AlBarclay

I’ve seen Claire before but never worked with her. She’s the BSL interpreter up here. I watched her sign one of the history plays with Min.

This evening and tomorrow matinee we get to share the stage with her. 24 actors will collectively tell the tale of Othello. Some will work harder than others, but all will get breaks. Shakespeare is very very careful about that. If his leading actors have an incredibly heavy scene to do, he wheels on various other curious voices for a few scenes just so they can recover. This acting lark can be hard work in the big scenes, and Shakespeare in particular. There’s a thing that happens the first time an actor plays the lead – sink or swim. We can get used to a line through the play like this gift of a one I wrote about the other day. If you’re a lead in something like this you have to WORK and if you don’t the whole show suffers immediately. Our leads all did the work bless them. It’s a shift, your first lead, and one you never forget. These huge parts, they take their deserved rest in the show, they have to keep their light burning, they come on refreshed if it’s Shakespeare, but often not as well as they might be as the director might have cut the recovery scene. “Why is this scene here? It adds nothing.” *pant pant pant*

Claire was on stage with us the whole time. She played every single part in Othello. BSL is a physical activity. She must have been shot to hell at the end of the show. They’ve translated it into sign language, she’s learned it, and she is relaying it live, and it must be such hard work. “How do you maintain your energy?” one audience member asked her afterwards. “Nerves,” she replied.

This company keeps adding to experience. I’m so happy they make the show so accessible. It only makes our experience richer.

I’m back at the cottage, with the oven on reheating a curry. Two shows tomorrow but not as early a start as today.

Full moon today in Taurus. Bullish. Bright. Hard. We had a show stop. “Is there a doctor in the house?” A panic attack, we are told. No surprises. We are water. This moon is pulling us. So in the interval, finally, taurean, Jules Fin and myself moved the bundle into the place I had prepared in the substage. Better to just guerilla than try to organise. It is dry dry dry. There’s no risk of badness and now it hangs next to where we all get into the lift to go sing about how God is with us. The Gods eat beauty. We have prepared this banquet in a bundle so they eat the contents of the bundle instead of eating us. They have consumed much already. The rest of it is under us, grounding us rather than pulling us up. A better place as we shift to the last week. Sweet Avon the Green Eyed Kiss (mcbundleface) stupid internet is in the right place.

It was press night for The Red Shoes tonight, so free drinks and sticky sausages in The Other Place. I had family in though, so we went to The Duck where they rang time unconscionably early. Different managements give different fucks and the current management are experimenting with how few fucks they can give and still operate. “I wonder if there’s a way to change culture,” I found myself asking John Paul, about the fact that it’s the pub of choice. They have “The Actor’s Bar,” sure. Usually there’s nowhere to sit in it post show, but you are surrounded by headshots of familiar people. Largely they are made out to “Pam” who evidently was one of the past landlords that gave a fuck. The current crop are exactly the type of publicans that think actors are a bunch of ponces and resent the late night rush after the show. Surely there’s a pub that would welcome us. Changing culture takes years but it is worth considering when a place starts to be entitled.

The Dirty Duck has such a deep tradition of hosting the actors. The new management arbitrarily pulled down a load of pictures and didn’t keep them either, it seems. Binned them. Including my old movement teacher’s husband. “Surely the pictures you took down were kept – they’ll be in a box in the cellar,” I said to Ross. Ross hates actors and weirdly thinks we should tip. He’s not American fyi. “They were thrown away,” he tells me without the conviction of knowledge, but with the certainty of someone who doesn’t give a fuck. “Oh really. If you say so.” Unless he did it, I doubt it. It would be senseless and arrogant to take them down and throw them away.

There’s definitely been something at play though. Headshots have been taken down and replaced with pictures of people’s dogs. For now there’s some unpleasant twerp in charge. They would sooner honour their random shit than give a fuck about shared history. The dog thing is such a dick move. “Actors are dogs hurrhurr etc” It’s unpleasant. I wish we could all just go to The Encore instead but…

We can’t change culture. The actors will continue to go to the Duck even if the management make it clear they aren’t welcome. It’s a shame but not a surprise.

