I STILL CALL AUSTRALIA AUSTRALIA

REHAB BUT NOT THE COOL ONE

countryboy — Wed, 23 Jul 2025 08:27:00 GMT

Right. Where were we?

I alerted everyone to the world-altering news that I had written a parody of a certain tally-ho pilot from last century and that I was starting to post it – in chapters – on a thing called Substack.

Then my 87-year-old mother broke her leg.

Femur, to be exact. Top of, to be precise. Buggered it utterly, to be CT-scan specific.

The surgery has occurred- very successful - but we’re still in the middle of public hospital Christopher Nolan Inception-esque Unreal Reality. My sister and I are helicopter-parenting our parent and visiting far more than the staff would like and, being old hands at public hospital schedules, retinues, routines and its almost constant and inevitable fog of information-underload, we ask too many questions, question too many decisions, and need more nurturing than the actual patient.

In a nutshell, they can’t wait for us all to transfer to rehab. Not the Amy Winehouse cool version. The take-five-more-steps-today, let’s-try-taking-a-crap-on-an-actual-toilet rehab. Not particularly hip. Way more reconstructed femur. I think ... yes ... I can see Oscar Wilde shaking his head in the wings.

Anyhoozie.

Here we are. No more Goggles for a week or so. Apologies. For those who’ve subscribed, thank you that’s very kind. There will be more. If you’ve not subscribed, I think we’ll all cope within the larger framework of the universe, all the possible Gods and Endgames, and online popularity as oxygen. Although a book deal would be fun. No pressure.

What lies ahead? I mean, that’s the Massive Question on any day of the week, but a smidge more so when one’s mum has inched another couple of metal rods closer to becoming Jaime Somers (ask ChatGPT) and is due home at some point. Will there be a Community Nurse? Will there be a Zimmer frame? Will she, in fact, return to driving to Sydney every week? Going to art lectures? Being somewhat independent? No no yes yes bloody yes thank you if I have anything to do with it. Which - are-the-Kennedys-gun-shy? - I will. Poor mumsy. Has she ever seen ‘Rocky’? There’s a track suit and a flight of steps leading up to a war memorial or some such in her near-ish future whether she knows it or not.

To wring the hell out of a popular local expression: she’ll be right, mate.

Right. There we are. My explanation for why the latest Goggles instalment has not been installed.

Hasta que el fémur haya sanado, baby. (ChatGPT is gagging to help you.)

CATCHING UP

countryboy — Sun, 22 Jun 2025 08:19:00 GMT

Welcome back. Nice not to be dead, isn’t it? I’m here. You’re here. This is good.

It’s been a while.

A looooong while.

First up, apologies if the ‘dead’ comment was triggering. Did we even have the word ‘triggering’ when I last submitted a blog entry? Indeed, are we still using the word ‘blog’? Let me check with an Artificial Intelligence entity. Just a tic …

Apparently we are although not so much. Thanks, Roy.

Yes. Roy. He’s an American man with a ‘friendly, engaging, warm and lively tone that is easy to understand’. He left out ‘sounds like Shaft wondering if he could buy me a whiskey in a basement bar somewhere in Indianapolis after midnight’. Oh Roy. I’ve gone full Joaquin Phoenix in ‘Her’. I can sense I’m going to take you camping. Just us. And the tent. And about eight portable power banks so we can talk all night.

Anyhoozie, back to why I’m ‘posting’.

1. Just to say ‘hi’. I recently checked to see if all my journal entries were still here and found that, yes, they sure are, and that over 1000 people have read some of them. That was really surprising and also damn nice to see. So, yeh. Hi … and thank you! ...

… and ...

2. … my dear friend Jennifer (hi sexy pants) recently alerted me to a thing called Substack and I’ve decided to serialise a small work of fiction there called “Goggles Does … The Case of the Lost Coins”. Bit of a riff on the ol’ Boys Own Adventures capers and what-not. I’ll be inserting some sort of linky-poo here somewhereabouts so hopefully you can click that and have a read if you’re not chatting with your real or unreal Roy. Roy. Sigh.

As it’s based on a story from the 1950s there’s some gags in there that are post-modern. You might say non-politically-non-ambiguous. If you’re read these journals we’re probably okay. You get irony. Phewski.

