Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Don't wanna come back
I have less than a week up in Ripley left. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I wouldn't be surprised if a little bluebird fluttered in through the window and landed on my shoulder. I have eaten good food in good company. I am doing a great show with a gorgeous bunch of people. I am wondering what the hell I thought I was doing living in London.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Kidnap Victim
It months ago that it happened but it feels like yesterday. The wounds are still fresh. I wonder if I will ever be free of the lingering sense of fear. The terror that it could so easily happen again.
I was in my flat. It was a sunny day - not summer sun, but spring sun. The sun of hope. I was on the internet when it happened. Checking my bank balance. Looking for work. Wondering how I was going to squeeze out what little money I had left until I got another acting job. My mobile phone rang.
"Hello." (pause) "Is that Mr. Barclay?"
-- A withheld number. The speaker mumbling deliberately so as to be unrecognisable. Vaguely accented. Who is this man?? --
"Um... Yes..."
"Are you the owner of vehicle registration number..."
-- Oh my God. My car. Where is it. It is on the street outside my flat. I parked it there last night. How does he know the number? How does he know my phone number?? --
"Yes... Where is it? It's outside my house."
-- A hint of smugness creeps in. He knows something I don't know --
"It is in Lots Road Car pound..."
The man turned out to be a kidnapper. Someone had put a yellow sign on a lamppost near my car, and although no skip or van or anything needed to use the bay in which it was parked for the entirety of the day, rather than move the car to any of the many vacant bays that were surrounding it, it had been stolen and hidden in a little car park near the train tracks on Lots Road. Okay I was a fool to have not checked the lamp-post. It was late and I was tired. I was willing to pay a fool tax - surely it couldn't be more than £80 pounds, I thought. Which is fine since I have £300 left of my overdraft limit.
"What's the ransom?"
"If you collect it today, it will be £260."
I almost fell over. Dear lord that is totally absurd. It is two fines for the same offence. £80 for a "serious parking offence" and £180 for recovering it from the pound. This, in my opinion, is disgusting. One or the other would be reasonable as an idiocy tax. Both not only totally destroyed my financial stability such as it can ever be in this profession, but has also left me deeply traumatised. I wake EVERY MORNING with a vague fear that I may have inadvertently left my car somewhere where they can ransom it. My first act is to check out the window, and if I can't see my car I run down the stairs with my heart in my mouth and some hastily thrown on clothes to check that it isn't about to be stolen. If a garbage van pulls up outside the flat at 7.15 I think it is the sound of the poundeteers getting in some early thefts. I have to check, recheck and check again all the lamp posts near the car. I don't dare leave town for more than a day in case they come in over night and stick up their yellow signs and run off with my car. Because if they steal it again I can't afford to get it back. And then they'll start removing wheels and windscreen wipers and sending them to me in the post. If they steal it again I will have to disown the car and all it's contents, as I would not make back the money that I have to spend on rescuing it by selling it. I am genuinely traumatised by the vast and crippling fine levied for the simple offense of leaving my car overnight near a yellow sign that had been speculatively put up in order to make room for work which never took place.
I know the arguments. Why do you need to have a car in London?
True.
I'm just angry because I'm broke.
I was in my flat. It was a sunny day - not summer sun, but spring sun. The sun of hope. I was on the internet when it happened. Checking my bank balance. Looking for work. Wondering how I was going to squeeze out what little money I had left until I got another acting job. My mobile phone rang.
"Hello." (pause) "Is that Mr. Barclay?"
-- A withheld number. The speaker mumbling deliberately so as to be unrecognisable. Vaguely accented. Who is this man?? --
"Um... Yes..."
"Are you the owner of vehicle registration number..."
-- Oh my God. My car. Where is it. It is on the street outside my flat. I parked it there last night. How does he know the number? How does he know my phone number?? --
"Yes... Where is it? It's outside my house."
-- A hint of smugness creeps in. He knows something I don't know --
"It is in Lots Road Car pound..."
The man turned out to be a kidnapper. Someone had put a yellow sign on a lamppost near my car, and although no skip or van or anything needed to use the bay in which it was parked for the entirety of the day, rather than move the car to any of the many vacant bays that were surrounding it, it had been stolen and hidden in a little car park near the train tracks on Lots Road. Okay I was a fool to have not checked the lamp-post. It was late and I was tired. I was willing to pay a fool tax - surely it couldn't be more than £80 pounds, I thought. Which is fine since I have £300 left of my overdraft limit.
"What's the ransom?"
"If you collect it today, it will be £260."
