AlBarclay

I can hear the wind battering the windows outside my room up here. There’s no traffic noise at all. Sweet relief. Earlier this evening I stopped for a moment and looked up as we were changing vans. A canopy of winter stars, so clear in the night sky. A momentary shock of the beauty and the size of the universe. Then back to the mundane.

I’m cocooned in an unfamiliar bed, festooned with cushions. If I open the door then Baggins will come and sleep on me, but I’m barely able to cope with Pickle sleeping on me and she’s as light as a feather. Baggins is bigger, and being a dog he’s more likely to be affectionate. I’m not sure I can handle affectionate when I’m trying to sleep right now, particularly if I’m driving a whacking great van full of fragile things back to London tomorrow.

I’m winding down at Al’s home in Stillington, outside of York. The wind is still howling outside, reminding me how lucky I am to be in bed. Golfo, Phil and Will and I have been breaking down the set for York Gatsby this evening, and driving vans around. The Luton is going in for a service tomorrow morning as I’m going to have responsibility for it until May. We’ll make a show in it. But since Phil’s taking it in, it means I get a lie in before I get picked up. Delight.

Golfo has a cold and smells of TCP. The rest of us just smell. We’ve been painting, scraping, arranging and cleaning, but mostly moving furniture. Endlessly moving furniture down into one room, and some into the van. Sweeping and cleaning and tidying. Carrying “dressing” (as in loads of random material, furniture and items) – it makes sets effortlessly nicer to look at, but the more dressing you have the more heavy stuff you have to carry in and then carry back out again. It’s always worth it but It’s always a hassle.

Most of this stuff doesn’t need to go back into storage until after Vault Festival though, so we have a cornucopia of “dressing” delights to borrow for the van show. I’m glad the job of hauling it fell to me. Especially because I’m also hauling the Christmas Carol stuff, which has been in the garage of the Lord Mayor of York since we finished the run, and now needs to be moved out. Better me, since I loaded it in there. I was worried stuff would get left. This way I can plunder what will be useful, and then make sure it goes back to the right place after the festival, so any further secondary Gatsby’s or Christmas Carol runs have all the stuff they need.

I’m exhausted though. I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m gonna curl up in this cosy bed and dream of carrying furniture and driving vans, and then tomorrow morning I will make that dream into a glorious reality.

I’m glad I’m so tired. The habit of using alcohol to get drowsy has already faded after just a week. I’ll sleep well tonight.

“It’s funny how everyone has an opinion about what you should do with your flat but you,” observed Brian last week. It’s a fair observation. Most people think I should move out, which is a fair assessment when you take into account the fact I could rent it for a packet and it keeps costing me money. But then I’d have to live somewhere else. And that’s where it all falls down. I like it there. I like that it’s full of life, and people feel comfortable (unless they’re neat freaks). Throw your wine on the carpet! It’s fine. Write poems. Fall asleep. Just don’t fall over into the gargantuan TV or burn the place down.

Just round the corner is The King’s Road. No longer the hot strip made legendary in the sixties, now it’s another homogeneous High Street peppered with occasional points of interest. Mostly it’s Starbucks and Pret and Joe and his ridiculously expensive juice. Always a few pubs. Some odd restaurants. The crystal shop. Waitrose and Marks and Spencers. And then the rash of the chains that mark up enough to pay the arsehole rent that The Cadogan Estate want. No betting shops thankfully. No Greggs. A McDonald’s in an old club, but outside of that I reckon the cheapest food is a fiver. Most of the interesting quirky places are long gone. As with the Shunt Vaults, when the grey people catch sight of colour they extinguish it if they can. Still, there are a fair few eccentrics prowling around, but they’re all from money. It’s a good place to people-watch, and that’s what I’ve been doing with my Sunday morning.