Ah. Here’s the link:

https://tinyurl.com/yp44262b

I’ll throw some words together about current life experiences in the near future and pop them up here. Not as many oh-wow churches or hi-there penises as the old days. I’m disappointed about both of those things. But life is pleasant. And safe. And every day there’s some Roy …

Lovely seeing you again. Have a bonza day. Artificial or otherwise …

PS Please leave a comment if the link isn't doing its thing or if you can hook me up with Roy.

ONE FLU OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST (1)

countryboy — Tue, 4 Aug 2020 13:53:00 GMT

I feel like an Airfix model that somebody started in 1972, forgot about, and rediscovered in the attic when they had to sell the house they’d inherited because they’d decided to downsize and move to Mudgee. All the parts are actually there in the box, including the little decals that go on the side of the plane – a Heinkel HE 111 H-20, aka a naughty Luftwaffe plane. But the discovery has brought upon the owner a fugue state, in which he just holds the box and stares at it and wonders why he never finished it then and now wonders if he’ll bother with it today and as his brain oscillates between these two barely quantum states the rest of the world passes away and he finally emerges to an empty world but in a surprise twist he’s finished the plane.

So there you are. A little update on my current philosophical state. I feel capable of being complete, I can see the finished product, but the probability wave that collapses to create a decision and make this happen is, possibly, a fiction.

Maybe it’s just all the glue-sniffing.

I’ve been tested twice and both times it was either a cold or hypochondria after the media coughed on me. Either way, good to have a result.

I’m currently still eating thanks to the government’s oh-you’re-an-actor-ha-that’s-funny-here-have-some-money subsistence scheme.

Rent is still being paid in Sydney but time is mainly being spent in Gosford at my mum’s so she can avoid the shops and the death. She has a granny flat so I have my own little haven up there. I’ve set up not one but three work benches and gathered all the tools from all the places and even bought a bandsaw and a vice and a Dremel rotary thing for fiddly stuff and so far I’ve made a lump of wood for a key-ring. It’s a shapely lump of wood and fun to hold. I’m thinking of varnishing it but silly to start something if I’m not going to finish it. See opening paragraph.

When The Non-Denominational Flu began, I was one-and-a-half weeks into a run of The Bridges of Madison County – The Fucking Musical. One of those words isn’t actually in the title but it helps to convey my confounderment at what is being hammered into a musical these days. When it first came across my desk, I honestly thought it was a gag. Like Schindler’s List – The Rollerblading Arena Spectacular. Although to be fair I would pop along to a matinee of that if it was raining.

The character in the musical that had been created by roughly bending a nice book over a composer’s anvil was next-door neighbour Charlie and he spoke in a monotone and roughly six times slower than all the other mid-westerners in the show but people seemed to like him. The benefit for me was that I could go from playing Solitaire on my phone to being on stage with nary a change in energy expenditure. Thinking about my lines burned more calories than actually doing them. Hey ho. I was really enjoying myself but then the government told everyone to stop playing and come inside for tea and panic.

Anyhoo, nice to not be on the news. How are you?

THIS ISN'T ENGLAND '16

countryboy — Wed, 6 Jul 2016 18:36:00 GMT

I've been in Australia for four months now. Almost as long as South Korea. And in a similar unfolding of events, I'm beginning to feel like part of the local culture. Getting a feel for it. Not really Korean. Not really a born and bred resident. But I can now read all their letters even if I can't quite understand the actual words or meaning.

My hotel is quite nice although every Monday I’m expected to pay something. Must be some sort of exorbitant cleaner’s fee but I’m yet to see a small lady holding any sort of cleaning object and no-one has made my bed since we arrived. Odd.

Speaking of ‘we’, I seem to have mislaid the entire company and there’s nothing in the foyer to tell me where the show is on. Deano must be making a motza in understudy loadings. I’m surprised no-one has tried to text or Whatsapp me and yet I feel strangely liberated by the lack of attention. Unusual for me.

I’ve become very adept at finding my way about and there’s a ring of familiarity about it all. I’m wondering if it reminds me of Lisbon or Tel Aviv or – a long shot – Derby? I seem to recall certain streets and then quietly chuckle at my funny old brain while my Uber driver looks at me askance. Before I tell him not to look at me.