I almost fell over. Dear lord that is totally absurd. It is two fines for the same offence. £80 for a "serious parking offence" and £180 for recovering it from the pound. This, in my opinion, is disgusting. One or the other would be reasonable as an idiocy tax. Both not only totally destroyed my financial stability such as it can ever be in this profession, but has also left me deeply traumatised. I wake EVERY MORNING with a vague fear that I may have inadvertently left my car somewhere where they can ransom it. My first act is to check out the window, and if I can't see my car I run down the stairs with my heart in my mouth and some hastily thrown on clothes to check that it isn't about to be stolen. If a garbage van pulls up outside the flat at 7.15 I think it is the sound of the poundeteers getting in some early thefts. I have to check, recheck and check again all the lamp posts near the car. I don't dare leave town for more than a day in case they come in over night and stick up their yellow signs and run off with my car. Because if they steal it again I can't afford to get it back. And then they'll start removing wheels and windscreen wipers and sending them to me in the post. If they steal it again I will have to disown the car and all it's contents, as I would not make back the money that I have to spend on rescuing it by selling it. I am genuinely traumatised by the vast and crippling fine levied for the simple offense of leaving my car overnight near a yellow sign that had been speculatively put up in order to make room for work which never took place.
I know the arguments. Why do you need to have a car in London?
True.
I'm just angry because I'm broke.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Summer-stock
Well then the old joke is true as usual. Book a holiday if you want to get some work. I was meant to be going to Tuscany for a lovely week in the sunshine, all flights booked, accommodation thankfully not finalized and a big cool fun wedding with all the trimmings to head to in the middle of the break. And then I was going to go to Glastonbury festival and see Leonard Cohen play live, and it was going to be sunny and amazing.
Now I am instead paying for all my non-refundable tickets and biting the bullet and heading up to Ripley to do a Shakespeare in the grounds of Ripley Castle. Which Shakespeare? Twelfth Night. But hang on - deja-vu... Haven't you already played Malvolio in an outdoor Shakespeare over the summer? Yes but I don't care it's work, and money and sun and frolics and I want to see if I am capable of finding it fresh with a new company in a new setting. The director seems great which will make a change from last time, and from what I know of the company there are no idiots, lunatics or clowns. So something to look forward to. I must book holidays more often. Usually I don't in case I lose the money by getting a job - but then perhaps I'd sooner get the jobs. Oh god that reminds me I am supposed to be playing Lord Astor at Hever Castle on the weekend before we open. And the costume is booked. Meeh how can they book actors so far in advance - is that pessimism or optimism? Right enough blogging time to look for a replacement. How about YOU?
Now I am instead paying for all my non-refundable tickets and biting the bullet and heading up to Ripley to do a Shakespeare in the grounds of Ripley Castle. Which Shakespeare? Twelfth Night. But hang on - deja-vu... Haven't you already played Malvolio in an outdoor Shakespeare over the summer? Yes but I don't care it's work, and money and sun and frolics and I want to see if I am capable of finding it fresh with a new company in a new setting. The director seems great which will make a change from last time, and from what I know of the company there are no idiots, lunatics or clowns. So something to look forward to. I must book holidays more often. Usually I don't in case I lose the money by getting a job - but then perhaps I'd sooner get the jobs. Oh god that reminds me I am supposed to be playing Lord Astor at Hever Castle on the weekend before we open. And the costume is booked. Meeh how can they book actors so far in advance - is that pessimism or optimism? Right enough blogging time to look for a replacement. How about YOU?
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Temple
Having just got back from the Isle of Man, where my brother and I had spend a hideously busy 3 days carrying things and doing DIY and driving big vans round in circles, I went to Linklaters in The City to do a performance of Asylum Monologues to a room full of lawyers on their lunch break. One of my partners in crime were an iraqi kurdish man called Narwaz who had been brought into the mix by Emma Laird-Craig, one of the actresses who did The Performance Lab's piece at The Globe in December with me. He did some extraordinary singing between the sections read by me, Emma and the lovely Christine Bacon, who set up the network in the UK and in Australia. It was, as always, very rewarding. The piece is essentially outreach work, putting genuine testimonies about the asylum system into a loosely dramatic form and presenting it in the least patronising way possible, with minimu acting.
