AlBarclay

Tristan came. A Sunday night but ages ago I booked a table at St John’s Restaurant, for two, for tonight. It’s an anniversary and they are doing nineties prices.

Tristan used to work at St John when it was a hotel in Soho. He was assistant manager and shifted through a number of service roles. There’s a review where he is given a very funny and totally recognisable review as a sommelier. He read it to me dead pan when he was staying on my sofa.

Fergus Henderson his boss has become legendary in my mind as much as his. “How many capers should I put in this dish?” “I want you to imagine you have a dear old friend, someone you haven’t seen for a long long time, and one day you are just going about your business and you feel a gentle hand in your shoulder, and you turn round and it is that friend and you say ‘oh, it’s you!’. That many capers.

When I watched the Wes Anderson film Grand Budapest Hotel, I rang Tristan up and said “Fiennes is doing YOU!” Tristan told me that Wes and Ralph had been dining at St John’s during R&D and he kept on serving them. I like the idea that Fiennes got his character energy and manner from my dear Tris.

We had a lovely meal. We caught up and chewed the fat. But he’s no fixed abode so now it’s the bit where I normally pull out and go to bed. Tom is staying, so I’ve put him in my bedroom. I’m rehearsing tomorrow and I’m taking this job seriously, but it looks like I’ll be up later than I might want to be. I took him for €30 euros at backgammon last time and he has likely been online reading up game theory. One day he’ll beat me, meantime I’ll keep fleecing him. But this evening is going to involve some play. I’m not going to get off the hook without it.

A very varied meal. Lots of meat but perhaps my favourite bit was the white beans, chard and sheep’s curd. I’m chilled and happy, ready to go into the last bit of rehearsal, but wanting to be absolutely tight now on my part and my beats etc so we can work as deeply as we need to. A night on my sofa with Trist won’t be the best lasting l launch into things but it’s what I’ve got. insha’Allah.

Brian and I having a lazy Saturday at home. His expressed intention was not to leave the house all day and he’s done well. I briefly went out under the autumn sun and stopped by The Troubadour in Earls Court. I first went there aged about 19 when my mate Mellie was staying with Lottie up the road. Mellie was a model and a Christian, two things we had in common at the time. I actually can’t remember how we met, but it was one of those friendships where we occasionally kissed each others mates but never each other. As a result we are still friends now, as much as I’m able to hold down any friendships these days with all the jobs eating my head. Mellie is an artist now and still pursuing performance work.

Back then, as now, Chelsea wasn’t the right place for Bohemian hanging out, but Earl’s Court was excellent, right at the centre of one of the queer scenes at the time. Lots of cheap good eateries for dates picked up at The Coleherne. A great drama school just down the road, Webber Douglas, and a friendly pub theatre nearby – The Finborough. The Trobadour was and is right on the main drag. It has a downstairs performance space which has hosted stars as much as scratch comedy nights. It’s a place with personality. I’ve been there when a friend had her pet frog out and it was climbing the walls. They serve coffee, used to be artisan before the hipsters came. Bucket of brown sugar. They also have fine wines if you’re the type. Daytime wake-up, evening slapdown. We sat in the window and had a pot of Dale’s Hangover Tea despite no hangover. I helped a friend with some lines. It’s much easier and nicer with two.

It’s nice to find somewhere in London that is so unchanged. The door is memorable, a crafted heavy wooden one. It is clearly still well frequented. Groups getting drunk in the back, about ten musicians came in and out with instruments while we were there, people in front having coffee, really personable staff members. Is it getting old when you seek the places that make you feel young? It reminded me of the possibilities of those dreamy days of late teens. I’m not drinking at the moment and in London in the evening on a Saturday you’re hard put to find a place where you can sit and have something and not feel like you’re the only sober in the village.

A weekend, and I’m glad of it. Change of seasons and dare I blame lack of habitual alcohol for bad sleep and lowered immune system. I’m snuffling like an aardvark. Went over my bit at the end, and again I’m thinking about Jo Blatchley, lovely teacher, insightful man, back at Guildhall. “The worse it gets the more you smile,” he said once. It’s a coping strategy, to drive hard towards the positive, to give the appearance of comfort. But it’s not necessarily helpful when you’re coming into a room full of bodies.

I haven’t been called so much this week but I’m thinking I might start coming in anyway because the game changes fast, and it’s useful having bodies around for the process. Besides, what else am I gonna do, admin? Not when there’s a fecund and interesting room to be in just fifteen minutes from home. I’ve seen some lovely work from others, and bits of my work have rung out. It’s a long play. Loads happens before my main character arrives, so I’m gonna benefit from soaking up the energy of it all going forward, as long as I’m welcome.