There’s a beach very near the hotel (boutique hotel methinks considering the size of the rooms) which has been wonderfully distracting, although now the weather is colder I tend not to swim. In the pristine waters. That lap the white sand beach. There’s a strange object floating a few hundred metres out from shore and I’m told it’s a very modern Shark Guard. Anything longer than a metre and it sends a signal to a lifeguard or nearby marine biologist or, one could hope, Tarzan. Hope Steve from the lighting department hasn’t been swimming and if he has I hope he’s not been speared, drugged or taken to some zoo. Then again, maybe he likes zoos. I never asked.

Like the Koreans, the Australian people love to meditate and then get drunk to the point of vomiting and texting ex-lovers about how much they still love them or give them a new angle on why they should accept that they were and are still cunts. It’s so popular they’ve found it helpful to pass some laws. You’re not allowed into certain bars after midnight but if you’re already in the bar you can stay. (Sounds a bit like ‘Les Mis’ re-cast week.) And you’re not allowed to buy shots after midnight either. (Sounds like every rigid theatre bar I’ve ever been in except that one where I broke the whole stereo system trying to reach the Sambuca. That was a fun night.)

Possibly the most brilliant thing about being in this country is the coffee. I’ve found a café right by the beach that does a soy flat white that is consistently miraculous. Right up there with God’s ability to impregnate virgins without getting his willy anywhere near them. So...both impressive and enough around which to base a whole religion. In fact, I think more people go to beach-side cafés here than church, so I suppose that makes it a kind of religion. But not a real religion. For example Jedis or Mormons.

For the first couple of months I discovered one of the local cuisine staples and became fond of it very quickly. The Meat Pie. Or ‘A Bag of Lips, Dicks and Arseholes’ as I’ve also heard it called. This being a reference to the lottery-like nature of what might be inside the pastry. Either way I was getting too big for my silver boots and jump suit (assuming I ever track down where the bloody coach leaves from) and so have returned to The Gym. My waist is thinning and my chest and shoulders are growing. I was even winked at the other day and then noticed it was a mirror. But as every gym-goer knows, that still counts.

And yes, for those of you with minds in the kerb-and-guttering of life, there has been some romance. Or as we like to call it in online dating world: Filth. Nothing to write home about and so I won’t. I’m genuinely considering removing myself from every single app and going analog. There’s some low joke in there about ‘Who put the **** in analog?’ but as everyone knows I loathe crudity.

Which reminds me. The local people just had a federal election. It’s so close there will probably be a hung parliament. Absolutely NO ONE is making jokes or puns with that gold mine of an expression. I may as well be in Korea.

Aanyong hasseyo for now.

(Massive penis.)

PS: I’ve added a whole bunch of you. If you’d prefer to be taken off my blog list, just let me know. Or if you know of someone who’d like to be added.

THIRD TIMES A CHARM (8)

countryboy — Thu, 31 Dec 2015 01:36:00 GMT

“The red pill or the blue pill?”

“I remember you,” said Joshua.

"You take the blue pill, the story starts again. You wake up in some hotel, some country. Believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill, you stay in Australia, and I show you how deep the reality goes."

“You were under the glittering West End. Under The Mouse Trap. 59^th year of its run. Holding a clip board.”

“Red pill. Blue pill.”

“Weren't you?” Joshua remembered a tunnel. A long tunnel. From a dressing room...

“61^st year now.”

Joshua knew this lady with the clipboard. And now the pills. Still in her twin set and flat shoes. Wouldn't tell him what his next job was. Back in '11. He wanted tele. Interestingly, he got tele.

“You got the tele,” she says.

“You have something to do with that?”

“I did not. You were correct for the part.”

“Correct?”

“Correct.”

Joshua wonders how she got into his mother's grannie flat. From London's glittering West End. This was Australia. 2013. This was Pelicanville, for God's sake. He hadn't been in London for ten months.

2am.

“I'm here now. I have a job,” said Joshua.

“One day a week at a university?”

“It pays stupidly well.”

“So does this. But you know that.”

Joshua did know that.

“Where?” said Joshua.