Emma is involved in The Actor's Temple, which was set up in part by Ellie Zeegen who is also in The Lab with me. I have already written about their production of The Three Sisters which I saw in a country house in Scotland. Ellie has been trying to persuade me to get down to The Temple for some time now, and she had already told me that Friday would be a good day to come. And Emma was going too so it seemed too good to pass up. Problem is, I really hadn't been blown away by the work in The Three Sisters. I get a little pissed off watching actors trying to achieve a state in themselves regardless of the needs of the text. We've all been guilty of it at some point, but there was a good deal of it present there and I was pretty much ready to write of the whole Meisner thing as another "acting as therapy" trap. I got bored and felt disconnected from the work as I felt like I was being told how to feel, and that the actors were working too hard making themselves feel something that was no use. As a Marcellus the fight director says repeatedly to the extent that you want to dispense with all the knaps and twat him one; "excited is not the same as exciting". But it's a good point. We are craftsmen... God I am beginning to sound like Jake. But I was willing to believe I had just come on a bad night or been in a bad mood. So hi-ho and off we go to The Temple again for a second dose.
The work was presided over by "this amazing teacher" called Marty. Oh fuck. Another amazing teacher. In other words someone who has terrible ego problems and alleviates his own self-hate by destroying the lives of others in the name of learning. Not so. Thank God. This guy is a rather camp and very bright American who seems to be an enabler, not a crusher. Good start. He reminded me in some ways of Peter Clough, who directed me at Guildhall in Twelfth Night and who makes you understand firmly that everything comes from you, but knows how to make you bring out aspects of yourself, almost unknowingly, that you were burying or repressing. So to the work. I had to watch it on a screen in the room next door, as it was packed out. Nonetheless the intensity came through on the screen. The first scene was crippled by nerves and did nothing to wake me up pretty much because of that. After that it was scene after scene of gripping stuff, not overdone, human, true and deeply moving - in many different ways. I loved it, and I was surprised how much. So now I'm going to do this introductory week that I won in the Christmas party for The Performance Lab. We're always learning and I know I have got so much better at all the aspects of this bizarre and wonderful job - even the letter writing, which I used to be excruciatingly awful at. So I'm not going to approach this as anything other than as a place to kick back and do the things that I went into the profession for.
So I stayed at the party afterwards and spoke to all the people, and found them all very interesting and diverse. And passionate. I had some very honest chats with people. Like with The Lab, I love to spend time in the presence of passionate people. It wakes up my passion, and that has been dormant for a very very long time. So all said a really good day, and now I feel a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation about stepping into something true and potentially life-changing.
Emma is involved in The Actor's Temple, which was set up in part by Ellie Zeegen who is also in The Lab with me. I have already written about their production of The Three Sisters which I saw in a country house in Scotland. Ellie has been trying to persuade me to get down to The Temple for some time now, and she had already told me that Friday would be a good day to come. And Emma was going too so it seemed too good to pass up. Problem is, I really hadn't been blown away by the work in The Three Sisters. I get a little pissed off watching actors trying to achieve a state in themselves regardless of the needs of the text. We've all been guilty of it at some point, but there was a good deal of it present there and I was pretty much ready to write of the whole Meisner thing as another "acting as therapy" trap. I got bored and felt disconnected from the work as I felt like I was being told how to feel, and that the actors were working too hard making themselves feel something that was no use. As a Marcellus the fight director says repeatedly to the extent that you want to dispense with all the knaps and twat him one; "excited is not the same as exciting". But it's a good point. We are craftsmen... God I am beginning to sound like Jake. But I was willing to believe I had just come on a bad night or been in a bad mood. So hi-ho and off we go to The Temple again for a second dose.
The work was presided over by "this amazing teacher" called Marty. Oh fuck. Another amazing teacher. In other words someone who has terrible ego problems and alleviates his own self-hate by destroying the lives of others in the name of learning. Not so. Thank God. This guy is a rather camp and very bright American who seems to be an enabler, not a crusher. Good start. He reminded me in some ways of Peter Clough, who directed me at Guildhall in Twelfth Night and who makes you understand firmly that everything comes from you, but knows how to make you bring out aspects of yourself, almost unknowingly, that you were burying or repressing. So to the work. I had to watch it on a screen in the room next door, as it was packed out. Nonetheless the intensity came through on the screen. The first scene was crippled by nerves and did nothing to wake me up pretty much because of that. After that it was scene after scene of gripping stuff, not overdone, human, true and deeply moving - in many different ways. I loved it, and I was surprised how much. So now I'm going to do this introductory week that I won in the Christmas party for The Performance Lab. We're always learning and I know I have got so much better at all the aspects of this bizarre and wonderful job - even the letter writing, which I used to be excruciatingly awful at. So I'm not going to approach this as anything other than as a place to kick back and do the things that I went into the profession for.