Right now though a weekend is wanted to recover from this change of seasons cold. I think sleep is one of the things you’re supposed to do when you’re not well, so the fact it’s half midnight isn’t working in my favour. Bath is run though. Brian is shooting people in the living room. I’ve been playing a game set in Venice in the late 1500’s. I can call it mood research… But rest is more important. You can lose track of time playing those silly things… But some of them, like this one, are extremely well plotted and thought through.

I’m feeling quite pampered today. I don’t really need a cleaning lady, I could very easily do it myself. But all the washing up is done, all the clothes are washed, I’ve got clean sheets and the bathroom is nice. I had a wallow in it earlier to warm up a bit and now I’m luxuriating beneath my crisp new sheet, and the electric blanket is on. I even ordered Deliveroo. Brian and I demolished a crispy aromatic duck. Taste of the eighties. Gotta love that plum sauce and strange fatty bits of bird. “What type of duck do we eat?” asks Brian, and I tell him with confidence that they all taste roughly the same. And then I guiltily think of all the ducks I’ve tried to befriend over the years. Still. Tasty.

A fight director came in today, talking of fights and violence in real life. I think of the times I’ve been involved in actual violence, in an actual fight. Very few. Shouty bits. Pushy bits. Throwy bits. Apart from when Max and I used to roll around on the floor like wolverine, which felt natural as breathing until it stopped when we got too big, I’ve never really been involved in actual fisticuffs. A man offered to take me out of the tube carriage at the next stop and beat the crap out of me, but then when I stood up and said I’d prefer not to buy was willing to give it a try he backed down. Two guys calmly and quietly told me they were gonna break my arms and rub my face into the pavement just because they liked doing it. They didn’t realise the pub was full of my friends and Dean caught on that something weird was happening and solved it. In both instances I was cataloguing at high speed what I might have to do and how I might do it, while relaxing my body and tuning in to it. Both times the first punch never swung.

We spend more time in that space, just before the punch, than we do in the punch. As often as not the punch happens before anyone sees and all we get is the reaction. Malcolm kicked me hard in the bollocks and I was almost sick, nobody saw the kick. Tana knocked my down, I stood up and asked him why and he did it again. I stood up again and he knocked me down a third time. People saw the third one. I was still incredulous. He was huge. But Malcolm and Ang and I were twelve, thirteen, fourteen years old. Max and I stopped fighting when we got strong enough to genuinely hurt each other.

I’ve seen adult violence rarely… been involved hardly at all. But it’s part of the job as people hit each other the whole time in stories. Plus back in the renaissance people carried swords so things got a bit stabby. There were likely more murders in Sussex in 1596 than in the whole of the UK last year. So Shakespeare is writing in a time where violence is more normalised. We are going to start looking at the moments where weapons are involved, going forwards. It’s quite fun when it’s pretend.

A short interview after work today. A film guy has been trying to reach me for ages to talk about a tour I did twenty years ago. It’s for a puff piece for the company website, most likely. The tour was the first one for a company that still exists. It was carnage. I got a call on 7/7/2005, about six hours after the bombs in London. The actor playing Malvolio had been sacked, and they needed someone for the next night. I had played the part at drama school. It made sense at the time to say yes as I wanted to get the hell out of London. I joined the circus.

It was a hell of a summer. Twelfth Night is a happy play. I never met the guy I replaced but he found my blog once and was very strange and threatening in the comments section. Feste was a shamanic guy from Brighton who was actively channeling things but very actively wanted everyone to know about it. Orsino and Olivia were my good friends, and I’m godfather to their son. Kaitlyn as Viola, and her boyfriend, ex Milky Bar Kid Antony, who replaced Angry Larry as Sebastian. Mark, always running a scam, as Toby. Lovely musical Angelo as Andrew. Alan… A really motley crew. Not many of us are still acting, and a tour like that can do as much harm as good to a young actor, as you work hard, the reviews are positive, but you come home with less money than your started with and realise it is not going to be sustainable long term. The last section of the run was up at Edinburgh Festival. We were sharing beds, with a rota and one person on “pull or die” every night. We ran it in one of the C-Venues. 3 Weeks Magazine posted an unexpected 5 star review on the morning of our last show, very possibly written by lovely Gyles Brandreth who had seen it and enjoyed it. He was playing Malvolio down the road.We played the last time to a packed house, a strangely validating experience. Then we all went home stone broke. A lovely summer. But not a profitable one. I had taken and maxed out a credit card. I had to start getting creative with dayjobs. It was that or pull the plug.

