Reflect from the Mountain - Final Week

           I want to get this week's post right.

            It's the ultimate installment.

            The definitive entry.

            19 of 19.

            The final bow.

            I want to leave this process thinking that I had done the best that I possibly could.

            So, here goes.

            On Sunday, I left a cold and rainy Buxton and met with Pete, Seb and Speedy to journey up to Berwick. We were dropping Lucy in Sheffield on the way and after we said a quick goodbye to her, set our sights on the Scottish border and our terminal destination of the tour.

            As we whiled away the hours trawling through the sloping countryside, keeping a close eye on the company van in front, it was difficult not to dwell on the unavoidable issue that yet another job is nearly over. 5 months have gone by with a 'comic book' speed and I feel like the confused bystander; spinning like a top as Super Man flies past.

            I simply can't get my head around where on earth the time has gone.

            It doesn't seem five minutes ago that we were all meeting for the first time in a blisteringly hot Eastbourne, playing getting to know you games and trying to remember who the hell everyone was. Now, it's winter. We know one another inside and out and are soon to part ways - possibly never to cross paths ever again. It's a strange feeling.

Pete stocks up

            Seb and I chatted all the way there. Setting the world to rights and telling stories. He's a fascinating bloke and made the time go an awful lot quicker than it could have.

            When we got to Berwick (very cold but very pretty) we joined with Pete and set off on a scavenger hunt for food. We eventually came across a supermarket and aside from detouring past the open sea, which made Seb’s ‘balls tingle’, we stocked up on grub and settled in for the night at their digs. Pete put together a mean lamb roast and between us we devoured enough food to feed a 5-person family.

            As the night tiptoed along, we talked, reminisced and philosophised on all the complexities of life and hours later, when the eyes grew tired, we called it a night and slipped into sleep.

            I left them at a reasonable hour on Monday morning, thanked them for their hospitality and went in search of my digs. I'd only been kipping on their couch for the night and will be staying elsewhere with Craig and David so didn't want to outstay my welcome and was also keen to get settled and recover from a day of travelling. Many of the cast were planning to travel down on the day of the first show - something that I find impossible to do as it saps every ounce of my energy. Off I went.

            The cottage was about a half hour walk away from the theatre. Ordinarily, this might be a bit irritating, but the route along the river was so beautiful that I was actually quite pleased.

            The cottage was lovely too. From the lounge, the view from the window looked straight out onto the breaking sea. Despite the fact that I'd just been for a fairly decent walk, I decided to dump my bags and carry on. A strong sea breeze always reminds me of home - and any excuse to indulge in it I grab with both hands.

            I swung by a nearby supermarket, got myself a few provisions for the days to follow and returned to the house.

            I now have to concede that my day's activities took a radical turn to the lesser.

            In fact - they stopped altogether.

            The rest of the day was spent in front of the TV - what my Mum calls a 'slobby day'. And I must admit that every now and then, I love them. And, with no one else about, I felt a little less guilty about it too.

The Maltings Theatre Bar

Shiv and her folks

            On Tuesday, I went for another walk before David and Craig arrived at the house. I listened to Florence and the Machine's new album, 'Ceremonials'. I was plodding along the sand with the record's first song playing, 'Only if for a Night'. I love the woman - she summons up feelings in me that I didn't know existed and makes me feel like an immortal. I started thinking about the evening's performance that was fast approaching and the incredible privilege it is to be able to do what one loves for a living. Almost secretly, a lyric came that I was yet to hear, 'I'll do cartwheels in your honor' and a little tear watered my eye. It almost perfectly sums up the feeling that one has when on stage. An audience's pleasure is in turn our pleasure.

            David arrived at the house first and Craig later called to say that he'd meet us at the theatre for the show instead.

            The theatre is really sweet. It's a fairly new-build of only 20 years and has one of the BEST theatre bars that I have ever been in. Not only that, but they told me that it would be open EVERY night after the shows; a trick that most theatres miss altogether.

            There had been a bit of a technical hitch during the day involving the lighting desk, which meant that the entire show had to be re-lit the afternoon before we went up. Problems were also arising with the space itself. The wings were cramped to say the very least and we were instantly aware that it would be a show filled with irksome little problems.

