AlBarclay

The less said about yesterday’s attempt, the better. I’ve rarely found myself so astonishingly incapable as I was when I tried to make that blog. Oddly I remember trying. I had just got in the door, unfamiliarly drunk after an evening with an old friend. We had eaten well, but I had drunk better. As a practical thing, I had put two fingers in and emptied myself. Sleeping on that would have been worse than getting it out, and today it was technical rehearsal all day. Thank the lord I’m only really in the second half. But I needed every inch of sleep I could get and I knew it.

Into the theatre.

With my pass I can get in through all the doors at the RST. It’s lovely, but it’s still a maze to me. My dressing room is shared with Scott, up on the second floor, overlooking the river avon. Chloe is the unfortunate soul tasked with looking after us. There’s daily laundry, so none of that wearing wet clothes malarkey, except perhaps on two show days. My first half is a departure from what I’m used to. I’m dressed up in Jacobean costume just because I sing on stage for a few moments. Then I go sit in a box stage right, surrounded by an array of microphones and amusing singers. For a good chunk I’m the only actor in there, occasionally droning into a mic and trusting that the sound guys are making it all sound like a human voice. We do a midnight song and then some others join and we do a sea song. Currently that’s as far as we’ve got in tech, but I’m beginning to make sense of the fact that, for the first half of proceedings, I’m a musician. Quite a pleasant thing to experience. As you know I like to experiment with different aspects of craft.

The theatre interior will grow to familiarity over time. Right now it is new but energetically it is absolutely howling with currents. This town has played host to so many tellings of so many remarkable tales, channeled with joy and craft and pain through a wide range of humans. Names of friends are written on the walls. Little pictures and memories from other shows that have passed through. So much history here in this sleepy riverside town.

I guess I needed to get that boozyness out of my system for good last night. It was great to see an old friend, someone I haven’t seen for perhaps twenty years. But good lord.

Day off tomorrow and I’m glad of it. Time to gather myself together again before we open. Next week we will get to the bit when I come on stage and do words. That’s quite a thing to look forward to in that building with the team, these lights. It’s exciting.

And so. The whole thing. To bed nd that to a QA

l

f

a

it’s here to mmm.

I’m trying to write

this is absurd

I’m here but have been with old friends

leisure

outside

profit

Prussia

for fucks sake

maybe it can all be crazy

I’m sorry.. bed

The first thing I did on arrival in my digs is worked out how to switch the heating off. Then I could sleep under my lovely birthday quilt.

Now I’m just too cold. I get home to a place that can be warm and I want it to be warm.

I went to Billy the Butcher today and bought a good rib eye and some sausages for a fraction of what I’d end up paying in Chelsea Green at Jago’s. We are not in London anymore, and not being in London perhaps means I can shift my habits regarding avoiding central heating until November.

We finally got into the theatre today. It feels like a good working theatre, and not as awkward as it exists in my memory. I was fixating on how it’s neither proscenium nor thrust, and thinking about all the sightline issues I’d have to think about if I was assisting, but I’m not. I’m not building, I’m not assistant directing, so I can just do acting and leave all that stuff to the stuff people. It’s like a crazy new freedom. And Tim really fucking knows what he’s doing. The next few days are about me waking up fully and absolutely challenging all my complacencies to make sure I’m part of a team that honours this remarkable piece of writing with this extraordinary cast in this beautiful historic place.

It’s a ghost town in the evenings though. I walked out of my final song call at about half ten. I went looking for a shop that sold toothpaste. Even Sainsbury’s and Tesco are gonna be shut after the show. I was moseying around in my coat and hat looking energised and curious and I got approached by a lady flyering for the “gentleman’s club”. It’s open until 5.30am. I’ve actually heard of this place by reputation – past companies have organised deals where they can sit round the corner where you don’t have to see boobies and use it as a slightly more expensive late night dive for a company birthday etc. This team doesn’t feel like the sort of team where that’ll happen. But here we are, Shakespeare town. It seems the only late option is a strip club. Or someone’s digs, and it takes a certain type of maniac to offer their digs as the party house. I’ve done it before. I’m not doing it this time. I’m crap enough at tidying. And I like sleep.

It’s warming up in here as I write. I might get clever and set times so it isn’t going all the time. In a flat this small it is quick to make things toasty. I don’t like not having toothpaste. I’m tired and it’s late and I only finished recently and I’m still not sure it makes any sense for us to ever be making live music invisibly. This is theatre and we are singing in a box full of microphones. Might as well be recorded. But that’s for the artistic team. I’m just a drone.

After all that business of early morning cape work after my birthday party we are back to square one on the whole “I wouldn’t mind coming on stage a bit in the first half please universe” thing. It looks unlikely.

