. He never comes home sober. Often he has bitter rows with cab drivers. I decide not to help. “He’s got someone with him,” I say to myself, sit back in the sofa with the cat, and turn Leonard Cohen up.

We all need to try to do the difficult things that are kinder right now. You never know how much someone is hurting. We have to try to catch people before they fall so far down. We have to try to answer negativity with positivity. Not give ground needlessly, but seek to heal where we can.

I’ll start by not getting wiped out on homemade cherry brandy, and by looking after myself. If I look after myself I’ll be better placed to look after others.

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And, as if on cue, Leonard sings Villanelle for our Time:

“From bitter searching of the heart,
Quickened with passion and with pain
We rise to play a greater part.
This is the faith from which we start:
Men shall know commonwealth again
From bitter searching of the heart.
We loved the easy and the smart,
But now, with keener hand and brain,
We rise to play a greater part.
The lesser loyalties depart,
And neither race nor creed remain
From bitter searching of the heart.
Not steering by the venal chart
That tricked the mass for private gain,
We rise to play a greater part.
Reshaping narrow law and art
Whose symbols are the millions slain,
From bitter searching of the heart
We rise to play a greater part.”

Bender

Yesterday was a big day, as you might have gleaned from perhaps my drunkest blog to date. In all honesty I have no idea how I managed to write at all in the state I was in. A load of people came round to my flat. Brian cooked up a storm. He made vegan-proof nibbles for everyone, along with beautiful non vegan insanity like Camembert Bread, which not only made everyone enjoy being in my flat, but also made them want to come back for more. Apart from Pickle who shat in the bath by way of dirty protest at too many unfamiliar people.

Suddenly now though there are lots of people who live near me who think of our home as a place where they get fed well. I was stressing out a little bit, so it was extremely positive to have Brian grounding me and giving his time like that. All we were doing was putting a scroll into a box. But it was important to me, and I’m glad it became such a lovely – if drunken – evening.

Meanwhile, across London, another friend of mine was doing something similar. I fell asleep at 4am. He rang me at 4.30 and I mercifully slept through it. A few hours later though he rang again. By that time I was awake again, like the rest of the world. He hadn’t slept and didn’t want to. He wanted me to come and play. That’s the problem with Mondays. They’re the actor’s weekend, as the theatres are frequently not running the show that night. He hadn’t had a day off for ages, opening a show and doing the first week. He was on a bender in company with some good friends of mine, and wanted me bending with him.

I tried to evade him, hungover as I was. “Maybe I’ll get a bus.” But he could smell my reticence like a dog smells fear. He booked me an uber. “It’ll be outside in 3 minutes. Get your clothes on.” So I did. And I ended up drinking opening night champagne on a balcony in Putney at 11am on a Monday. 

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Then the day was spent dancing and talking. Not the most productive 24 hours. I’m letting myself off the hook because I received gohonzon yesterday and it’s worth celebrating, but my intention in bringing that into my life is partly to derail my tendency to obliterate myself. For two days running, since that commitment, I’ve been on a campaign to smash myself out of my own body. Now I’m in bed. It’s early on a Monday night. There’s no way I feel as bad as the guys I’ve been hanging out with. I at least caught a few hours sleep.

This stinks of a last gasp. My negative tendencies having a last minute party to try and undo the positive work I’ve achieved recently. I need to find an ease within that negative positive balance. Energy requires positive and negative, balance requires yin and yang. Today was fun and I feel great, if exhausted. I worry that I’ve “wasted” a day, but was it wasted? Not really. It was great. It just wasn’t profitable. I’ve probably achieved less some days sending emails for hours. But I’m hitting myself too hard at the moment. Maybe a belated Sober October so I have the time and headspace to do the hashtaggy shit I decided I wanted to do this month, and can look at myself uncluttered.

Two days into October so far and two stream of consciousness knackered blogs. Silly Al. I’m going to sleep now. It’s not even ten.

First day

So. Today.

Today is the first day of October. I’ve also made a commitment. I decided to commit to my secular Buddhism. It’s a thing that matters to me. I’m a confirmed Christian. My mother was a Catholic (until she was excommunicated and decided that God hated her). My friends cross all faith boundaries. I have always been extremely flexible around my idea of what the world means, the known and the unknown. As a teenager I was a hugely evangelical Christian. I was good at it. It’s a warm community. I met some wonderful people. I noticed a hierarchy, though, which is a thing I hate. But those friends of mine from back then – they’re doing brilliantly in that world. I think that there’s depth and weight in that Christianity. It’s a beautiful faith, despite the male patriarchal Godhead and the badly thought out detail. I practice Christianity and would gladly taIk about it for hours. I’ve cared about that faith structure for decades and there is much to love. But my recent focus has been much more on Nichiren Buddhism.

