AlBarclay

Today I’m writing while a biographic documentary of the life of Sterling Hayden runs in the background. It’s today’s Mubi. An independent soul, Hayden. An alcoholic at the end. A man of chaos and a man of water. Much I understand in him.

This was shot four years before he died, very much alive living on his wonderful boat in France, with validation tics aplenty. I’m not sure how much I trust him and I’m not sure how much I trust the film maker not to stitch him up, this old man who hit a vein in youth and who lived well and forward, and took his luck when it came. Big tall man living hard and well, and bravely. Now sunk into booze.

Another week done and suddenly there’s money in the bank. I talk to my agent and again I contemplate how fortunate I am to know that I’m represented firmly by somebody who gets me and is at the top of her game. This is a launch pad, even in this shit. I got paid today for pretending to be an auditor just before we locked in. Now I’m pretending to be a king and one of the only guys employed in live theatre. Next week I get to wind down and maybe to tidy my flat at last.

Kitcat calls this flat my ship. I know what she means. Nautical things everywhere, water visible from the window. Here I am floating above the world. I have a glass of wine in my hand. And I’m watching an actor with a good twenty years on me as he drinks Jonny Walker Red Label from the bottle and extensively justifies it to the camera. He died four years later, and I know how the body shuts down because I’ve seen it happen to too many people I love.

“I’m all fucked up because I’m alone,” he is telling us now. Classic symptoms of depression. He can’t see what he has. Only what he hasn’t. And how many of us have fallen into these traps? Still, every time I watch this celebrated man swigging without a glass, be it wine or sherry or whisky, my spine tingles.

In this endless April, many of us are drinking more than is helpful for us. Exercise is harder as we have to do it on purpose. I have usually managed to get enough running and yoga in the course of my work. I’m not doing that right now. My spare tire needs deflating. I need to break the habit of a lifetime and go to one of those hideous classes where someone tells you what to do. I have non-hideous friends running them and have missed multiple opportunities to do a free one taught by Claire.

Oh fuck. Hayden is talking about suicide as he slowly drowns himself. He’s namechecking his heroes. Virginia Woolf. Hemingway. Good references. Both took themselves out, one with water one with fire. “Where’s the gun?” he asks, deep in the bottle. The bottle is a gun. A wet gun.

We mustn’t succumb to this temptation to take a free pass out of life. There’s so much we can change from the inside, nothing from the outside. Particularly if we know death by name. Lots of people don’t. Our fear of death allows us to accept constrictions on our freedom. But death happens all the time, everywhere, and shouldn’t be feared. No need to speed it up for yourself or others, but why kill your life in fear of it ending?

I’ve just watched Testament of Orpheus by Jean Cocteau. My daily Mubi film. It’s an incredible engine for thought, this Mubi subscription. Autumn Sonata with all of the Bergmans still haunts me and I watched it days ago. Cocteau will stick with me even longer.

In the last two days I’ve been guided through Jean from young man playing with a new form to Jean as old man saying farewell whilst being fully aware of his possibility of legacy and irresistibly fucking with it. Over the course of two movies I’ve learnt to adore this weird mobile French poet. He questions authority and destabilises his own platform in a way that I think is terrifically important – for whatever my word is worth, considering I’m usually writing drunk. I’m thrilled to have been introduced to Cocteau and his incisive self-aggrandising self-denigration.

This time at home is powerful if we allow it to be, for the rest as much as for the making. I slept most of the day today and I don’t give a fuck. I needed it. Normally I’d be livid with myself thinking about all the things I might have missed. But my body was tired, my head was tired, I went to bed drunk after ranting about Bezos. I woke up tired and hungover, had a conversation with an old friend, and went back to sleep for 4 hours.

I didn’t get up until afternoon and even then I just made coffee and did nothing and did it joyfully. I feel rested now, lighter, less stuffed with pomp. And it’s ok. This is the flipside to the loneliness.

Nobody was worried about me because nobody knew I was down. I recharged my batteries and when I was back online I plugged back into the world and it was still there. I wouldn’t manage more than 24 hours offline like that before one of my dear friends started messaging everybody they could think of that knows me, so I know I’m supported. That too is incredibly powerful to know. This blog as well – it doesn’t show up and people worry. I’ve got precedent for bad scheduling though, which gives me some wiggle room. But I’m unlikely to be eaten by rats after the big cardiac before someone catches on.