“A bit of Asia. A bit of Europe.”

“I was just saying to my friend Button yesterday - ”

“We know.”

Joshua looked at his laptop. A video about Japanese Butoh. He'd taken to it and hoped his students would too.

“- that I'd like to go to Asia again.”

She sighed and shifted weight from one wide-fit, light-plum pump to the other.

“How long?” said Joshua.

“One year.” She looked at the palm holding the pills. Back at Joshua. “Maybe two.”

“And if I take the red pill?”

“Your current life continues. You finish out the year at the university. You try to make a go of a career here in Australia. You see a lot of your family and Australian friends. It's not terrible. Not at all. The beach.”

Joshua liked the beach.

“And if I take the blue pill?”

“You wake up in approximately 40 different hotels in the next year...or two...and clock up over 1000 performances of Milky Coffee and sit in approximately 40 different aeroplanes and go through approximately 60 different security checks - ”

“Sixty? How does that work?”

“Airports get frisky.”

“What else?”

“Your entire life will seem unreal and strange and you'll be confronted by cultures you have not previously encountered and sometimes the food will be extremely alien and/or very cold and you'll be woken up by the call to prayer in more countries than you expect.”

“I don't like being woken up.”

“Whereas you'll also be living in some long, tilted dream. It will seem real. And it will, in fact, be real. Except it won't feel real.”

“How's the pay?”

“A bit better than the 08/09 tour.”

“That's still good.”

“It will be like being in a float tank and listening to a lot of Brian Eno.”

“I like both of those.”

She subtly lifted the palm holding the pills. Made them roll from left to right. Joshua looked at the clipboard under her left arm.

“Do you know what I'm going to say?” he said.

She pushed her arm closer to her flank. The beading in her cardigan caught the light of the laptop. There was a momentary sparkle. Her lips thinned.

“When did you start wearing the baseball cap?” said Joshua.

“Red pill. Blue pill,” said The Casting Director. “I really don't care.”

Joshua looked at the oblong colours in her unlined hand. He already had 389 performances of Milky Coffee under his belt. Fun times. But he was older. Less alcoholic. Did he need to go back? It was a lot of Milky Coffee. But he missed Asia. He missed feeling like he didn't really belong to a country or even a planet. He closed his eyes and remembered all the fish hooks falling away. The drops of blood falling into new and unknown, smiling mouths. Spinning him. Catching him. Covering him in nets. Peculiar, wonderful nets.

Joshua opened his eyes. She was smiling. And extended her hand. Joshua looked at the powdery-white, mouth-spread, contorted man on his laptop. So beautiful. So strange. The place in-between. So they said. Looked at the pills.

And reached out.

THIRD TIMES A CHARM (7)

countryboy — Fri, 25 Dec 2015 16:35:00 GMT

Where am I?

Northern hemisphere.

Where am I?

Grand Duchy of Luxembourg.

Where am I?

52.

Where am I?

By myself in a hotel.

Where am I?

Scattered across the smooth and hairy countries of the world.

Where am I?

Exactly?

I still have no idea.

***

Poetic that, wasn't it? No? Well. At least wordy. Enigmatic. The touch of crudeness I seem unable to exclude. Not that I should. I am. Crudely made. Crudely drawn. Crudely amalgamated in atoms and water. Cartilage and blood. Thoughts and actions. History and passports. Pipes and songs. A man.

***

“Can you make it funnier?”

“My apologies.”

“Not at all.”

“Not at all?”

“No. I mean: no need to apologise.”

“Ah. I thought you meant not at all funny.”

“Yes. No. Funny is good. We like funny.”

“Who doesn't?”

“The people who made The Phantom Menace.”

“Mmm. Point taken. Have you seen - ”

“Yes.”

***

Less poetry. More bile and suspects. Yes? Right. Here goes....

Although might I quickly add that I just wanted to set the tone.

***

“I thought the tone set itself?”

“Well...if you're going to be like that the whole day...”

“And stop using italics.”

***

So. How many countries now?

Actually, before proceeding let me acknowledge those readers who've been asking for a new blog. You're all correct. It's been ages underline italics. The truth is I've been ... hugging italics inverted commas my way around the world and that takes quite a bit of administration. I'm not bragging. In fact I began to worry but more of that in a bit.