“I’m worried about Al. He’s got himself involved with witchcraft.” That’s what I’ve been hearing from my old friends. Of course it’s meaningless nonsense, the idea of witchcraft. But it’s also fascinating to engage with the fear of the other. Witchcraft. So, what’s that? You have an idea. That idea is the idea that’s the right idea because it’s yours, and it’s supported by multiple other people who you’ve met… Someone on the fringes of your idea discovers that instead of bleeding yourself with leeches, you should eat the mold from bread. Witchcraft! How can you change your idea when you’ve already had it?

Today I committed to receiving the idea of a “gohonzon” for a secular form of Buddhism. It’s the first idea after my ongoing youthful christian faith that I’ve shown or felt any commitment to.

I got up this morning and put on my three piece. “I see, so we’re dressing like it’s a christening.” Said Brian in the morning as I threw on my suit. I agreed. He was willing to come and see what’s what. Irrespective of his belief structures, we both arrived looking a million dollars. I was being christened into the practice. I was surrounded by friends.

Sue was running the event and gave me my scroll. She was the head of technical theatre at Guildhall, and her son is my very dear friend with whom I hung out in LA. Sam, my vastly loved ex, was there today too. Here’s a scratchy photo.

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Now I’m trying to work out how to sleep. I feel strangely different from the people I’ve met today. Ollie is booking a flight to LA on impulse using some sort of online personal assistant thing. Right now he’s quibbling about detail. It seems like he wants to add me to his booking. I’m game, of course. But it could be difficult because I need to get back in time for my coming job in Milan.

Today was beautiful. I ended up surrounded by amazing people who I barely know. Everyone has a different idea of what’s normal. But I’m feeling very well placed, and very solid. And really quite unbelievably drunk. Xx zzz

Blogtober

Everything has a month these days, or a week, or a global day. Star Wars Day, Talk Like a Pirate Day, Mo-vember – they’re in the mainstream. Then there are more esoteric days like Bloomsday – 16th June – the date on which Joyce’s wonderful difficult strange epic Ulysses is set. I usually have kidneys for breakfast on Bloomsday. God knows why, when this is Joyce’s description: “Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.”

Nomnomnom.

But back to the topic – there are more causes and popular ideas than there are days in the year. Tomorrow alone is International Day of Older Persons, International Coffee Day and World Vegetarian Day. So if you know a vegetarian that’s older than you, get them a coffee. Make sure it’s fairtrade to be safe as it’s likely they’re ethical vegetarians.

October is sober – I know that because I put myself through it last year and raised £15 for Macmillan. Apparently it’s also BLOGTOBER. 

Write a blog every day. That’s the challenge. I recommend it. So far I’ve done 260 consecutive days. Of varying quality and length. But ok, I love a challenge. I’ll have to make it harder for myself. What am I shit at? Self promotion, mostly. Hence only raising £15 for Sober October. I had no desire to shout about it.

I make minimal effort to make this blog discoverable outside of autoshare to Facebook and Twitter. I’ve barely put any links into it. I haven’t even begun to to use or understand hashtags or tags of any kind. But I write the content with love most days. I put time and thought in. It’s a daily practice and I’ve come to value it.

I’m childminding for Flavia today. She has a producer’s head, and works in PR. I express my desire to do something different in my blog for the month of October. “Promote it,” she says. “That’s different for you.” She’s right. I’ll find that very hard. So I should do it. I’m also going to challenge myself to take more photographs as I frequently get to the end of the day and realise I’ve taken none. I can call it a thought experiment and give myself permission to step out of my usual.

On which subject, I just spent the day with a 3 year old. I haven’t ever spent so long in sole custody of one so young. I think I’ve made it through the day without killing him or losing him. We went for a magical mystery drive, where he got to decide which way we went at every junction, we learnt how to put petrol in a car, we got a Transformers magazine, and we had a walk in a park with it where we kicked through leaves and climbed on art.

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Then we got home, and played with Transformers until merciful sleep came out of nowhere and fun-uncle Al got to crack open a beer. He’s snoring, dead to the world. #Cheers.

And here’s the bit where you see people stick a million words, all with hashtags. #Narcissist #Babysitting #Blog #Twat #Beer #Sleep #Childminder #October #Wanker

These lists are frequently longer than the post they’re connected with and are just as frequently irrelevant to the content. #Penguins.

Let’s see what comes of this madness. And what I manage to allow myself to do in terms of overcoming my distaste for “daddy daddy look at me I done a blog.”

Cough

I am home alone on a Friday night. I’m playing Pendulum and cooking chilli. Today I’ve mostly been coughing. The horrible illness that took me out about a week ago is in its death throes. Its dead bits are flowing enthusiastically through my nose, down my throat, into my lungs. Millions of defeated bits of virus, wrapped up in phlegm, trying to choke or drown me.

Last time I broke my rib I ended up with double pneumonia and, eventually, lung collapse. I was 12. It was partly my own fault, owing to my habit of stoicism, but I had no context in terms of relative bad and good. And I knew how much noise some people made when they stubbed their toe. I knew it couldn’t be as bad as that.

