Category: Uncategorized

What gorgeous people.

We had Oliver tonight, who was dressed like I am but had made himself up to look like he’s dead. He does German speaking tours of the cemetery. He was with friends who also do walking tours. We’ve had this in the past, where established walking tour makers come to see if it is worth shitting on our doorstep. They usually conclude that, with the momentum we have and the fact that we aren’t idiots, it’s a losing battle to set up against us. These guys tonight – we all had a brilliant tour. They can try their damnedest. Art is theft. They might turn out to be better at internet, or with more time to curate the website. They’ll never be better on the ground though and I could certainly help them see that. This is a friendship group that has emerged around the work. Good luck trying this territory. Cosa Nostra.

Why am I protective?

Because we had our first ever negative review drop today, from one Valentina who didn’t like the makeup and costume compared to previous years. 2 stars in what is a transparent attempt to drop the five star rating, and we just have to hope that she doesn’t activate her shit friends to do similar cos it hasn’t affected it.

Previous years we have had an active car, moving around the area, with all the stuff needed for changes etc. This year we just have Bergman parked halfway. We no longer have our set-piece actress queen with a driving license and her own easy attach facial boils, ready to cry for you. We have a present and immediate replacement who is doing something new and interesting. But … It feels like Valentina just likes things to be always the same forever.

People like that should be boiled.

I’m home. Chilling out. Sleep soon. The usual picture, with the electric blanket on, but the cleaning lady came today and put on Brian’s jet black satin sheet. I’m feeling… very fancy but just a tiny bit like I’m some guy called Colin in the early eighties who thinks he’s got the ultimate babe pad and thinks you’re the ultimate babe and you’ll know it as soon as you see his sheets.

Ahhh games.

One of my oldest friends makes computer games for a living. He always has. He’s extremely good at it.

When I met him I was playing games on my BBC Master System. It was 128k, which is NOTHING. Still, some games managed to give a sense of depth. Twin Kingdom Valley. Repton 3. Thrust. Stryker’s Run. We started to care about how these games were made, even as we literally couldn’t afford any of them at the asking price and had to either occasionally watch someone else play them occasionally, hear someone talk about them, or… or …

“All you need to do is tape over the gap in the disc.” “This crack will generate the correct passcode…” One whole generation of us got adept at ripping off games and basic hacking. We still paid premium when we knew it was good and we could afford it. But by 1990 every kid with a computer knew that you could spend as much as £30 on a game that was virtually completely pointless. We all had discs in our library that had cost loads and would never be booted up again as the game was just terrible. Sometimes, out of desperation, one or the other of us would get excellent at an obscure or badly conceived game. They were expensive, copies were hard to get right, trainers were not an exact science. Commodore 64 and then Amiga. Paradroid and The Last Ninja through to Turrican. One sick weekend I got extremely good an obscure Frankie Goes to Hollywood game on C64. I still feel affectionate towards the learning curve it took me on.

One of the maintenance staff at my posh school set himself up selling hacked Amiga games. He would have been fine if he hadn’t made himself too visible to the lawful evil people in my year. He lost his job but not before my close friends and I had been given access to most of the big titles in this growing industry. Monkey Island 2. Supercars 2. Speedball 2. Alien Breed. Epic. Xenon 2. FF7. Lots of great sequels. Lots of people working out how to do it well.

I was gaming pretty thoroughly until drama school, and then I found I needed to work and be creative… I tried to keep up with the big big titles but it became more and more involved to log into a device that took forever to boot up. I tried a gaming laptop but the fan was crazy and if I played it in bed it would overheat in no time. It all got too complicated as the graphical requirements got too involved. I stopped for good in about 2007, but my STEAM account was very full, and my wishlist was such that, when a game I wanted was reduced to £2.00 I bought it against a rainy day.

Lou is on tour. I’m working evenings.

I bought a Steamdeck and it is the best thing in the world.