So I stayed at the party afterwards and spoke to all the people, and found them all very interesting and diverse. And passionate. I had some very honest chats with people. Like with The Lab, I love to spend time in the presence of passionate people. It wakes up my passion, and that has been dormant for a very very long time. So all said a really good day, and now I feel a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation about stepping into something true and potentially life-changing.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Iona
Good to have talented friends! This is iona who i'm with in a pretty overpriced bar in battersea. She's doing a set and she really is good. As long as the music industry lets her in she'll sell millions to disaffected teenage girls and students finishing their education. And other people too. Ordinary people. People like you. People like me. People with noses. And legs.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Just lovely
It seems i have done nothing for the last two weeks but rehearse and sleep, so how bloody gorgeous to travel from one rehearsal to another and realise that spring has - for the moment at least - sprung. What am i rehearsing? The empire builders. 7.45 from 13th to 15th march at the pleasance theatre in caledonian road. Plug over. Back to the joys of spring.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Friends
Clearly when i am working i can't be bothered to blog. And yet here are the chaps i'm out with and how the hell did they manage to dress identically... X
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Feed Gorn
I took the feed from Facebook off, as I found it hard to blog about anything knowing that, like so many of us, the word "friend" means something different on facebook. Like "person I once spilled a drink on", or "person I never spoke to at school" or "enemy". Now you have to dig deep to find me. Not that you'd want to.
Also I really didn't see the point of everyone getting notified everytime I experimented with that Spinvox voice to text thing.
4 days into the yoga experiment. Already my body feels infinitely better - I am feeling quite evangelistic about yoga right now - take the time and do it. It's one and a half hours of concentrated agony, in return for the rest of the day of feeling great. Better than the slow drip of discomfort that lasts all day and all night.
Also I really didn't see the point of everyone getting notified everytime I experimented with that Spinvox voice to text thing.
4 days into the yoga experiment. Already my body feels infinitely better - I am feeling quite evangelistic about yoga right now - take the time and do it. It's one and a half hours of concentrated agony, in return for the rest of the day of feeling great. Better than the slow drip of discomfort that lasts all day and all night.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Yoga Whore
As the year drew to a close, I got an email from my agent telling me that she was having a three week holiday after christmas. I had just finished the christmas job at The Globe with a wonderful and radiant group of people from The Performance Laboratory - our theatre company - and I was feeling optimistic, as well as just having been paid for acting. So I wasn't too concerned that my agent was going away as I usually seem to manage to find money for myself one way or another. Sadly this year it was not to be. The weeks marched in and the pennies got pinched tighter and tighter until I find myself making sure I don't go out at all, and cooking frugally, and cancelling all money-draining luxuries in order to keep going. One of the luxuries that had to go was the gym. Which is a shame, as the best time to have a gym membership is when the chips are down. You have somewhere to go and make yourself feel better.
Then last Friday I decided to go to the theatre to see Rosie Armstrong - the daughter of a friend of mine - in I am a Superhero. This was at the Theatre 503 and a good theatre director friend of mine who works there offered me a free ticket if I helped out with front of house. This was too good to turn down. Depressed and broke though, I was in need of a haircut and not really taking a great deal of pride in my appearance. So I arrived at the theatre and went into the auditorium to gather up empty glasses. The actors were warming up on stage and I overheard one of them say to Rosie as I was walking out - "Is that your friend? He's minging."
I probably misheard her. But nonetheless I had a good long hard look at myself and realised that, yes - it cannot be denied. I ming. I minged my way through the play, standing at the back of the auditorium and hoping that the minging wasn't putting Rosie off. Then I minged off as quickly as I could after the show in order to quietly ming alone in the comfort of my flat. But the rational side of me thought that maybe I was only having one of my not infrequent bouts of paranoia. So how to beat paranoia, which is the luxury of the man who doesn't have more important things to think about? You only start looking inward when you forget to look out. So step one, despite having no work, is to get back out into the world.
A routine. That's a start. Out of work, so I need to pretend I'm in work. Up by 7. Work 9 - 5. 1 hours lunch - (which is now). Exercise every evening. Thing is because I think I ming I don't want to go running because I see people who ming running all the time and I don't want to join the ming club. Yoga!!
Right. So I want to do yoga, but I haven't any money. This is not a problem. I do a bit of internet searching and come upon the site for Bikram Yoga Fulham. They do 10 consecutive days for 10 quid. Bargain! So after a weekend of ming I get myself down to the centre in Heathman's Road and boldly lay out a mat right in front of the fucking great big mirror, so I can see myself clearly as I do the stretchy thing. And yes that annoying little voice in my head screams at me how much I ming throughout the class. But by the end of it it is less bothersome. Perhaps because I made the mistake of sitting a long way from the door so all of my energy is going into attempting to survive the sweltering furnace-like heat and the bizarre and unfamiliar bodily contortions. And since I never look in the mirror at home it is useful to notice that yep - I need a haircut.