An old man in a Burgundy Cashmere golfing jumper and a trilby posts a letter. A Chelsea pensioner marches past a loping teenage boy in a hoodie. You see a fair few of those pensioners, in their distinctive uniforms, always greeting people with the time of day. A high status mother walks by animatedly talking with her daughter – both wearing antique fur. Every third car is a cab, usually with the light on – “Pick me! Pick me!”. Every fifth car is something unusual. Of the pedestrians, about a fifth are visibly drunk and it’s still morning on Sunday. A large proportion more are inevitably off to a lunch which will involve a couple of bottles of expensive plonk. Predominantly Caucasian. Predominantly dressed in clothes that cost money once. There’s a broad selection of hats and scarves. Women arrow by in brand new active wear, their white trainers so bright it’s like looking at the sun. Men light cigarettes from matches walking, with the grace of long practice. Beautiful pedigree dogs are pulled by shambling wrecks of hungover humanity wearing whatever was on the bedroom floor this morning. Occasionally a pigeon. One crackhead so far, but nobody selling. No visible law enforcement. Sometimes someone ambles past buried in a small screen, but mostly this bunch aren’t zombies. The glass in front of me is reflective for them. They check themselves out. They can see me, but it’s like I’m not there.

This whole experience would be better if I wasn’t in Starbucks. This was the first UK Starbucks. They started with a good one. I’m contributing to the problem being here though. I had a chai latte because I hate the coffee. I’m sitting here in this fantastic window. Over the road the Curzon Chelsea cinema is boarded up for redevelopment. When it reopens it’ll hopefully have a decent café. I hope there are windows like this one, as I’ll be getting my membership. I love that little cinema. It’s the first place I saw myself on the big screen so it gets all the narcissist points. What with that and The Royal Court Theatre, and the Chelsea Arts Club up the road, there’s plenty nearby if you look for it. Just don’t get pulled into the big chains like I have.

I wonder what will become of streets like this if internet shopping completely wipes out the high street? Will the rent go back down, bringing the colour back? Or will this be nothing but coffee shops, restaurants, pubs and Amazon depots?

 

Shunt. Back in the day they were cool as fuck. Back then we all were. Front runners of the immersive theatre vibe, and alternative cabaret legends they ended up taking over a huge space under London Bridge station. For a glorious year or two the early commuters would see rangy young men and women dressed as glitterchickens staggering wide eyed from a door near the tube barriers, still in the night before. “Some sort of bordello,” they might tut, before pulling up their swivel chair and pouring a bit more of their soul into a CRT monitor and questioning their life choices but making actual money in the process.

That sort-of bordello – it was a huge damp catacomb under the trains, lit feverishly, adorned with changing artwork. Walk down the corridor. See the strange lights. What the hell is that person doing upside down in that dark room? Is that a penguin? Oh. A bar! And a stage – a platform for experimental burlesque fire dancing glory. A cavernous space, made and filled by the work and the life of the people who dreamed in it. Nobody really making money, but making life. My memories of evenings there are clouded and colorful, blurry and uncertain of time. I know I’m not alone in saying that I still feel a pang when I walk past that shut door, so near to the base of The Shard. A gateway into another world – a world where dreams were born. “Let’s make a thing…” And so many things were made and some of them grew legs and ran. Alliances still remain, pieces of art, of music, of staggering ephemeral beauty. But slowly, surely, they drew their plans against us. And then it was shut down and we had the party at the end of the world and fuck it was a hell of a night and I staggered out to the commuters at about 6 and bought a coffee with the glitterchickens. And then the closure was appealed and the doors opened once again for a brief blast of a moment. But grey mist and souldeath clutched their papers and hated enough to care. And so it fell away at last and The Shunt Vaults became another shining memory in an ever growing constellation, a closed door on an empty space. Back to the rats.

Cut forward something like 8 years. God. And I notice Shunt are doing a one night “Twelfth Night” thing. It’s free. It’s at The Curtain Hotel in Shoreditch. I’m in. I send it to Mel. She’s in. It’s a no brainer.

A big downstairs area in hipster Central. And loads of people. It’s packed here, and alive. I’ve visited the Magi. I’ve seen the star. I’ve had gold, frankincense and myrrh. I’ve eaten some pistachios. I’ve found the cake but perhaps I shouldn’t have. And I’ve had some interesting ideas. Then I’ve been invited to see the baby Jesus.

Now I’m downstairs. Mel brought her cards with her. She’s reading tarot and there’s already a queue. A Tom Waitsalike sings next door with a Bjorkalike, and I feel too old to stay in that room because the bass is turning my poor brain into jelly. I had two years of tinnitus and I’m not up for that fucker recurring, party or no party. I’m not the glitterchicken anymore dammit. I’m the grounded guy in a suit who is a secret glitterchicken. I did get hit on though, which made me think I should wear this three-piece more often.