            I was right.

            The house was packed which was a real treat and right from the off the audience were rippling with laughter. Unfortunately though, the show was just too tainted to really get into and enjoy. Some scenes were hampered by a total lack of lighting and every entrance and exit was presented with a myriad of obstacles from fellow cast members to tripping hazards. That all being said, the punters didn't seem to mind - and at the end of the day - it's them that matter most.

            We were treated to a drink after the performance by the Artistic Director of the theatre and congratulated him on his fantastic achievements since taking over the place a couple of years ago.

            We went to the Holy Island on Wednesday. Arthur, Ducky, Partridge and myself set off in Bostrom's car and journeyed the short way to the very often-unreachable town.

            If I am totally honest with myself, the crossing to the island was perhaps the most interesting part of the trip. Once we'd crossed the impressive watery expanse from the main land, whilst everything on the island was pretty and old - nothing was open to really be able to go poking about in. and appreciate. The priory was shut - the castle was shut.

            Still, the views were magnificent and from the highest hill, we spied Banburgh Castle in the misty distance and decided to go a little further to take it in.

            It was worth the extended drive. The castle was again - closed - but the beach that lay beneath it was truly spectacular. For a period, we all reverted to child-hood and spent a half hour running about the pools like headless chickens on a speed drip.

            When we were soaked through from the spitting rain and exhausted from all the activity, we traipsed back to the car, dried ourselves off and drove back to Berwick.

            I was shattered by the time the show came around and spiked myself with caffeine to get my energy levels up for the performance. There were a few less in than the previous evening, but as a show, I certainly felt a hell of a lot more secure with the space.

            We had a token drink in the bar afterwards, but by that point, all I wanted was the warmth of the cottage and the snugness of my bed sheets.

            We had a very quiet matinee on Thursday. In fact, it may well have been the record-breaker of the tour - 17 people in watching the show. Ouch.

            Afterwards, we went our separate ways and got ready for what would be the FINAL performance of Twelfth Night.

            Everyone who has been reading this blog with any regularity will understand how much I have been dreading this day. From day one I was gripped by the play and more specifically, the part. Aguecheek has done something to me. He has buried himself into my innards, guts and soul and it's going to take a while for him to leave.

            If he does.

Ducky's impression of a hippo

            He's taught me so much. About myself, about life and about the pressures that one has being the flesh and sound of such a famous part.

            He is and will always be the immortal object - I, simply the puppet to portray him.

            That being said, it's been an honor and a privilege to give him my own take on things. 

            I think that I feel so close to him, for a very simple, honest reason - something I remember Mr. Abineri saying to me a while ago on a long lost, lonely evening whilst sipping an inky glass of shiny Claret. He said, 'No one appreciates courage more than a coward.'

            We all at some point must fall from the throngs of Herodom. Some stay strong for all but a few days of their lives. Others, can never quite claw their way from a life a fear. They remain imprisoned in their lonely world of worry. Scared, afraid and isolated.

            This is Andrew.

            I prepared early for the evening show, determined to catalogue in my mind every detail of the final hoorah.

King of the Castle

            Unfortunately, in typical 'Rhys King' fashion, I had decided not to eat before the performance to build up my appetite for the company meal that we were going to be enjoying after the show. This directly affected my sanity and - especially in the second half, found myself reeling and light-headed with hunger. It meant that I didn't have the fairy tale, romantic finale that I'd anticipated in my head. Predictably, I'd dramatised the occasion and was brought down to reality with far less a thud than a plod.

            It was the end and it had passed me all too quickly without even the glimpse of a shadow.

            I took the final bow, left the stage, walked to the dressing room and quietly undressed.

            Despite being in a room full of people, patting one another on the back and smiling at a job well done, I struggled to find the energy to participate. It was as if I were underwater, floating in glitzy darkness, trying to remember the night in Eastbourne that we had skinny-dipped in the sea, euphoric with life and giddy with the infection of starlight.

            I needed a poetic signing off and was saddened that I was to be denied one.

           

            ...

           

            On cue, at my bleakest moment, I was given one.