They need me to drone. Offstage. For a moment. Instead of wearing the lovely robes and headgear that have been made for me and popping my nightly adrenaline cherry as a listeny senator.

“Sometimes it’s important to be the one who vibrates in a corner”, says Jethro, knowing I’m slightly put out. He’s right, despite: “Who is that strange man in gold, mummy?” I’m the surprise actor. The Al-in-a-box. I’ll just show up at the end and be nice and say some stuff and then say three words that’ll be very hard indeed to get away without all the school groups sniggering at peak tragedy. “You’re playing Lodovico?” asked Ollie at my birthday drinks. He’s an architect, married to a writer friend. I don’t know where he went to school, but six foot two in a woolly beanie hat and I guarantee we’ve heard of it. “You’re the one who has to say ‘Oh bloody period!’ ” he immediately observes. Oh yes I am. My penultimate bit.

There will be sniggering classrooms full of Ollies in training, and grown up Ollies sitting with them. School groups tend to be about year ten. I’ve been trying to disguise the words by doing it while the action is happening, making it into an exclamation lost in action, but I’m not allowed to. TC (the director) wants “Oh bloody period” isolated and I absolutely trust TC. So I’m gonna lean into doing it at as truthfully, clearly and oblivious as I can in the clear knowledge that the chuckle brothers are waiting. I can’t disappoint my twelve year old fifty year olds. Bless Lodo. He is a rare good man in this tale and he doesn’t care what the kiddies hear. Neither will I. Neither should I. And also that hearing surely existed when it was written. I’m part of a team channeling the words of someone who really fucking thought about words and how they sound, and who spent a huge amount of time enjoying them he was called Willy. Just because I’m concerned about ninnies sniggering on a line doesn’t stop my words from being the ones Willy decided to stick in there. The pit would have clicked in when someone barked with unexpected laughter at peak darkness at a childish double hearing. My job isn’t to care about how my words are received. I just have to deliver it truthfully, competently and audibly. Let others do interpretation. Willie knew his stuff better than any of us knobs on stage. He was on the edge of the oral tradition. He carries sound and meaning so we don’t have to labour it. The more we try and govern how Willy is received the further we get from where Willy wants to go.

That’s for tomorrow. Tonight in the gathering wind, I’m off to bed ahead of a long call and our first foray into the space they’ve built for us. Time will tell how much of a willy I make of myself. It’ll be my making if I do. You can link me back here then.

Right now the back half of an artic from that great big Stanley Mathew or whatever they call themselves depot in Bognor Regis has been stuck into the scene dock at the RST, unloading panels and whatever the hell they have. It isn’t turkey burgers. I just can only remember the single t in Mathew. The van looks like a huge rectangular dyslexic mosquito feeding. It’s doing the opposite. It is pumping things in.

All the people with tools are currently running around in the theatre, likely working late shifts. There’ll be drilling and painting and sawing and dust and noise and shouting and it’ll be a very very familiar world in there to my recent life. Hard hats and hi-vis obligatory. Cherry pickers and forklifts. This is a big old build, but it’s not a temporary sport stadium. I don’t have to show up with all the kit plus a fucking expensive harness and work something out that a day worker has abandoned. There’s a whole team to do that and all I need to think about is “so shall I cross the stage when Desdemona enters?” Because I’m a creative now, darling. And we are traditionally clueless. And I’m happy to be there, clueless, pART of the ART.

Lodivico needs to remember to ask his character’s questions properly. Lodovico needs to think about why he is taking a breath in the middle of one of his verse lines. Lodovico doesn’t have to worry about whether or not the floor will shift, or how we’ll fly that thing in. Someone else will worry about whether Lodivico will be capable of standing in the right place when they do the whatever they’re gonna do. Lodovico is the athlete in this equation, the one who is supposed to think that there’s been no hard work, that nobody has been freaking out about the fact that all the screws provided are too short, or there’s no fucking drills, or you can’t secure the panels properly. We’ll walk onto this huge work of thought that is underway as I write. We’ll be told where it is safe to stand and how we are supposed to negotiate with it. I’ll have to switch off all my build thoughts and just be obedient. We won’t be allowed on it until they are happy it is safe for us, the liability actors, to mix it up there.

