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I’m gradually assembling equipment for my next long walk. I’ve got this mad idea that I’m gonna try and record it beautifully and put it out there as a kinda “this is what it might be about” type thing. This is partly driven by my ADHD and partly driven by the idea that, if I’m gonna take so much time out of the possibility of earning in order to pursue spiritual things, perhaps it makes sense for me to be “generating content” in the hopes that occasionally people click the button that says “buy me a sausage”.

Today I got the software up and running for my drone. It took me hours, but I think it’s done now. It can now talk to my iPad and to my phone. I’ve only ever flown it inside the flat at the moment which doesn’t play to full capability. It’s a hell of a bit of kit even indoors.

It has been 3D printed, and the rotors are protected in the body of the drone, which is definitely for the best as I’ve already crashed it into a few plants and conked it into the ceiling. It makes a heck of a noise too. There’ll be no stealth with it. But in the right context it’ll be glorious for aerial shots and the like. I’ve paired it with my iPad so I can cut and twiddle with iMovie – that lets me narrate after the fact so I can blither on about this and that while getting a good view of the path or whatever.

They are already extremely regulated though. I can only fly it indoors at home, if I was to put it out the window there are people whose job it is to fine me for it. I’m right by a major heliport, a main road and the river Thames. Fannying about with a drone here would get me into trouble very quickly so I’m just gonna make sense of it here and in the fullness of time I can experiment with the other modes. Also when I flew it into a dark room it immediately just landed itself. It’s temperamental, and I haven’t learnt its ways.

It can do clever things like follow you or match your speed as you walk towards it, or rocket upwards from you, or Hitchcock itself out and up. I can’t imagine it will be possible to build live sound into the shots, just because the buzzing is always gonna get picked up, so it’s not gonna be a dolly but it is gonna allow for some fun stuff with sound done in post. Combine it with my gopro glasses and once I’ve got enough space on my devices to edit everything together I reckon I’ve got my suite of gadgets pretty together. And an AI music maker perhaps, to avoid the pitfalls of accidentally using copywritten music on a video about some prat wandering around in the hills and eating fish.

I’m gonna keep saving up for now, I’m a bit worried about cashflow right now. But before long I wanna do a deep dive into something spiritual in nature. Got a couple of ideas in my head, it’ll come down to plane fares and accommodation.

A pub theatre. I kinda love a pub theatre. Rarely if ever are the actors being paid though. Exploitation abounds. “It’ll be good experience,” says Victor as he puts his hand on your arse. “Industry people will come,” says Norbert who will have someone he knows come to celebrate his play about a man very like him who just happens to be irresistible to all women. “You’ll deepen your craft,” says Nick just before he starts shitting his ego into your face for months and months in the freezing cold with no money just so he can work out some ancient trauma about Brecht and hate you in the process. “The director is connected,” says Grognak, who knows they’ll never work with you again because they don’t want to be associated with “free” actors.

So yeah, I’ve got a friend with actors they know who want audience for a show in a pub theatre. Poor fuckers. I’m game. “What’s the show?”

It’s Jacobean.

Oh lord.

There are some things you start to notice after a while. Gestural things, inflection things, things that actors do when they aren’t sure what they mean. Lack of target, downflection. Holding two stale scones out to the side. Slapping your own side with both hands at the same time. Little meaningless steps back and forth. Pronoun abuse, self pointing like nobody knows who you mean when you say “I”. Many more. I saw them all tonight. All and more.

Not my first rodeo though. “I have a car coming for me at 4am. Ridiculously early start to the shoot and I really need to drill my lines before bed so I might not make the second half. Said that before the start to someone who knows the actors.

LIES.

They blacked the lights out after Act One and everyone had their coats half on before we realised there would be at least one more blackout before the interval. These are five act plays and usually there’s no cutting when it’s a showcase, so everyone gets a crack. Ugh.

Some of them will still be actors in twenty years. Maybe two, hopefully. That’s not bitchy, that’s just a realistic view of the attrition rate in this game.

