AlBarclay

Today has been a day of recovery. I’ve been gently reinserting myself into the world, and sending my thoughts back to the last few days in that field. What were my highlights? It’s hard because I didn’t have a programme so I don’t know the names of the acts, and I was mostly following my nose. There’s always something to stumble on and I stumbled on plenty. There was a remarkable woman who did one of the most committed and honest comedy sets I’ve ever seen while Justice were playing on main stage. She was an inspiration but I don’t even know her name. She was particularly great as she followed a self-important tirade of witty but alienating vitriol from the previous act. She gave one of the most powerful yet vulnerable angry clear mad sets I’ve ever seen. In fact I have to look her up as it is wrong not to credit her. She opened her set being dragged on, screaming in panic, not wanting to do it anymore. Beneath the character she was committing wholeheartedly. It was proper dark clown stuff. There was no clever demonstration. I love people who don’t count the cost. She asked us a lot of questions about our expectations, our prejudices and our assumptions. It was nasty brilliant sharp comedy. Lucy Mccormick. We had a 22 year old American girl in our group who is now determined to be a comedian.

I barely went to mainstage to see the big acts. I caught Nile Rodgers because he’s a legend and I fell into Bastille and heard them murder Rhythm is a Dancer. I mostly went to the sideshows.

There were some gorgeously articulate magpie puppets that were collecting secrets. A parade on the Saturday of remarkable large scale puppets, that felt like a mini mardi gras with fewer bands and beautifully telling puppetry again. I spent some time watching a very adept trapeze troupe do a narrative act with great skill. I wrote my insecurities to the insecurity guards. I had my face painted by Squiggles and Wiggles. Then, with my frankly terrifying Facepaint I went to silent speed dating and wondered why none of the butterflies woke me up.

There was a new tent this year – the Togetherness Tent – that was about connection. Working in schools occasionally I observe how young people are now being brought up in a touch-isolated manner. It’s a tent filled with the smell of Palo Santo where people are encouraged to connect with strangers in a way that isn’t sexual. Living in London, this crowded city of islands, I can see how important this work is. It fits at a festival like Wilderness, even if there was one guy shouting “This is why I voted leave” during a gong bath. For the same reason I was moved by how readily people welcomed the tarot, I was struck by how desperate people seem to be for uncomplicated human connection – for a chance to drop the front for a while. I hope that tent comes back. I’m going to build on what I was doing this year and pitch for a larger scale thing next year, as I think it’s needed and it’ll feed my heart at the same time.

 

Waking up in this hot tent this morning, I suddenly realised I haven’t preloaded a blog for today. It’s the end of the festival, and all around me people are slowly but busily taking down their tents. There are snatches of song and laughter, the clink of tent pegs, the cries of children, and friends shouting requests to friends. “Does anyone have a beer?” is one of them, and it’s half nine in the morning.

I think it’s 8 consecutive years that I’ve found myself in this field, and for 5 of them I have camped in the exact same spot. Here, on top of the hill. In the morning the sun chases me from my tent and I roll into swimming costume and go leap in the lake to start my day. Somehow, when I’m here, I can party hard all day and then wake up the next morning and start again.

And it’s been a hell of a party. I’m covered in the ruins of glitter and facepaint. My fingernails look like I’ve dug my way out of my own grave. And I feel fantastic, in a tired but rounded way. Here I have been – here I am, with some extremely close friends – people whose influence and light in my existence have woven their way into my whole being. Every year at this time I have felt much the same. Enervated and yet exhausted if I look too deeply. My tent is an explosion of shoes and spiders and beads and hats and clothes and glowsticks and water bottles. Last night, at the end of the night, I reached into my pocket and found my tarot deck, and immediately it seemed imperative that I sat in a corner and read the cards of all the fucked people that were curious. And there was hunger there. People are so in need of a frame to listen to themselves and to untie the knots they have put into their thinking. Hopefully some of them will find help in the revelations these universal symbols awoke in them. For me? Well I’ll have to work out how to take this tent down. Then I suspect I’ll be herding cats into a people carrier and on a mission down to London. There’s nothing I really have to get back for, but I’d like to be back by evening so I can go to Secret Cinema. It might be touch and go though. Years of past experience have taught me that it takes a long time for people in the state we are in to get organised.