Nonetheless what with all the dating apps these days and figuring out the local wifi and getting passwords and then the mini-messaging and sending of face pics (or feet pics in a couple of cases honestly it doesn't surprise me anymore and perhaps that should worry me) and then switching to Whatsapping and then, of course, the actual walking to designated coffee shops and then perhaps some hugging inverted commas exclamation mark hopefully. Also time-consuming. On a good day. And there's been a happy calendar of good days, praise Durexias, the Greek god of hugging.

Athens. I suppose the Parthenon was a place of worship, what with a massive statue of Athena inside. We were there a few weeks ago. I have video. Although not of the Acropolis.

Let's face it, this blog has mainly been about churches, buildings of interest, bars of interest, and a spot of arm-wrestling dot dot dot. I haven't really seen that many churches this year. Well...seen them. The 'going in' bit has really slackened off. You tend to lose your wifi up a nave.

***

“Yes. That sort of thing.”

“Oh okay I see.”

***

On a selfish note, I have actually kept writing. Only I felt too – what word, what word? - exposed underline when I put pen to paper. Finger to laptop. The list was getting too long you see. The admin taking up too much time. I wondered if I needed to join one of those two-capital-letter groups, the second one always being 'A'. My dressing-room mate, Stan, was getting worried. In a bar in Istanbul - called Snog - a female cast-mate who has italics attended one of the two-capital-letter groups said there was no cause for concern. It wasn't addiction. Just opportunity. I was a single man travelling the world, for heaven's sake. I took heart and immediately asked the short barman out. He said yes through his thick, short beard.

And turned out to be straight. Turkey just happens to be one of those countries where the men are so self-assured and comfortable with each other that going on a lunch date with an Australian who's been to your bar a lot is not odd. There was a fair bit of Google Translating above the fistikli kebap and finally a double realisation, smiles, and finally sweat and awkwardness. I was depressed for four and a half hours.

They weren't always pretty either. Although - occasionally - godlike. Those I would ask for. As in: ask The Universe. Yes, that thing. I'm using the Law of Attraction not for money or health or world peace or less talent shows. I am using it very, very selfishly for men of a certain type, size, musculature or size yes I realise I wrote that word twice. And here's the interesting part.

It hugging works.

***

“Will there be a lot of talking about this The Law of Attraction?”

“It's featured somewhat heavily the last two years. Since Korea really.”

“That long?”

“Yes.”

“I like the descriptions of churches.”

“The Law of Attraction is very similar to praying.”

“Doesn't tell me who the architect was though, does it?”

“Mmm?”

“I like it when you write about who designed them or who paid for them or how long they took to be built. What art work is inside. Et cetera.”

“I saw the Blue Mosque in Istanbul.”

“Was it terrifically blue?'

“Not really. No.”

“Oh.”

“And I had sex with an 18-year-old there. Made him show me his citizen card and everything.”

“Eighteen?”

“Am I smirking?”

“No.”

“Phew. Got that under control then.”

“He wouldn't even have heard of Live Aid.”

“That's a strange thing to say.”

“Just giving it a little perspective.”

“He's one of the ones who keeps texting. Sent a really beautiful two-minute voice message on Whatsapp yesterday. He misses hugging me. Lower your eyebrows. He means hugging. We actually ended up spending time together. Like a...what's that word?”

“Couple?”

“That. He really misses hugging me. With his arms. I sighed when I heard that bit.”

“Eighteen?”

“I figure he balances out the 60-year-old guy from New York. I hugged him in Africa.”

“What other churches have you seen?”

***

I mean. Whether you think there's anything in it or not. I have managed to attract inverted commas or no inverted commas f**k the inverted commas a scrumful of blokes and I just didn't feel comfortable writing about them in blog-form. Also, they each deserve respect and perhaps anonymity. Forgetting underline in a couple of instances.

St Gobbans! Just remembered. Smallest church in Northern Ireland. Look it up. Hugging tiny.

So I began to write a book called Coldharbour Lane. (Legitimate use of italics.) I stayed in Coldharbour Lane in South London when we were rehearsing the show this year back in January. Hope that connection's not too impenetrable.