I went with an old collaborator, and we both worked at that level back in the day. We both had hope and determination, we both wanted to learn by doing, we both did. Nobody comes out fully formed. I take my hat off to them for throwing it out, learning all that stuff, making sense of it. Likely there wasn’t time or money for the people tonight to really understand why they were saying all that stuff. They can do that in retrospect if they’re still here in twenty years, and if they aren’t they can think “I did that better” when they watch a good production and hearken back to those heady youthful hopeful days, looking through a glass darkly. My God I murdered some Shakespeare when I was at Reading…

Verse though. Christ, you really help us listen if you know where you are in the verse. You don’t have to be a robot about it, but a vague fucking clue would be throwing us a bone. This was mangle mangle one two three.

Still, I’m happy I saw half of it. No programme though, as far as I could tell. Even if I wanted to employ one of those people I’d have to work to find them.

Still, I’m a bad human. I waved a random piece of paper at the box office lady and walked past her with confidence, instead of buying a ticket. That sixteen quid I didn’t spend would have been almost two quid per actor. Bad bad bad. But … I’m glad I didn’t pay. If I had to pay for everything I watched I wouldn’t eat. These guys probably can’t eat right now and I’m not helping, but… the rollercoaster has to start somewhere. Most of them will fly off the sides. One or two, like me, will still somehow be on the ride, clinging desperately to the others like them, squealing “More! More!” as if it has been fun all this time. The ones that fell off will be looking on from their great big houses made of money, holding hands with the kids, rolling their eyes at us. “They’ll never learn.”

Or did we get it right? Who fucking knows. There’s nothing to hold onto in the rollercoaster so we just have to hold onto each other as best we can and hope. Wheeeeeeeeeee!!!!

And aye I’m in North London. I don’t need to think outside my face. I’ve got a huge great big mess of a pussycat. I’m literally watching where he shits.

I know this cat very well. You know him too, oh best beloved. We took this cat in when things were crazy, back the autumn before last.

A film producer had booked some people I love who make events. She had gone on to make them feel inadequate by playing status games. Rather than resist, my friend had totally bought into the status games and by the time I got onto the job they were already popping out. They had brought a close friend of mine into it and all three of them inexplicably ganged up on me. I let them do it when perhaps I should have held my ground. I wanted things to go as well as possible, but they absolutely treated me like shit and in retrospect I should have made it clear to them they were disrespectful and largely, wrongheaded. Even my friend bought into a horrible shared narrative against me. Of course they’ve left events now, that shit never tracks. I think my friend had inadvertently inherited the idea that events have heirarchy. You know the “I’m in charge” vocal tricks? They were doing them. All of them while talking to me. Bizarre.

It was tricky as I could see they were being manipulated by a producer who worked out they weren’t specialists and held every error against them. They responded by making everything shit for everyone, needlessly throwing their weight around because they’d been found out, going AWAY from trust instead of towards it. They had allies in the room, they alienated them. They couldn’t just go “yeah, we make events. that’s like a film set. What do you need?” The producer gave them too much fear of the unknown. They reacted largely by attacking people down the notional chain which worked out as me. It was supposed to be my “area of expertise” as far as they were concerned. I think that’s how they justified it. She was a Hollywood producer so to her mind all actors are shitmushrooms.

So they pitched cluelessly, gave me a vague job and then when they didn’t know the extent of what they had to do they outsourced their blame to me. I blogged some of it here. Was trying to be discreet. I don’t think they ever read it. If they did then it makes it even more egregious I was treated like I was treated and it was fucked. So many people in the crew saw it. I let myself be the whipping boy. Never got thanked for taking it for the team.

Boy moved in with me briefly during that job. I picked him up just before I went to Aberdeen and left him with Frank. I was treated like shit for the whole job and then the same people took a huge fee out of me and from the person who introduced me to them for every day I was at Paris Olympics even though it was nothing to do with them. I worked with people who did fuck all and were being paid twice as much as me on that job. It’s the wrong way round, they didn’t introduce me to kes. Sure they employed me in Aberdeen but they were absolute fuckers to me to disguise their own insecurity.