            It came in the most repulsive, stinky, slimy and truthful way possible. It came with the object that we had all joked (he hopes...) was the basis and bulk of my performance:

            It was of course, the Wig.

            The fucking wig.

            The wig that now, after 5 months, smells like the underside of prostitute's mattress and is clotted and slick with a tub's worth of Brylcreem. The wig that would paste itself across the width of my face and - very occasionally - find it's hairs creeping into my mouth and winding its way down the fleshes of my throat. It is the wig that almost from its appearance has been nothing but a hindrance, but nevertheless has secured a timeless place in the fondness of my heart.

            I tugged it off my head, opened it's plain cardboard protective box, placed it inside and, with a gradually creeping smile, gave it one last longing look to take with me on my travels and sealed shut its lid for the final time.

            And with that, I was content.

            We left the theatre, had a lovely night at the nearby curry house, toasted the show and with that simple gesture, came the end of the Original Theatre Company's critically acclaimed production of Twelfth Night, 2011.

            Friday was a quiet day, I didn't leave the cottage until the evenings show and spent the afternoon in front of the box watching Moulin Rouge.

            I may have cried a few times...

            Maybe.

            The show itself was a bit testy. A few things went tits up; at the end of the first act, the lights blacked out as intended, only to instantly pop up again catching the actors mid flow through a scene change and one very unsuspecting Jess... I also ran straight into Garreth at prompt corner, after hurdling Speedy at the top of Act III. In fact, I charged into him with such speed, that I knocked him off his chair and caused him to activate one of the coming sound cues a whole page early.

            Sorry, G.

Stark-bollock...

            Despite the fuck ups, we received a standing ovation at the end and enjoyed a drink in the theatre bar afterwards with a few of the hugely appreciative audience.

            The next morning bookmarked the beginning of the last day of the tour. David and I took things easy till we walked to the theatre for the matinee and eased ourselves into what would be a long and in some cases, emotional day.

            The matinee was absolutely fine. Nothing more and nothing less. It was - to be frank - exactly what I'd expected; a precursor for the evenings performance.

            We returned to the cottage, ate some dinner, relaxed and regrouped for the 7:30pm show.

            When it came around for show time, I was ready for it. Ready to go out with a bang and also, ready for the tour to finish too. It's been 5 months. Five very enjoyable, but long months nonetheless spent slogging it up and down the country living out of a suitcase. I'm ready to be still for a while. I'm ready - if I'm honest - to move on. I don't know what the next project will be, but I'm excited about what the New Year may hopefully hold for me. Even in a very personal way, I'm looking forward to being in one place long enough to start a relationship with someone. It's been an awful long time since I've been in such a position and, with my hand on my heart, think it may be the one thing that could make me an even luckier, happier person.

            So ladies, if you fancy getting to know a sinewy, funny looking bloke that many call, 'The Weasel', you know where to find me...

            In the meantime, we had a show to ignite.

            I sat in my dressing room, blocked out the hubbub with my headphones and listened to the band that can always - without fail - get me in the mood for anything... ACDC.

            'For those about to Rock' battered my eardrums for five minutes and then, with that, I was ready for the show.

            It was a great one to go out on. The auditorium was packed and aside from the constant stating of, 'this is the last time we'll...' the cast were on fine form. We pushed ourselves too - making sure that the performance was as good as it could possibly be - we wouldn't have the peace of mind that any mistake made could be rectified with the next showing. It was 'all she wrote'.

            After the show we said our goodbyes and - compliments of the Theatre Manager, Miles - toasted the end of the tour with a couple of bottles of champagne.

            It's probably at this point that you would expect the tears to come, the declarations of seeing one another again soon and the promises of loyal reunions to follow. You'd be wrong.

            Sadly, it's part of an actor's life to accept prolonged departure. Goodbyes are a thing of necessity and every actor knows that the easiest way to say goodbye is to do just that. No promises, no illusions, just honesty.

            So,here I am. I'm sat on a cramped bus, bound for Norwich. I've already endured 3 hours worth of train travelling and still have another 3 to go. I'm sat next to a smelly old lady (who can probably read this) and am steadily succumbing to travel sickness at having to look down at the keyboard. Tardis is locked up in the hold, getting cold and contending for space with all of the cooler suitcases and I'm left to ponder on what's been and what's to come.