Tomorrow is Twelfth Night, so I’m taking full advantage and putting the Christmas lights on one last time. Pickle is oblivious to the ceremony. She’s too busy trying to scratch the furniture and stealth-wee on the beanbag before I sit in it.

It always seems a shame to take the lights down for superstition, and yet it helps break up the seasons. Packing up all the shiny things forces us fully into the dark month though. There’s no avoiding it. This is the month where I wish I could get a call to go work on a film set in New Zealand. (I wish that most months, but January would be the best). Stating the obvious, and for my huge antipodean readership, it’s bloody cold mate. Plus the light goes fast. Spring seems far far away, and there’s a whole lot of rain before summer comes round. Silmarillion? Anyone?

This morning was winter-perfect. Sharp clear skies letting all the heat escape. A bright winter sun in the morning, helping us not get sad so long as we’re awake, even if the heat is disappointing . I sleep with my blinds open so the light hits my face early. That and the cat jumping on me render an alarm obsolete. I rolled out of bed this cold morning, made hot breakfast, pottered around in warm soft clothes, and wrote facing the freezing river.

I’ve become momentarily obsessed with Waitrose rösti. 0.75p for a serving. Drop an egg on it. Breakfast! That and a gallon of coffee meant I didn’t need to leave the house until the working day was winding up. A quick meeting nailing down price and insurance details left me pretty much ready to take custody of a huge great big Luton van for a whole month, to turn into a fabulous ridiculous pantechnicon. Then I was in the centre of town with 45 minutes to get to Waterloo, so I had a good brisk winter walk.

People are wrapped up tight. They’re not looking where they’re going in the cold. They’re walking hard forwards and expecting other people to get out the way, which is fine if you’re the only one, but there were far too many people far too cold tonight and they were bumping each other. More homeless people than usual were working the crowds, looking mightily pissed off. Some were just clocked out sitting against a wall. Even the ones that usually make a lot of noise seemed unusually subdued. I had no cash for them. I rarely carry cash anymore, just as I use it less and less. The cashless society is very convenient for bookkeeping, but on nights like this it’s probably killing people. I saw a busker with an izettle (“No cash, no problem!”) but that only works if you have a bank account and a working iPhone. I wouldn’t want to be living on the streets in this shit. How could I cook my Waitrose rösti?

After fighting with myself a bit more about the thing we are making in a van in Waterloo, I met up with my friend and fellow maker Mel. Things are always less of a tangle when you have someone to untangle them with. I know it won’t be the horrorshow I’m imagining it could be where I end up chained to a wheel in the poorhouse being whipped by orcs, but it’ll be tricky nonetheless. That’s okay. Good to crack the back of it.

Mel reminded me that the reason we wanted to make it is because we enjoy it. She reminded me that the original concept was just simple and fun. I got mired in the bureacracy and temporarily forgot about the fun. Risk Assessments and Public Liability Insurance and proof that we have copyright and Press Releases and images and what if this and what if that and particularly what if the other. Aaargh.

We wandered over to Waterloo, to The Vaults, and eventually spoke to a very calm slightly bemused man called Andy who knows about things. “Can we run power?” “Will we have to wrap the van in pallet wrap every night?” “Can we have a live snake?” I’m still working out what this will cost us. We are going to have to sell a lot of tickets and right now sales are at zero and I can’t work out how that’ll change between now and opening, particularly as they aren’t on sale yet, we’ve done no marketing, and the Twitter account I set up has been suspended because I gave a fake name. Mel is determined. “I flew back from America for this” she tells me, and I hear the creaking of that poorhouse wheel, the cracking of the orc whips.

Everyone around us for the tech open day was so young and chipper. It was like being in some sort of time loop. I kept on seeing people I knew, but they looked like the people I knew looked twenty years ago apart from a very slightly different shaped nose. The clothes, the physicality, the demeanour, the makeup, the voices – all so familiar. Mel, myself and our mutual friend Melissa (there are too many Mels in my life) stood around in the reception area for about an hour feeling like old lags while we waited for someone to show us our bit.