John I love. That’s the only reason I’ve never kicked off formally for the thousands they have taken in finders fee when kes is the one who found me. But… thinking about that job, some time ago – the wrong people were on it live. That’s all. Back end tried to come to live event. It doesn’t work. I’m kinda glad my friend has gone back to photography as for her own sanity and that of the live crew, events basically… didn’t suit them.

I’ve had a couple of people ask for someone and I’ve given them Ffion like a shot cos well, cos Ffion is excellent but also cos no massive howling insecurity. There’s no room for that shit in events. Events can carry a wide angle of people but bring in hierarchy or self importance and you’re basically just fucked. I’m sure they’ve learnt that now. But I suspect it was a hard lesson.

Ok. Good.

I’m feeling pretty chill. Lou is here tonight, I’m here now, it is cold but I’ve switched off the heating. March innit. I have to have rules like that as otherwise I’ll just plough every penny I earn into not being cold.

Driving again today. Picked up a work of art from a gallery, took it back to the artist’s place. “The woman running the gallery is very eccentric,” she said. The woman running the gallery is a total wanker. Rude as fuck to my friend. What an arse. In the spirit of experimentation I played her boundaries. “Only £450 for that, it’s beautiful. Oh it’s a print,” I ejaculated. “Do you have any originals?” Immediately she was on a different tack to a potential buyer, but still remained a dick to my friend the artist. She was even giving me secret looks, flirting. That gallery woman? I’ll be setting the crows on her.

My friend can be high maintenance, sure, but this woman deals with artists as a job. Sure she can sell, and she will sell as much as possible when it’s 40/60 and the picture is well priced. But I’m so bored of seeing people I respect being exploited by richer people. “oh it’s the world”. Well it needn’t be. Трамп is a good example of what happens when that goes too far.

I brokered a deal for a venue just recently. I asked for what I considered to be a reasonable sum for the work they want and the time it will take. I’ll be putting it through my company, and she will get 100% of the amount I asked for. No fucking about. I sent her screenshots of the exchanges.

Everyone should be so open, I think. It might mean I can’t make myself rich on the backs of other people. But if I start to be able to book people on big jobs, I can pay people properly. I’ve been enraged in the past about huge “finders” fees exacted by people who didn’t actually find me. Good people are worth what they are worth and as I transition towards being an employer, I’m gonna hold myself to the standard I secretly hold others to. Yeah so maybe I need to take a fee considering I’ve found something difficult for them. Maybe I’m messing up – I’ve in the past given corrupt people work and seen them try and take my place. Largely I’m happy to let them try. I’m careful to recommend, I stand by my recommendations, and if – hi – if they turn out to be a snake then … that’s mine to deal with too. Hope your grandma’s well.

I think I’d fall asleep now if I didn’t know Lou will be getting to Sloane Square shortly. I am in bed. Gonna have to get up and grab her. Then back down. I might have to put the blanket on. Spring heat as well as light please. This hail is bananas.

In the past I have been to festivals with Jethro. At those festivals I have deliberately consumed things that have significantly altered my perception of the world as it appears to be.

Jethro came to my flat this afternoon, to meet the cats perhaps? Certainly to say a very welcome greeting to an old friend. Then I went across town to The Coliseum to see The Little Prince, which Lou has been working with on and off for years.

I’m not writing off that this experience is akin to some of the experiences I have had at those festivals, in those sunny fields and woods. It’s either that or I’m in the middle of watching something quite extraordinarily whimsical, captivating, strange and beautiful.

If it is beautiful so it must be useful. Some years ago a woman at The New York Times was made apoplectic with rage about the fact that the images on this stage don’t match the ones she had in her head. I recognise that – I was pulled screaming and crying from The Neverending Story film by my parents, because they stopped it halfway through the book and anyway Bastion looked wrong. I was ten at the time. She is a professional reviewer with pedigree. I can excuse myself but I think she took a load of cheap shots for personal reasons. It almost sunk the show. This just reinforces the whole thing I maintain – fuck ’em if they’re nice, if you let that go to your head then they’ll fuck you when they’re nasty.