            My reputation precedes me as a blabber. Where one word will suffice, you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll find five 5 more to indulge in. 'Words, words, words - I can never find the words.'

            However, as this is the last post I'll be writing, it seems unfair to deprive you of such a torture...

           

            Firstly, I would like to say something about the blog itself. When Alastair first asked me 19 weeks ago if I would like to contribute to the process, I agreed quite readily to oblige.

            I had one condition: honesty.

            If I felt shitty about something, I didn't want to edit myself, if I felt unhappy about something then I wanted it to be known. There would be no censoring and above all, no lies. By and large I have kept to this rule. Everything I have written down has been truthful. I have not elaborated anything and everything that I have written about did happen.

            Naturally however, I did fall into a censoring manner. When one is talking about a company or of ones fellow colleagues for that matter, it would be totally irresponsible of me to name and shame anyone from my little soap box especially when it is based on nothing other than opinion. Would I have liked to at times? Sure I would. Do I regret NOT doing it at times? Sure I do. It would be a fantasy to think that we all get on all of the time and that everyone’s piss smells of roses, but that is for me to know and me to deal with. At times, I feel I may have written things that I maybe shouldn't have and may have broken my own set of rules. I can do nothing but apologise. If I have hurt ANYONE during the course of this process I offer my sincere and heartfelt respects and hope very much that the damage I may have caused has and can be mended. It was never and has never been my intention to do anyone offence and I hope very much that I have managed to tread the right side (by and large) of a very thin, often invisible line.

The Priory

            Secondly I would like to say a few thank you's. I would like to thank all of the unseen members of the team that are only ever scolded if things go wrong and never praised when they go right. Pete, G Moss and Jess you've been an exemplary team from start to finish and I salute the fact that you conduct yourselves in such a manner that means that the usual tekky/actor divide has been blurred and in fact unseen for the duration of the tour. Good luck with the future and remember that I'm the best actor that you've ever worked with...

            Also, a big thank you to the Original Theatre Company for again putting on a stellar show and employing me! Cuckoo, what can I say? You've done it again. We've done it again. I doff my cap to you mate and implore any of my stinking rich readers with a cool Mil or so to spare to give it to this man. He may be a ridiculous person with silly goggly eyes and ridiculous birdish tendencies but if you invest in him he will turn that money into magic!

            Finally, I must say a very humbled thank you to you, the reader. This has been a very personal, often rickety, always balls-out account of a very real journey. I would bow down to you all if I could and am touched that so many people have found interest/happiness/confusion and hopefully entertainment of a young actor's account of what it's like to be just that. A young actor. This was always going to be an experiment in writing and I thank you for giving up your time and patience every week to read it. If any of you happen to be big newspaper editors, I'm always game for a challenge... But I really do mean it, the fact that this silly little blog has been regularly followed by so many and in many cases, by complete strangers, is very touching and I prostrate myself at your attendance!

           

            The last subject I want to touch on, is the fellow actors that I have been on the road with for the past 5 months of my life.

            I've mentioned before the song, 'Hard Rain's Gonna Fall' and how much it moves me on a daily basis. One of the final lyrics of said song depicts a man concluding his Odyssey:

           

            'And I'll speak it and hear it and think it and breathe it,

            And reflect from the mountain so that all souls can see it.

            And I'll stand in water till I start sinking,

            But I'll know my song well before I start singing.'

            I don't know what my song is yet. Perhaps that's why I ramble so much and why the song affects me so. What I do know is that I have met people on this tour that have always humored me and never insulted. Encouraged and never disrespected. People who already know their song and have helped me in forming the basis of my own. On stage and off, they reflect. They reflect their warmth, love, talent, happiness and humour everywhere they go and I love them for it.

            If the only thing I learn to do in this world is reflect for others, I'll be a very happy man.

            Very happy.

            Until then, there's nothing to do but keep writing the song.

           

            Thank you for reading everyone.

            See you in the flow.