So yes, I’m thinking about film as an art medium, in the light of the fact that I now have loads of kit to make a greenscreen and so forth. I suspect I’m going to be throwing some stuff against the wall that I think is interesting, although rest assured it won’t be me in MCU worthily delivering somebody else’s text for about two minutes longer than our attention span. That particular medium is covered and covered covered. People have either done it wonderfully or horrendously, and either way I’m not feeling the need to add to it. But I’m thinking of other shapes and patterns that might satisfy my interest in the live video medium. Surely it is about making it NOW. That’s what Cocteau would’ve done and I’m now making him my inspiration after the playfulness I’ve seen through him.

 

 

Ahh fuck it. I’ve given the tax-dodging mekonthief plenty of my money this week. I really try not to because however you look at it, based on his behaviour as I’ve understood it Jeff Bezos is literally the worst human being alive today.

This is the criterion as laid out by Christianity: We were all going to hell forever. Then Jesus came. Jesus was actually God – the authority dude. He died bad, which means the authority dude personally experienced humanity and pain via his Jesus avatar, who he deliberately jettisoned as part of the humanity project: “oh my God my God why have you forsaken me?”.

He did it for us, guys! Now we can go to heaven. The hard line for Christianity is : “If you refuse to hear the call of the risen Christ despite being taught about it, then bad bad bad hell hell hell aaaargh.”

Who’s to say any of us could run Amazon better then the Mekon. He has made things convenient. He has also made money beyond our ability to comprehend whilst paying very little tax. But maybe it’s because he hasn’t heard the word! Maybe he just needs to stop for a moment and say “Fuck! People think I’m The Mekon! I just need to be better at caring about shit!”

It probably hasn’t occurred to him that if he volunteered taxes in the countries where he operates he could be thought of much more in line with a hero, much like Branson in the early days.

As a result we see this intractable untaxable economyraping monster, separate from culture and distanced from humanity. A huge oversized evil floating head.

“This was our favourite bookshop in San Jose. Now it’s an Amazon bookshop, and they have to keep the front like a bookshop to stop people from protesting,” said a friend of mine last autumn outside a sterile glass shopfront in a silicon valley town that has barely started to understand what an identity is before it’s been pulled away again.

This great big malicious staring head, inevitably deconstructing and squashing small businesses that do similar things. He’s more than that – surely – but somebody needs to teach him to be better at relationships. Fuck knows he’s capable of it and he can afford the advisors if he isn’t. Let’s ignore the businesses he’s built up in favour of the businesses he’s destroyed for just a second and look at his legacy. Then it’s a legacy of destruction.

Jeff! Thank you for the convenience. You were too good at this. Help others. Don’t contribute to making the world boring. Let’s see you actually take a hit through philanthropy?

“When you break the statues you run the risk of becoming one yourself,” said Jean Cocteau in 1932 in Blood of a Poet. I’ve just watched it. His hard work, brought into my living room courtesy of Mubi. Who knows how many hours and how much money he put in, this incredible and already rich artist, to make a film that questions new forms and wonders about monoliths. Bezos is a monolith. He probably doesn’t see himself as The Mekon. I’m blind to my failings or I’ve found ways to justify them. That’s humanity. And The Bezos Mekon is as human as we are.

We are all our own Mekon. (The Mekon is an old figure from early comics. Left brain vs right brain. Mekon vs Dan Dare. Body vs head.)

Those comics were simplistic, but fucking hell I’m consuming Judge Dredd back issues from when I was too old to be still buying 2000AD and my parents were telling me they were simplistic and for kids. They are covering everything – including pandemic.

Teenage Al met John Wagner at a comic convention. He asked for a signature, but rather then capitulation met with a grilling. “Why do you want me to sign this?” I listed other works of his. He was satisfied my desire was genuine. I’ve since discovered he’s a hard signature to get.

The comic is on a shelf somewhere at my brother’s house. His signature is still not worth a fortune so I’m not too worried. But his brain is. I’d sooner see John Wagner as the richest man in the world, anytime, and he’s worked as hard as JB. But Wagner makes things that come with thought. Bezos needs to think outside himself more…

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For anyone wondering about my obscure references: who is the Mekon? This guy is the Mekon. A floating head. All brain, no heart. Left brain dominant. We all know the type. Me until I was about 35…

 

It’s still April.

Right now, experiencing this timeline from the inside, it feels like it should be July.

Not only is the world warming up properly, but time is totally losing its meaning. We all closed the doors at the beginning of Spring. Was that a month ago now? Or more? Or less. “This will go on until May.” “This will go on until October”. “This’ll all be over by Christmas.”