These things forge us though. I didn’t even tell my agent at the time, and she got me no meetings so no harm done. August is a quiet time. Better by far for me to be learning by doing, but it was an expensive crucible. Some friendships were deepened. My relationship suffered in London. I didn’t wise up and value myself straight away either. Eventually I did, but I always had this harebrained model based on the way old trades used to work. I thought of myself as an Apprentice working to Journeyman. There’s no rep system. That show was part of the tapestry for me, learning the nuts and bolts live. I’ve credited them on my biog for the RSC as they are still going, paying properly and providing much needed jobs.

So I got filmed talking about it. I wrote a very angry blog just after the tour, but it named names. The producer / director sent the camera guy to me, asking for me to talk about the carnage. That’s to his credit. We all learned on that tour. It’s always worth doing it if you can… That was just an expensive one.

One thing about cycling to work is that you really notice the changing seasons. It’s definitely getting colder round here and I don’t like it. Much as I’m looking forward to the start of winter for the simple fact that I’ll be involved in a glorious piece of theatre with a company I’ve long wanted to play with, I’m beginning to remember my dread of the cold. It wasn’t even that bad this morning. Just flecks of wet and the beginning of the ice wind. Still, my trusty Forest bike got me to work on time. More explorations. A tricky scene to stage, perhaps the trickiest. I only say a few words in it, but that’s even tricky too as then I’ve got to listen and fresh mint reactions. Still I know and trust the process so it’s all good.

Being in the room with Tim again is glorious. He’s a Canadian citizen now, and runs a theatre out there – The Shaw Festival. He’s been there over a decade now – their gain, London’s loss. Fiercely smart but seeking something true and live. His work was the bedrock of my early stage learning post Guildhall. He’s brought me rigour as much as he’s brought me a group of running mates – he’s the self described patron saint of The Factory. I expect the winters are even worse over in Canada. I was meant to go to The Factory this evening after rehearsals but the cold put me off the journey. I went home and had arrabiata pasta instead and now I’m edging towards bed again, in a full house. Tom is back. He’s streaming podcasts in the living room. Brian’s asleep. I’m writing this in the bath, just lying in warm water until I shrivel up.

Lucky RSC to have that building we are rehearsing in. It’s a complex. You can rehearse two shows at the same time, as we did. We have The New Real company upstairs – a new David Edgar play. David himself has been a presence in the building, along with occasional old friends coming for costume fittings for Buddha of Suburbia, which is being remounted.

Morning technically off tomorrow but there’s work I want to do with tennis balls just to make the lines come without having to seek them. Such a luxury to have 6 weeks rehearsal, to be in such a safe and fun room, just to be gainfully employed doing the thing I set out to do.

I should get out of this bath soon… The screen keeps steaming up.

A slow and comfortable awakening at Latimer. Expensive but special, that place. If I had a list it would be on it.

After collecting Bergman from his yew tree, we hit the road back into town. Lou in the passenger seat very helpfully drilling lines for this afternoon. No call in the morning.

I got to the room just after lunch. It’s a lovely room to be in. Great to be in rehearsals, great to be in THOSE rehearsals. I’m likely gonna be full of beans for months on this one. Met an old friend in the foyer, threw some ideas around in the room. Various games around finding the positive. It’s very easy to play heavy if the material is heavy. It’s generally pretty helpful to remember to be always seeking the light, looking for the positive. That’s how we go through life. And none of us know we are in a tragedy in Cyprus. We are just living our best life.

I’m back at home and again looking at the flat practically. I’m perfectly happy in these anonymous hotels and I’ll be perfectly happy in my digs in Stratford. I don’t need to be surrounded by all this stuff. “You never throw anything away,” said Maddy last week and she’s got a point. But now I know there are boards under my horrible living room carpet, I might get into the idea of making enough room to pull it out and expose them.

Pie in the sky for now though. It’s bedtime. I’m knackered. It’s getting dark earlier these days and it knocks me down earlier, particularly if I’m not wearing my lenses. Looking forward to what the week will bring. Heading to Dreamland now. Already that wonderful relaxed weekend feels like ages ago. Time is strange.

This middle aged spa hotel thing is surprisingly moreish. There was a sauna and a lovely warm pool up in Arden and we made good use of it. Then we punted up to Pelsall to see Lou’s folks. I’ve seen them on and off for years now and started to get involved in their trials and tribulations. Considering I only get my £300 pension at 75 years old, the fact they’re both in their eighties is encouraging. There’s little health stories I’ve been following in their lives. I missed out on all the “parents getting decrepit” thing which sometimes these days feels like I got a free pass in exchange for a gut punch in my twenties. Loads of my friends are having to witness their grandparents slide to Jacques’s seventh age of man. The seventh age of nan.

Mostly we had a lovely chat in the living room. Lou and I had a redbush tea and she had brought them loads of condiments, which landed better than you might suspect.