We are in tomorrow at ten anyway. It’s not yet 1am and I think I’m gonna call this an early bed. So lovely to see Rupert and Bea and Lazlo. They got it, largely. They heard it. “DEAD PEOPLE SHOULD LIE DOWN” reared its head, but only briefly – I’ve been in a room with a few corpses over the years. They take up so much more space than a prone actor trying not to move. Let’s look at that for a change, even if IT’S NOT NORMAL. We sing the death. It’s pretty clear, if theatrical, that the character has karked it. And then they stand and watch. If you can’t cope with it that’s your stuff not ours.

Bed… Tomorrow is an important day for a new member of our company. One woman will be signing THE WHOLE PLAY very soon. We are encouraged to incorporate her. She gets very few rehearsals, so even if we swear about the lot of us being called at ten even if we’re only in the second half, I can see how it must be a total headfuck for her. I’m happy to lose my sleep to help. Not super happy. But happy enough. So long as I can get to sleep in the next half hour. *looks around for the actifed*

I went into Zizzi this evening, on my own, for a bowl of pasta that I could cook better myself. It’s a strange thing this delight in paying someone to do the washing up. It means I also have to eat what they come up with, which is largely not unpleasant even if more watery and smaller portion then if I could be bothered. We habitually pay these big businesses to make shortcuts on very easy dishes. I’m a terrible example of it. I go to Zizzi for their halfarsed pasta before the show, way too frequently, even though they don’t give us the ten percent off. I tried Wildwood Kitchen first though, and got a bowl of water with string and “sorry the ten percent doesn’t work on a Saturday”.

We have this remarkable pass that plays out well if we try and use it well – the RSC brings lots of people and some local businesses are kind enough to offer these discounts. “You guys have only got four days of your show left,” said the lady in Zizzi this evening and it made me feel sick. She’s wrong, we have a week and 4 days. But still. That isn’t much. In a week’s time she’ll be right. Fuck. It is winding up.

This has been incredible in my life. I knew about it in advance so things suddenly became possible. I could walk Kumano Kodo knowing I had an acting job coming up. I could take Paris knowing I had an acting job coming up. Without that security it is so much harder to allow freedom. I love my dayjobs, I love the people associated with them, but… This is my primary. I have to make my acting my primary. Always, despite gatekeepers. And I have binned SO MUCH for the fact I have to do what I do. Here in Stratford we have been reaping – we random fools. This has been glorious and will continue to be so until we are done and then we will always have each other, but we will all be individually back in the mix. I’ve definitely made some heartfriends, and deepened connections I didn’t think could deepen. I’m looking forward to the next, and freaked out by not knowing what it is.

A break from all the wandering around in the countryside, as apparently I’m supposed to be here to work. Just one show though, and a matinee. It’s a smart move by the company as it makes it possible for people to come see it and then get the train home. Much cheaper train ticket, no overnight stay. Kaffe and Joe did exactly that. So nice to see them. Both Guildhall lads, both Factory, and Kaffe was on the US tour with Claire and Jono from the Othello company. Four out of five of us in that pub after. Katherine was missed.

We were audibly tired. There were some big old accidental cuts. Some very odd cues. Two days off. The machine is very evidently clicking back into gear, and it needed oil. We ran a reasonably quick show, but that was the cuts making up for the long thought pauses.

Joe and Kaffe seemed to love it though, and were talking about the same things I have come to value in this piece of work we are making. The clarity, the lack of bull. I once thought I was gushing when I told an actress after a show that I loved her simplicity. She looked affronted. “Is that a compliment?” Yes, fuck yes, the more you complicate it the harder it is to care. We know deep down when we are being lied to even if we can’t always put our finger on it.

Lou’s last night so I wasn’t gonna stay in The Duck. We had a serious appointment with the cottage, with all the radiators on and a mushroom risotto including very well priced porcini from the Italian deli. Now the heating is off and it’s time for bed, earlier than I would normally but later than the last few nights. It’s been so glorious having her here. I don’t want to wish this job away so I’m not gonna count the days until I get to see her again. But it’s not that long…

Off to bed sober and before midnight. That’ll do.