Last night I decided today would be an achievyday, where I tidied the nightmare and changed the plug sockets and the loo seat and the light fittings. Instead I just went for a very long walk through the deserted streets of Chelsea and Fulham and achieved nothing. I happened by my brother’s home and spoke briefly to my niece through the door. Even that was a relief as it was human communication in proximity with someone I already know. I had Brian in an over the shoulder long shot from the window the other day, more about his bike and his existence than his face. He had his helmet on. It was still more humanity than I’ve encountered outside a screen for ages.

The conversation with Catherine today was at least a bit more like the ones that humans have. Still artificial. It was a proscenium arch conversation. We could see each other, and react to each other. But she was inside the house and I was standing on the road. There was a gulf of artificially imposed space between us that we kept at all times. I was almost instinctively trying to go off on diagonals, but knowing I’d lose the sightline as soon as the bush got in the way.

It meant a lot to walk the streets. To see the world still functioning. Walking the streets still seems more sensible than going near the parks that are full of people sweating. Streets are conduits whilst parks are destinations. Destinations are to be avoided. There’s nowhere in this city you can go without being close to loads of people, but on the streets you can still keep your distance. Not in the parks. Someone will sweat on you immediately. You can’t even get through the gates. Kissing gates. Eek.

It is April still. The beginning of the mild times. Maybe another month of storm and wind. But then we should be coming into the peaceful summer months. The calm happy times where I usually find myself with a bunch of rogues and vagabonds making something beautiful and ephemeral. By August I am usually feeling creatively warm, fulfilled and relaxed if tired. I find a late summer festival so I can go into a field and dance constantly for three days and figuratively blow the top of my head off. Wilderness or Green Man or both. I fear neither of them will happen this time round. I haven’t even tried to pitch for a walkabout.

I’ll just walk the streets. Catch the temporary beauty even in London at this time. Long for the lost times. As we all do. It will return. And we will be more mindful when it does.

I took my exercise today in the form of a good long brisk walk through the streets of Chelsea and Kensington. The parks are ramjammed so the streets are more predictably peaceful. Shops are stripped right back, perhaps through fear of looting. This Cashmere shop has even stripped the mannequins. I’m surprised the proprietor was worried about Cashmere looters. Maybe it’s something more pragmatic like clothes moths. I guess if the shop is unattended for a while some nasties could get in and eat the cashmere. Better to strip the mannequins.

There are still lots of people out and about in daytime, wearing masks and veering away from one another. We have the sunshine today. Nobody wants to be stuck indoors.

There are things to do indoors though.  People are still finding lovely things to say about our live online Tempest, which is reassuring. Connecting with the connection, enjoying the anarchy. One more week for sure and then who knows?

Drunk Al bought a beanbag the same colour as the wall behind him. It arrived today. I can sit cross legged on it and look like I’m levitating. I imagine I’ll find a use for it and even if I don’t it’ll be useful in the show as I’ve been mostly squatting to be at the right angle. As soon as the spotlight is off me in the show, my expression turns from whatever the scene needs to discomfort as I stretch out my poor legs and ease my back. Now I have a magic invisible beanbag. Good work, drunk Al. Now that Pickle has vanished from my existence it’s safe to have a beanbag and know there won’t be cat-wee on it. We take what good we can from sad circumstances.

I’ve been wondering where the hell my iPad mic went and turned the flat upside down looking. I’ve just worked it out. It’s in Hampstead at Mel’s, the owner of the snake. I might have to get a zipcar across London and pick it up as I’ve been asked to record an award ceremony and would sooner turn in a good product. It’ll be the third year this particular industry has used me as their toastmaster, and despite the fact that it’s online I figure I’ll be wise to turn in a professional product so next year they’ll ring me again. That’s how it works. Seems I’ll get use from this light rig for something other than The Tempest already. I’m glad I bought it. I’ve ordered some backdrops as well so I don’t have to just use the teal wall. Maybe I should get a good camera as well. That’s the logical next step.

This bastard disease is proving to be a catalyst in teaching me how to use various bits of hardware and software. If it changes the landscape I’ll at least have been changing with it. I’ve still got huge amounts to learn in terms of lighting etc, but at least it gives me things to think about beyond worrying…

Copyright. Of course. We were playing tracks during the show, over the curtain call and in the wedding scene. “I think I can just contact the artists,” says one of the actors. “We can get permission.” “It doesn’t work like that. The producers own the work, not the artists. You can pay the artists, but you need to pay the producers too. And you pay them more than the people who made the work.”