I’ll try to break down what was beautiful about this year over the course of the day to come. The festival is exponentially bigger than it was when I first stumbled on it to do “Bugs”, a cue script play in a tent with some of The Factory lovelies.

Anyway. I’m exhausted and happy and I’m going to start working. I doubt I’ll be able to upload a picture with this signal but I’ll try. Sorry it’s been erratic with timing and the autoshare isn’t working. Internet is too crap here.

Hi everyone it’s Jay the intern again! I hope you liked my first blog for Al. I was baking this morning when I got an email from him!!!! “I just wanted to say thanks, you did a great job on your first blog for me.”!!!!  😍🐇🐇 🐱👔 “There is just one thing. I should have been clearer about it. I’m at Wilderness Festival in Oxfordshire, not Wilderness School in Southern Australia.” (Oooops. Ha. Well, if he was PAYING me!!!!!! 🐩) “I also thought perhaps you should read some of my previous blogs just so you have a better handle on my life and writing style.” (🤔🤔 moar wirk OH OK THEN 🐱) “But I’m thrilled you took on this responsibility and when I get back I’ll be sure compensate you for your time and work.” (That sounds weird??!! 😱👑)

So I’m going to read some of his blogs now and Google wilderness festival. Here goes blog number two, in the correct writing style. I hope he’s happier with it.

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The world is turning swifter, sharper, twistier. I’m in a hat. It’s filled with stars. Or is it my tent? And Gershon remarks “How does it spin so fast?” He’s homeless. We’ve made friends for today because he wanted an Opal Fruit. Everyone likes Opal Fruits. Particularly Gershon. Or are they Starburst now? I forget.

Today has been about auditions in a field. I didn’t get any parts but I’ll use long words to mitigate the pain. I’m contemplating feet. How they walk. How they dance. How they play. We all have them, these feet. Some of us forget them, but there they are attached to our legs, dangling, looking at us. Mine are covered in calluses. Still they dance though. Still they dance into forever.

Wilderness Festival is happening all around me. David Cameron eats quinoa with an electric giraffe. Yotam Ottolenghi dances in a lake to the sound of an orchestra. Everyone stumbles around from place to place. I stumble with them, connected but separate, some weird observer type twat building a barrier between himself and society and wondering why there’s a barrier.

I saw a tree earlier that looked like a fish. Or something. I had a profound insight about the nature of whatever. Then I switch my tense once more – you couldn’t keep up, I will confuse you utterly in time, and failing that with sesquipadalian excesses. I am a tree!

Wilderness Festival is a bunch of rich hippies in a field in Oxfordshire pretending they’re anarchists before they go back to being bankers. It’s hedge fund managers in a hedge. I’m one of them but I’m not because that’s how I look at everything, difficult bastard that I am. I don’t even pay my intern to write on my behalf. I just send emails and make them read my witterings and mimic them so – what? What am I actually doing in that field in Oxfordshire? I’m probably drunk. Maybe I think I’m in love and someone is going to cook my heart again. It’s hot. Am I in a tent to sleep? Cheapskate, I am. Not even getting a bell tent am I? That’s 500 words. I’m not even getting paid for this. #twatbarclay #wilderness

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Hope you liked my blog. I’m baking. Mum says I write well. What do you think? Should Al Barclay pay me for the work I do writing his blog? Is “valuable experience” really that valuable? I don’t even think he’s as famous as he said. On Google it’s like he’s hiding. Dick.

Hello everyone. My name is Jay and I answered the ad. I haven’t heard of “famous actor Al Barclay” before but they said it is fine, I can still provide blog cover while he is “relaxing at Wilderness.” I often don’t know when someone is famous because I mostly spend my days baking, but mum said getting a job will be good for me even if it’s just an unpaid intern. She hasn’t heard of this actor either but she’s out of touch. She still likes Justin Bieber ha ha! The job website said he is important and his PA seemed nice although his socks don’t match. I’ve done some google on Wilderness though and I think I’m ready and I can do a good job. Hopefully when he sees how hard I’ve worked he will give me some money. Here’s today’s blog:

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The flight to Adelaide was very long so I entertained everyone by singing showtunes. They threw flowers as we landed and I danced out of the plane into a wave of heat. The ambassador was there on the runway to meet me. “It’s supposed to be winter in Australia,” I quipped, pretending to wipe my brow and flashing my famous smile. Oh how they all laughed.

