AlBarclay

“How big?” the shaman asked. I know by now what it means when you do this: “I’ll have a big one.” He’s a checker. “A big one?” “Yes please.” He laughs to himself. He runs deep with mischief this man. Mischief is crucially important with this medicine. He is also, in this realm, a being of godlike power. I laugh with him. Had I known what was to come, I still would have asked for that big one. But I wouldn’t have laughed.

He pours me a little glug of this deep concoction of vine and wood, this brackish viscous physical heartbrew. He blesses it. Hands it to me. I shoot it down. He sloshes water in to catch the dregs and I shoot them too, then grab a tiny chunk of apple and put it in my mouth. It just… edges out some of that taste. Doesn’t do much, but you really mustn’t eat. Second night so my body already knows where this taste is going to lead, but for now it is vital to keep the stuff in. He wishes me a good journey and I thank him. I go back to my mat in the corner to sit up and breathe.

Lots of people are waiting to receive their medicine still. Atmospheric anticipatory rainforest music doesn’t feel out of place here like it does in most other contexts. We wait. “It’s not going to have any effect this time,” I’m thinking as it worms its way into my very fabric. “I reckon my big night was last night.” This is my brain. It is often incorrect.

Before long we begin a shared sound journey, opening the chakras with noises. A chance taken with gusto to try and make the wood behind us vibrate with us. All of us and the noises are huge and as I breathe and intone and breathe and intone it goes deeper and we have already danced for an hour in the afternoon and my body is open and connected but still mister brain is saying “oh well, you had a journey last night” and after the chakra chanting there is twenty minutes of absolute silence.

I positioned myself in savasana, dead man’s pose, with a blackout mask on my face. And somewhere in that twenty minutes, eternity blindsided me. The void came. The eternal argument of everything or nothing. The void comes and it pulls and it questions, it seduces us to its will which is ultimately destruction of everything. We are part of the light, it is complete absence, always there just out of sight, don’t stare, it sucks you in.

I am arguing once more for existence, fighting the void, moving to colour and possibility, the fire and the light so blinding in the blackout mask and it is all I can do to come back to my body occasionally and remember to breathe, and that just barely, gasping like a stuck fish occasionally before departing once more. All the time I’m distracted by the void, grandmother is winding through my bones and finding the bad things. Back and forth forever and finally from the silence a chord on the piano, low and minor key. It develops into majestic requiem, something deep and vast and terrifying played live out of the silence but not forgiving, this is work music not a lifeline and it goes into my heart and all the grief and all the things denied and all the blocks and the fear and inadequacy and frustration and sacrifice it all comes right up to me in my eye mask and I’m howling for everyone I’ve ever loved and generations long dead and all the bad things and it is impossible it is too much and there’s no escape and there it is the void the void asking me seducing me and I know it wants me and then there’s nothing and I’m going to it and I realise I can pull off the eye mask and I claw at it and pull it off and FUCK I’m somewhere else, a peaceful place, less colour less light here in the world. I can’t see the 2p piece of the spark of life, the void doesn’t want me to find it, I know where it is though and I reach through a wall of foam and check it out of the library and I’ve got it in my hand and my eyes really aren’t giving me any useful information but I can feel the jagged edges and it’s all still in me that history but I can’t see it anymore I can just see this tiny box I’ve been put in and it closes in on me and my ears are weeping and my nose and face and my hands are shaking. I growl for jaguar but I’m on my own here and I don’t know where my feet are and the edges of sight begin to shiver as reality splinters and behind it is the void the void and all of it pushes up up and it is so close so close as I flip my body and the bucket is under me and it all comes out and then it all comes out again and the music reflects the purge and the purge reflects the music and I can’t stop I have to get everything out all of it the whole fucking universe and I’m weeping into that bucket and it isn’t stopping it’s that familiar gargling wretching sound and the taste and what the fuck is even in this now and I can see nothing but the bucket and I’m not okay and I’m crying and shouting and snotting into the bucket and a hand on my back just gently and two words “you’re okay” and yes, she’s right. Fuck. I’m okay. I’m okay. And she takes the bucket and I let her. I NEVER LET YOU TAKE THE BUCKET. I clean my own purge. Control freak. She took it and I thanked her because there was nothing I could do but turn around and lie down in savasana and Condor comes, almost immediately, appears at the edge of my sight dancing with feathers and Condor and I pull things out of my neck and throw them in the fire and I give her the badness and it burns and the badness and it burns and I can’t find any more badness but I offer her the weirdness and she nurtures it and she strokes my chest and I hug him and he says “Sorry mate I felt that was the right thing to do,” and tell him it was, it was. The next morning he tells me how he started working with Condor. “You came at the right time.” “She pulled me to you suddenly. I was just sitting there and suddenly I knew.”