Of course. The music industry. It reminds me of the documentary “Searching for Sugarman,” which if you haven’t seen it will be a worthwhile couple of hours. Bunch of cunts.

How to get round it?

Well, thankfully the director of the company’s husband is a musician. This is his isolation song. Everyone’s got one so sing along.

This morning I woke up, zoomed in, and screamsang in my morning voice, despite it being about 2pm. It was a Chubby Checker song. Chubby’s a tenor. I’m a profundo.

I tried to transpose it down an octave. “It sounds like Pavarotti” says the director. So it’s screaming they need. Fine. Screaming can be musical art too. Drama school teaches vocal care. But there’s a huge amount of traction in vocal damage, as well I know. I was soprano in The Messiah for a school tour when my voice broke. I went from top top to bottom bottom and it took me this long to understand the new thing that adulthood had given me in light of the thing that had been lost.

Profundo is very useful in group singing, to provide the “tench” – (the fish that is at the very very bottom”. But solo singing rarely looks towards those notes. There’s not much written for me that isn’t by Tom Waits. Male showtunes are mostly Tenor. I still have Old Man River as an audition song although politically it’s not the smartest if the company doesn’t already know me personally. Anyone with better suggestions, hit me up.

As for the work Stu and I did : well, he got me howling into mic and he’s cut it into the curtain call music somehow. As for the live bit, well that’s out of my control. Literally. But at least he’s made my morning voice sound boss on the recording.

Claire came and saw it tonight with her sister Helen and Hattie the dog. Also Katherine from my local Buddhist chapter. Yesterday my cousin outlaw Charlotte came. Almost every show there’s been somebody who I’ve been thrilled to see. Friends from long ago and not so long.

Two days off, but apparently not. I’m about to get a load of camera equipment, lights and tripods couriered to me. I’m going to have to record an annual award ceremony as toastmaster. It’ll be the third in a row for this client. But fuck knows how it’ll pan out. I think it should just be done live on Zoom. But it seems they want me to record the content for broadcast, and they’re gonna send me the kit to get it done properly.

Thankfully Jon is doing the negotiating. I’m just the talent. Let’s see where that one goes…

Here’s me mid show. Hex was more mischievous and affectionate than usual. He wouldn’t leave my neck. So I let him stay there as I sorted out props. You can see the studio type thing behind me…

“Let’s Twist Again! Like we did last summer. Let’s Twist again! Like we did last year! Do you remember when things were really humming? Let’s Twist again. Twisting time is near.”

 

Back into The Tempest, and again I’m stunned by these creative hearts. I know I’ve surrounded my life with remarkable unusual people. But it takes a show like this to remind me of how deep it goes. I’m the straight man in this. Me. The straight man. Yep. That’s how mental this lot are.

Oh how I love it. I’m happy to be part of something live and fun and silly in this weird isolated world we find ourselves in. I’m thrilled that Creation and Big Telly get to pick up audiences all over the world for a sweet and fun experiment. All of us are constantly having to up our tech game. I’ve bought new lights, which just arrived, but right now I have to work my legs super hard to be at the right angle for the screen. I’ll be buying equipment until I’m satisfied that my home studio environment is flawless. All this for live theatre during lockdown. But there’s not much else that would fire me up as much. This Tempest is bringing people together from all round the world, into the same environment at the same time. There’ll be a lot more of this before too long. But right now it’s still just either unstructured play-readings, monologues or old recorded shows.

Another actor has bought lights for his playing space, and he is not even doing the show at his own home. He has had a history of bad health and is staying with people who offered him a stable space outside of the cities. Like me he has dedicated a space and constructed a greenscreen studio. My greenscreen is still the teal paint in my living room, and I’m seriously considering just getting a proper one as teal is a fairly common colour.

All of us are using everything we have access to. One of us is making use of his sister to provide effects off screen, essentially by getting her to throw things at him. I know that if there was somebody here they’d be co-opted by me into doing something. Also they’d be hounded out for conflicting internet use, as my internet is entirely taken with this. And I need to pay attention as I very nearly spat water all over my laptop keyboard as an effect.

Everybody is using everything at their disposal entirely to make this the best craic it can be. And it’s real craic because we all know it’s a bunch of people stuck at home playing “let’s pretend”.

That’s the sadness of it. The teleportation thing I touched on a few days ago. There we all are laughing and dancing and suddenly we aren’t anymore. We are alone.

