AlBarclay

Right. One room down. 3 and a corridor to go. But I’m done for the day.

I just blitzed my kitchen and threw a load of stuff away. The kitchen is likely the easiest room to do that with. But it’s a proof of concept. And a fair amount of clothing got swept up in the mood. Now I’m sitting in my catastrophe of a living room, on the giant beanbag. Pickle is attempting to claim ownership of my big toe. It’s 11pm on Saturday night and I expect I’ll sink one more night into my bomb-site bedroom before sweeping it into the blitz. Hopefully the mood will still be on me tomorrow. I’ve needed a purge for too long. But it came at a cost.

I was supposed to go out and be social. I was supposed to celebrate a friend’s birthday. But I’m still climbing out of this sad, and the idea of being fun with people is a long way from sounding appealing.

I managed breakfast. I saw an old mate who lives in walking distance. I think most of my conversation was about tidying because I knew I wanted to get cracking and was using breakfast as a procrastination. Then I walked home and did the actual work. I don’t know how I managed to make one room last all day, but I did take every single individual item out, and cleaned and arranged all of it.

I was briefly tempted by the notion of going and hitting Pride, but I didn’t want to leave with the job half done. Plus I didn’t feel very delightful. And since I was obsessively sorting everything in that damn kitchen – (and still not finding the bloody julienne) – I didn’t feel I could leave the house until it was properly finished. Throwing away things sometimes weirdly triggers me. It’s why I don’t do it as often as I should, but I had got myself in a mood where I was good at it and I needed to surf that wave.

And then I remembered the football, so I put it on in the background and inevitably got sucked in. I guess that’s part of the reason I was so slow. Another part is the heat. It’s siesta weather here. And another is the lack of company. I definitely work better when there’s conversation. Alexa and Pickle don’t quite cut it although I had a pleasant interlude with Shirley Manson’s back catalogue and a fair few belly rubbings.

I also phoned a load of random people. One call to Uganda. One to Qatar. One to Egypt. Lots in the UK. People who want accent coaching, mostly. My friend does a brisk trade, and with callbacks etc it seems I have bitten off a little more than I can chew with agreeing to be her secretary for the week, especially considering I’ve agreed to run a load of workshops that I’ve never run before next week. A holiday is beginning to sound really appealing.

After press night last night I’m really very hung over. My body has not allowed me to ingest solids all day. I got home last night and emptied my guts. But my mind! I needed to do the same with the contents of my head. I needed to shout all those mind-carrots into the porcelain phone. I honestly have no idea how my brain is able to conjure up such comprehensive feelings of malaise. I suppose it’s multiple things at once. Hangover plus end of a full on job. Back into the unknown again. Multiple weird school workshops scattered across the country. Learning business appointment software for my dyslexic friend in order to essentially pretend to be her Secretary while she’s on holiday for £20 an hour on the clock. Writing. Dreaming. Wondering where the next acting job is coming from. Trying to work out Joel and Ethan Coen’s number so I can drunk dial them and tell them I love them. Avoiding exercise.

I think exercise will help. Bumble keeps shouting at me from my iPad. I keep opening it, looking at people’s faces, not having a clue what they’re like, refusing to accept or dismiss them, closing it again.

I’ve started a deep clean of my flat. It will take time and I keep distracting myself. But Brian is away for the weekend so I can throw stuff around for a few days. I bleached the stinking kitchen bin on the fire escape while periodically swearing out loud to myself because it was so hot and I was still sweating beer. Yeah c’mon girls of Bumble, you’re missing a right catch here, mumbling and stinking as he empties a kettle into ancient gunk he should’ve dealt with months ago. But someone said “You’re a man and you live in a boy’s flat.” Good tactic, hats off. Imma gonna make it a man’s flat, oh yeah. Well as much of one as can be made out of a flat with a gargantuan telly rigged through a PlayStation with surround sound. But first I’m out again, into the evening sun, off to see a friend that helps me mend. A mend friend. We all need a few of those. I’m at her door. There are lions on the threshold.