The class ends and I float into the changing room surprised at how light my minging body feels. I get into the shower and slam it on as cold as I can bear. And an amazing thing begins to happen. I begin to shed my skin, like a snake. I rub and scrub under the blissful cold water and my old tacky and polluted ming-skin rolls off. Underneath is shiny new skin. Skin that doesn't ming quite so much. And when I get home I want to walk around in bare feet and have my top off. The possibility that I might not ming runs through my mind.
Day 2, and I spend the day looking forward to going back for another hour and a half of hell. How perverse. I get to the studio and sit closer to the door. And this time it is somehow easier. I find myself already able to not fall over in some of the poses where the day before it seemed impossible for me to do anything but. Perhaps my new less-minging skin is helping my balance? My blood pulses round my body, and I get home and go to bed early. EARLY?? I have been an insomniac for over a month - committedly so. And I still have all of the things in my life that need fixing but now it seems like they can be fixed rather than that they are insurmountable and weigh me down. Day 3 hasn't happened yet but I'm feeling a little more stiff so thinking I want to go in order to get the weight off again.
The problem is, what do I do after the ten days are up? After ten days I will have advanced from total minger to "in some lights he only mings a bit". In order to fly to the dizzying heights of "for a moment I thought he didn't ming" I will need more than 10 days...
More internet later, and the wonders of Jivamukti yoga are laid out before me. Another 10 days for 10 quid. Then there's another practise that does the same deal with Bikram but is run by different people. And surely there are more? How long can I keep doing yoga for a quid a day? I'll be a god. Eventually the free courses will run out, unless I move to New York and then to LA. But by then the ming will have fallen away, and that'll mean that someone will have given me a job. And by then I ought to know which style of yoga likes I like best so I can start paying the pretty damn pricy fees or practising at home - although you can't do bikram at home.
So thank-you to the girl who said I ming, even if you didn't. I enjoyed "I am a superhero" - all the performances were spot on and it was controlled and well directed. Although maybe the writing wasn't up my street... My lunch hour's over so I am going to get back to work.
Then last Friday I decided to go to the theatre to see Rosie Armstrong - the daughter of a friend of mine - in I am a Superhero. This was at the Theatre 503 and a good theatre director friend of mine who works there offered me a free ticket if I helped out with front of house. This was too good to turn down. Depressed and broke though, I was in need of a haircut and not really taking a great deal of pride in my appearance. So I arrived at the theatre and went into the auditorium to gather up empty glasses. The actors were warming up on stage and I overheard one of them say to Rosie as I was walking out - "Is that your friend? He's minging."
I probably misheard her. But nonetheless I had a good long hard look at myself and realised that, yes - it cannot be denied. I ming. I minged my way through the play, standing at the back of the auditorium and hoping that the minging wasn't putting Rosie off. Then I minged off as quickly as I could after the show in order to quietly ming alone in the comfort of my flat. But the rational side of me thought that maybe I was only having one of my not infrequent bouts of paranoia. So how to beat paranoia, which is the luxury of the man who doesn't have more important things to think about? You only start looking inward when you forget to look out. So step one, despite having no work, is to get back out into the world.
A routine. That's a start. Out of work, so I need to pretend I'm in work. Up by 7. Work 9 - 5. 1 hours lunch - (which is now). Exercise every evening. Thing is because I think I ming I don't want to go running because I see people who ming running all the time and I don't want to join the ming club. Yoga!!
Right. So I want to do yoga, but I haven't any money. This is not a problem. I do a bit of internet searching and come upon the site for Bikram Yoga Fulham. They do 10 consecutive days for 10 quid. Bargain! So after a weekend of ming I get myself down to the centre in Heathman's Road and boldly lay out a mat right in front of the fucking great big mirror, so I can see myself clearly as I do the stretchy thing. And yes that annoying little voice in my head screams at me how much I ming throughout the class. But by the end of it it is less bothersome. Perhaps because I made the mistake of sitting a long way from the door so all of my energy is going into attempting to survive the sweltering furnace-like heat and the bizarre and unfamiliar bodily contortions. And since I never look in the mirror at home it is useful to notice that yep - I need a haircut.
The class ends and I float into the changing room surprised at how light my minging body feels. I get into the shower and slam it on as cold as I can bear. And an amazing thing begins to happen. I begin to shed my skin, like a snake. I rub and scrub under the blissful cold water and my old tacky and polluted ming-skin rolls off. Underneath is shiny new skin. Skin that doesn't ming quite so much. And when I get home I want to walk around in bare feet and have my top off. The possibility that I might not ming runs through my mind.