But it is like a fever dream. Like I’ve had some funny mushrooms.

The narrator speaks all the lines, in French, as the dancers jump and float. The soundscape lurches with the logic of dreams, and the whole show is projection mapped. The thing with that is you can’t really light the dancers without washing out the mapping so the show – not to its detriment – is in a sort of half light. Still the dancers are point perfect and if they aren’t I can’t tell. And rather than make the mapping a disadvantage they are playing with the beauty of how it adds its colour to the light and the costume. It’s a soft pallette for a vague tale. This ain’t about showtunes and punchy numbers, this is wistful dance about how we visit other people in their own worlds and about what might be beauty and what is life.

It’s so French as well. They tried to translate it in New York but they’ve learnt better now. I like the distancing it gives me to have to think about meaning when she speaks… There’s a surtitle board but it only serves to remind me I need to go to the optician and update my prescription.

Going back in for part 2…

—

Gorgeous show. I’ve been wondering what Lou has been up to, shuttling off to Saudi and Dubai and Sofia. Working hard washing sheep and roses it seems, and helping 14 performers, with a central turn from a vocally wonderful Frenchwoman of an age where this stupid industry often stops letting people work. That woman from the New York Times can go suck a pig, and you should go see this lovely show while it’s in London town. 2500 seats to fill? Owie ow. There’s a Gatsby musical up next. Art looks like Brian’s one but it’s not. Long run. Hard to sell… bold. This Little Prince, they should sustain a short run. The tale is loved and there’s a Cirque de Soleil connection – we all know the French specialise in “Body in Space” shows. This is one of those, and tasteful and kid friendly too.

I’m feeling absolutely strung out this evening. I only had a tiny bit of blood pulled out of me, but it was enough. I fucking hate needles. Hate them hate them hate them. Plus I don’t particularly want to find out whether or not I’ve got prostate cancer. My half brother has a procedure not long ago. It started early in dad and spread everywhere before he found it. Ditto my uncle. So yeah, maybe worth checking, I reckon.

I first got the printout from my doctor maybe 8 months ago. Had to take it to the hospital. Didn’t. Lost it.

This morning, finally, I hauled myself in. But they couldn’t do anything without the printout I had lost. I almost just gave up. But the voice that says sensible things like “If something is wrong it is better you know early,” that voice bubbled up. I went twice in my forties and twice just had a doctor tell me “yeah you’ve got an enlarged prostate” like they were popping bubble gum after having shoved their finger up my jacksie. ‘oh yes, I am very aware of this,” I replied and thought that was the extent of it. The second time I asked “How does this actually check for cancer,” and they shrugged as they pulled the plastic finger thing off. I only found out about the blood test from my brother. If they find anything and it is developed, I’m gonna teach crows to shit on that doctor, no matter how long it takes me. I’m getting known by the local crows. I feed them nuts when I think the neighbours aren’t watching me through the window. One day I’ll have a crow army.

So yeah I drove over to my gp and persuaded them to print it out again. Then somehow persuaded myself to go back to the hospital. She was pleased to see me again. I had given her the impression I wasn’t gonna go to the effort. “Health is important,” she said. And it is. God bless the NHS.

Right now though I’m just gonna sleep while the blood comes back and dream of happy outcomes. Lou has got some homeopathic bee stuff to put on her London related hives, so hopefully she’ll be comfy next to me. I’ll sleep fine in this state so long as I can shut my head off. Probably about ten days to wait before they tell me I’ve got no Prostate Specific Antigens. Oh hooray.