            This weeks blog is dedicated to the birth of my cousin's first child, Harrison Miller, born today on the 4th December. That and the life and times of Willie Briggs (above). The uncredited character of See How They Run; never seen but always heard. Ha.

Keep Calm and Carry On - Week 18

   

         Spoiler alert - in this week's blog there will be an injury...

           

            Sunday was a big day. A big, big, big day. It was the day that I finally moved back to London. It was the day that another new chapter of my life began.

            It's been four months since I was last here. Four months since my mail has been addressed here, but a hell of a long time since I've had a 'home' here.

            I arrived, fresh from Worthing at about midday on Sunday and stood, smiling up at the place that I would be laying my hat for the next two years... To say that I was excited would be a massive understatement.

The Housemates

            I was welcomed into the house by my good friends and new housemates, Tom, Sal and Jen; elbow deep in work, getting their things into place, filling the cupboards, wardrobes and nooks, with everything that they could. I could only look on - as my stuff won't be arriving till the end of the tour - but offered my assistance whenever I could.

            Tea-duty it was...

            I also did a reccy of the neighborhood and was delighted to find that not only was there a plethora of lovely little shops nearby, but there was also a pub AND a wine merchant just around the corner. I was the epitome of a happy bunny.

            The rest of the afternoon and the following day were spent in the same way; scouting out household must haves and starting to make the place our place. And, aside from a strange dead person smell that I've had to tackle in my room, it all went relatively drama-free.

            It's quite creepy that in such a short amount of time, the place looks like we've been there for years. And - luckily - having an equal ratio of boys to girls, we don't run the risk of the place becoming too blokey or pink.

            Not that I could ever imagine that of Jen or Sal anyway!

            Tuesday was the first day that I was home alone.

            I decided to do a bit of food shopping and cook for the house. All the guys being at work gave me a good insight into what it'll be like when I'm back here - in the New Year. I don't mind the quiet during the day. Being conditioned to doing a show in the evenings - I'm a self-confessed night bird and as long as I get to be sociable when the light starts to fade, I function with my own company pretty well.

            When they got back to the house after a long day at work, we whiled away the evening lounging after dinner with a bottle of wine, candlelight and good chat.

            I will be honest - I wasn't ready to leave.

            I slept poorly and woke early on Wednesday morning. I repacked poor old, tired Tardis and hawled his heavy ass away from the warm, comfortable confines of the house and embarked on our journey to Buxton.

            Thankfully, Buxton is fucking beautiful. I've played the theatre twice before and both times have loved the experience. It's another Frank Matcham creation and - as such - it's always such a pleasure to perform in. It's also a well-run venue and the technical team had enjoyed a fluid get in and focus session.

            When all the cast had arrived, we got on with a line run in prep of the evening show. Aside from the odd mind freeze, it was pretty consistent. Again, it's a while since we've performed it so it's forgivable and I don't think anyone lost any sleep over it.

            The show itself was fairly solid. Doing a play that one has toured with is a bit like riding a bike for the first time in years. One 'never forgets' how to ride said bike - but the excellence in riding that one once had in youth, is founded in confidence. It seems to me that the first time that we have performed either play over the past 4 months - that first time is always tinged with a stain of trepidation.

            That all being said, I think that it was a good show. The audience certainly seemed to respond so and afterwards, we shared a bottle of champagne in the dressing rooms with a few of Shiv's friends and we FINALLY met Leo's lovely wife, Anne.

            And I can assure you Anne, he may call me Weasel, but we definitely call him worse.

            We then went to the pub for a nightcap, talked football and turned in for the night. Cuckoo managed to book a terrific little house for our stay here, which the two of us, Shiv and Ducky will all be staying in for the duration.

            On Thursday, there was little to do but prepare for the matinee and grab some food before the show.

            I wasn't very pleased with my performance. There was no reason that I can recollect for feeling so, just one of those irrational, personal irks that consume and irritate.

            I read in between shows and galvanized myself to do a better job in the evening show.            

            Thankfully, in my humble opinion, I think that I did. There was a group of A-level students in watching, who seemed to particularly identify/sympathise with Andrew, which made me - in turn - feel better about myself. It once again reminded me what a wonderful part Agucheek is and how fortunate I am to have had the chance to play him.