Another bright day, another day with no show. It’s half nine and I’m ready to turn in really. Partly just from a fried brain after finally watching (and loving) Everything Everywhere All at Once, but also from another good old active strike out into the Cotswolds.

Broadway to start with, and the tower there, but it looked too expensive to go in even though I know it’ll go to maintaining the place. A day like this you can find things that are free, so we did. We drove to Buckland and eventually found a legal parking place within access of the walk up the hill to Burhill Iron Age Hill Fort. It’s not very well signposted. “I’ve lived in this village sixty years and I’ve never been to the barrow,” we were told yesterday. Much the same story with this hill fort. One of the pathways was completely overgrown to the point of inaccessibility. The other one was very steep and felt like a rarely trodden pathway. Some interesting mushrooms. I got my first strike of Meadow Waxcap, which isn’t particularly exciting to be honest. Lots of little brown mushrooms, and a few smoky spindles, largely the worse for wear, edible but not prized, looking like a bucket of eels.

Up the hill and past some very fluffy cows to the fort, which is largely someones field now. It was only really identified as having historical interest in 1960 and the way the footpaths are organised it feels like there’s one that we are trying to be encouraged to forget. It has been grazed a long time and will continue to be. Peaceful up there. Didn’t see anyone else.

Too late for posh lunch at Dormy House, where straight haired highlighted blonde ladies dine and serve in abundance. Instead to The Swan, where straight haired highlighted blonde ladies dine and serve in abundance. There’s a degree of homogeneity up here in these small villages. Some Avon Lady sold hair straighteners brilliantly back in the day and now it’s just the thing. Either that or straight blonde haired brood parasitic aliens have been at work up there.

The Swan is down in Broadway. It’s a village that specialises in taking your money. Grown up toy shops (not that kind) and chocolate shops and all sorts. I bought a present for a friend and lots of expensive chocolate and I’ve already eaten half of my swiss white chocolate truffles, largely as I’ve been writing this. mmmm nom

Back to cosy cottage time.

We are always just round the corner from something weird.

Lou and I had been up Belas Knap, looking in pasture for mushrooms, finding a Neolithic barrow. We sat in it a wee while – the four corners have openings.

Rain always threatening, but sun always winning today and by the time we got down the hill again we wanted coffee. We stopped in the tiny village of Winchcombe, to find a truly peak small-town English experience.

The high street buildings at Winchcombe are largely for sale. The remaining inhabitants might have inspired John Wyndham. We found hot drinks in a place where as many identical straight haired blonde women with lots of make-up as possible silently used secret ploys to make it as slowly as possible. “How’s the latte?” “Surprisingly they haven’t burnt it.”

Round the corner from this glacial coffee waiting experience – watch out for the dogwalkers, they hate you – you will find a meteor painted on the side of a building. “Free Museum,” it proclaims. “The Winchcombe Meteor”.

Upstairs there’s a room. It used to hold a harpsichord. Now there’s a bit of rock in it. The rock is in a single airtight glass container marked “Duran”. There are other smaller bits in other pots, but only one Duran. “only came outside to watch the night fall with the rain”. Not a meteor. I’m getting sidetracked by an eighties pop band. This rock is NOT planet earth. It’s 4.6 billion years old so it pre-dates the earth.

There is something really delightfully overexcited about the way they’ve gone about displaying it all. It’s like a town in the mid west where Billy the Kid once threw a horseshoe.

“From the Cosmos to the Cotswolds”. A bit of the space rock landed on someone’s driveway in the middle of lockdown when nobody had anything to do. “Here’s a laminated photo of a family standing proudly by a bit of rock in a driveway.” They have photos of the family “on American television”. “This is the spike they think Billy threw his horseshoe at.” They even have pictures of three guinea pigs. “These here critturs, these was the closest durn creature to dat dar space rock! It dun fell right by where they was sleeping. Shore woke em up if they was I tells ya.”