It is £500 handheld device that lets me play my whole back catalogue. It is portable. It loads up quickly, doesn’t overheat or weigh a ton, and is absolutely perfect for touring.

I’m using it to catch up. One game at a time. This machine is capable of running Baldur’s Gate 3, the latest big talk game that I own, but I’m currently most of the way through playing GTA4 from 2008. The first big title I missed. Nico Bellic, morally ambiguous, in a grey and depressing simplification of New York City and I’m running around in it murdering and stealing with no compunction whatsoever and it is joyful. I’m late enough in the game already that I can steal incredible cars. I’m horrified and fascinated by the storyline. But people made it and cared. I’ve got such a backlog of games to try that I’ll never get up to date, but I never thought I would have the patience to catch up on these old school benchmarks so far. I’m thinking of working through things chronologically.

You couldn’t make GTA4 now. You play a proper baddie. I just went to the funeral of a guy I shot with sniper rifle, and his sister asked me to take her out for a burger. It’s fascinating and janky to play. I can only give it a short burst daily as my gaming stamina will never match my reading stamina. Still, the Steamdeck? Perfect placebo for an old school gamer who honestly can’t be bothered to keep up with all the latest tech anymore.

I thought that this morning a very grounded cypriot lady would be sticking drills all the way into my face and then filling me up with tree sap. I had kinda led myself into that expectation.

She did no such thing, and also went some way towards alleviating my tooth concerns. “Justin did my general scans, and he seemed inclined to tell me that nothing I had was worth saving,” I told her. “Justin specialises in all the cosmetic stuff. Saving teeth isn’t really his bag at all. If you need him down the line for looking great then you’ll be glad of him, but right now it’s dental work we need, not cosmetics.” I didn’t like Justin’s bedside manner. I like her very much, though, this tough headscarved toothlady. Just as well, as she does root canals which cost a grand a pop. I liked her colleague Charlie as well, who pulled my tooth out at the start of all this crap. I just don’t get on with people who are all about surface. She’s refreshingly honest.

The drilling and treesap will take place, don’t be mistaken. But not today. Today I could walk free into sunshine. So I went to Richmond and persuaded Minnie to meet me for lunch at The Ivy. We both had Steak and wine pairing on the daily menu and got out for fifty quid the pair of us. This is why judicious posh nosh can be a better idea than chain restaurants. We could’ve spent the same and left fat with white bread dough or msg after listening to hits of the nineties while someone shed their skin on the table next to us.

My lunch and a little walk in the sun – it kicked me into the rest of a bright October day where I’m FINALLY feeling almost normal again. Sure I’m still coughing. “I don’t even test for COVID these days,” says a friend of mine, and truth be told, the thing that just happened to me? Unfamiliar enough that I’m pretty happy to finger the old C. Bodyaches, deep fatigue… I kept my appetite this time but often just stubbornly eating to feed a cold, helped by the fact I didn’t lose my sense of smell. In a way I’d be glad to have just had the latest COVID, cuz I need to be on all guns this December. It looks like I’m gonna be in shitarse digs with the techies, locking myself in my room and crying my way through a million shows a minute where the audience ain’t listening to a word I’m saying. And I won’t have the Jackbond that normally makes it all livable. This will be the year when Christmas Carol becomes a job again.

Not until December though. Right now it’s walkies, sorties, messaroundies.

One more week of Halloween. I don’t have to fight to sell tickets which is why I haven’t. You can still come, even officially, if you’re fast. And we take walk-ups who are friends, at capacity shows, for cash.

A lazy day. The laziest possible really. I woke briefly to feed Boy at half seven. That was mostly a sleepwalk task. The narrative of multiple dreams rattled on and I returned to them happily and let my body rest. Coughing is constant, but doesn’t wake me. A year of double pneumonia and lung collapse helps me know when a cough is surface, and this one isn’t worrying me yet. So I cough in my sleep and my worrybrain stays disengaged. Hey, maybe I was lucky to lose that year of school to double lung collapse fun. It stops me worrying, but it also means my coughs can go deep. This one hasn’t though, and I think my body has beaten it now. I didn’t come to full consciousness until half past two. I then suddenly woke from all the dreams, with Boy’s head in my armpit. He wasn’t too happy with me for sleeping half the day.

I probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere all day but for Frank, who deals with his mental health stuff differently from me. He’s a younger generation. He has meds while I drink wine and bang my head against things. “If you find the right meds then everything gets easy,” he insists. But he had run out and I could feel the anxiety building. Nothing I didn’t recognise from previous flatmates who have fixed it with scag, but never pleasant. Whatever his prescription is, it’s much better than that crap. I needed to go to Boots and grab. So I did. Got some Percy Pigs too over the road. And some grub.

Got home, cooked a load of food, spoke to Lou. Somehow it’s past 1am. I’ve just got out the bath. My biological clock is out of whack but tomorrow I’m off to play with root canals first thing so I’m gonna have to hit the hay post haste.

Maybe one day I’ll write something insightful again. These days it feels like I’m just surviving.

I’m home. I’m thrilled about this. I’m knackered and my voice has been suffering because of all the coughing. I’m feeling much more ragged than I normally would after just a few pleasant walks with strangers.

It was a quiet crowd tonight for Sunday. Sober and polite. Lovely to run but I was pretty much done before I started. By the time we were at the final pub I didn’t even want anyone to buy me a drink. Chris and I jumped on the same Dott and went tandem back across the heath to pick up Bergie. Then I loaded up bags and went home. Back to the creature comforts and to a place where I don’t need to speak to anyone. For a few days. I can just stop awhile. Well, for Monday. Probably got a root canal happening on Tuesday but let’s see what comes of that. Monday lies stretched out before me, official actor’s day off. Might even be decent weather, if I feel well enough to get out in it. The evening sun was a glory today, so with luck it’ll hold.

Normally when I leave the performance bubble I like to check in with the world, but good hell it just keeps getting more and more upsetting in terms of the everybody killing everybody else stakes. I dread switching on the radio for more horrors in Ukraine, in Gaza, everywhere. I’m just gonna stay warm, read my fiction, and stroke the cat. Might try and see my friend who the cat belongs to and see if she’s any better tomorrow, although part of me just doesn’t want to move a muscle all day. I can finally kick the rest of this lurgy.

I’m done. The bath is almost run. Rest and recuperation. Bring it. zzz

I’m starting to feel a bit less dead, although my whole body aches when it experiences even the slightest bit of cold. I put all my clothes on and I made a cup of tea about two hours before I was supposed to go to work, but then I chucked it all in, took it all off again and lay on my back shivering into my electric blanket.

Eventually time took its inevitable course and I had to put all the clothes back on and get the fuck out of the flat. This time I at least remembered to put the black shirt on top of the pink jumper. Stealth colour. I’m wearing my Halloween personality right now. He’s just as twinkly but a little sterner and everything is black. Just another aspect of the clown. Oh how I love to puncture you if you take yourself too seriously.

Here I am again in The Flask, listening to people who will be on the tour. Numbers will be down, but it’s shitting it with rain and they don’t use the rain app I have which shows me the clouds and makes me into a weather prediction demon (thank you Extreme E).

It’ll stop raining just after we start and it’ll hold off all evening.

—

So today I’m experimenting with these Dott scooters. I’ve brought my licence. Unexpected hurdle jumped. Chris forgot his stuff, so I sent him in my first ride all the way down and back up Swains Lane. It makes no sense for him to leave the doctor’s bag in The Star. But yesterday, for a brief impractical moment of idiocy, he thought it did. I’m glad I have this new and rather odd subscription. They’re very OCD about things but they kinda have to be so they can work out who chucked their scooter in the river.

—

I was pretty much ready to be positive about Dott until I tried to take it back to Bergman through the Heath.

No Go Area.