I think that might be the next stage. That we all stay in the zoom and break out the wine and hang out with whoever wants to stay. Certainly for the late show, not for the matinee. It can be like Christmas Carol. “We’ll get changed but feel free to stay, once we are out of costume we’d love to hang out.” Sure, sometimes Jack and I were exhausted and didn’t want to hang out with anyone. But we did, and it cemented the evening for many of the people who don’t normally go to theatre.

Either way, joy. I’m glad to be part of something delightful. And it’s only £20. Not that I need to push tickets. It’s been selling very well.

Someone reminded me of a post I wrote last summer while walking home to my digs after rehearsal. It was a balmy summer night and I met a badger, but my thoughts were on an apocalypse that was being predicted by the internet. This one was because of the colour of the moon and some Mayan calendar jiggery-pokery.

It wasn’t the end of the world that time, but there are plenty of events around as potential triggers these days. If you roll the dice often enough you get snake eyes. But it seems a lot of people have forgotten that coincidence just … well it just happens. Maybe I predicted this damp and uninspiring apocalypse. A certain personality type might edit the old post to smell like what actually happened rather than loads of words, and then go around with a God complex. The same personality type though would have been drumming up millions of followers by shouting. I’m glad I’m not that personality type. I can just whisper into this echo chamber before bed and not wake up to pages and pages of badly spelt opinions in capitals.

I’m as bad as everybody else about coincidence. I get some good luck and I say it’s “The Universe” so I don’t have to say it’s one of the pretendyface things, but what I call “The Universe” fills the gap left by spaghetti monster or daddy-beardy or fatman or one-eye or threeface or Rum ‘n Raisin or whatever your flavour of God might be.

But we must remember that patterns can come together in nature and stay for a while just by chance. Coincidences happen. And if we are looking for patterns we can sometimes find patterns that are random and assume they must be what we are looking for.

About a year ago my downstairs neighbour came ringing on my bell. “One of your appliances flooded water into my flat last night.”

I’d had the same flat with the same complaint repeatedly a few years previously and they only ever shouted when it rained. That time it was the guttering.

The night before this time it had been sheeting rain all night. It was still raining when we spoke. Open and shut case. “It was raining hard last night. It’s coming in from the guttering again.” I said, even though I ran the washing machine the night before. Two months later in America it became apparent it was DEFINITELY the washing machine when Brian did it twice in a row in one week. Emergency plumber plus Tristan as keyholder plus too much money taught me the meaning of the pompous phrase “correlation does not imply causation”. It had been raining. I wanted the rain to be the cause. I was indignantly convinced the rain was the cause to the extent I was bristling and angry with my neighbor for daring to think it was my appliances.

It was my appliances.

“Correlation does not imply causation”. It’s a phrase people who are overeducated use to try and talk down to people who have what they think of as crazy pattern-seeking ideas. Speaking as someone overeducated: don’t do that shit! You’re never going to win someone over by showing them you know better words. It’s the same mistake to correct their grammar. They didn’t listen to teacher back then. If you make yourself sound like teacher you can be as easily dismissed.

Right now the usual well known suspects are chasing the paranoid pound hard online and no surprises. This is fucking arbitrary this lockdown. We are all stuck at home and if we really want to believe that we don’t have to be, we can listen to lots of voices telling us what we want to hear. “I’ve been out licking doorhandles every day and I’ve had no Coronavirus!” Yes, because everybody else has been isolating, bless you. But it’s always nice to feel you have specialist knowledge. I’ve been listening to some endless stuff today so I can sit beside people and at least have a handle on the indoctrination. The tone of it! Always everything so so very very serious even if the content is rubbish.

Anyway. Time for bed. Telepathic frogs are making you bald. It’s too late for me. They were bred by Henry Kissinger. And do you know who has a frog farm? Barack Obama. But you won’t find that in the mainstream media.

TRANSLATION: Get off social media, Al.

It’s definitely lighter now than it was a few weeks ago at 8pm when we first went to the window and clapped for the care workers. It’s quaint that we still do it, although I can never shake the suspicion that if a care worker was home to hear it they’d be sleeping. Still we get to honk our honkythings and clap our hands and hear one another whooping and clapping and remembering that we are together alone.