So I lie there weeping like a stuck faucet and I’m thinking about my mother dying alone and all the things that have been knotted up inside me. I’m weeping again about them but I can’t feel them hiding in me and the lack of them feels like a loss because we build ourselves shells made of our own damage and we think that’s who we are now. I lie and I look at it and I talk to the dead and it’s going to be ok and the music is more upbeat and I can be part of this light part of the spark, and I’m safe, we are safe, so I check the coin back into the library and a bell rings and it’s the shaman “anyone who wants another cup, come up and I’ll serve in the order you come” and oh for fucks sake Al really? “How big?” “Not as big as before. I just want to check it’s all done.” He laughs again, gives me about the same. I look at with shock. “You okay with that?” “I trust you.” And I do and I do. In this room in this eternity of colour, he is a strange force for work and change and pain and heart and love.

It was almost all done. At the end of that journey a gentler time, an easier purge, I cleaned my own bucket again. Fractals. Memories. Calls to action. And then dancing until soup.

I’m shattered. I still keep occasionally crying, and I think that’s just gonna be my jam for a day or two and about time too, there was a lot of stuff hiding under that plug.

Who says this stuff is supposed to be difficult? Seven men have just sat in a boiling hot sauna singing icaros, iboga songs and various krishna bajans. Brian has a show on in the West End which is about exactly this phenomenon. People, in this case men, singing together. It was much more common a few decades ago, before TV talent shows and the market started to frame public singing as a competition. As a species we have sung together for aeons. The world was sung into being in many cultures. Song and shared breath carries deep meaning and power. It is the heart of how we make magic in groups. Football crowds know this, rallies know this – tribes can be divisive but we are a tribal creature in a global world. It happened quicker than we could evolve coping strategies, which is why so many of us waste so much of our time being indignant about someone else’s life choices. Politics, gender, sports, opinions, which paper they take …

We men in the sauna didn’t change the world, but we breathed together and last night we all went to the edges of the universe and turned ourselves inside out. It is a beautiful and seriously strong healing medicine, I’ll always stand by what I’ve known it to do for people and myself. The people here, many of them have experienced or are experiencing great traumas. We all carry stuff, this medicine really helps with a sense of perspective and of knowing. Inner and outer wellness. Most of the people here are healthy and effective, pushing the world in one way or another, chasing an accountable solidity in themselves, grounded. You’d expect a load of air, but largely they’re earth, dropped weight, physical.

I’m in bed with the blanket on in my Black Sail cabin. In an hour we will go back into circle and see where next. I’ll probably have to get up soon though as I’m thirsty and my flask is in circle.

I’ve been a long way already. There are many ways of brewing this medicine but often it must boil for three solid days. Out in the Amazon you can see and smell it gak as it is literally boiled, attended, on coals. What active property gets boiled away might perhaps be replaced with the energies of the attendants. This medicine is boiled at a lower temperature, using ultrasound, thereby not losing so many of the alkaloids and active substances. It’s a new technique, a blend of ancient and modern, and it is astonishing. Normally my first night is about getting out of my left brain, calming down my thought noise, getting into my heart so the second night can work. Last night I was swept out quickly.

Here we all are experiencing grief experiencing joy and otherwise just existing and forgetting for a while to experience until experience comes for us. We happen through life and occasionally some of us need something big to help us take stock. 36 people receiving, 20 people around the shaman, assisting with buckets and cleaning, giving healings, making sure everyone was ok, and showing their work. How many hours, weeks, years, decades to learn piano like that, to hone that singing voice? How much life spent with tribes in Africa to embody those chants so completely? Live music all night, different voices, the men like waterfalls the women like stars. I can barely finish purging before someone is there to swap my bucket and rub my back if I want. I always wash my own, it’s a control thing but also I always want to see off some of what I’ve purged, these things the medicine has dredged into the light, pulled from the hidden places inside. Send them back to Pachamama. There’s always much more than I’ve eaten – but I’m monkish and eat just a tiny amount at the latest twelve hours before first purge. 9am, say. I reckon my first yak was about half eleven this evening, my second around 1.30am. Two doses though. Purge and get a second dose pretty much right away. The purge doesn’t leave you bad, it leaves you enervated. It’s a cleaning out. I think it’s why I’m so comfortable with tactical sick before bed when I’m drunk. Demystifying vomit, the Aya way.