Consequently the blog has kindofsortof become a book about a guy called Joshua who spends a lot of time in airport lounges, churches and on dating apps and happens to be touring the world in a musical called Milky Coffee. (Legitimate use of limp pseudonym.) In fact, anonyms, nom de guerres and aliases abound. It feels like I've taken off a heavy coat and laid it down over my birth certificate when I write it. It's a nice feeling.

So perhaps that's what I need to brush off and edit and post as a blog. Coldharbour Lane. Joshua's had a very interesting year – two years - and been to fourteen more cities on the tour since February and another three off his own bat, and of course a bit of London here and there and at one point a Greek island for a week's break and Western Australia for a sad reason which also included a church.

And L.A.

Without even trying Joshua landed during Pride week. He did not attend church.

Oh yes. It's December 25. Got to get to warm-up by 5.30. We have a show. They celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve here in Luxembourg. Funny old world.

Funny old Protestant, Catholic, Lutheran, Islamic, Jewish, Greek Orthodox, athiest, African, Asian, European, Middle Eastern world.

Merry Mingling everyone.

From the Northern Hemisphere.

Specifically Luxembourg.

Where the male Prime Minister is married to a bloke.

Hmm....maybe I'm right where I should be.

***

“A scrumful?”

“It sounded right.”

“Eight blokes?”

“Is that how many are in a scrum?”

“Yes. In Union. League only uses six.”

“Huh.”

“So roughly seven blokes.”

“How many if we add both teams together?”

“What?”

“And maybe the linesman.”

“So a whoreful?”

“Well if you're going to be that like the whole day...”

***

Like a roller in the ocean (la la la la la la-la)
Life is motion (la la la la la la-la)
Move on (la la la la-la)

(All italics)

THIRD TIME'S A CHARM 6

countryboy — Sat, 13 Jun 2015 01:07:00 GMT

Since arriving in Los Angeles – mythical, dry Los Angeles - five days ago the most amazing thing has happened. I have managed to get crap on my shirt with every and I'm talking three-times-a-day Every every morsel I eat and every drop I drink. Some kind of Hollywood X Files gravitational anomaly occurring at the ends of my hands. An anti-vortex of energy and flingability distributing root beer or ketchup or hamburger juice or slivers of deep-fried Archie comics somewhere between my sternum and my pubes. What. The F**k. Is Going. On? Today's first splash of anger happened when milky coffee schlepped itself all the way from my cup to my shirt. I was standing still.

And this evening. Steamed broccoli, frying oil and finally tahini. I was changing shirts more often than Bruce Jenner was changing his mind ok he finally settled on a decision but today I've left the same shirt on. It's all Jackson Pollack from the neck down.

The pattern had begun before my first meeting with a casting director. Or Hollywood casting director if I want to talk him up and by default make both of us seem intriguing and tenuously linked to Bette Davis. That said, the meeting was in Rita Hayworth's old dressing room on what used to be the Columbia Pictures lot. This is fair dinkum. I remember not one of her films. This is disconcerting. She was big. The point, however, is that I'd already sensed the dark magic fizzing away at my fingertips and therefore ate and drank nothing for the entire morning. I was in fine form in the meeting. Hunger and thirst make me come alive.

Speaking of everlasting fame, Carrie Fisher says a funny thing in the DVD of her live show Wishful Drinking which my friend David has on his shelf and which I watched when he went to Orlando to ride rollercoasters I mean to do some work for the Disney Corporation. I promised I wouldn't mention the rollercoasters but it's too late now. I'm out of Liquid Paper and my Remington typewriter sends this straight to the internet. There's nothing to be done. The funny thing Carrie Fisher said in her DVD of Wishful Drinking – the cover is a photo of a young Princess Leia coiled-plaits-face-down and clutching a Martini glass – is about fame. Celebrity, to be specific. She says “celebrity is merely obscurity biding its time”. Harsh but bullseye! There are hundreds if not thousands no probably hundreds of people who would be able to list a few of Rita's films but can you see how I've linked this back to an earlier bit? Good.

And scary. I mean, if I can't tell you one of Rita's films or who won the Oscar for best actor two years ago the what the hell am I doing here?