---

Half an hour of chanting at her flat and a King Prawn Linguini at The Young Vic and I’m feeling considerably more human. I should stay away from free alcohol. But my friend and I were both feeling reasonably tender inside and out, so we helped each other a little by realising that the shape of things in our heads is not their true shape. Now I’m off back to the cat and the flat in order to carry on with this gradual process of eradicating ancient gunk and throwing away the things that are still clamped onto my energy. Movement is the thing now. Clear out my living space so I can rejig my habits so I can avoid these mindtraps and try my wings.

Early morning saw me fighting the alarm clock, dragging myself up from the pit of dreams and into unfamiliar light in Hampstead. Coffee and I’m airing sheets and pillows, transforming a bed where I’ve just slug-slept rolled in duvet into a bed palace with oh yes that cushion just there completes it. Bleach the loo. Dust the surfaces. Check check check. All the things I never do at home. Then it was out blinking and swearing before rush hour into my Nissan for one last day. It has to go to Enterprise by close of play, but I have to go to Kingston in the meantime. Double bubble. I’m a driver, I’m a tutor. And I don’t have to get a train. Kerching.

I drive through the whole of London blasting Caravan Palace and bopping. Still a little confused about what is going to happen I sign in at reception and get a big sticker with “Al Barclay” on it. Grrr. I told them, use Alex. Then they can’t Google me. An hour later I’m interviewing 17 year olds on a fire escape. “Tell me about yourself. What’s your greatest strength? What’s your biggest weakness? How are you overcoming it? What would you do in a zombie apocalypse?” The last question isn’t on my laminated handout, but it’s revealing. The runners, the fighters, the hiders, the rescuers… I’ve never not had an answer that makes sense and there’s always one kid who says “I’ve thought a lot about this actually.” Job done, quarter past three. Nicola lets me sneak out early. I need to be at Enterprise Park Lane for four. Things To Make and Do by Moloko. Why not? It’s been years. Bring it back. That’s what I’m doing with the car. I bring it back.

Out through the subterranean tunnels. The Enterprise is buried in a warren of car parks under Hyde Park, where people leave their incredible whips. Classics and limited editions. Some even seem to have security guards. I’m in a hurry though. No time to goggle at cars.

Uber. It’s a Ford Galaxy. “Nice to be driven for a change.” *silence*

Eventually I’m out. Hampstead again. Wasn’t I just here? “Hi, welcome, I’m Al. So this is the boiler, here are the lights, this goes on like this. I left you nice things. Have a good stay. Leave my friend a good review.” And out. Shit I dropped that twenty quid note. Some happy child at that school. Ach. Bus.

God this bus is hot. I’m tired. I’m dressed in whatever the fuck I put on yesterday, in this heat. I didn’t realise I wasn’t going home last night. And it’s press night for Knights of the Rose. Everyone showing their wares. Me in a sweaty arrangement of T-shirt and flat cap and stained trousers. And I give 0.00 fucks. Anyone who goes the old fwafwafwafwa he could’ve made an effort can swivel on it. They’ll never be my friend anyway so they can do one. I’m here to support glorious people who do beautiful things for unusual reasons. I’m not here to try and hijack it with my own LOOK AT MY SEXY FACE bullshit, much as I suspect that a bit more of that attitude would see me being employed a bit more by the fwafwafwas. But that’s life if you’re an uncompromising individualist who looks at your heart and not your clothes. Red carpet! Oh fuck. Here we go then… fwafwafwa.

Today is the day of the ants. Everywhere across London, conditions are perfect and the ants are swarming. There is a bit of wind, it’s warm, it’s not going to rain. All the colonies blow out all at the same time, reducing the chances of predation, raising the chances of interbreeding. They have bred a huge number of virgin queens and winged males per colony. The males exist purely to inseminate the queen, who will attract as many as she can in a short space of time. Sex for these ants takes place on the wing, and the male essentially explodes his own testicles into the queen and dies shortly thereafter. The queen will eventually settle. She will shed her wings and ground herself forever in order to become a mother. She will never fly again. She will try to found a new colony, and the stored up semen from all of those kamikaze males with their explosive balls – that will serve for the life of the colony, giving birth to hundreds of thousands of ants. But she only wants the strong males so she makes them fly for it. And statistically her chances of founding the colony successfully are around 1 in a million. More likely she’ll land on a road or get eaten by a bird or hit a spiderweb or get killed by a rival queen. This day ain’t a celebration. It’s a war.