            Friday was a quiet day up until the late afternoon.

            We did little with the day as the rain gently dropped on the cobbled streets outside. The heating was turned up high, the lights dimmed and an afternoon of Mad Men ensued.

            When we finally pulled ourselves out from our hovel, we walked into town, to the Pavilion, beside the theatre to peruse around the Buxton Christmas fair. I didn't buy anything, but predictably the Duck did - purchasing one of the tackiest gifts that I have ever seen.

            Shaun - I don't want to poo poo your present, but it's total shit I'm afraid.

            We had a lovely crowd in for the evening show and got a taste of a real Northern audience - generous on laughs and up for a giggle. It's a shame really that we haven't been up north at all for the duration of the tour. With only Berwick left to play, it would have been nice to tour the country more extensively as I have done on others, but - hey ho - you get what you're given.

            After the show we - predictably - went for a few drinks and nattered away into the evening.

            Adrian (the Artistic Director of Black Eyed Theatre and one of the producers of George III) said to me when I saw him in Bracknell, that he sometimes reads the blog to remember what it's like to go out every evening partying. Mate - tomorrow I'll raise a glass for you. Enjoy.

            Saturday was eventful.

            Nothing much happened in the morning to warrant noting. We began the matinee performance in front of a lovely large audience who had turned up for an afternoon of fun and we took just as much delight in giving them what they'd paid for. The interval approached and -

            Uh oh.

           

            There was a flurry of commotion.

            I sat in my dressing room suddenly confused at the hubbub.

            I rose and made my way to the wings.

           

            Uh oh.

            Cuckoo was on the floor, surrounded by cast and crew.

            He lay perfectly still.

            What the fuck had happened.

           

            Rewind one minute earlier...

            The end of the first half was approaching fast. Shiv, shouted out the line, 'Quickly - run - RUN!' David responded, 'I'm running!' Al began chasing, he leaped over Lucy who as per usual is flat on the floor, came back down to earth and  - wait a minute.

            According to the Cuckoo, when his feet hit the ground, something in his back went and as he managed the last few steps off the stage, his legs gave way underneath him and he hit the deck.

            For all those who are concerned I should perhaps make clear straight away that the Cuckoo IS OK and that he (despite a very uncomfortable day) was able to complete both shows and the audience would have been none the wiser. At points, we were seriously worried about him - his face at times turned a sickly talcum white on numerous occasions - and, after I carried him off in the fireman's carry I thought that he was going to faint, but he soldiered on and I am proud to say that he did a better job than many others would have done in his position.

            I remember reading an article once in praise of the theatre actor's code of conduct: 'an unrivalled passion, belonging to a team, strident standards and a deep rooted hatred in the confines of health and safety.'

            Sometimes in this world, we have to go above and beyond the call of duty.

            Cuckoo, mate, I hope you know that you've ticked that box and we all respect you very much for it.

            Ps. But if you think for one second that I'm going to be waiting on you all week and carrying your stupid big bird bags...

Celebrate Good Times - Week 17

            Bump.

            That was the sound of me hitting the ground at the start of the week.

            After a day of pacing the house, waiting to hear back from my audition, I received the call that every actor dreads.

            "I'm really sorry Weasel, it's a no this time..."

            The Cuckoo had called me ahead of the 'official call' to my agent, out of courtesy to halt the agonising waiting game. It's not easy for anyone to break bad news, let alone a friend and appreciated his kindness very much.

            I don't want to dwell too much on the event as it was a confidential matter and as with all castings there is a certain ebb and flow that demand privacy and sensitivity. What I would say, is that the man who pipped me to the post is hugely deserving and someone that I greatly admire - and I hope he knows that.

            So, hit taken, things roll.

           For people outside of the business, it is difficult for them to understand a world where rejection is a common pastime. For those that do belong to it, it's the norm and very difficult to communicate how one deals with it.

            For myself, I've a pretty thick skin. One has to.