As we were driving to Medindie a crocodile blocked the car. “Leave this to me,” I said, and confronted the beast. I lay on my stomach before its huge head and began to cry. I used my acting skills to make my body like a crocodile, and because it could see that I could cry at nothing it fell in love with me. I asked it to leave, in crocodialect, and it did so, gracefully. We got back in the car. The ambassador praised me for my acting, gave me a bravery award and threw a flower at me. “Oh it was nothing,” I said. It wasn’t true, but I acted, so she believed that I thought it.

Then we arrived at Wilderness. There are kangaroos everywhere.

Wilderness was established in 1884 by Miss Margaret Hamilton Brown, when she educated her delicate sister Mamie from home. Now it has moved to a larger campus, and even though Margaret passed away in 1954 her legacy lives on. It’s a non denominational Christian school and takes girls up to the age of 12. Their motto is “Semper Verus” which means always true. That’s why I was there, to teach truth because it’s what acting is or something because like if I’m playing a part then I have to say stuff that’s lying but make it true. Anyway, Australia is upside down which is why term is happening now but everyone is on holiday everywhere else in the whole world.

I did a drama game where everyone had to tell lies like they were true and afterwards I told them all how well they’d done but that was a lie. They thought it was true because I did acting. I flashed my flashing eyes. They all threw flowers at me and all the teachers fell in love with me.

Then I went into Adelaide to be famous for the evening. That’s 500 words. He said it’s all I have to write. See you tomorrow, fans. If you like what you see subscribe. #actor #actorslife #blessed

“It’s ten pounds to charge a phone,” says the woman walking behind me. Here I am again at Wilderness Festival, my eighth year running. Middle class hippies in Oxfordshire. A friendly festival where you can spend £85 on a meal in a tent. I have always found a way to work here. For 8 years I’ve been walking through these meadows for Just a few days in August. I find them to be quite magical, but perhaps that is also to do with the fact I’ve sewn so much happiness into these trees. It’s a relaxing place for me now. A few days of no responsibility. A chance to jump in the lake every morning. And I have my festival friends now. A little crowd of lovely humans. Some of us barely see one another in the intervening months and then we all wind down in a field.

It feels like the weather will be amazing. I bought an army surplus bivouac so I can camp out under the stars if it’s warm. I’ll try it tonight but I might get eaten alive. I have a wee tent for contingencies as well.

I’ve spent most of the day sorting shit out for other people. I think I’m about to do a bit more carrying but I’m kind of fine with that. Once everyone is in and safely happily camping together then I’m going to start allowing myself to chill out.

I wonder that I find it relaxing, sleeping in a noisy campsite, with no hot food on a gently deflating mattress for four nights. I like being able to jump into a lake first thing in the morning. But I could just go on holiday for that.

Some unpleasant and slightly patronising tout is cruising around the parking area trying to buy spare tickets. One of my friends has one but his energy is so dark we don’t want him on the site. This festival gets bigger every year. One year it might get too big but I’ll keep coming until then.

My friends have SO MUCH STUFF. It’s amazing for three nights. I’ll be glad of a lot of their goodies when the sun is shining, but right now I want to get into the festival, see if I can find something to eat, and start relaxing. I’ve been helping people and now it’s almost 11pm and it’s time for a bit of me. No more blog… I’ve sorted the next few days of this but thought I’d do this in the field. Stupid really, because the last thing I want to do right now is make coherent sentences…

 

Brian and Mel went to a city farm today and took the perfect photo of a piglet, it’s beautiful. I can’t use it as a blog photo because Mel loves it so much she reckons (she says)that she can get it in posters so that when people google for a picture of a pig that picture comes up. It’s a shame as I took no photos today as usual. You get one of my cat looking louche.

Someone I know who has been vegetarian for years ate a sausage roll that she had bought thinking it was a vegetarian sausage roll. She found out after eating it that it was pork after hearing a conversation, and was deeply upset. She hasn’t eaten meat for years for ethical reasons. It came as a shock.

I had pork tonight. Before these photos of pigs came back. It’s what Tom brought in for dinner, and I ate it.