Day 2, and I spend the day looking forward to going back for another hour and a half of hell. How perverse. I get to the studio and sit closer to the door. And this time it is somehow easier. I find myself already able to not fall over in some of the poses where the day before it seemed impossible for me to do anything but. Perhaps my new less-minging skin is helping my balance? My blood pulses round my body, and I get home and go to bed early. EARLY?? I have been an insomniac for over a month - committedly so. And I still have all of the things in my life that need fixing but now it seems like they can be fixed rather than that they are insurmountable and weigh me down. Day 3 hasn't happened yet but I'm feeling a little more stiff so thinking I want to go in order to get the weight off again.
The problem is, what do I do after the ten days are up? After ten days I will have advanced from total minger to "in some lights he only mings a bit". In order to fly to the dizzying heights of "for a moment I thought he didn't ming" I will need more than 10 days...
More internet later, and the wonders of Jivamukti yoga are laid out before me. Another 10 days for 10 quid. Then there's another practise that does the same deal with Bikram but is run by different people. And surely there are more? How long can I keep doing yoga for a quid a day? I'll be a god. Eventually the free courses will run out, unless I move to New York and then to LA. But by then the ming will have fallen away, and that'll mean that someone will have given me a job. And by then I ought to know which style of yoga likes I like best so I can start paying the pretty damn pricy fees or practising at home - although you can't do bikram at home.
So thank-you to the girl who said I ming, even if you didn't. I enjoyed "I am a superhero" - all the performances were spot on and it was controlled and well directed. Although maybe the writing wasn't up my street... My lunch hour's over so I am going to get back to work.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Speaking Freely
"Watley insists that SpinVox, SpinVox learn how to spell things. I think that's bullshit. Sometimes it says uncle Barclay. Sometimes it says uncle Barclay. I would normally say it, my name is Alex Barclay, or Alex Barclay. I wonder if it spelled the 2 differently. Either way my name is Alex Barclay, wonder how it spells that, but anyway, bye."
spoken through SpinVox
Speaking Freely
"I switched off the mini feed from my Blog to Facebook. Which means that hopefully now, I'm gonna be able to experiment with this, without everybody on my Facebook profile getting constant updates about, the facts that I'd spoken freely with SpinVox about something completely meaningless and it's been posted automatically to my Facebook, holler."
spoken through SpinVox
Speaking Freely
"To be or not to be that is the question. Whether it is noble in the mind? To suffer the slangs(?) and arrows about wages fortune or to take arms against the sea of trouble and by opposing end them. To die to sleep."
spoken through SpinVox
Speaking Freely
"Yes, it gives you about 45 seconds, I imagine there's a sec somewhere where I can turn that up. This is rather exciting now I have a new and interesting way to bore the living hell out of anybody stupid enough to read this blog. Goodbye."
spoken through SpinVox
Speaking Freely
"So Abegail. Totally fucking useless. Apparently if I speak like a key news reader then it will be converted successfully and well but the problem with this of course is that it completely defeats the object because if you're on the move, you want to be phoning up your blog and being very very vague and specific in casual because it feels like a casual service, it does"
spoken through SpinVox
Speaking Freely
"So it just works a vaguely comprehensible rendition of what I just said will be posted to my blog. Parts of this deceit me slightly because I should probably post anything that I consider important or interesting or maybe if I felt like it which I never really do anyway. But now I can bull the shit of you by phoning you up when I'm on the train and say I'm on the train and I'm really bored. But I only get 40 secs and so you'll be glad to know I'll be cut off in a moment and then"
spoken through SpinVox
Speaking Freely
"Of course I haven't worked out if this is being converted to my actual blog yet. I think I gave it the address but I'm not certain. If it is then God what a fucking dull update but the other thing is it only gives you a minute to speak. Now SpinVox says it's very kinda if they hungry with space and downloads. Do you have to extend your voicemail box as soon as he gets this needs a fault setting, it's very very very low. So I suspect there's a way to make it possible to"
spoken through SpinVox
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Asylum Monologues
Ok this is a vanity thing, but it's also something I feel strongly about. The asylum process in this country is fucked and I have got involved in a group called Actors for Refugees. We've been operating for a couple of years in this country now, and the coordinator is an absolute powerhouse of a woman called Christine Bacon, who originally set it up with great success in Australia.