The Vaults are in Leake Street – the graffiti tunnel in Waterloo. They’re a network of tunnels run by the Old Vic as an arts and theatre venue. The festival is a chance for people to air their mad ideas in a reasonably safe context. If this mad idea works out, we can take it wider. But for now we have to think about insurance. And heaters. And can we boil a kettle without overloading the power? And how do I work two jobs simultaneously? And how do we dress the set? And what if the snake escapes?

Waiting in reception we were assaulted by the competing stenches of weed and spray paint. Now I’m back at home I’m not sure if it’s left me feeling high or low. So I’m off to the shop to buy milk. Rock and roll.

When you habitually wind down at the end of the day by having a drink, the first few nights of not reaching out for that handy little crutch can be a little disconcerting. I’m shot through with anxiety as my subconscious mind tries to invent excuses to persuade my willpower to release control of the addiction. It’s half past ten and I’ve just found myself getting profoundly wound up over nothing. Now I’m running a hot bath, with a nice cup of herbal tea while the devil on my shoulder stamps his feet and shrieks himself hoarse in my ear.

There’s booze all over the flat. Loads of different types of gin. Three bottles of red and one of white. Beer and cider in the fridge. A cabinet full of bottles. Port in the decanter. Even some prosecco. A whole world of tasty sugary oblivion, and no work tomorrow. It’s just as well I’m a stubborn bastard. Received wisdom tells us to hide all the booze when we go cold turkey but I’ve never been one for making it easy on myself, besides if all it takes is a bit of temptation for me to throw my hands up and admit defeat then I’m going to have to go live in a box.  Much better to keep surrounded by it, so when I go to a press night and it’s free on a tray in front of me I don’t shrug my shoulders and say “Just this once”.

I’ve always had a control thing with booze. Sometimes I go months without just to make sure I still can. Hard not to be careful when you’ve seen loved ones die of it. It’s a nasty way to go, although I’m glad that they haven’t stigmatised it so much that instead of a label there’s just a picture of a cirrhotic liver on your wine bottle. Those sickening photos of tumors that smokers have to put on the table for us all – how is it that silver cigarette cases haven’t come back into fashion by now? It’s enough to drive a man to nicotine. But I do like a glass of wine. Or a beer. Or gin. Or …

I’m running a bubble bath. It’s at Brian’s suggestion. He just heard me predicting the end of the world over the course of what should have been a simple telephone discussion with a friend. It’s useful to have friends that know you better than you know yourself. A bath. An excellent idea.

I’ve got a lot done today anyhow. I’ve landed back in London properly. I’ve sorted out some of the stuff that needed sorting. Spoke to a mechanic in Tunbridge Wells, who sucked his teeth before quoting me £X “before VAT” just to have a look at it. Anyone that quotes without VAT can go suck an egg. They’re trying to pretend they’re cheaper than they are because they charge too much.

Anyone know any half decent half honest mechanics within limping distance of Crowborough, East Sussex? I hate paying strangers. They always skin you. Rant rant rant. Where’s my wine?

Bathtime.

 

Both of the reasons I had lined up to leave the house were so hungover that they cancelled. I’ve spent the day cocooned with Pickle reading terrible novels about people cutting each other’s arms off with swords. At one point I managed to pull myself to the shop, thinking I was going to make a huge pile of food for all the hungry people in my flat, but it transpired that they’d already stealthily eaten burgers while I was hibernating so I triumphantly brought in a huge pile of food and everyone just looked at it. Still, it’ll keep for a few days, and I’m having to watch my spending now the party season’s over and the maintenance firm have their blood money. I’ll get through that pile. I haven’t much choice. “A year older and not an hour richer.” You said it, Ebenezer.

I’m looking forward to getting stuck in to this New Year. There’s much to do. But today was a legitimate regathering. Virtually everyone in London is hungover. Brian and I have guests recovering in front of the TV in the living room, and last night some absolute prime turd went and jammed something into the ignition of Brian’s bike, trying to jack the engine despite the damn thing being covered in locks. Who knows, maybe the same drunk idiot that tried and failed to crowbar my Jag open for the CD cases, so that now I get a wet seat when it rains at night. Brian and Rob are trying to dismantle the bike’s ignition in the living room while the huge TV throws light and sound everywhere. I’m feeling quite fragile so I’m just sitting it out in my room, sinking into warmth and books and cat. Let the world wait until tomorrow. Let this city wait until I’m ready for it. This city with its idiot vandals wielding screwdrivers, this city with its punishingly expensive builders, this city with its alcohol and rage and division. I still say hello to people in the shops after Yorkshire. They mostly think I’m insane here though. I love this place but honestly I’d love it a lot more if it was a bit less expensive and if people were nicer and would stop trying to steal our vehicles.