“Thespians”. That’s the name of the local Indian restaurant. I am a gentle man but I’ll break your fucking jaw if you tell me I’m a thespian. It’s like telling me I’m “resting” when I’m out of work. “Good luck, oh I’m not supposed to say that…” Say what you like. That stuff was all about self-mystification. The same impulse that led Larry to have the lights imperceptibly raised as he came on stage. I’m not a thespian. I’m just doing my job. I might have things in common with Thespis but you don’t own my attachment to him. But yay I’m doing what Thespis did at a nice place with a team attached and using Iambic Pentameter as opposed to dithyrambs. Still pointing the purpose through the same ritualistic deities. Dionysus will rarely be out of the equation when I’m in the equation, wine or no wine. But you can wish me good luck as easily as broken limbs, and you can talk about all the Scottish kings you choose. I’m a happy man doing a happy job, telling a sad story at a cold time.

The little road outside my digs is busy with life. You go through the door and immediately you’re in someone’s conversation. This evening it was Cassie Stuart.

I just walked out the door. “Do they still lease those out to the company?” she asked. “Yes. Yes they do. I’ve just arrived.”

Cassie played Phoebe in 1986 in As You Like It directed by the lovely John Caird. I just saw a woman who was clearly going on an emotional journey. Memory Lane. I opened up to her so we got into conversation. It was lovely. Being with this company now puts us as part of a community that has existed and breathed through the heart part of the industry for so long now. Shakespeare is about that. Meeting Cassie and hearing her memories and giving her a hug felt like a true welcome to this town. “Do you still act?” “No, I’ve moved to Spain.” But she tells me how it all was, how the company was around her. I told her “I was Silvius once.” “My Silvius was Alan Cummings.”

Colin from our company walked out of his door and assumed the pair of us were old friends. I hugged her goodbye and went with him. “You attract people, don’t you, I envy that,” he observed. I think he does too with his impish eyes, and I told him so. He’s a great heart. Tonight’s little moment felt so auspicious when I’ve just landed in this town. There’s history indeed on that street.

It’s a small world here. The roads are likely full of those who love Shakespeare, of actor types professional amateur and retired. Not just Americans, it turns out. I opened the day with coffee two minutes from my door, catching up with a Scene and Heard actor and friend who has moved up here recently and fractured two fingers on stage last week. I’ll probably be round hers with a power drill before the end of the run just as she’s got a tumbledown property here and no fingers to fix it up in time for winter. Life is more interesting when there’s stuff to do, and I’m cursed and blessed with helpfulness.

I’ll think of Cassie for a while now. Here I am, on this grey winter night, full of hope and joy for what is to come as the winter closes in. She was there in the opposite timespace from me, her eyes turned back to 1986. We momentarily shared a present before she walked deeper into the past and I walked into the future. I wonder if she goes to the Dirty Duck. I thought about going for a pint with her just to bring her into a welcome, but I’m not in the headspace where the Duck is a helpful influence right now.

I’ll walk around the dusk streets of Stratford and then cook up something simple in my little kitchen.

There’s a sofa bed in my flat. This makes friends possible. But I’ll definitely have to go to ASDA and get another set of sheets and a pillow or two.

I’m in my little cottage on Waterside.

This morning… well this afternoon, I woke up and quickly established that my lenses were still in. Clawed them out and made a breakfast hamburger for the bread and grease of it all. Finished doing something that might be described as packing, if you were inclined to be positive. Things were certainly put into a case. I also brought up the 10kg of rice from my birthday party. Birthday rice is nice. “Every time you have rice you’ll think of us,” said the ladies from the lady flat and frankly that’ll keep me smiling for a long time.

Then I got in the car and picked up two passengers and we drove to Stratford. I didn’t tell them I couldn’t wear my lenses, as people worry and I can see fine until it gets dark. It was great all the way until we were in the little sleepy town, and then I was really having to concentrate as it was dark dark dark. Couldn’t see a fucking thing. Still, we got there fine and now I’m in my cottage.

I think I slept here once before, over twenty years ago, in this bed. Kesty had this cottage when she was doing Lion Witch and Wardrobe. We drove up for press night to support and I had full on alcohol poisoning after trying to match a septuagenarian O’Toole drink for drink at The White Cube. Scott drove, I occasionally yarked conversationally out the window. There was a bunch of Guildhall friends in the cast of it – it was a pleasant starting time for our year group. I sat at the back for the matinee, occasionally exiting to discreetly spasm. I ended up having to sleep a few hours in this bed after it while they did the evening show. Recovering myself so I could show up at the press night party afterwards looking like a human being, and get back on the crazytrain. We were all in our twenties. That sort of thing was possible.

But now I’m back in this bed again. It’s a windy night and I’m not having to shout into the porcelain every twenty minutes. The heating is on and I think I might dry out overnight but I’m immediately happy and comfy here. The WiFi password doesn’t work, but phone is fine. I’ll settle in here and get on with some joyful work. Who knows how many old friends have slept in this bed… how many curious characters… Exposed beams in the ceiling, there is a whole bath and actually the ceiling is high enough that I’m not gonna brain myself.