Officially another three weeks minimum in the UK battening down the hatches, said Bojo today, and I have a strong suspicion it’ll be considerably longer in the playing. He also put out a “should we postpone Brexit yes/no” questionnaire on his Facebook and I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

The ghost of this thing will be with us for years, if not decades. The actor playing Belch in the outdoor Twelfth Night had better think twice before taking a sip of audience wine. Handwashing stations at festivals are going to be swimming pools of mud on day one. Business meetings will start with bowing to each other even if nobody is from a culture where that’s been normalised.

Brian appeared outside my window this morning, sitting atop his vast purring monster of a superbike. We spoke on the phone whilst looking at each other. He had his helmet on and gear so it was a bit like talking to a friendly tank. Still It was the first time I’ve been in the same shot as one of my friends since this all started, and even then it was only the wide angle. I haven’t shared air with anyone since I went for a pub lunch in Chelsea the day before the pubs closed. Most of us haven’t. And most of us are starting to go stir crazy.

I didn’t go to the pet shop. I woke up with unfamiliar but quite severe pain in the small of my back and I’ve decided to blame it on everything from tension to kidney stones to cystitis to sleeping funny. It’ll work out in my favour though as I’m using the discomfort to take booze out in the equation for a bit to let the old body recover. So I rested.

Apart from making food, I’ve just consumed things. Two or three more anthologies from the Judge Dredd Mega Collection and I’m gaining a deep respect for John Wagner as a writer of comic books with heart and content. So prolific as well. I’m not even halfway through reading the lot and I’ve done at least two a day since the doors closed.

Then I went onto Mubi for today’s movie – I’m going for one a day as it means I just have to watch whatever is coming off, rather then get picky and spend forever deciding. This one was Brazilian : Neighbouring Sounds. Compelling, but unlike many of the foreign movies I find myself watching, not an advert for the country. A hot strange oppressive film, beautifully observed but not relaxing. Streets away from the 1957 samurai bathhouse romp that barely touched the sides yesterday.

Generally, nothing to report. All quiet on the Western Front. Hope you’re all well.

As the sun set, I sat on my roof and watched the world darken. A crow sat with me, off to my left. It was almost companionship. It was as aware of me as I was of it. Probably not used to being disturbed in its sunset ritual. They’re smart cookies, crows. Smarter than Hex, but so’s an apple. It seems all the creatures I’ve been in close proximity to in the last few weeks would actually eat me if I was tied up and couldn’t defend myself. I should get a dog. But a dog is for life, not just for lockdown.

There’s a fucking great mansion where there used to be a garden behind my flat. Busy year for someone. They’ve made a huge big pond for the mosquitos to breed in, and a domed conservatory type thing next to it. I don’t hate it. Nor does the crow.

So much thinking time.

This would be a good time to start a new religion. People are trapped in their individual homes, going slowly insane. Any old shit, if you say it with enough certainty someone’s gonna buy it. Don’t write it down. It needs to be recorded. The best target is semi-literate. Tell them about all the books you’ve read and scientific papers you’ve studied. Then just make up some stuff and make it sound important. You can stick a bit of your own politics in as well if you like, and anything else you don’t like – just say it’s bad and make up reasons. Probably there’ll be money at the end of it. Just don’t get them all to kill themselves suddenly. That happens too often. But this is kind of feeling like the ’70s with internet.

I’m hearing the names of old testament demons as if they were an actual problem in the real world rather than ancient distillations of human fear given name. It’s like I’m playing a Dungeons and Dragons timetwister campaign. “Watch out, Baal’s about!” “Would you like to take out a policy against acts of Beelzebub?” “Our decking spray can protect against Moloch!” We just aren’t used to collectively having all this unstructured time, and also not having a quick sounding board. “The reason all the loopaper sold out is because Katie Swivens from number five is actually Belial.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “Ah nothing, you’re right. Don’t worry.” Instead you post it online and someone is like “me too bro, my neighbor is actually Marchosias. He’s eating all the puppies in my area. But you don’t see THAT in the papers.”

We are starting to crack and there’s lots more of this to come I fear. We are getting fed up of the sound of their own heads if we’re on our own. I really want to go to the pub, to go out dancing, to sit in a restaurant with friends, to have coffee and write in a crowded room.

I’m trying for an early bed so I don’t smash myself with booze at home again. I think a few days down are in order to let my poor body recover.

A good long walk to the pet shop tomorrow to buy mice for the snake. Start to think about how my body fits into all this, and what condition I want it to be when we leave. I haven’t been kind to it since I locked in.

Time is speeding up which happens when you’re forgetting to do things you’ve never done before. I’ve never bought frozen mice before. It’s not much but it’s something. If only Belphegor wasn’t stopping me exercising.