I think I sat for quite some time wrapped in a very very large curious cold yellow boa constrictor snake, using me for warmth. I think this definitely actually happened. Eventually it moved on to someone else. I remember his weight, thicker than my arm at the thickest, head tiny by comparison.

The music helps the journey. I found a place in the corner, where I thought I could hide, but I still had people checking on me loads which was a good thing. I like to know we are held, it helps me relax into things. They have tinctures, some literal – (willow, oak, dandelion) and some created intentionally with animal spirit names – (elephant, spider, jaguar). My mission last night was little things, the black sails, noticing. I went with Nettle – you don’t notice them but they’re everywhere. And they sting. That and Bumblebee. Busy little thing, you know it’s there buzzing, largely fluffy but can sting, makes things better. These tinctures are really for our own imagination. They helped me.

This morning I found a note for myself. It looks like it is written in crayon. “YOu WoRK WIth SYMBOLS yoU must BE a SyMboL. Take A ShApe.”

Alright Ayahuasca Al. So I’m too ill defined for your liking… I’ve been doing it on purpose. But yeah it’s good to nail your colours to the mast. Time to change the black flag. Put up a pennant. Sail the seven seas. Yarrrr.

I’m all dressed in white in a beautiful converted barn. They’re playing the old South American woowoo tunes. It’s the hooneyquin probably, who have become so terribly fashionable with all the rich folk who can afford like me to go and figuratively blow the top of their heads off on a December Friday when most people are having to knuckle down and watch the pennies. It’s grey here as it is everywhere at the moment, and the ground is soaking wet. I’ve drenched the bottom of my flared white jeans. They’ll dry soon though as it is warm in here. I think there might even be underfloor heating. Luxury indeed. These guys specialise in hosting retreats like this, and they’ve got it all sorted out. Normally I like to sleep in circle, but with these guys I’m sleeping in a pod on my own. I chose it by name – it’s called Black Sail. I thought it might be pirate themed, as at the time Brian was going to come with and it’s two single beds. It isn’t pirate themed. It refers to the myth of Theseus, in terms of the things we come to feel sorry about in our lives. I had a ladybird book of it at the time and it used to really upset me, the black sail moment. Perhaps that’s part of why I’ve ended up there.

Every year the ships from Crete would take the youth of Athens and feed them to the minotaur. One year Theseus decided to get rid of the damn thing, so he persuaded his dad the king to send him as one of these offerings. With Ariadne’s help and a ball of twine and all that he put paid to old cowface and returning triumphant in stolen Cretan boats he made a very costly error. The ships from Crete used to come with black sails. “If you succeed, when you return, fly white sails,” his dad had asked him. He forgot to change them. Easy to do when you’re swept up in monster killing and falling in love etc. But his dad saw the ships with black sails coming in, and since he was on a cliff at the time he decided the best option really was to jump off it in despair. So then Theseus docks and says “Where’s dad?” King Aegeus chucked himself in and got the Aegean Sea named after him. Ach. Just a simple oversight, but there’s no accounting for folks.

So I guess part of why I’m here is to look at the things I let pass just by simple acts of neglect. The little things I didn’t do that turned into big things for others. The little things in thinking and in behaviour and in speech and in diet that, individually feel so small they needn’t be minded but they accumulate and accumulate. That’ll be part of the tapestry of these two nights here when the world is cold. To examine some of these little parasites. I’m up for that. I’ve got a literal infinite amount of time.

First out I’m gonna switch away from digital and do my intentions, Florida water, maybe a bit of palo Santa and get someone to blow some yopo up my nose. Oh God here we go…

—

Great. It’s buzzy in here now I’ve got the quilt Lou made, and a big cushion. I’ve got a stone from La Hougue Bie and the 2p piece of the spark of life. I’ve got half a bottle of Florida water and some Yopo which is active hapé, with a self applicator in case I fail to find someone and one for someone to blow it to me for preference. I’ve got the holy wood for stealth burning. A blackout eye mask so I can go deep if I want. A flask of water, some paper and a pen. A cigarette lighter, questionably wise given how I’ll be cosmic shortly. Don’t really need anything else though. Don’t need most of what I’ve got. Switching off my phone.