Next-gen-Patrick-Moore, Alan Cox… no Brian? The well known Cox without a beard who isn’t into rowing. The one who tried to get us all to repronounce things like Betelgeuse and Uranus by smoldering at us. Sexy star prof. He’s doomed to talk about it on a telly screen on loop all day opposite a few bits of the space rock. Normally they burn up, drop in the ocean, go unobserved. This one landed about 9pm on a night when everyone in the world was shut in their home with their nose pressed up against the window. They tracked its origin by its trajectory. The paving slab it landed on making a distinct “Bop, bop-bop, bop, bop-bop, bop-bop” sound – that slab is in the NHM now. Perhaps in 5000 years time scientists will employ knowledge of its structure to successfully detonate a huge asteroid before impact.

It landed in the Cotswolds so everyone had tupperware and freezer bags and got it bagged up so quickly it was barely contaminated. Pure space rock. A rare and interesting thing. Did your grandad find one? Is that the unremarkable bit of rock you found in his desk? Probably not, to be honest. But I bet there’s a household somewhere, a half forgotten story. “I was sitting out on my porch having a smoke…” SPACE ROCK.

This universe is so big. We have learned so much and built so much. Time is vast and we are swept up in it for now.

We went home and watched The Substance. It’s about objectification, self loathing and how we regret our youthful arrogance years later when we reap what we have sowed. It’s a body horror just on the right side of uncomfortable not to be too funny. Feminist Get Out. I had to have a bath afterwards.

There’s a pattern emerging now, my way through the show. It’s the kind of thing we are supposed to put in blogs, so I’ll take this opportunity to be obedient to the form for a moment.

I get into the theatre at half five. Usually I let myself in with my pass through one of the soundproofed audience doors and then go through the interior to sign in at Stage Door. I’ll get a good ten minutes of rolling around on my own and then other people start appearing, the usual suspects. That cavernous stage becomes our warm up room and we warm it and ourselves up until about ten past six when we all stand in a circle and do something together. Then it’s fight call. This is a less fighty show than many, so I’m only needed for the first beat of fight call which is the slap. Then I’m off up to my dressing room. Likely a sugary snack and frequently a shower before the half is called.

At the half I’ll start changing into Nameless Venetian Man. At the quarter, Chloe will come in and tie my sleeves. I can’t do that bit. Before the 5 I’ll go down into the substage. John Paul might already be there, I might be the first. It alternates. Gradually everyone shows up and 7 of us get into the lift. We go up, usually muttering “don’t go silent don’t go silent”. The lift deposits us on stage but hidden. It makes noises though. Sometimes there’s a lull and the audience goes completely silent and sits there thinking it is starting. It isn’t. The lift goes back down and eventually comes back up with nine more people. Then when we finally get clearance the lights and soundscape make it abundantly clear that it is the start of the show and off we go.

Sing Oti Methimon O Theos. Breath and exit when Iago says “arithmetician.” Go to the soundbox. Read a chapter. Find a note. Sing Mesonyktion. Read a few more chapters. Sing Orthos. Come up here.

Then I listen to the show, keep warm, write, go bother some of the other cast, it varies. But I’m largely up here until the clown. Right now it’s Cassio getting drunk. Hopefully I’ll have this done by the time the clown is up, as that’s when I like to go back down, find a patch of light, and read a lot where we sing the Hesperinos song. I’m making good headway in what is turning out to be a terrible but compulsive book about rich men killing large animals. I picked it for the size. I’m already more than halfway through and it’s huge.

Interval after the song and then back down for the platform. Jono and I have a pleasant pact where we alternate which of us goes up but we break the pattern if, as tonight, we have someone in to watch. Lou is in tonight, so I’m going up.

Immediately after the song, it’s ‘vico time and I go into quick change and Chloe builds Lodo with me. Shiny trousers, jerkin, sword belt, same boots, necklace, rings, beard oil, hair water, sword. Then I wander over to stage left, a few words in character to Desdemona, maybe some playfulness. Then I soak myself in aftershave. I like to smell of my character so the aftershave varies but this is a familiar one as it works for Lodo. Swarthy and expensive. Ombre Leather by Tom Ford.