They are all watching videos of the pigs now and talking about how much they love them. I was talking just the other day about a lamb I once made friends with for a show. I was Silvius. Nigel and I loved that lamb. But we were up in Yorkshire, and we were constantly being reminded that the lamb was not a “good” lamb. I think it went to slaughter after the show. I was fed a leg of lamb a few months later and told it was her leg. Tutu. I ate that leg. I could have stopped eating meat there and then, but I didn’t. It was cooked and in front of me already and I had already had a bite when the idea was put in front of me. Part of me thought it was a wind up, part of me believed it and part of me flashed back to my father at the dinner table. He was vegetarian and used to make the noises of the animals we were eating as we ate them. If anything is designed to steel a young man into being a carnivore it’s someone rebuking you for a choice that you don’t really understand yet.

But I feel like I am on the verge of a big decision point. I do understand it now. My spiritual side is at war with my worldly side. I’ve seen the damage we do to ourselves by serving the worldly side. Not to mention the damage we do to the world. As with every belief system or form of practice, it’s personal, but I think I might propel myself into considerably more mindfulness going forward, partly to make myself less unwell, partly to try to fix my energy and partly because the people I have been drawn to lately have all got that about them in some way. Something of the ascetic, or the medicinal. It’s part of my calling too and I shouldn’t keep running and obliterating myself.

i bought a bivvy bag from army surplus so I can sleep under the stars. And a smaller tent than usual in case I get eaten alive… Wilderness tomorrow. Wahoo.

There’s a tunnel in Waterloo dedicated to graffiti. Leake Street Tunnel. The part of me that knew the 1980’s still finds that hard to credit. Graffiti sanctioned by the council? It smacks of the Judas goat. “Here, angry young person. Expel your rage here. Occasionally we will make one of you into a celebrated artist. Then the rest of you will have something to aspire to.” And bang goes another mode of protest. “Ah look at that. Someone has sprayed ‘Every single one of you is a self serving liar!’ on the Palace of Westminster. Well, it’s hardly Banksy now, is it?”

A little north of Leake Street is another tunnel, and this one has been dedicated to William Blake. Blake, the great artist mystic, ahead of his time, thinking mad forward thoughts, finding the connections, making incredible prescient art. And apparently he wrote a poem about a tiger too.

I end up walking through this tunnel, full of murals of his work, enjoying them until I get to this:

The swastika. The north pole. The sun. Used knowingly, an ancient symbol of peace. But appropriated by the aryan supremacist regime in 1930’s Germany as an instantly recognisable and potent symbol of division. It’s just a few lines, but it says “I’m so scared of people who don’t look like me that I’m willing to contemplate genocide.” And some imbecile has sprayed it on a Blake mural.

It’s not an easy time right now. The leader of the free world is a moronic babbling wreck. Our leader here is out of her depth and completely snowed under with an impossible task, surrounded by self serving liars who will sacrifice the country on the altar of their ambition. There’s a Tsar in Russia again and he’s a monster. An overweight idiot child juggles nukes in Korea. Buddhists are committing genocide in Burma. Buddhists?! And then there’s the middle east so because of our need for oil, artificial wars are pushing streams of refugees out of the frying pan and into our countries…

But I can’t throw all my half understood sentiments about all of that into a blog. I’m not qualified to have a strong opinion because I don’t work on the floor at the U.N. I saw a badge the other day saying “Make Hatred Wrong Again!” in the same font as the MAGA stuff. And I liked it. That’s about as nuanced as I get. I’m not about to shoot and stab anyone until I get my facts straight. I’m an actor, not an aid worker.

But a swastika on a Blake mural? I’m all for free expression but there’s a lack of perspective at play here. Of course there is. It takes work and time to be able to see past your own shit. Trump can’t. May can’t. And the health of the head affects the health of the body. How do we stop giving permission for this shit? Maybe we can’t when people with no kindness are technically in charge. But there are wise people in the world in legions. Kind people in droves. And time and again its cruel and selfish entitled morons holding the reins. Gah.

I’ve been reading about old kings in some parts of southern India, with glorious territory, many years ago. After 12 years they would sacrifice themselves ritually to the people. By now Putin would’ve cut off his own nose, lips, ears and members, and then as much of himself as he could cut before he started to faint, at which time he’d have cut his throat. 6 years ago. Because “holdfast” is a tyrant. And if death is the inevitable price for leadership, but precedent for immortal love by the people is set, you will find leaders driven by the need to make things better, instead of lining their own pockets and making broke people hate other broke people in doing so.

The tube is stopped at Aldgate. To my left a very big woman with a woolly jumper has her elbow firmly jammed into my nipple. She sat beside me and did it on purpose. It feels almost companionable, if a little aggressive. She’s definitely aware of it. Maybe she’s trying to actively combat “manspreading”.