///

Just as I went to switch my phone off, literally as pushed the button, it rang. An estate agent to ask about what I’m doing with my flat and am I going to rent it. Timing?!!?

Off

I’ve been tidying and trying to work out what to bring. Out tomorrow morning to drive somewhere off in the middle of Wales. There might or might not be mobile reception. I’m sure they’ll have WiFi although there’s no mention of it on any of the info. Could be that I’ll be totally cut off. I’m only off for one more Bonanza Ayahuasca Weekend! Brian very nearly came with, but going the first time is considerably bigger than going the umpteenth time, so I get that he decided against it. It means I’ll have a long solitary drive over there. I offered to take some of the helpers but they don’t wanna go with the punters, and I remember the last time I went finding myself thinking I need to stop being a punter at these things. But I feel I want to complete this corner turning that started as I was heading into Othello, and continued as the frontmost age number shunted into a great big hairy 5.

Habits. I am a creature of habit in some ways, but a lot of my patterns and coping strategies have helped hugely over the years but are becoming unhelpful. The sudden sale of Eyreton got me clinging to stuff. But I’m weighed down by it now. And there are plenty of obliviating habits I’ve settled on to help me not really have to think too deeply, and none of them are gonna be my friend in the long run. It’s always helpful for me to bludgeon myself occasionally. So it’ll be two nights again in the infinite and I’ll go with strong intention and find out what sticks. Lou will be here when I get back, and staying until after New Year, which will help with putting a different spin on the old “get as drunk as I can for a week” way of coping for the dark days of Malcolm, between Christmas and New Year.

If I go silent it probably isn’t because I’m running the hills of Wales naked and covered in wode, shrieking in the language of the eagles, wreathed in trout. It’s probably because I haven’t got reception, so don’t you panic. I mean sure, people occasionally die yada yada but it’s not my first rodeo and I’m pretty careful going into it. Which reminds me, I’ll need to have a good breakfast as it’ll be the last thing I eat tomorrow. I don’t think there’s much in…

I ordered a Japanese floor mattress on Amazon and they totally lied to me about delivery time. It’s fucking annoying. I honestly thought it would come in time. It’ll probably come in handy on Christmas.

Boo is playing in the bedroom. I’ve made a pile with most of the things I don’t want to forget. I’m bound to forget some of it. Don’t need much though frankly. It’ll be all-reet.

Early start though tomorrow so I’m gonna try and get to bed. It’s already past midnight. Never been very good at this sleep racket.

I’ve really got swept up in this latest story from across the pond. It’s remarkable, very very now, and it responds to itself.

The CEO of a major healthcare company in the US was shot outside his hotel room in Manhattan.

In the UK we still, just, have the NHS. This is despite the Tories trying to ruin it, because there is a huge amount of money to be made if we shift to the “don’t call an ambulance!!” system in the USA where, if you slip through the cracks, you lose everything and more when something goes wrong with your health. I’ve heard Americans talking about “oh but you get delayed in your socialist system,” and yes, if it’s not considered urgent, you get delayed. I waited a whole year for varicose vein surgery. But had it been something more urgent, likely I would have been seen much quicker. If you’re rich or cautious and willing to spend, you might have health insurance too. When I had spondarthropathy as a twenty one year old taking my university finals, faced with a year on a ward or a “private” injection of steroids for about two grand, I opted for the steroids and dad paid. I had the privilege of a wealthy dad. Either way I would have been looked after, and the ward option would have been free, just costing time. The doctor wanted me in his ward. It’s a very rare condition I had, with extreme symptoms. A year of pain and virtual complete immobility while being studied, or a quick fix. I took the easy way out because I could. Three months was enough for me.

Insurance companies, we all know, are about finding the loophole that means they don’t have to pay out. The people running this system for profit are doing their best not to think about the individuals – just the bottom line. Maybe you don’t get back the flight you had to cancel, someone somewhere gets a bonus. Maybe your boiler conks out and because you were slow scheduling a free service they say it is invalid. That’s a boiler. That’s a flight. Luxuries.