What this means practically is that you are going to get ants in your hair. You are going to get them on your glasses. Down your shirt. In your drink. In your shoes. In your mouth. And they don’t give a fuck. It’s not like they have a survival instinct. The males are just zooming around chasing pheromones and hoping not to die before they have their explosive moment but they haven’t perspective on the world. They land where they land. The queens have just been born, and after today are going to be either dead or protected at the heart of a colony. It’s like Fresher’s Week at university. Thousands of clueless animals randomly banging around trying to have sex with as many people as possible. Survival of the fittest. May the best ant win, so we can pour boiling water into her statistically unlikely successful colony and say “That’ll sort the little fuckers out.”

Ant colonies are amazing. Let’s just take a moment. They are basically just that one queen. She breeds what she needs with her massive semen stash. But all those individual ants are pretty much just extensions of her. It looks like millions of separate creatures, but in reality it is just that queen, and the ants are her external organs. Kill her and the colony loses purpose and dies.

My skin is crawling as I write this because they keep going down the back of my bright T-shirt. I’m in Hampstead, near the heath. Despite the fact that I live in a house with a fridge in the middle of the living room and piles of pants outside the kitchen door, I am tidying my friends flat because she has an Airbnb guest in tomorrow and I’m her key holder. I can tidy when it’s not for me. But sitting out here, despite it being beautiful, is risky. I went shopping earlier to get milk and bread and so forth and almost inhaled a horny male ant. Another one refused to get off my glasses while his mate went down the back of my T-shirt and wandered around in the bit that’s hard to scratch. Still, I’m happy to be outside. The tumble drier is tumbling, and the robot hoover is robot hoovering, so I am having a bottle of Corona and listening to the wood pigeons.

It’s peaceful here. This little corner of London near the heath. And on this evening of perfect flying ant conditions, sound is carrying a long way on the wind. I can hear the banging of pans, children playing, the inevitable cars and planes but also the chatter of nature. All the birds, happy after their formic feast, are krarrking to themselves in the dusk. And a rain cloud suddenly passes overhead. Is this why the ants swarmed? Are we reaching a change from this absolute delight of a summer that we have enjoyed? Or is this just a spit to refresh the lawns? Either way, I’m going in. Happy flying ant day.

I’m almost done with this lovely driving job, although I still have to do some Heathrow runs. Mostly I’m finished though. It’s been delightful. I’m good at this sort of work, which is simultaneously delightful and bullshit. Validation is how they get you. “You’re so good at taking out the bin bags, so much better than I am, baby.” But I’m genuinely good at this. Even if I might not action it.

In my entire life I reckon I’ve covered 4 weeks in an office – tops. I hate the fucking places. 3 weeks receptionist for Ambassadors Theatre Group Turnstyle, back when I was auditioning for drama school. I stayed there long because Lorna was kind. I didn’t hate that job but I left it immediately I was accepted to Guildhall. Before that, I detested 1 week temping for Babtie Finance in Reading. I was supervised by an idiot, micromanaged by another one and realised extremely quickly when I suggested a better use of their software and found my thoughts ignored because they weren’t fed up the chain properly that I had no desire to hurtle my young life towards these catastrophic oubliettes, no matter how widely they yawned at me. I could’ve been fired up by positivity, but in these places all it takes is one person who doesn’t love you, and an office can become poison.

Blah. I watched a football match tonight. I went to the only proper boozer in Chelsea. The Royal Oak. It’s a rarety, in that it’s one of the last bastions of old Chelsea. I hung out with people from all round the world. There was a couple in Colombian strip. An old millionaire with his grandchildren. All sorts of people. I got to hang out with Tristan, but in terms of long thoughts I’m done. I’m even more knackered than I was last night.

Hooray win etc. Early bed. Short blog. Too tired.

 

 

Long long amazing day. I am running on positivity and nothing more as I lie in bed at last wondering how the hell I can be stubborn enough to still try and write. But I guess that’s the deal now.

If CVs were important to me I’d have no idea how to credit myself. Voice Actor, driver, casting director, recruitment consultant, PA… That’s some of it.