Nobody worked out it was as bad as it was until it was too late. Partly my lack of desire to make a fuss, partly my parents assuming I was being a teenager while they were getting divorced. It was spotted by a matron at my boarding school, after the kids sharing a room with me started complaining that my coughing all night was keeping them awake. “You’re coughing all night.” “Yes, but I find I can still get sleep in between fits. I’m used to it now. It’s been like this for months ”

Back then I had nothing to compare it to, so thought that maybe grown-ups coughed for months all the time. Now I think I know roughly what’s normal, so the alarm bells will ring on time.

Today I’ve been doing the old deep bronchitic coughing pretty consistently though. It’s horrible. I’m letting myself cough at the moment, and bringing up what’s needed. As a kid I was mostly told to stop as it sounded vile. I’m parenting myself this time, and letting myself hock. Don’t hang out with me unless you want to hear the inside of my lungs.

I spent the morning with Jack, my business partner, and for him it was a bit like I’d shoved his head down my gullet while gargling oysters. If I’m hacking for more than three days I’m going to go to a doctor. These lungs are tough as hell after all that teenage physiotherapy followed by decades of theatre warm-ups. But I’m not letting it complicate again. For six months of my life I coughed whenever I breathed. Now I need to use my lungs and my voice to make money. Constant coughing is not an option. That coughy year around my voice breaking – it deepened my vocal timbre and gave me useful damage in my vocal palette. But no more thanks. Now I’m the healthy guy. I rarely get sick as an adult, touch wood. Now I can ply my trade. When people let me.

Today we were thinking about Christmas Carol again, practically. The nitty gritty. It’s such a glorious show that it’s worth these conversations. However it pans out, we’ll be able to build into a venue. However it pans out it’ll be a lovely thing to come back to it for a fifth year.

I wonder what I’ll write when I’m in a consistent run of a show. In a normal year I’d have found out by now, but the year I’ve documented turns out to have been the one with the longest theatre gap I’ve ever had. I’m not going to let myself believe that this blog is a jinx. I think it’s to do with my stricture towards myself not to work for too little.

Right now though I’ve cooked a mean chilli and Brian has just come home. Here he is with his gruel and a beer. Friday night.

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Power Under The Globe

Events season is starting to kick off. I’m at The Globe again. Tonight I’m Demetrius in some vignettes from Dream, which is lovely. He’s an uncompromising bugger. “I’d rather give his carcass to my hounds.”

It’s an award event for the power industry. The UK Power Networks “Living our Values” Dinner to be precise. Hundreds of waiters are buzzing around in Prangsta costumes. Upstairs a string quartet is playing, flanked by human statues dressed as Shakespeare. Guests are guzzling free champagne and talking about the power industry, surrounded by Shakespeareana.

Downstairs is filled with flowers and dry ice and glass baubles and light.

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In the wings there’s a sixteen piece choir in black tie, and some solo singing acts in ridiculously beautiful dresses. Magicians and makeup artists and silhouette artists and even a graphologist wait quietly in the rooms at the sides, with empty wine crates and musical instrument cases strewn around. People with clipboards and earpieces keep coming up to talk to us about timings. Chad the sound man has just sorted us all out with radio mics which means I’m terrified to sneeze unless it’s accidentally live. One of my wine waiters from Ascot is working the bar. “Yeah mate. This is what I normally do. I was only moonlighting.” He was pleased to see me, and I him.

The event is taking place in The UnderGlobe, which is a huge basement space with a fake tree in it. It’s directly under The Globe stage, hence the name. In the daytime it hosts a museum. At night they change it round and fill it with colour and music. I’ve spent many evenings here now, over the years, doing many different scenes in many different styles.

Usually they don’t give us mics so that’ll be an interesting stricture. Working on mic allows much greater vocal detail in this space. Without one you have to work hard to project in here. It’s a cavernous acoustic. Mics also necessitates precision, physically and vocally, to minimise scratching and feedback. Especially as we’ll be jumping on each other a bit. You lose some attack, and it becomes harder for the people watching to know it’s you that’s speaking. But it’s a lot less tiring. I’m looking forward. Best do some line runs though, and stop writing this.


These event jobs have been bread and butter to me for ages now and I love them. They aren’t a process, of course, and I always feel the lack of that. But they’re an opportunity to throw something around with people you trust. Shortcutting to performance is a lovely way to open your understanding of a piece of text. Invariably afterwards you want to revisit it – it becomes painfully clear how little time you’ve spent examining detail. But also it’s joyful painting it quickly and seeing what’s to find.

As ever, I had a brilliant time shortcutting a great piece of text with 3 wonderful actors who are also good friends. The bigwigs in the power industry were happy with our work. The client even secretly covered a round of drinks for us after the event. And in a month or so they’ll pay us, and I’ll use the dosh to pay them my quarterly bill before the doorbell rings.