Opposite us sits an old couple. He is thin. Too thin. A thin I’ve seen before. He must be 82. Cancer is eating him. “3,2,1 Go” he says to the train, to the air. It doesn’t go. He tries again. Nothing. His wife laughs. I laugh too, despite the elbow.

“It was worth a try,” I remark. He makes direct eye contact with me and keeps it. “I think this is where they change the drivers. It’s like Edgware Road – it’s the end of the line.” I say.

“End of the line? I know the feeling.” he replies. His wife snakes her hand into his. Touch. He says it again. “End of the line.” I look at him closer. He has chosen his clothes. He has life in his eyes even if his body looks like it’s hurting. “I dunno mate. You look like you’ve got some good time left in there.” “I hope so.” He says. “I really hope so.” His wife touches his hand again. There’s a pause. But the conversation is open now. It feels like I have to say something. “The rate I’m drinking, I reckon I’ll be off before you,” I say. Fuck knows where that comes from. It seems this is where we are with this exchange. The big woman to my left withdraws her elbow from my nipple. She’s odd. She send seems to like being antisocial. This companionable stuff has made her awkward. She’ll happily nipple jam someone who she thinks won’t call her on it. I have been considering patting her on the head with equal disregard for personal space. She senses this and she withdraws.

“What’s your tipple?” the old guy asks. I’m sort of in a character now, ticking over this interaction because it feels he wants it or needs it for some reason. “Wine.” I tell him. “Red wine.” It’s not strictly true. I don’t have a tipple. I just worry about alcohol. He’s happy with specific information though. He wants it. He thinks.

“I used to be fond of red wine, once.” he muses, still with hard eye contact. His eyes are haunted now though. Her hand goes for a touch again.

“It’s not helping.” I say. “I spend money. I forget. Then the next morning I remember even harder.” I’m trying to make it sound bad cos clearly he’s not allowed to drink and he misses it. Also that’s true.

The train is moving. We are almost at Liverpool Street. He’s thinking again. He speaks, moves and thinks with care. Eventually he says: “Oh yes, I used to like a glass of wine.” More thought. The train is pulling in. He leans in. This is important: “But don’t … waste your life … trying to find something … that you enjoy”. This is thought through, and finished with a Confucian flourish and the eyes widening. Clear pale blue. He’s happy with it. It’s wisdom.

“Thank you, my friend.” I say. “I’ll mull over that. And thank you.” I tell it to him hard because I want him to feel he’s impacted me. He’s in a place where he’s very aware of mortality. He leaves the train, supported by his loving and solicitous partner. Elbow touch. I hope he rallies. I suspect someone has given him a finite number of months.

I don’t really know what he meant though, in his parting shot. He wanted to impart wisdom. He was inevitably thinking about his impact and legacy which is why I thanked him so sincerely. I think it was personal to him and his past decisions, that advice. That’s what wisdom is. Going from personal to general. I’ll mull it, as I promised.

I’ve found something I enjoy but I’m maybe wasting a lot of my life trying to make it work. But it doesn’t feel like a waste. It feels like a delight mostly. But there it is, for you, from him. Make of it what you will. Here are the boys playing x-com. I’m gonna join in. Waste? Nah.

At 8.45 I put my empty coffee cup on the sideboard, turned my van round on Sandie’s lawn in Easingwold and headed out into the torrential nationwide downpour. The good thing about the fact we now live in a cloud is that my phone doesn’t cook itself as it sits in the sunny sat-nav holder. The bad thing is that the world is a swimming pool and I’m driving through it at 95mph (Artistic license. Actually 70mph. I never break the law, and nor should you.)

It’s one o’clock and I’m exhausted. I got back to the place I started from at half midnight.  There’s a can of beer on the sideboard and you can’t stop me drinking it. I’ve barely stopped all day. Driving conditions have been truly shitawful, but at least my battery power stayed.

I already had a load of sewing machines packed in from Cambridge last night. And a huge cumbersome circular box thing they hadn’t bothered telling us about. This stuff is all going to Edinburgh. Evidently there’s a show about sewing. That was first in.

Then I grabbed a box for “Just Fucking Pay Me.” (I think that was the name). A show about strippers. Easy. Nicely packed. Gotta hand it to burlesque people. They know how to do a lot with a little. Maybe it’s not burlesque but that’s the vibe I got. I deliberately only asked each company one question.