In America, health is a luxury.

I’ll just say that again.

In America, health is a luxury.

If you’ve got a good job, you’ve maybe got good healthcare. If you’re rich maybe you’ve got a plan. Luigi Mangioni was from money though. And he still fell through the system. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

So the CEO of a healthcare insurance racket got shot. Sure he had a family, but so did all the people who lost everything or died because of profit impulse and shareholders. The shooter, aforementioned Luigi, looks to be a well off young man who took the time to carve “Delay” and “Deny” into the bullet casings. He successfully evaded the law until he was recognised by someone in a McDonald’s way way away. They called the police. There’s a $60k reward on Crimestoppers, but it looks like the guy at McDonald’s will be ineligible on a technicality as he dialed 911. Oh the irony. I like to think Luigi was eating there under sufferance as he thought it would be anonymous ordering through a screen etc. The branch of McDonald’s is getting review bombed.

So this boy is in custody.

He has had a history of extreme back pain, and there have been operations in the past. I’m waiting to hear what fuckery he had to put up with, but there’s no doubt the man is in pain. Also too dumb to shave his head and pluck his eyebrows, grow a beard and stop wearing a mask. He hadn’t planned his safehouse and got in food until the memory was faded, or gone back hard to an old existence. He’s reactive, maybe in too much pain to think things through. And the American internet is going mad writing joke alibis for him and attacking the McDonalds because even though Luigi committed murder in cold blood, he keyed into something that everyone who has been exposed to that terrible terrible system which they want to bring over here can understand. He’s framed as a folk hero for taking on the system. Because the system is fucked. There’s the likes of Musk saying how CEOs are necessary, but they really are just creaming money off the top of the monolithic enterprises and maybe that’s ok if it just means people don’t get the flight back or the boiler fixed, because Capitalism. But bring it into healthcare and it is people’s lives vs profit. This is not a good system. There’s Michael Moore’s Sicko – it’s a bit dated, made before the Tories started trying to deconstruct the NHS and replace it with the fucked system. But it’s a clear watch.

This kid looks like he’s smart, evolved and charming. When you are in constant pain it’s hard to think, so the thoughtlines to “I’m gonna kill the CEO” are straighter. He’s done it now and he’s in the legal system. There’s going to be a machine clicking into gear to destabilise his image – lots of CEOs have a vested interest in paying to make him look bad, and by definition they are the richest people in the world because they have all your money. So the smear machine will come into play and he will answer for all his badness beyond the murder. Ideally they want him to look bestial. If he kicked a puppy as a kid, we will see someone crying about it. But this is because he will be a rallying point for some. Because actually, maybe being the CEO of one of the healthcare companies … maybe that makes you the real monster here.

His name reminds me of “Luigi’s Mansion” which is a seminal Nintendo title where you play the forgotten brother of the famous Super Mario. This forgotten member of a famous dynasty has to go into an old house full of ancient evil ghosts, and suck them away into his ghost vacuum. A lost kid, pulling ancient unobserved invisible badness out of institutions just because it’s his job.

This story will go on and on and it won’t stop being relevant.

Two days of it. I don’t actually have much more than that in the bank when it comes to being shiftless. I’ve been long in the hustle.

Aye I sent some invoices today. The Santa lot, and the audiobook. I like the Santa guys but I’ve been on their official books for years now unused. They know me through historic festival work, but the people on the ground, the elves, were a bit unsure of me with my big beard and my confidence. One of the elves got really worried about “safeguarding” when a great big traveller family descended on Santa, and talking to her after it was because I had told her it was my first time as Santa. ‘FIRST TIME WITH THIS PARTICULAR COMPANY YOU TWIT”. I told her repeatedly that it was fine – if someone tries to sit on my lap, I’ll stand up. I will be waving in the photos so you can see my hands. I know what people are like and this isn’t my first rodeo. I know how to make the best of it even if I’m visible throughout my shift so can’t adjust costume or fix slipping beard. And my beard did slip, I sweated through the adhesive on the tape. Nevertheless that’s down to the programmers. They’ve made a Santa thing where he’s constantly visible, and the kit is pretty rudimentary. I know my job so I made it work. You have to show up. Every journo wants a bad Santa story at this time of year. Some poor sod got stitched up in Hampshire, my friend sent me the article this morning. The thrust of it was “Santa isn’t real, children and parents shocked” but it was in The Guardian. Poor fucker. Although it sounds like he was going through the motions. You’ll never catch me doing that, no matter the circumstances. If I’ve taken the job, I’ll do the job and 100% will be my base rate.