It’s already past midnight though. The wind is whipping the skylight and I’m tucked up warm and happy. Sleep will be easy tonight.

I’m sitting with Shama and Emma and it’s half 2 in the morning and it doesn’t feel like this conversation is ending anytime soon so I’m starting writing now.

Alanis Morrissette. nineties music. funny how

nope things happened that thoughtline died

4:37

I’ve just said goodbye to the last guest. I’m only half packed.

What a night. I didn’t want it, in the end. I really wasn’t in the mood. Tired, whatever. Done with it. But there it was, an opportunity to be with people who have been part of this absurd journey so far. The people who came were absolutely the people I needed to celebrate for my fiftieth. People who opened thought doors. Old weird friends. I got a kilo of rice out of the ladies from the lady flat at Sprite, and it’ll be happyrice up in Stratford. They know how I like to eat in self catered digs. That’s my next few years of Thai curry sorted.

But. It’s ten to five. That’s posting time. How am I supposed to finish this? I can barely keep my eyes open. I’ve been careful to limit the booze. Still a long night though. To give myself any chance of rational packing, I’ll call it s night now and see what sleep feels like. Got to drive tomorrow as well. yuk

More restlessness and head noise. I think getting out of town will help me level. I’m generally feeling a bit wonky at the moment, but like as not it’s just the change of seasons and this perpetual cold. We had a huge temperature drop this morning, and the gods saved it for the last day to drench me as I cycled in. I used to cycle to Guildhall back in the day, from Fulham, so I’ve got the waterproof trousers, but I didn’t put them on. Pre rehearsal ball kicking was done with half the lads in the room putting up with soaking wet trousers.

A good final day, and I’ll miss that regulatory of Clapham and the Forest bikes, the ease of the home base, the routine of the bath and familiar wind down into sleep, or the attempt at it. I’ve used all my minutes with Forest, just slightly prematurely as I’ve one more journey to make tomorrow, across the river to Culvert Tyres where Bergman is waiting with his shiny new wheels and wipers. They’ve been a good investment, especially considering the weather. I’d do that again.

A bit of a party tomorrow, nothing too crazy, after all I’m fifty. The flat is crowded with stuff and I’m halfway through packing for my time away so we will have to take things as they come. There should be enough chairs and if it gets busy we could go to the park if the weather turns good again. It’s hard to predict it right now.

And once again I’ve left it ages to write, got knackered, put my head down and remembered I haven’t done it yet. I might be well served to rejig the writing time, as this routine is out of the ordinary for me and my systems are getting spun out.

A peaceful evening, where I finally got round to Kondoing my underwear. Threw away a load of socks and pants. Wasn’t necessarily a proper Shinto fascist as if I only kept underwear that sparked joy I’d be going commando most of the week. But dumped a load of tattered, ragged or mismatched things and put the rest into my case for Stratford. A sojourn into clarity, but I’ve still got tons of clothes I literally never wear. The only things that get constant heavy duty are my T-shirts, and the rehearsal photos came back with me wearing one of my beloved old ones with massive holes in it. I know it’s about sentimental attachment, but an outsider might just think I’m a slob. Hey ho.

The last day in Clapham tomorrow and it feels like it’s gone very quickly all of a sudden. There’s a lot in a five act play. Every day has been full but still we have just started. I guess that’s why these plays have survived. They are rich, layered things. Different productions bring different shades to the fore.

I’m sleepless again and it’s late. Forgot to write this and then just as I thought I was going to drift I remembered with a jolt. Could do it tomorrow morning but I’m happier with the idea of rolling out of bed straight onto a Forest bike and into the song call. I might even lay out some clothes.

Cat related practicalities mean that it is likely we won’t be collecting in time. I’m off sooner than it feels like, and will probably stay up on the weekends as it’s all part of the adventure of it. Time is moving fast. Got to get to sleep as well. Tomorrow is act 5 which is most of my content. A last opportunity before Stratford to make sense of this guy I’m playing in the context of this show we’re making.

It’s a lovely group of people. London rehearsals tend to mean you don’t go out after with the cast just because everyone has homes to go to, so we will probably get to know each other better once we are out of town. I managed to get Bergman into his MOT in time so I’ll work out how to get him back tomorrow and sort out tax in time. Full car up to Stratford, three passengers and luggage… Which reminds me, I’ll need to pack.

Restlessness kept me up late and noisy head. I’ve had some emergency actifed and hopefully that’ll take me down to rest in time to get the hours in. Much to do. Packing, washing, tidying, and securing all the Othello work in time for things to get serious up in Warwickshire. Bring it on.