A lot of you are back to work tomorrow. I am too but not gainfully yet. Gotta start planting seeds though. I’m glad I’m not working in an office. But if that’s the choice I’ve made I have to be resourceful about where the readies come from. Emergencies screw me over. Last year it was the boiler. This year it’s the roof. At least I’ve got a boiler and a roof though. I can usually make enough money on my own terms to keep things stable. Plenty of people couldn’t say that.

For the rest of this evening though, it’s satisfying the inevitable sugar craving with herbal tea, and reading about those arms being hacked off while Pickle sleeps on my belly. Could be a lot worse. Happy New Year.

We are already past the solstice. This turning of the calendar is no more than an arbitrary tick. Nevertheless it is helpful to mark it. So we do.

In London the tradition is to pack as many people as possible into as small a space as possible and then pump it full of alcohol and loud music. I’m no stranger to party, but there’s something desperate about this night which has never quite chimed with me. Even as a kid in Switzerland it would be a night where everybody would go mental. The millennium in central London – God, it was like the black hole of Calcutta. If all the planes had dropped out of the sky at least I’d have died quickly. I remember standing rigid, packed in at the top of the Aldwych watching the back of somebody’s head, and hearing something go bang a bit behind nearby buildings. Then returning to a boiling hot thumping basement where they wanted a tenner for a Moscow Mule and you needed a few of them to help you forget the amount of money you burnt to get through the door in the first place.

I’m going into the epicentre again for midnight, but with very different intentions. I’m trying for a month in which I adjust various expensive and unhelpful lifestyle habits and I’m going to set some intentions before it starts. I want to have a peaceful evening in a crazy place, and see if I can shift to a calm and productive state in the coming year. There’s stuff I’m making in January which needs to be made well. I’m already feeling swamped. Taking booze out of the equation for the month would be extremely helpful, especially as much of what I’m preparing to do will involve working two jobs simultaneously and driving around late at night. I’ll be tired anyway without a hangover and a bad diet. And so many people will be off the sauce and on a self care tip that solidarity will be possible. They’ve even given the month annoying names and they’re gunning up a whole swill of health marketing for good measure.  That’ll make it considerably easier and vastly more annoying to do. But sometimes it’s harmless and even comforting to moo with the herd for a bit.

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I’m on a free tube home and it’s only just 2am. I can’t say I was entirely innocent of vice but I can say that I was better behaved than the usual New Year Al, by a country mile. Hopefully my behaviour will reflect my successes. I’ve got high hopes for 2019.

I saw in the year standing on the street by The Old Vic watching the fireworks with some very dear friends. We had been putting the world to rights and doing various ritualistic stuff. Burning bad things, burying intentions, and marking the change. Then we joined the crowd and delighted in the ingenuity that an understanding of fire and a communicative ability has given our species. Fucking great big exploding bulbs of multicoloured banging flame bursting into the darkness above us as we all collectively marvelled. The stink of cordite. The roar of the crowd. A scientific form of theatre.

Now I’m heading home for a reasonable new year bedtime and a clean launch into the year. Have a spanking time my lovelies.

“tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning—”

I arrived home to find Brian and Mel sitting in a pile of presents – (mostly gin), with Amy and Rob on the sofa.

A full flat, as it often is. Plenty of warmth and fun and gin. I’ve cocooned myself among them and I’m listening to them playing some sort of Rick and Morty card game. It’s good to be home, especially considering I’ve worn the same two mismatched socks for three days now and they’re getting stinky. After all that time away I got home and immediately went visiting, despite essentially just wanting to cocoon myself in warmth and home for a few days.

The conversation here has randomly turned to cosmetics. How you feel about your own teeth. How you feel about your own body. The motivations we have to change physical aspects of ourselves. I’m just sitting in the corner listening. Identity is so strangely located. When do you make a change that stops you from being you? Never, I suppose, if other people let you.