To the extent that it took me about two full days to recover. I only started to feel normal at about 3pm today, and my sleeps had been long. Sure the first night I didn’t switch my head off until the early hours, it’s costly all this character interaction with real people, particularly if you care about it. This is why I’m cagey about some of the low paid immersive shift work going on out there with immersive theatre adjacent people. They pay actors to facilitate their experiences, and they have genuine skilled performers doing it, but they give an hourly rate and it is often no reflection at all on the work and the skillset. Pay peanuts get monkeys they say, but I know plenty of actors who are busting for the work, and their hope might lead them into doing these jobs. You sometimes form a fruitful community within them, but largely these immersive “experience” jobs are gonna eat your life and give nothing back. Months and months on these shows, often then drinking in the show bar after, often with no more than a ten percent discount on the marked up drinks, sending every penny back to where it started.

Right now there’s “You Me Bum Bum Train” and they have a load of performers volunteering every night on the basis that it is a celebrated job and totally sold out : “you might meet famous people”. You’ll meet “famous people” as a service industry volunteer for crying out loud. They aren’t going to say “WELL HEY I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR JUST THAT FACE.” That’s a myth anyway, maybe a thing from very very early industry times but never not exploitative and nowadays the opportunities are constricted to a small circle with very little going out “to market”. Sure it’s interesting to see what someone is like when you admire their work. But what’s the interaction anyway? An old friend of mine is suddenly current. In the pub, people come and ask him if he’s him. “Yes I am,” he tells them and they then say he’s a really good actor. He thanks them. And that’s it. Often the people who seek the interaction are in the industry. The eternal hope of getting a job. It’s the Weinsteins and the Spaceys that have encouraged this space though and this idea that those who have already been on the pedestal are somehow more special: “Oh you like my stuff do you? Perhaps we should talk more in private.”

I’ve got distracted as I’ve gone from saying “skilled people shouldn’t be bamboozled into working for cheap” and shifted into “just because you’ve had exposure doesn’t mean you’re different”. I guess the film industry has to survive on the idea of merit. It takes time and work to build a practitioner up in the public eye, so they are automatically thought of as “good quality” and lauded even when turning in mediocre work. But once the ground work on reputation has been done, then the person starts to be box office, as we all like to be told what’s good. And sure, I would love to be box office, as then I get to consider interesting projects more frequently, and I get to do what I set out to do more.

Which reminds me, I was sent a script the other day from a film maker I’ve collaborated with a few times. I’m gonna finish reading the first draft so I can talk with her about it. Things are still in the pipeline. Always.

I have no idea what the weather was like today. It’s almost midnight, and I’ve been in my pajamas all day. I’m in bed again now, with the blanket on, Boo in her customary station to the left of my head. She likes to sleep on my hand. I’m sure I should have generated invoices and done world things, but frankly I wanted a day of absolutely nothing, and I’m one of the lucky ones that can do that. Boo is not really a responsibility, she’s largely just a playmate. She is fine so long as she can feel like she’s part of something.

I’ve been reading Dan Abnett again. I signed up for a mail order 2000AD thing, thinking it would only be about fifty volumes, but I think they are pushing for 200 of the damned things. I haven’t anywhere to put them, I’ve read pretty much all of them, if they are still wrapped in plastic I know I haven’t read them yet. Dan Abnett is a writer who started around the same time I stopped reading the comic. Every time I find his things I love them – Feral and Foe has been a great read. Edgeworld was the one I took to Stratford. I think he scripted the much lauded Alien Isolation game. I tried it on my steam deck but honestly didn’t have the patience to stealth the androids. But, yeah – it’s been a consumption day, a geek day. I’ve also made a start into my lovely new four part Joseph Campbell The Masks of God set in the original edit. His attempt at a definitive overview of the intertwined myths by which we have understood the world, in purest form. It’s annoying that his prose is quite flat. For someone so curious about the interplay of story to society, he has forgotten that grammar is a made up thing and if we are too obedient a little part of our writing dies.