I got as far as the top of Parliament Hill when it decided to cut out and put a 2mph limiter on. I was in so far in blood that to go back were as tedious as go o’er. Even trying to ride it down the other side of the hill I had to occasionally kick the fucker. Then when I had finally slogged the bastard thing back onto the road it kept on switching the limiter on and off because for Dott, Rules>Safety. Fucker cut out under me once and very nearly threw me under a bus. Dott Scooters: Another Thing That Looks Like Freedom But Really Is Jail. There’s your new marketing strategy you chumps. “To avoid a fine, stick to the permitted route,” it says, and fuck you. If you issue that fine I will never pay it. And if someone else issues it then it’s none of your fucking business.

And that is what happens when I try to do things laid aside for those younger than me. I notice the freedom creep where I’m not supposed to. It is getting faster and faster, that creep, and we keep on getting baited into supporting giving away everything. Boiling frogs.

You can still hang someone for treason for playing bagpipes on Hampstead Heath. It doesn’t affect our day to day existence. Dott is an obedioconpany, but considering they almost threw me under a bus their thrust is not about protecting the rider, it’s about protecting obedience. It makes about as much sense as the bagpipe law. Twits.

Fuck I hit publish instead of schedule. Meh.

I was gonna treat myself and ride up Swain’s Lane on a Dott scooter, but the bastards expect you to be carrying your driving license on you at all times. The sweat of the walk has probably been some sort of putgative. I’m still feeling a little sorry for myself but not so sorry that I can’t spam energy at a load of strangers for a few hours. This is, after all, my jam.

I’ve ordered a sausage from the pub. Local rain looks like it’ll hold off tonight which is a relief as I’m gonna be pretty shaky.

On the way up the hill, on the right, I saw Sheelah again, just moseying around in the most dilapidated part of Highgate Cemetery. I had my hands full and time pressure. Sheelah is a well signposted local Bengal cat, Hong Kong chipped and worth two grand to anyone who can tempt her through the fence with treats and then get her back to her generous owners. The first time I saw her was mid tour on Monday with a load of girl guides. “That’s the missing cat,” one of them observed, and had I noticed the price tag I might have made it part of the tour to try and tempt her over. It makes sense of why I saw a woman there at dusk last week with a packet of dreamies and a cat leash. Sheelah apparently needs her medicine every day, but the fact she’s gone feral in the cemetery for at least a fortnight now implies that she is more robust than her keepers allow her to be.

Now I’m waiting for my sausage. If I’d caught her this evening I would probably have had to try and carry her around all evening as I’ve no time to fuck around looking for where she lives.

People are talking about our tour at the table next door. “It’s funny. It’s not really scary though. Just get drunk and you’ll have a great time.” Oh God. Friday night and I’m under the weather. Here we go.

—

Eaten half the sausage. No appetite for more. I’m in a room full of supplies in my top hat and cape, getting ready to pop out. Do I have the energy for this? Do I have the voice for this? Yes of course I bloody well do.

—

But barely. They seemed to enjoy it though. Friday night innit.

Now I’m home, toasty warm in my electric bed after a long hot lavender bath. Gonna sleep until I wake.

Everything is hard work today. Just as well I’m not working. I slept the first half of the morning, cooked scrambled egg and then slept until mid afternoon. All I had to do is assess if I had the stamina to get my ass over the river to The Affordable Art Fair. It’s in Battersea Park and my nephew is director.

At about 4pm I decided I was just about human enough to go and look at things. I texted Shama to let her know and got a saucepan out. I’ve got this “Ceremonial Grade” Cacao. “It’s just hot chocolate,” said Jack, but I’m happy to buy into the idea it isn’t. I mindfully scraped bits off and made them hot with some chili and some cinnamon. Then I put my contact lenses in which proves that I literally will never learn. And then I wept as I stirred it all up with milky stuff and fed it to myself and Frank.

Tears are close right now with the early darkness. And add to that the fact I’m bone weary. Whatever my body is fighting, it is winning as can be evidenced by the rivers of snot. But my ability and my desire to be upright and mobile is stifled in the restorative sensations brought about by the absence of striving.