Even thinking about my journey in this year that’s almost done now, I feel my sense of self has shifted noticeably with that time spent walking. It’s been lovely to visit friends and step into their lives for a moment this week, but there’s been an element of avoidance where I’ve not stepped back into my own life yet to see how I fit now I’m a different shape.

I’ve left the jaguar in Sussex. I’m as broke as I was at the start of the year but it isn’t affecting my self esteem. It’s affecting what I can do though. I was hoping to go to Jersey and sort some stuff out but I’m not sure I can afford to now, owing to family not coming together when needed. If I’m going to Jersey I have to fix the car. If I can’t fix the car I lose the ferry which is already booked I don’t think I can afford to fix the car. But I’m going to find a way to make it work, rather than let it make me feel powerless. Where there’s a will there’s a way. I have no idea where I’m sleeping in Jersey yet. But I’ve never been freaked out by the unknown.

Lovely to hang with my friend and his kids. Kids are a lot of work but they’re defining themselves as humans. It’s lovely to see the sparks of individuality flying around the edges of the hammer of obedience. By necessity we define firm boundaries for kids, but there’s no difference in their mind between rules that stop them from dying and rules that make them easier to manage. Many adults carry these boundaries through their whole lives, while others throw the baby out with the bathwater when they realise they were being manipulated.

I’m enjoying this space I’ve come to occupy where most of this behavioural stuff means very little to me. I’m going to find a way to mark this New Year as a big positive step. I hope you all do as well. Let’s leave behind the stuff that burns us…

I like this picture. It’s a metaphor. A middle aged dude and a child. We are on a boat that doesn’t work. The middle aged dude is having a fabulous time, yet he has his back entirely turned to what’s ahead, taking up lots of space. The four year old is at the helm already, but he’s not really looking where he’s going either, besides the middle aged dude is in the way. Even if the boat is moving it’s not moving in any significant way. It’s just … wobbling around to give the impression of movement. The only woman is walking away from the whole construct. Maybe she’s realised it’s pointless…

We all went to Bewl Water. Three adults, two kids and some scooters. It’s a man made reservoir in Kent. They flooded a small area to make it, including some empty houses. It holds enough water for 200 million people. We might need it before long. We went there for a walk, but we really didn’t cover much ground. My Fitbit hasn’t come close to minimum distance and we were outside for hours. Having two kids along with you slows you down considerably. One of them always needs the loo or they’re tired or arguing or upset about something or hungry. Sometimes they get absorbed in something for a bit but it rarely involves walking. It mostly involves repetition.

We had a good twenty minutes of throwing stones into the reservoir, a fair amount of time on slides that are utterly pointless being made out of sticky stuff on purpose, and a lot of time carrying scooters because they don’t work on wet grass, but we had to bring them with us. I don’t know how people have these creatures every day. They’re delightful in small doses, but exhausting over the course of a whole day. Right now we are all enjoying a moment of peace on the sofa. The eldest is doing her homework on my leg. The youngest is absorbed in My Talking Tom. Gemma is reading her book, James is lighting the fire. It’s all rather peaceful and comfortable here in this sleepy village, and this pleasant and warm home.

We went for a pub lunch and heard slow-talking men in their fifties toasting “The end of the European Union.” Definitely in Kent now. I had a pint of Guinness and a prawn linguini, and thought about how easy its been for me to accept short term work in Amsterdam and Croatia and Germany and France over the years. Those jobs have kept me going. Then we went to Lidl for some affordable food. Who can predict what will change when the last few wheels stop bouncing around in this internationally observed slow motion car crash. But I hope that sort of thing will still be possible for myself and other British actors. I don’t feel like toasting it though. Leave that to Putin and those slow moving men.

We have moved on to Waffle the Wonder Dog in terms of children’s shows. It’s mildly distracting as my friend James Merry plays the dad, plus sings the song. I keep seeing him pop up. He’s a lovely man. Right now he’s trying to get a dog through a hole in a home on telly next to me. The kids are rapt. He actually looks like he’s enjoying himself too. He’s doing a good job. I like seeing mates pop up in lucrative ongoing gigs, especially when we have shared the same dayjobs. Reminds me how quickly things can change in this delightful arbitrary profession. You never know where you’ll end up even in a few months. Two years ago today I impulse booked the two months in LA which led to the inception of this blog. Since then everything has changed internally. I’m very much looking forward to this year…