Then I’m in the pattern of Lodo. Waiting by entrance, a brief moment with Ed. My first entrance. A brief moment with Will about fifty percent of the time depending on where we exit. Then watching some scenes, a moment with Juliet… It’s nice, when the actors pass one another we always have a moment. Touch hands or backslap or a quick whispered word. We stay in the world but share our togetherness, buoy each other up. Second entrance. Moment with John. Then a time to click in offstage with Jethro and Maddy. Listen to the audience reaction to “I know a lady in Venice would walk barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip”. On for the spotlight “Caravaggio” scene, then off in the stage right wing holding onto myself and seeing the variations before I stand in the wings, have a moment with Scott and I’m on for the end of it. Some variance in the scenes and the playing… finding status and trying to coin it all. Picking up the dagger varies. Last couplet. Sing a sing. Bow a bit.

Upstairs, banter. Clothes off. Pub? Usually can get there before most of the audience but, frankly, the current crop of staff in the Duck are Grade A Wankers.

Clown scene is finished. I’m off to hit the crap book.

My little cottage is like an oven. It smells of laundry. There are sheets and clothes hanging everywhere. Before the matinee tomorrow I’ll need to fold and hang what I can. But I’ll likely also need at least a month in the loo as I’ve just had a late night curry from Thespians that was hotter than Wolf Rayet WR-102. I won’t regret it. Everything is an experience.

Joey was in unexpectedly and I wanted to be in his energetic space a moment to remember. He momentarily lived in Chelsea at mine and specialises in being mercurial. He makes music with Maddy – The Amazing Devil. Listen to them as albums when you have time. Trust me on that. I was curious to discover what time has done to him and was pleased to see his light is burning brightly still, and more positive than last time I saw him. I think he knows the darkness too, as we all must. He loved the show. How can you not unless you’re one of these fumbling old perverts they sent to write about it? I went for a single Guinness in the duck to find him before I fucked off home to burn my entire face off in the fiery storm of chicken naga that is now fully consumed, mopped up with nan, drawing its plans against me.

I love this little bubble, and I love Tim for trusting me into it. It’s happy here and we care about each other and the show. We are lightly making magic for each other, with each other and for the people who come. So many school groups. And really vocal audiences that get it and get behind us in it. I insult the reviewers because frankly the old duffers deserve it, they’re the only dark spot on a bright bright thing, and actually many have been very positive. I just wish the quickest ones hadn’t been neutral. Small thing to worry about in the face of what we are weaving.

It’s a hard play, and a sad play. It deals with really dark and thorny things that are so relevant now. Racism, misogyny, violence, misinformation. We do the words and honour the writer. We don’t show off about how clever we are, we just let the text speak instead. The craft of it is in stillness and clarity instead of tricks and choreography. A play like this lands best if we don’t block it. Dead people stand up, spoiler alert, but that’s no more of an unattural choice than someone trying to lie completely still but they’re still breathing and you know it. Corpses in a room are much much bigger and weirder than an actor trying not to blink or shuffle.

Rhys was momentarily up in town, on our stage with the Twelfth Night cast which will be in next, just, as a company, learning how important good voice work is within this space. He knows it of course, he’s been up a few times. But it’s useful to bring it to everyone. You have to be clear without pushing. It’s a balance as there are people right in front of you and others miles away above and behind you. It’s powerful to get used to it in rehearsal before you get into tech. I saw him briefly after a lovely snatched walk down the river to feed the swans with Georgina.

My niece… I think she’s pushing 18 now … she’s in the last year at school and they are doing Othello. If you like seeing women strangled like some of our reviewers this isn’t your Othello. If you’re studying it though it’s perfect, because there’s very little between us and the text. Bless her English teacher, when she discovered Catherine’s uncle was in it she booked a school trip. The school is within the M25. They had over two hours drive either way. And fourteen girls came to the matinee today.