My friend had a painting of a Welsh beach exhibited in London. It was going to go to Wales but she didn’t know how she’d get it back so she asked if I could grab it with her this morning and it was a nice way to start the week. I’m popping out of myself at the moment as I’m not sure what’s next and it makes me mobile and restless. I moved her painting and then got on the laptop and sent all my invoices and now at least I did something today. Darren rang me up, who I briefly lived with in the Olympics. He was curious about what might be in the wind so it’s clear that I’m not the only one trying to work out what’s next. He asked about one race I’ve worked on a bit in the past and I told him they are clueless and probably laundering money, cutting where they would do better to spend and spending when they would do better to cut, led by donkeys. “twas ever thus in racing,” he told me, and he should know. Like dad was back in the day, our boy has done his fair share of rallying. I feel comfortable on a racetrack just as “shall we go visit daddy?” He feels comfortable on a racetrack as “vrooom”.

So I’m home, all up to date with the paperwork, full house. Brian and Maddy, Lou and I, Tom Bellerby and two cats. And I’m tired. I whizzed up a pesto with mushrooms and spinach and so forth, fed it to everyone and now I’m feeling ready and happy to turn in and see this day off.

My downtime has been spent obsessing over vlogging equipment, having watched a couple of very well received people in my spheres of interest so are very very good at tech but have had their personalities removed surgically. Maybe I can make decent infirmative videos well enough that they offset the cost of the adventures I want to go on. It might be worth the effort based on what I’ve just spent hours consuming. Perfectly informative, but nobody knows why, nor do they have a handle on story. It’s missing something fundamental. But yeah that’s a long way down the line. Right now I can’t afford any stupid excursions.

Bedtime. I can enjoy this week for the fact I’m not crazy busy. I might do some attic movement of stuff. Can’t be a bad idea. Have oubliette, should use, better than it all being in plain sight in boxes.

That’s for tomorrow Al.

And suddenly Lou. The cats have been exhibiting all their most seductive behaviours, and of course Lou is totally taken with Misty who is just a slow and soft madam while Boo zooms all over the place like a typhooon.

There’s a little Indian restaurant in someone’s house, about fifteen minutes walk from my door. It’s been there for six years but somehow I never realised. It’s called Kutir which means cottage. A family business it seems, but they’ve gone right after the fine dining angle. Looking for the old Michelin stars, they are. There’s a taster menu. The lunchtime set menu is £35 or £40 with pudding. I had some masala prawns and then we shared sea bass and a truffle kedgeree with lots of dhaal and different breads and things. “The portions are unlikely to be big,” Lou worried, but I came out full enough that I haven’t wanted dinner. Evening taster menu comes in at £75 with £55 wine pairing and I have a horrible feeling that’ll be a few hundred quid of my hard earned dayjob dosh going into my belly at least twice before summer is done. It’s the sort of thing I might impulse book for me on my own if I’ve just had a long workshop earning £300 and feel like experiencing the luxury that such ridiculous work exists to sponsor.

Need to bring in the spondoolicks now though. Dayjobs clicked back into gear, I’m optimistic about the prognosis regarding the acting work, but I’ve got expensive tastes. Lou being here will mean I’m not blowing any money in booze which is a blessing, and the bills are mounting up. Gotta think practically if I’m gonna be able to meet myself in lobster pollichatu with trimbach reisling.

For tonight an early bed and no work tomorrow, just have to sort out my residents permit for bergie as it ran out and the fuckers gave me a ticket today which is another £65 out.

Still, the cats are fluffy, it is warm, Lou is here, all is right with the world apart from the fact I’m gonna need a good big job asap.

It’s international women’s day.

I woke up and stripped the bed in Camden. Went out onto the high street and paid for an American breakfast at Fridas, where they’ve themed the place on Frida Kahlo and they play salsa music on loop. They call it an American breakfast. Maple syrup is Canadian, pancakes, sausages, bacon. Nothing American there. Various fruits… it’s a Mexican diner, there’s nothing specifically American about the breakfast but for the name. In light of the fact that the redundant nation that used to think of itself as important has forced Google to rename the Gulf of Mexico, all these businesses should rename that breakfast. Frida would support it being a Mexican breakfast. Make it so.