Today was full on. I rolled with some punches and converted a lot of energy. I enjoyed every second of it, and was thrilled to see some old friends of mine absolutely killing it. There was one job I knew was going to be a nightmare. I gave it to a man who can turn that nightmare into a joy. He did precisely that. It was a remarkable feat and I loved watching him do it.

I got to go round the back of things. I love that about this business. I did a show in the Tower of London, and got to hang out there after hours. I was playing Buckingham, and was free to wander. In a gap, shortly before I was executed, I wandered over to the block and briefly lay my head on it. Then I went back and spoke my “lead me officers to the block of shame. Wrong hath but wrong and blame the due of blame.” A remarkable thing to have had that chance. And today there were many chances like that.

I got to drive around in a park for the first time ever. I learnt that geese genuinely don’t give a shit about cars.

I spent the morning ferrying around a hungover Czech and a highly strung Dutchman. I couldn’t really be bothered with either of them. They struck me as bored and entitled, but it’s likely they were just exhausted. They’ve been rushing around all over the place. Kim was with me and I liked her more, despite her ambition and the fact she had the hump about not being a driver. We got to go places people normally can’t go. We were following a well known kiwi who blagged us in to shoot from the roof of New Zealand House.

We covered a fair amount of ground and ended up in a market watching loads of people run around. There was a lot of craziness. We came out on top. I saw parts of the market I never knew existed.

I then got home and had a beautiful evening, unexpectedly, with a remarkable human who is staying on the sofa. She has gone through a deep change this year, and was sitting on my roof watching the sunset and playing her ukelele. I was expecting to just crash, but instead I sang songs to the sunset with a bottle of prosecco, and then we grabbed a cheap Monday steak.

I’m totally exhausted now. I’ve had just one eye open throughout this exercise, but remarkably it has taken me no more than 20 minutes. That’s my word-rate nice and high. Now for the novel…

This morning I drove to the coast with Kimberley. I got her to DJ and she played Oasis, which was a good nostalgia trip as we screamed out of London. The roads were empty that early on a Sunday. And the Nissan is so smooth you barely notice you’re driving unless I try to start it in fourth which might happen occasionally.

In no time I was in a castle, standing behind some friends of mine in costume, hearing : “So, how do you know Al Barclay then” That’s a friend asking a man I don’t think I’ve ever met. “Oh, we’ve been in a pub together some time,” he ventures, which is a very good guess and not unlikely. Outside of social niceties I think I’ve just … never met him before. I stop him going any further into it by announcing my presence. Don’t want to make him feel awkward.

There are six actors down there who I cast. None of them had to audition. All of them are being paid nicely for an easy gig where you are looked after. Three of them I have never met until today, and those three have genuine, serious military experience. The other three are various very different forms of solid. The extent of their casting process? I rang them. That was all I needed. All of the strangers had third party recommendations. None of them immediately struck me as tricky. That was good enough for me. I won’t sit at a table with a pencil and a power dynamic if I can help it. That table is an impossible place for them to show anything other than tricks unless it’s run better than most of the tables I’ve been at lately. Plus it costs money. Better to walk down a road with them, or have a coffee. If you’re still here in the industry, you’re not shit. You might be a narcissist though. Or some sort of borderline personality.

I was a tiny bit worried but now I’m relieved. I liked them. I wondered if one of them might be angry. I wondered if another might be lost. I wondered if one might be arrogant. To see them form their dynamic together I realised all those concerns were nonsense – stuff my stuff had put on them. I remembered the special skill of the jobbing actor: we walk into a totally unfamiliar situation with a load of strangers and immediately feel at home and get it done. Plus these guys used to serve. They aren’t fucking around. They’ll be great tomorrow, and all of them are getting more than I do per day. Which feels strangely brilliant.

I’ve found work for 15 people on this job, maybe more. It’s been very satisfying. The bulk of the people I’ve found have been actors who are willing to wait until the last minute to know what they’re doing tomorrow, and who need the money. Employing actors is a double edged sword. You often get highly intelligent eloquent diligent workers who are great at teamwork, but unless you’re employing them to act they’ll always be looking out the window and if that fucking unicorn runs across the lawn they’re off after it before you can stop them and I’m off pacing them with a saddle. But damn, it’s lovely seeing people happy in a job and knowing you put them there.