Then I was off to Gatsby’s Drugstore. Months ago, Golfo, Josh and I measured up a load of astroturf and stored it in the roof, in an enlightened attempt to rationalise the storage space there for future us. We had some payback today in that we knew immediately where that fake grass was. Famous Five wants that fake grass. In it goes.

There was a cycle event today that destroyed almost every river crossing chance. I got to know the tunnels a bit better. I managed Rotherhithe, Blackwall and the Woolwich Ferry today.

Next up was Streatham, where my one question policy derailed itself in that the answer yielded no information. I got a lot of furniture from “Oh it’s an American company, they’ve done lots of stuff in the past.” Uh. Ok. Take what you want from that. Whatever the American company does it involves some lovely furniture that nobody could be bothered to bubble wrap. I’ve tried to be kind to it.

Then it was over to Woolwich, where I met a Frenchwoman in an uber. She was delightful. I was losing focus by now but if I recall its a show about translation, made out of large fragile pieces of paper. I liked her. I can’t plug her show.

Finally a dance piece made out of the cheapest plastic that exists, threaded through with extremely fragile circuitry, and with occasional heavy chunks of wood. This set isn’t made for travel, and it’s last in. I’m worried about it. The creators were ace if SLOW. I was over 2 hours driving the van from temporary park to temporary park while they bubble wrapped their balsawood set.

Then I drove back through the ocean to Yorkshire, where sleepy Phil and I loaded “just a few boxes” into the van. I discovered how the phrase “just a few boxes” means three humongous trunks and a load of random shit.

So there’s my week done at last. Edinburgh people, go see Famous Five, 9 foot women, just fucking pay me, “it’s an American company”, and something made out of paper about translation at 11am Assembly.

And me? I don’t have to drive tomorrow. Hooray. I’m putting my empty beer can on the sideboard. I think it might be bedtime. Zzz

I’m in an old library in Burgess Park. We drove behind this young lady to get in. This was the stage space. It’s pretty much the only photo I took today.

The heat has eased a little with the rain. It’s the interval. One of the actresses is on her phone, catching up on her email while there’s time. She’s just out of drama school. “I’ve just had two rejections for parts I wanted” she says. We do the traditional long form swearing together. “Fuck fuckety fuck fuck”. “Does it get easier over time?” she asks the old lag. “Ha. No. Not really. But it’s what we signed up for. And there’s joy here.” She’s sad though. Shocked. She’s fresh out of drama school. The skin takes a while to thicken. She sits with it.

Five minutes later she’s playing guitar and singing, with a huge smile on her face, to the smallest house we’ve had yet. And she’s still smiling like she means it, because she does mean it. And I’m smiling with her, for her, and for the show. It’s the last show in the run. The last in this fellowship. The show might play again but it’s unlikely it’ll be the same configuration of players. They’re all giving it a celebration kick despite a small last house, playing for the material and each other, and taking care of the audience. It’s a show about Beatrix Potter, performed on her birthday anniversary today, with two men and two women. It’s musical, weird, silly and fun. It’s mostly for kids. Actors play well to kids because we’ve got ADHD in common. And it’s a lovely piece.

Knowing the voyage that the props have been on, it’s a joy to note that every single one of them is used. They aren’t just generic dressing. The van was worth it, to let them have the ease they have. It’s enough to be playing multiple instruments and characters outdoors in the wind and the potential rainstorms. At least they knew their props and didn’t discover too late that the trunk opens the wrong way or the bell doesn’t ring etc.

It’s almost 2 and I’m still up writing here in Easingwold while an old friend sleeps in my bed in London. I have a full-on day again driving around London tomorrow despite a massive cycle event that will inevitably cause me no end of hassle. And then I’ll sleep here tomorrow night. I reckon it’s a minimum twelve hours non stop driving.

We just raised a glass to a man who died yesterday, who set up a fantastic theatre in the north. My host knew him well, and used to cast his shows. I never met him, and would have liked to. He made lovely clear work, gained huge respect for his theatre and helped many of my friends at the start of their careers. It was pleasant to raise a glass to his memory. Even if I never directly benefited from his existence, and indeed sought to work with him to no avail, I still derived entertainment in his theatre, and he helped my friends. RIP Braham Murray. And for the rest of us, onwards!