One of the things I should mention is that the company is woefully short of men. Actresses seem to more frequently give a shit about "things" whereas actors tend to veer more towards "beer" or "football". which count as "things" but are perhaps less pressing. But then I know loads of guys who do give a shit about "things" so if you do check out the website for Asylum Monologues. For those of you who know Sarah Masters, it's an offshoot of Ice and Fire, her company. For those of you who know me, there's a brief clip of me doing it on the video at that link - it starts around 1:55 and goes on for no more than 30 seconds. Enjoy. X
One of the things I should mention is that the company is woefully short of men. Actresses seem to more frequently give a shit about "things" whereas actors tend to veer more towards "beer" or "football". which count as "things" but are perhaps less pressing. But then I know loads of guys who do give a shit about "things" so if you do check out the website for Asylum Monologues. For those of you who know Sarah Masters, it's an offshoot of Ice and Fire, her company. For those of you who know me, there's a brief clip of me doing it on the video at that link - it starts around 1:55 and goes on for no more than 30 seconds. Enjoy. X
Grievances
Does your boss undervalue the work you do? Are you overworked? Do you not get enough time to see your family?
FEAR NOT. Soon there will be a new video that will help you understand better how to file a GRIEVANCE.
Bosses! If you need to know how to go through the grievance process, follow the hi-jinks of Jed and David and Natalie and their unnamed wives and partners as they file grievances and have loving conversations in kitchens.
Coming soon at Aspina. Starring Alex Barclay as David.
David has a family! His daughter Sienna is growing up by the day!! His son Ben has taken to building cardboard tanks that he never gets to play with. Laugh, cry, and shit-yourself with him as he talks to his boss Jed.
Also starring the incredible Kevin B as "grumpy extra". I used to have a link to his website and his full name, but after a man I namechecked in an earlier post left a string of remarkable comments, I felt it was kinder to avoid using his full name.
Kevin played the lead in Poliakoff's "Remember This" at the National, although the website cruelly fails to credit his work. He trained at RADA, although his CV does not state this. He occasionally does extra work in corporate videos where he looks like thunder for ages. When asked in a friendly manner - "did you know what you'd signed up for," he will respond "I should think so - I went to Bristol Old Vic and RADA."
Ok this man is a warning to actors. He probably does have credentials BUT... I really don't give a toss how desperate you are - unplug drains, clean up shit with your tongue, be someone's gimp. Don't do extra work. It WILL kill you inside. If you're not an actor, GO FOR YOUR LIFE! The money is great if you don't have self-worth wrapped up in the work.
Bless him. Give him a part.
I had fun on that job, although I stayed two nights in some hideously awful faceless golf motel in Suffolk, and was already feeling like Alan Partridge by the time I left.
FEAR NOT. Soon there will be a new video that will help you understand better how to file a GRIEVANCE.
Bosses! If you need to know how to go through the grievance process, follow the hi-jinks of Jed and David and Natalie and their unnamed wives and partners as they file grievances and have loving conversations in kitchens.
Coming soon at Aspina. Starring Alex Barclay as David.
David has a family! His daughter Sienna is growing up by the day!! His son Ben has taken to building cardboard tanks that he never gets to play with. Laugh, cry, and shit-yourself with him as he talks to his boss Jed.
Also starring the incredible Kevin B as "grumpy extra". I used to have a link to his website and his full name, but after a man I namechecked in an earlier post left a string of remarkable comments, I felt it was kinder to avoid using his full name.
Kevin played the lead in Poliakoff's "Remember This" at the National, although the website cruelly fails to credit his work. He trained at RADA, although his CV does not state this. He occasionally does extra work in corporate videos where he looks like thunder for ages. When asked in a friendly manner - "did you know what you'd signed up for," he will respond "I should think so - I went to Bristol Old Vic and RADA."
Ok this man is a warning to actors. He probably does have credentials BUT... I really don't give a toss how desperate you are - unplug drains, clean up shit with your tongue, be someone's gimp. Don't do extra work. It WILL kill you inside. If you're not an actor, GO FOR YOUR LIFE! The money is great if you don't have self-worth wrapped up in the work.
Bless him. Give him a part.
I had fun on that job, although I stayed two nights in some hideously awful faceless golf motel in Suffolk, and was already feeling like Alan Partridge by the time I left.
Monday, October 29, 2007
The Nokia N95 is a piece of SHIT
My dear friend Whatleydude - otherwise known as James Whatley - advised me to get an N95 when I upgraded my mobile phone. This is Nokia's latest offering. It is massive, heavy and delicate. The screen is huge and the battery is weak so it runs down daily. It crashes every day at least once, it takes ages to switch on, it keeps freezing, the operating system makes no sense, the GPRS doesn't work, when it is fully charged it beeps and wakes you up, the camera is very very slow - (but good quality - as is the web browser) - and I have had it for less than a month when the microphone stops working completely and I have to take it into a Vodafone shop for repairs.