I wasn’t sure what the protocol was, but I figured it was only going to add value to invite them all backstage after. I’m thrilled to be here, maybe some of my excitement will rub off on a new generation. I had to sign them all in at stage door for fire insurance and then gave them the basics. There are tour guides in the building doing everything much better than me, but I could basically take them through one person’s show. Lou has had it before. “Here’s the wall of names, here’s the sound booth, here’s the quick change, that box is full of swords, here’s the secret tarting yourself up area, and here’s an entrance point to the stage. Isn’t it big! Any of you want to be an actor?” *silence* Well done that lot. “Sensible.” So I took questions. Perhaps unsurprisingly we discovered my version of “How do you learn all the lines?” “Well the glib answer is that it’s my job, but in terms of how we do it, I learn the structure of the thoughts first and then fine tune with how the author put them. The show they came to was captioned, our first captioned show, but that meant there was a display with the actual words we were supposed to be speaking. I had a clean show but was perfectly happy to say “I expect at some point someone said things that weren’t quite what was written, but if you hadn’t been following you wouldn’t have noticed?” That was one for the hyperlexic kids like me and Lou, and there was recognition. “We always know where we are in the thought process, so we can’t really get too lost.”

Apparently the experience met with approval. I have been anointed by her classmates with “Cool uncle” which is infinitely better than many of the adjectives that traditionally come before uncle. For me it was lovely to share this with an up and coming generation. They’ll all be positively disposed towards the RSC now, so it’s ambassadorial work for this industry that I still somehow love despite the bruises.

Off to bed now. Nothing in the morning so I can chill until half eleven when I’ve got a free singing lesson from Jox. He just opened up the shop. I’m tempted to do something similar for woowoo. I’ll do some tarot and cleansing for anyone who fancies it. I’m just terrible at scheduling and also won’t do that kind of work unless I know I’m relatively uncluttered myself. I’m never completely uncluttered, the clutter comes with the package. But there are degrees. I’m pretty clear right now though. I have to be. Channeling every night.

I was honestly planning to take it easy this evening. I knew there was a company drinks thing planned. I knew it had been catalysed by one of my closest friends in this company and then hosted by another. It is worth a moment for me to stop and think about how absurdly fortunate I am to be in a company numbering more than two in terms of these long term close friends. Claire, Jethro, Maddy, Scott, Jono … then new friends but right at the core of this work are five people who have been deep deep into who I am for so long that it no longer matters how and when we met.

I didn’t want to go to the drinks. I had my curmudgeon hat firmly attached. Evening show off? I shall munch thumb and scratch bum. How dare you make me go and be convivial? Oh very well then.

It’s ten to three. I’m downstairs on my sofa. We all just walked home, the four of us not in Avonside. I put the heating on earlier so my cottage is toasty. I think we needed an expression of togetherness unrelated to the show. We are just past halfway. It’s good to have a moment to gather before we push to the end. There’s solidity and love in this company. We all see what each other are bringing and we all enjoy the curiosity of difference. It’s rare to find a team so bonded.

I’m gonna cook something, even if it’s just eggs. I know its late but my eating habits are largely targeted to post show and as a result I’ve only really eaten some cheese today. I avoided my vitamins before the matinee, as I knew my tummy was empty. I had some remarkable marmite crackers courtesy of Georgina, and used them on camembert from Ricardo. But largely I’m still hungry, and tired as well, but I’m gonna force awakeness until I’ve got a thing in me just because it feels correct.

I’ll slap up a lunch before the show tomorrow, trust me. I’m just still settling into a discovery of patterns that work for me. I haven’t lost my appetite for fear of election results over the pond, that would be madness. Why would I be worried about things so far away to the extent that I can barely stop fidgeting. It’s all going to be fine. la la la la la.

Eggs. That’s the ticket. Nice eggs. Yum yum. Tasty nice quick eggs and then sleep. Everything fine and happy. Happy and good. Yes yes yes.

This is terrifying. The whole world is watching. I feel sick.