My first Christmas movie every year varies, but I’ll always end up watching one around this time of year. Die Hard often wins, but this year it was Michael Cane and the muppets, with a telling of Christmas Carol that feels eerily close to the first script we had for it up in Manchester. It’s lovely not working this season, especially now the Santa thing is done. I might end up with some pickups, but largely I think this is me until January, signing off from having to do work. I don’t like it, but it has always been coming. Lou would remind me that I can do DIY in my flat and indeed I really have to as she will be living here in my bachelor pad from the 13th. I’m really happy about it, and absolutely freaking out at the same time. It’ll be the longest we’ve stayed together, but she’ll be here in this friendly but weird home where everything is all over the place.

I think sleep is the next move. I haven’t switched on my Steam Deck since I’ve got back from Stratford – Red Dead must be feeling neglected. I’ve got these graphic novels to catch up on, and they are often so good. Maybe a shot of whisky. I’m beginning to feel like I can sleep even despite being the definition of idle all day.

Another day as an all powerful ancient Christmas being. I suspect it’ll be the last day this year as I’m trying to be a little less full of “yes” for such things. It’s the company you keep, etc. Gotta keep stepping up stepping up. I might be better served doing the things I’ve needed to do for ages such as sprucing up my online presence. I expect a prospective employer googling me will mostly fall across this blog and some info about my jobs which has got to be half a decade out of date now. A day in the “office” might be just the ticket to help bump me into more of the interesting stuff. It’s out there.

Not that Santa isn’t interesting. It’s a whole lot of interaction with people. I’m pretty ok with people on the whole. A couple of times I got mobbed. Most of the time the wonder of the Santa persona kept things pretty organised for me. It’s good to know that, this time of year, I can always get paid to do a thing. If it was something I wanted to prioritise, I’d start to build my own costume. The beard I had was great, but the huge amount of synthetic fabric meant my skin had nowhere at all to breathe. Just a two hour slot at a time and I was soaked at the end of a shift. The beard tape on my face soaked off and there was a little gap at the top where you could see my dark tache. When you’re peddling wonder to people, you don’t need to be showing the cracks. Nobody pays to see Santa here, but that doesn’t mean it should be a cheap interaction. Better costume would certainly be a priority if it was gonna be something to lean into.

It’s exhausting though. I got home and Brian had purchased a Christmas tree as well as all sorts of lights and wonders to scatter around the flat. Really glorious to start to make things Christmassy here and I’m very much feeling that I need to sort out some of the clutter so we can feel a bit less constricted by piles of crap. Brian is being very patient, but if I were him I know I’d be happy to stay seeing things reduced.

I’m winding down. I ran a bath and we watched The Muppet Christmas Carol and now I want to see if I can sleep calm and long. Lots of early starts in a row and that weekend took it out of me. I’ll have my weekend on a Monday.

It’s hard work, being a trope.

I’ve never done it like that before. I went to “Santa School” one time with The Ministry of Fun. That was maybe a decade ago, just before Christmas Carol kicked off. I was desperate at the time, but it didn’t gel. But today, it’s wasn’t the safety of a grotto. I didn’t have time to turn around and adjust my beard between punters. A steady stream of children, and for the first session, my beard was in my mouth. I had my manager occasionally showing up and pointing at my top lip but there was no hiding in that first two hours. It was fine but I wasn’t perfect. I started to really think about the responsibility on this particular job.

So yeah, two hours on, one hour off, two hours on. The first two hours went by in a haze. “Have you been good?” The parents and the children all definitely want to persuade Santa how good they’ve been. The horror comes from seeing the belief. As Father Christmas, I am an ancient thing. I care about how good you’ve been, but who makes the frame for good and bad? Maybe it’s Santa. Perhaps that’s why Santa has to ask, and weigh every answer in the balance. Is Santa Anubis? We all love dogs…

The second two hours I had a handle on it physically. Beard tape meant I could talk without it slipping. I assumed I would have a moment between people to recharge, but the momentum in the pudding is relentless. There’s no time. I choked on fluff at one point, right at the start. I almost choked to death suppressing a cough from a tiny blonde girl. All I wanted to do was hack my guts out to get that bit of fluff shifted. She just wanted the perfect Father Christmas. She got it even if I hustled her out pretty quickly and was almost sick thereafter.