I only decided this morning that, rather than go home and stay together at mine tonight we might as well double up and have another nice night away. Not the cheapest, but we booked the De Vere Latimer in Amersham and it is much better than the pictures. Sauna and steam room again, but this time it is powerful land. Bergman is parked beneath a yew tree. Outside the bedroom window is a grand old cedar. And apart from the coughing of another resident it is peaceful here. Sunday night helps I guess, so no pissed up double wedding, but apart from the fact it really ain’t that cheap, this is a good place considering it’s more or less on the tube line.

Driving down from Pelsall Lou got roped into helping drill my lines so I can come in easy despite a relaxing weekend. I’m only having the weekend because the money from the work has made it possible. Glad not to be counting the beans. We even stopped at Hawkyns by Atil Kochar in a pub on the Amersham High Street, where you can get out pretty cheaply as we did and still have a good meal, or have the taster menu for £60 with a £49 wine pairing which looks wonderful. Bigod I was tempted although still not by the wine. But – involved meal was a bridge too far. Some luxuries can be passed up on a weekend of luxury. And anyway, we wanted to check in at this sexy place and try out the steam room, sauna and pool.

I’m definitely feeling rested now. Not called until the afternoon so we will pooter back doing lines (not that sort) in the car. And then back to the lovely rehearsal room that Tim has made with us all. More joyful work to come.

Lou and I have escaped to The Forest of Arden. Shakespeare would have us believe that it is a bucolic paradise, where the exiled Duke and his court find their true selves, happiness, love, purpose. Go away to come back…

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
The seasons’ difference; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
‘This is no flattery; these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.’
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it.

There are a few things I’d change about this forest of Arden. It’s a golf club outside Birmingham. There are two weddings on. We had top scran but we had it early – we are half board here, so dinner and breakfast. The restaurant was full of howling blue collar males on the sauce. Not a woman to be seen but Lou. Most of the guys I saw probably weigh as much as the pair of us.

It’s an escape though. And a welcome one. Despite the fact it is shitting rain outside. Tomorrow morning we’ll be up early to make use of the facilities. This is the most middle aged weekend I’ve booked for ages but we are combining it with a visit to Lou’s parents in Pelsall. There won’t be much chance of that as rehearsals take hold.

Monday’s call is in and I want to be off book comfortably if I can be. That’ll take a spot of work beforehand, but today I do having down time, taking the weight off, sinking into the Arden vibes. This is better than London. Tomorrow we will go to find the tongues in trees and books in the running brooks.

I’ve only got one eye open right now, lying in this gargantuan bed in a peaceful annex of the hotel. I think I’ll close the other one.

Clapham North used to feel a long way away. It’s never really been on my hit list. Some of my friends live there, but largely it’s not a well trodden part of London to me so I was surprised to discover this afternoon when I was almost late for a call that it takes me just eleven minutes to get from my door to the rehearsal room. That’s if all the ducks line up. Forest Bike was right outside the door, and it was a good one. Traffic lights largely in my favour. 11 minutes though… I’m impressed with that even if my bike did most of the pedalling for me. Impressive bits of tech these bikes they leave all over London. I’m amazed they can make money from it but they clearly can considering there are multiple companies competing for territory. They cost a lot if you don’t prepay, which might help. But winter can’t be a great time for them, and we are moving that way.

This Othello is feeling more and more like a ritual storytelling. There are moments of magic. “A sad tale’s best for winter,” and this is a strange and desperate piece of work – wonderful and human but one of those plays where every time you watch it you want it to just land slightly differently this time. Like Romeo and Juliet… All the information comes at the wrong wrong time.

Today’s call for me was about what James Oxley our musical director calls “Al Barclay’s Aria”. This involves me trying to resonate my head while repeatedly droning a deep bass underneath the more proficient sounds of three professional singers. If I hold the line it makes everyone sound a little bit better like magic. James has used me in this regard before and I’m glad to be back on duty. Hopefully some of it will be visible, but I have a feeling that’ll be my first half – making low sounds while everyone who has paid to come and see me is wondering whether they’ve booked for the right play. insha’Allah. It’s a Mesoniktikon. I’ll have to learn a bit of ancient greek to go with it.

Every day the show deepens and grows. I’m really starting to feel like I’m part of a beautiful thing. For the first time this evening, I went to the pub to break down the week. Ended up in a conversation about music, way over my head, nursing my Lucky Saint. It’s another step in the right direction, pub with no booze. It was good to spend relaxed time with the cast, some of whom are still relative strangers while others are long long friends.

Bed calls now though. I’m tired again. The weekend is needed. I’m gonna relax with lovely Lou and I can’t wait.