In the Vodafone shop the guy at the door points me over to the help deck and I stand in the queue. When I get to the front the guy says - "hang on I have to call out the customer numbers". He bellows the number 342. I wonder what the hell he is doing. I have no number. The bloke behind me does though, and it's 342. He says to the guy - "it's okay, let this man go, he was before me." The assistant in the shop looks at the bloke who has stood up for me, and something explodes in his brain. A membrane passes over the front of his eyeball. He tics briefly like faulty digital video. Then after a pause he bellows 343, ignoring both me and the bloke with the number. A teenage boy leaps up and crashes past us oblivious, full of hormones and the joy of life. I object loudly. Mad shop guy ignores me. I lie down spead-eagled on my back in the middle of the store in protest. The bloke next to me sits down beside me.
I have never lain on my back in the middle of a crowded store before. It's curious how much attention it can draw, considering it is such a passive thing to do. Within a minute the manager is talking to me but because I am being very polite he doesn't quite know what to do, so he helps me.
All this was after a horrid audition, hence my state of mind. I went up for the part of The Fireman and The DJ in "Mrs. Norris Plays it Safe" - an educational play for the elderly. I want it because the company is good and I am broke. But I found myself having to lie in the crazy PR firm because they are all lovely and politely interested in my career and I couldn't bear telling them I'm taking a half day to audition for something like that. I always feel awful after auditions. And I did the old - "Well then, good luck with it all" again. Must learn to practise what I preach - I quote my rather smug "actors have no business being shy."
But that's off the subject. The subject being The Nokia N95 is a piece of SHIT! For fuck's sake Nokia your brand can only hold you up for so long. Make a decent phone next time. I'd go back to sony tomorrow if I didn't have to wait another 11 months for my contract to go up for renewal. I now have to carry around a "courtesy phone" which is, dare I say it, even worse that the N95. In fact fuck it, I'll stick to my guns. It's probably better. But I have to give it back in a week when they've fixed my one.
In the Vodafone shop the guy at the door points me over to the help deck and I stand in the queue. When I get to the front the guy says - "hang on I have to call out the customer numbers". He bellows the number 342. I wonder what the hell he is doing. I have no number. The bloke behind me does though, and it's 342. He says to the guy - "it's okay, let this man go, he was before me." The assistant in the shop looks at the bloke who has stood up for me, and something explodes in his brain. A membrane passes over the front of his eyeball. He tics briefly like faulty digital video. Then after a pause he bellows 343, ignoring both me and the bloke with the number. A teenage boy leaps up and crashes past us oblivious, full of hormones and the joy of life. I object loudly. Mad shop guy ignores me. I lie down spead-eagled on my back in the middle of the store in protest. The bloke next to me sits down beside me.
I have never lain on my back in the middle of a crowded store before. It's curious how much attention it can draw, considering it is such a passive thing to do. Within a minute the manager is talking to me but because I am being very polite he doesn't quite know what to do, so he helps me.
All this was after a horrid audition, hence my state of mind. I went up for the part of The Fireman and The DJ in "Mrs. Norris Plays it Safe" - an educational play for the elderly. I want it because the company is good and I am broke. But I found myself having to lie in the crazy PR firm because they are all lovely and politely interested in my career and I couldn't bear telling them I'm taking a half day to audition for something like that. I always feel awful after auditions. And I did the old - "Well then, good luck with it all" again. Must learn to practise what I preach - I quote my rather smug "actors have no business being shy."
But that's off the subject. The subject being The Nokia N95 is a piece of SHIT! For fuck's sake Nokia your brand can only hold you up for so long. Make a decent phone next time. I'd go back to sony tomorrow if I didn't have to wait another 11 months for my contract to go up for renewal. I now have to carry around a "courtesy phone" which is, dare I say it, even worse that the N95. In fact fuck it, I'll stick to my guns. It's probably better. But I have to give it back in a week when they've fixed my one.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Grubbing for pennies
Back to the money-grubbing. It's looking like I might get a good tranche of work doing the auditions at my old drama school. I did my first day yesterday and it's amazingly interesting. Also good for my ego, as one of the candidates had seen me in something and recognised me. I did my best to pretend not to be surprised. Essentially you meet lots of hopeful young people and occasionally get to witness one of them doing something wonderful in the most depressing basement room in the world ever. I had a 17 year old lad from Salford go completely and utterly mental all over the place as Mercutio yesterday - so completely all over the place that he gave himself a stitch the poor love. He was the only one to get recalled and it was a close thing. He had to convince people that he wasn't completely insane and that he could be simple and honest. I find myself having to do the same thing sometimes. Bless him though - doing the auditions can be profoundly depressing if nobody does well, but all it takes is one rough diamond to make the whole day worthwhile. And you learn how boring it is when people are afraid of themselves. Actors have no business being shy.
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