Frank had an audition today and now he has the familiar tenderness. We are our own worst critic and we can attach things to these meetings. I left him to go look at the art.

Medusa caught my fancy, but is it an energy you want in your home? She has strange beauty.

I prefer the fair to last year. There’s a lot more I like in my price range. It feels very positive and alive there as a place to buy art and talk about things. I wish I was not feeling so absolutely useless. All my muscles ache. My brain is full of soot.

So I’ve put myself into electric blanketland, and there’s a glass of water beside me and I did the awful tooth thing and now I can sleep and repair until Boy wakes me up at dawn. zzz

This afternoon while everyone was working, I put an electric blanket on my bed and topped it with a mattress topper. Now it’s before eight and I’m in bed and I’ve got no intention of leaving it.

Chicken Satay this evening and I got a bit too jolly with chopping the red chili up fine. Since I cooked I’ve been experiencing all sorts of new sensations. I put some chili in my eye taking out my lenses. Got chili in my nose too blowing it. And despite thinking I had thoroughly washed it all away, the process of jamming that instrument of torture in the crevices of my toothypegs has given me an all over fiery chili mouth to boot. I would be feeling sorry for myself were it not for this electric blanket making the bed nice and toasty, plus I’ve got myself a can of lager. Lager kills chili.

I’m mostly feeling sorry for Lou. She’s gonna be working until midnight in a stormy Bedford while I’m living this life of Reilly with an accessorised mattress and the luxury to shove chili into all my soft bits. I’ll be asleep before she’s finished at this rate.

The dark and the cold are closing in, and I’ve had time to notice it. My brief excursion to the outside world brought home a sense of general drizzly greyness, and a fading light at lunchtime. I’m glad not to be working today. I can have a weekend in the middle of the week and do the cozy things that make the cold world more bearable.

Frank, Boy and I have a pretty pleasant arrangement up here in the cold. Good food and fluffy cat, luxurious soft furnishings. Definitely got nothing to complain about. My mouth hurts and I’ve got a cold. But sleep will help with these things, and I can lie in my ‘jamas in my hot bed listening to the rain on the window and thanking the lord that this evening I’m not out there in a top hat shouting stories to strangers.

Dental hygienist.

I’ve been pretty bad at going to the dentist until all this tooth stuff went off the other week. Now I’m playing catch-up. There’s gum disease and if I want them to take me seriously I’m gonna need to be addressing it. She was good enough to be patient with me, but she got the tools out. I had some numbing but I know the taste of blood by now and good crikey she found a great deal of it in my mouth. The upshot of it all is that I’ve got some long thing spikey thing that is too big to jam between my teeth and I have to jam it between all of my teeth every day and at the moment this is a process that involves grand guignol levels of gore. I should perhaps have looked after them better, but she assures me it is manageable so long as I pay attention to it, so I’ve decided to trust her. Mornings are gonna be weird for the next month or so, but I’m told it’ll get easier.

People go to the dentist all the time. I’m just being a wuss. I bought a Laksa at Pret and went home in a black cab. Ate it at the table with cocodamol and waited for the sensation to come back. It was nothing like as bad as after the extraction. But all this dental stuff is just so close to the brain. I don’t like it. It feels strange paying for it. But… prevention. We all know in theory that prevention is better than cure, but we never quite complete the connection because the things we prevent never need curing.

With my face still screaming I went to a dinner party and ate my body weight in chicken. I thought I wouldn’t be able to eat but it turned out I really wanted grub. A lovely bunch of people out in Ealing and my first dinner party since COVID and maybe I should have some people over to my flat next month and get back into the swing of all that social stuff. It felt like my friend just wanted to be sociable, and not like I was being shoehorned into things for work or romance purposes. The only actor there though so the inevitable conversation after a while.

Now I’m home, full and socially replete. Back into the routine of tempting Boy to sleep in my room so he doesn’t jump on Frank. What a delightful end to a day that started painfully.