            Bizarrely, when I received the news, I almost felt liberated. The end of the tour is now approaching; I'm moving back to London to a new house after a 4 month absence and I have NO IDEA what the new year will now hold. As terrifying as it is, it's also incredibly exciting. The possibilities are endless and as likely as it is that I could be unemployed for months on end, I could just as likely land a wild card audition score a two-year contract at the RSC!

            What I've learnt from my experience as an actor (puny though it is), is that there is no magic route - no set series of directions to a successful career. It's one of the things that often is the cause of actors throwing in the towel: the unknown being just too vague a lifestyle. For myself - at least at the moment, I'm still young enough and responsibility-free enough to be able to cope with it and - dare I say it - quite like the uncertainty.

            It would be a lie to say that I wasn't disappointed to hear that I was unsuccessful at the audition. Personally, I don't understand going up for something unless you wholly believe with all you might that you're going to get the job. If you don't invest heart and soul, what's the point in turning up? It's like the old boxing mantra: If you can't see yourself raising the belt at the end of the bout, then you've lost before you've even begun. It may mean that the knock one takes if failing to achieve is greater, but if it raises ones possibilities, then surely the emotional uppercut is worth taking.

Spot the hole punch...

            That's just how I feel anyway.

            So, blow taken, I got on with things and started packing my possessions in pre-preparation for my move to the big smoke.

            I won't be shifting the stuff till the end of the tour, but want it to be ready and waiting for when the time comes around.

            Tuesday and Wednesday were pretty obsolete. I relaxed, watched films and catalogued anything that I'd missed off my initial list for things bound to London.            

            On a very grey and dismal Thursday morning, I left for Worthing. My Dad drove me to the train station and I confided in him that I needed to find the energy from somewhere to do a show that evening, as the foot has been off the gas for a week and a half.

            That's the only trouble about gaps in a tour; you lose the momentum. And - what with it being so close till the end of the gig - it feels a bit like a footnote, as opposed to the final gripping chapter. I'm sure I'll be feeling far differently once I jump the first show hurdle, but I'd be a liar if I didn't voice my misgivings.            

            So I rolled and bounced my way to Worthing - detouring via London - leaving the green of the country for the sparkle of the city. I'm ecstatically happy and excited to be moving back to the Capital. I've had the break from it that I needed, but I'm hungry for it's energy and keen to get comfortable returning home to the same place every evening.

            When I finally arrived in Worthing, I managed to typically wind up at the wrong theatre. I'd already been excused for arriving late, as we had planned to meet for a line run just after I'd secured my train tickets.

            Everyone was on fine form - what was also great to see, was that everyone seemed genuinely happy to see one another.

            The line run sped along nicely and before long it was over.

            We did little before the show other than catch up and explore the theatre. The Connaght is a strange, 1920's refurbed cinema that is recent years was converted into a theatre - in fact - later on in the interval of the show, the safety curtain was dropped in and movie trailers were played on a projector; a very unique experience I can tell you.

            The show was fine. Good in fact considering it's been a while since we last performed it. It was the same experience that I remember of doing it before after a bit of a break; like being in one of those dreams where you're fighting and it feels like you're under water - punches taking ages to land and the enemy far nimbler.

            Just me? Ok.

            After the show we very briefly saw Ducky's parents and gave them our love before plodding to the nearby pub. We didn't stay long as everyone seemed pretty knackered from the journey down and turned in earlier than usual for a quiet night in.

            On Friday, I spent the day doing admin. I swear touring life sometimes revolves around cafes, booking digs and paying for bloody trains.

            It's done with now though which means that in theory I shouldn't have to think about it now for the rest of the gig.

Random poster in the dressing room

            Feeling hermit-like, I arrived at the theatre early, hoping to see familiar faces. Luckily, Partridge and Ducky were in, which pacified my boredom till the start of the show. We had another decent crowd in which was good. I also topped my pb back-stage shenanigan by scaling a ladder, bending over and dropping my trousers for when Shiv looks out through the dining room door mid-scene. I wish that I could have catalogued all the things that have gone on over the course of the tour; because it's as much about keeping things fresh and fun offstage as it is when you're on.

            Just be sure never to mix the two...