This whole concept was put in place close to 20 years ago and they must have gainfully employed hundreds of thousands of people over the years, worldwide. Everyone is working bloody hard but glad to be doing so because it’s worth their while. I shook hands with the man who created this whole thing today, and said “It’s good to see you.” I meant it. What a legend, to still travel with it after so many years and in that time to have changed so many lives for the better.

Tomorrow is going to be mental. I’ll see if I can post a generic enough photo not to break this NDA. Ha yes. Here’s me pretending to relax. Lies, I tell you.

 

It’s about to go extreme. Everything is slotting into place. Everything is on fire. Everything is fine. My major concern is that I might have to swap my wheels. Transport are fighting fires so I might end up in a transit van while some bastard zooms all around London with my beautiful X-Trail that talks to my phone and has my resident parking permit in the window. Although that seems less likely now considering all the executives have missed their plane. Flights were delayed.

But people are flying in now from all over the place and there are so many drivers and PAs and fuck knows what managers and executives and producers and camera folk and location folk. I’m quite happy to be invisible. I’m on the road. People often forget I’m not my car. Another reason why I don’t want to change it. I don’t want to be a van thankyouplease. I’m a very nice brand new Honda SUV full of Percy Pig, and I want to stay that way until Enterprise pry the thing back from me at the end of the job.

The invisibility of being a driver is the big draw for me. Whether or not I like it, I’m reasonably visible day to day. I disarm that by playing the unthreatening alien. “Goodness I’ve never seen a gun before! You must be really important!” That sort of shit. You’ve been reading this long enough to see that habit in many different contexts. But driving…?

The woman from last night has initiated a habitual banter with me that she employs globally with her drivers. It’s part flirt part power and means nothing other than passing the time. It helps us remember each other. But I’m just the driver. I like that. You see your passenger. They present what they choose of themselves. It’s always interesting. It’s why films get made on this. Baby Driver. Collateral. Driver. Even Deadpool plays with it. It’s a great view. You have a job to hide in. You see your passengers sharper than they see you if they’re strangers.

And now as I write I just got a message telling me my start time and it’s early. Bum. This job is hilarious. So many people, so many vehicles. And I’m the willing one with the sexy car. I don’t have to swap my car anymore. I drive it a long bloody way first thing in the morning. And I’m happy with that. But oh fuck and now it’s half an hour earlier than the last message.

Al Barclay. Cavalier of willing. Lord of the yes. Marvel as he overlooks his own comfort in favour of being amenable. Wonder as he throws his considerably intellect into making his own existence more complicated. Become perplexed at the fact that somehow he seems comfortable and happy because he is needed. Realise he is clearly just throwing himself at anything he can throw himself at with full force as he always fucking does. Shrug because he can choose to spend more energy on others than himself. Get on with your life.

Bed.

 

 

This is perfect weather. Everyone is full of vitamin D. They’re striding around the pavements and parks, full of confidence, full of power. Just don’t let them get behind the wheel of a car. The roads today are full of little pocket Genghis Khans. One guy blankly waited for 4 vehicles to reverse in order for him to continue, when all he needed to do was pull in himself for a while. I called him “Your majesty” as he went through. Little arse.

I’ve worked a pretty long shift. I thought I was getting a lunch break but I ended up driving to Camden with a hot toasted sandwich in the glove compartment. Then I sat in the parking lot at Morrison’s eating it cold, constantly expecting the call to leave, for way too long. Then it was a late trip to Heathrow that turned out stressful. But more on that anon. First the weather.

I’ll go right out there and say it: with all this summer going on I’m finding it impossible not to have my head turned by the constant parade of beauty on the streets. Everyone looks great at the moment, especially you dear reader. Here am I with my pale and bleeding legs under the first shorts of the year and whatever T-shirt was on the top of the pile, and I’m walking past women of my age who probably have two kids and still almost make me go slam into a lamp post. Immaculate summer dresses and all that work in the gym plus vitamin D. I’ve got a six pack under here somewhere… I just need six months to find it. I’ve got to get back to that shit. Speaking objectively, it works.