I was on my usual deal of moving my car every two hours. Cat sitting has been pleasant but I’ve spent £86 on parking and that’s with my friend organising 4 hour permits for each day (couldn’t get more). My own fault, could have left it at home but I’ve been glad of my car. It’s just that as soon as you’re out of your borough it is really punishing having a car in London but that’s been the case for years. Discouraging yadayada you shouldn’t blah etc go swivel.

I caught Claire again early afternoon. She came with me to wrap party when Lou knew she was too busy making trousers. It’s always joyful hanging out with her. A walk with her, getting myself back into my body. That’s her thing. I am so glad of our friendship.

Then back across town to vote for M. She’s exhibiting in a gallery near me, there’s a people’s vote. I put my slip in. It’ll be a popularity contest, but worth punting it to my friend. Her art deepens year in year out. She is selling them now, as well she should, even if the galleries are taking incredible percentages. 40% from one today to the gallery, but she at least prices herself where she should be so it’s not a pisstake. Gallery will get almost as much as she gets, but without the gallery, no sale. Art is hard. You need somewhere to display it if you’ve made it and want money. I gave up on art as an investment when I took some of my father’s investment purchases to auction and realised that they would have to work hard to even get what he paid in the nineties. Since then I just look at what people want to charge with a calm wonder, and stop myself when I start to enjoy a piece too much. I’ve still got an attic full of art things that won’t even make what I paid on parking over three days.

Still I had a lovely city break, sleeping in a different place, rethinking this town. I’m a Chelsea boy, but North London has its charm and that’s where most of my friends are. Much easier to be social when I’m up there. Much as I managed it, but I did for a bit. And I’ve got friends ten minutes drive from here that I keep almost seeing and then not. And yes, I’m talking about you. Let’s hang.

Meantime I’m back with my sexy fluffy international women. Boo and Misty, dark and light, crazy and lazy. I’m there with them. All is well.

I was very glad not to be working today. Had wine on an empty stomach yesterday evening and it is something I just mustn’t do anymore. I barely remember my evening, although it involved sending an  overconfident WhatsApp pitch and inexplicably having it accepted. And writing an oddly angry blog which I’ve subsequently taken down for review.

I’m rolling into the weekend with Boy in Camden, but for today I just needed to get myself into a state of mind where I could be at a wrap party for a lovely job and not make a fool of myself.

It was over at All Star Lanes in the Westfield Centre, and Claire and I went together. I couldn’t bear going on my own. It’s quite solitary being an actor on these big sets, everyone sees you but you don’t see so many people. You need to be predictable and easy to find. They usually give you a place of your own and sure, the costume and make-up will have interactions with you but outside of that you get passed quickly through the ADs but spend most of your time just being ready and on your own.

Seventeen live days and they’ve got the feature film in the can. Incredible. “I watched through it all today,” says the director. People are happy. People are exhausted. Even the short time I had felt electric. I was very happy to be there, to be part of it. The director knows how much of me he’s kept. I haven’t seen the rushes. It will always be something I’ve done now and that’s joyful. Work breeds work. This has been an excellent period, and I feel positive about the onward journey from here. If you’re only as good as your last job then right now I’m pretty damn good. What’s next?

So I’m in bed and it’s only just gone ten and we’ve already had a party. Free chicken bites and mini burgers, a Pacifico out of the bottle which is what I liked to do in LA. A game of ten pin bowling with Claire, a couple of nice chats with creative people I liked when I met them on set, the ear of the general for a moment.

I didn’t need to be there any more really and I knew Boy would be shouting about food by now. So I’m gonna take myself to sleepland here in talkative Camden. Tomorrow probably back to Chelsea although they found some WW2 ordnance near the CPL venue in Paris and predictably enough they’ve used it as an excuse for everyone in Paris to stop working, so there’s no trains back. My friend might get delayed home. I’ll be on hand to mind the friendly hairball if so. Maybe the good people of Paris will decide to come to work tomorrow.  Maybe not. Bof.