            After the show we went for a few token drinks in the local Whetherspoon's - Cuckoo completely un amused - and did our best to have a conversation over the din of drum and bass music coming from a speaker directly over my head. We soon got bored of the effort and called it a night.

            Saturday was a day of two shows and so - by definition, there wasn't much time for anything sociable. A few of Shiv's friends were in seeing the matinee, whom we went for a quick drink with afterwards which was about the highlight of the afternoon.

For Chris and Emily

            Midway through the evening show, we found out some brilliant news involving our long absent director, Chris which was probably the highlight of our week:

            He's getting married!

            To say that I'm happy for him would be an understatement and would just like to take this moment to say my personal congratulations to who is a very close friend. I'm sure that you and Em are going to be even happier together than you are now - and can't wait to sing at your wedding...

            I'm thinking, 'Unforgettable'...

            Backing singers...

            The Royal Philharmonic...

            They owe me a favour. 

A Healthy Vanity - Week 16

And the award for the shortest blog of the tour goes to...

           

            Technically, this week hasn't been part of the tour. We've been on a break for the past seven days and I've spent the bulk of my time in Norfolk, whiling away the hours doing virtually nothing till provoked.

            It's Remembrance Sunday today and am planning, with the family to go for a meal. The day is always tinged with extra doses of melancholy. One, for the obvious thoughts shed for those that lost their lives, two, for the wonderful time that myself and 'C company' had whilst touring Journey's End in tribute to the Great War and thirdly, for the loss of my Grandfather. He died on the 11th of the 11th, 15 years ago and am always prompted to thinking of his puffy red face when I see the poppies, pricking through the grey clothes of winter time.

Dad and his mates (third from the right)

            I was particularly moved this week whilst sitting with Dad and his friends at the Golf Club enjoying a few drinks when one of the men said, "Oh, Dale, it's a special day isn't it?" To which the room raised their glasses and quietly spoke.

            "To lost friends."

            It was humbling seeing them there, normally unsentimental crotchety old gits (Dad included) reflecting and spending a moment to remember their old mate who sadly left us so suddenly.

            Anyway...

            Monday was audition day. I'd kipped on my mates floor the night before and had slept all of two hours; just the kind of restful sleep that one needs before a big day. I got up early, finally admitting defeat and got to work with the scenes that I'd been asked to look over for the meeting.

            The audition itself went well. I'm yet to hear back whether I was successful or not - always the worst part of the job - but I don't think that I could have done anymore than I did. The fingers will just have to stay crossed for a little while longer...

            As I said, the week here in Norfolk has been wholly enjoyable. I went to an old, old, OLD friend's engagement party yesterday, which was terrific, and the day before had gone out with Dad and his mates for a meal and drinks. We ended up at the casino - always the mark of a good night - and came away with a ton more than I went in with! Lovely jubbly.

            I'm at a loss what else to write this week.

            I went to see my Grandparents on Wednesday. They both have dementia and it was the first time that my Nan did not realise who I was.

            I was sad.

            I had an afternoon on Thursday catching up with my cousin and her husband who are 3 weeks away from giving birth to their first child.

            I was happy.

My Sister, Tayla bakes a cake

            I went for an Indian last night at THE BEST Curry house in England, 'Planet Poppadom' which also serves as a second home to me. We've had some of the most incredible evenings in there and am always reminded of some of our more bizarre traditions. The place is home to 'Norfolk's Biggest Marrow' - a hollowed out vegetable which we routinely pass around the table chanting "It's Norfolk's biggest marrow, it's Norfolk's biggest marrow, na na na na! Na na na na!"

            How such a thing got started I can't remember, but as with most things in our circle of friends, there's very little rhyme or reason to anything.

            I read an article in the Equity magazine this morning, interviewing Michael Grandage about his career and his decision to leave the Donmar Warehouse. The most enlightening and encouraging thing that he spoke about was auditioning:

           

            "I don't like the term audition. It's a correct word and it's the only one we've got, but I prefer to say 'let's have a meeting'. I think this takes away the curse of feeling that you have to stand alone on stage delivering lines..."

            He goes on...

                       

            "What I admire in an actor is fearlessness, a good memory and a healthy vanity."

            Now where's my moisturiser darling?