Then I hit the groove. My newfound beard tape meant I wasn’t slipping, I could relax into this strange Christmas world of citizenship. By being out of society, Santa teaches society. Play the game and you will be rewarded, he says. What did he used to be? This is capitalist Christmas. I can talk to the parents. “I remember you, I haven’t seen you for many years.” That’s a great icebreaker for a shy child, to talk to the parent as the ancient infinite being. “What did I bring to you, that Christmas, when you were Milly’s age?” “um … a DVD?” Oh yes, a DVD. You loved it. Have you been good since? Milly has he been good? If you’re very good you might get another DVD… although I’m not sure they’re as good as they used to be… But I’m sure I’ll find something. Milly, would you like to make a Christmas wish?”

I asked a lot of children to make Christmas wishes. All I asked was that their wish was for someone other than themselves. Most of them managed. One or two of them just derailed the process – “Santa, I’m just going to say right now, I want a phone.”

It’s exhausting, vocally thrashing and energetically doubly so. I’m in my upper vocal register for hours, talking through a disguise. With the beard tape I can be much more free, and thankfully it it’s cold in the shopping mall. Every inch of fabric I’m wearing is synthetic. The only part of me that can breathe is a tiny bit of my face. After just two hours my whole body is water.

Still, this is well paid work. I ignored it when it first came in. I didn’t want to do it straight after Othello. Then just this weekend came up and they texted me, so I couldn’t ignore it. Still I ran it by Lou, as I didn’t want to do Santa right after RSC. She quite rightly pointed out how good the rate was, and that is doesn’t count as my last job, that can still be Othello. So I took the Christmas dollar. Ho Ho Ho. Just one more day. Good God I’m exhausted.

But this is my job today, and tomorrow. To wear one of the masks of god. Across the world right now, many of us are sharing this mask. In every instance we are perceived, we ARE the entity we pretend to be. And simultaneously we are just people in a mask. Because the Gods are splintered through us all now. So many of us, we all create an energy this season towards this benign but controlling entity. There’s chaos here. What if you haven’t been good?

This aspect of the God is tired. I’ll sleep now and tomorrow channel once more. Ho ho ho. The endless chimes and bells. Here now, the father of the Christmas, just reminding the children to think about people they love who aren’t them. Merry merry. Bedtime.

I had to leave the studio shortly before the end, but we got it done, this long dense book. Matt was an excellent engineer in the studio, really understanding of Sam’s needs. His playbacks were incredibly well judged to maximise the time we had, he was editing on the fly, super efficient, really quite remarkable to watch. It’s a big old complex of studios up in Queen’s Park. I have a feeling it won’t be the last time I go there. Might not even be the last time I work with Matt.

It’s been so dense though. The true meaning of death. The purpose of existence. Life and love and relationships and traumas and families and longing.

I left shortly after 2pm and drove to Uxbridge. I grabbed a load of programmes from an industrial printer just after 3pm on a Friday, and had the most incredible sense of deja vu. This is not the first time in this lifetime that I have gone to that printer and hauled emergency programmes to Oxford. I did it maybe even a decade ago. I did it again today. Picked up at 3, slogged through the rain to drop them in Oxford before the audience started to show for press night. I went in and saw the space and there was Amelia from Willows. She was an intern, now she’s swing in the Christmas show. No surprises – she’s a triple threat and a good human to boot. Nice to see her even briefly. We overlap with so many glorious humans in this game.

I couldn’t see the show. Santa tomorrow and I’ll have to drive through the end of the storm to get there, just ten minutes from the place I picked up the programmes, in Uxbridge. My first ever weekend in a grotto. I swore I’d avoid it but the money was undeniably good and I haven’t survived this long without the instict to suck up my pride from time to time in exchange for DOLLA.

But this means I need to go to bed, stat. By the sound of it this storm is going to level the place, so I’ll be driving through some degree of carnage no doubt, tomorrow morning, so long as my windows don’t explode.

Man mad climate change, eh? Let’s just keep doing nothing. It’s obviously made up. Capitalism ftw. Vote Putin.

Amazing that Romania have been bold enough to act on what he’s been doing for so long. I reckon there was might have been cyber stuff in the states, but it’s impossible for them to call it without WAR. The bear has always tried to win though story. And most people these days are foie gras geese for tempting patterns and lies.

I’m gonna sleep through this storm, me and the pusscat. Then tomorrow I’ll sleigh out into it and try and bring some fecking magic. Last thing in the world I feel like. No No No.