But summer doesn’t just bring beauty. It brings rage. I picked up someone from Heathrow who had a shitload of camera equipment. “You better have a big vehicle,” she tells me as she comes through with a tank sized trolley of camera-boxes. “It’s an SUV” I reply. She goes silent. “We should be fine,” I venture, keeping the doubt from my voice.

While I’m trying to load it, she isn’t helping at all. Instead she’s taking endless photographs and repeating: “Call the production office. This is ridiculous. This always happens.” Personally I think that if she were to help and stop moaning, with goodwill and a bit of squishing we’d get it all in, and her too. But she wants this to fail because she has a point to make. I try my usual attitude of “Yes it’s not ideal but we can make it work.” But the problem is that, unlike me, she was expecting this to happen. And she wants to make a point so it doesn’t happen again. She ain’t gonna help. She’ll just take photos of me struggling. So I slice up my legs on her blimming cases, get it all in on her personal youtube Laurel and Hardy show, and put her trolley and some bags on the passenger seat. She’s making sure I know she’s tired. I take her downstairs and put her in a black cab. She inexplicably high fives me as she gets in the back. I return to the car and crawl back to London with too much kit. She’s probably right. I can’t see her fitting in this car as well. But I don’t like giving up. It’s not in my nature. And she gave up before we started which made it impossible.

The only photo I took today. At Biggin Hill at 9.15am. Before the day even started. No reason for it to be there. But it’s just shy of 3am now. I’m turning in.

Just to clarify, the Orwellian dystopia I described yesterday with the Perivale Police Pound – we were not getting back a bike that had been wrongly parked or left untaxed. We were getting back a bike that had been stolen, and recovered by the police. Hooray for the police for finding it. But the problem is, once you’re in that desperate shithole, all the staff immediately assume you have transgressed. And even a minor transgression that has cost you a large amount of money – that’s enough for all the people that work there to scale you down in status to the lowest possible tier of humanity. I wouldn’t write so baldly about it if it had been my bike, or my money. I’d worry that my perspective was being skewed by my personal discomfort or financial loss. But because I was just there as a friend and observer I felt the full brunt of the bad thinking here. There is no kindness or humour in that place towards the people that come in from outside, no matter their circumstances, no matter why their vehicle ended up there. It’s a hard unkind place. They could go about it differently.

And they are printing money there. Every few minutes another tow truck goes in with another vehicle. Minimum £130. Likely much more. And lots and lots of lovely tasty tears : “mmmmm yes cry little hewmann cry. We likey taste of hewmann crytears.” We watched the trucks coming in and out for hours ferrying misery. Dark dark place.

Whoever had taken Brian’s bike had jammed a screwdriver into the ignition, and completely fucked it so we ran the gauntlet of recovery vultures that sit already engorged but greedy at the gate (£130 to get it back to Chelsea ha ha ha). We ended up down the road and I rang the RAC. Membership is on my bank account. It’s free but very very slow. We got there before 7. It was after midnight by the time we got home, and the foul energy of that place is still clinging to me now.

I’ve been sad all day. For absolutely no reason. Occasionally tearful. God, I’m way too sensitive. I eventually sat in the car and chanted for ages, which took the edge off and means the car is resonating nicely now. I’m partly blaming the pound, partly blaming the full moon. They always pull at me for crazy or for sad.

Now I’m home and I’m already in my dressing gown. I just played Moby’s album “Everything is Wrong”, which I haven’t even thought of since I was an angsty 20. This evening you’re getting the emo version of me. But that emo version of me is about to watch the football…

Oops and there’s Phil on a Volkswagen advert. Part of me is thrown off kilter because yesterday I turned down the first audition I’ve ever turned down in favour of a dayjob. Just an oil commercial. But after years of bloodshed I don’t like that the focus has temporarily shifted to guaranteed money over rolling the dice for my vocation. I did just do some lovely fringey work with The Factory so maybe it’s okay to chase Mammon. I’m going to spend some of my earnings on a stunt horse riding course, and some more on workshops. I might even have enough to suck it up and do something interesting and low budget on the fringe for a bit and remind people I exist. Work breeds work etc, even if you’re usually unwilling to work for peanuts.

Or maybe it’s time to make something mine that I give a shit about and that speaks to my ideals, smash the crap out of it, and have to change my Facebook profile name to stop the endless job offers and marriage proposals…