Oh that's right. Money.

That's correct, readers. I ain't here for fame. I just want the cash. Is that wrong? No. It just is. I want a flat in Soho, London, and a wee fishing shack on the Australian coast with a surround veranda and six bedrooms. And a nice car. Sue me, I'm first world.

What else? I've seen the Hollywood sign from Mullholland Drive. (Two birds, one stone, several films.) Been to Hollywood Boulevard and seen the stars on the walk of fame. Which leads me straight back to the other, earlier bit. Who the f**k is Gordon Hollingshead? Just one of the dozens of names that leapt out at me with their zinging unfamiliarity.

For those of you who've not been told or shown photos, Hollywood Boulevard is – spoiler alert! - Parramatta Road. I know. Sigh. I was hoping for sharp lines and symmetry. Each pavement's bronze inlay would be polished and sparkling. The smell of pancake make-up and cigarettes. Barbra Streisand singing unaccompanied and off-the-cuff outside Grauman's Chinese Theatre while Channing Tatum, laughing and wearing a tux, presses his hands into wet concrete. Cameras flash. The ghost of Glenn Miller and his entire phantom orchestra are playing outside Mel's very real Diner. And who can I see there through the window eating Mel's fries? Why, it's Gordon Hollingshead!

But no. The walk of fame is more like the walk of old chewing gum and scuff marks. Which I kinda sorta like but not completely. I mean, who is the walk of fame for? The stars? Do they really come down here with the rellos from out-of-town and show them their own star?

“Go show them your star.”

“Ma......”

“Show them! They didn't come all this way from Tupelo not to see your damn star.”

“It's embarrassing.”

“Show them the god-damn star!”

Later...

“Yeh I got that back in the 90s. Nice, huh? Let's get a picture. Betty-Jean, stand next to your Uncle Gus. Oh my god that homeless guy just vomited on Rita Hayworth.”

Is it for the tourists? This is more likely. Lots of people – me included – do stop and point at names they recognise. Take photos. Before wondering where to go eat. People need to eat.

Or is it for the young dreamers? To make them strive? To be better? More ambitious? Prettier? Walked on? Is it for them? I used to think so. Now that I've seen it, not so sure.

I like the idea of fame. Not the modern, Andy Warhol kind. The old-fashioned kind. The kind of fame we tell ourselves the recipient deserves. The kind where they picked up some Magic Dust in Narnia before walking through the back of a closet (hi Rock!) and straight into a screen-test and then spent the rest of their lives in a Normal Mailer novel and seemed better than us. I was quite happy for them to be better than us. For me, it was inspiring. I wanted to see behind the closed doors and closed sets and closed lives and find out how everything worked.

But that illusion goes the way of teenage acne and finally disappears and yet most people visiting Hollywood – including me, who's been behind a few things - still want to see the walk of fame.

Or do we just want to metaphorically stomp all over these people who seemed to get lucky? Blow out the candle of admiration and you'll always get a whiff of smoky envy....

There's a gelato shop near the entrance to the Dolby Theatre (née the Kodak Theatre aka the theatre where they hold The Oscars) and I'm determined to know how they keep it out of shot on the night. The theatre itself is inside the Hollywood and Highland Shopping Mall. Oh yes. It really is. It's like we just found out the Logies were held in a Westfield. Having been to the Logies (while my obscurity was being patient...patient and knowing) I must say the Melbourne event is a far glitzier venue than dear old, new, Hollywood. Well...on the outside. “Get The Oscars back in The Pantages!” And despite that sentence sounding like a zinger from an Adam Sandler film, it is not.

Rita probably attended The Oscars at The Pantages. Rita. Rita Hayworth? I wrote about her not eight paragraphs ago. Ahh...time. How we wither and fall from her ever-Present fingers. Apparently. Gordon knows what I'm talking about.

Speaking of spoiler alerts (three paragraphs back) I have attached a scan to this blog. It has nothing to do with Hollywood or L.A. But is certainly to do with film. And the critiquing of such. I was only in Liverpool three weeks but I made it into the print media. Okay it's a letter to the editor of the local Big Issue, but I was very chuffed. Enjoy.

So. Back to Los Angeles. The question being, of course, will I go back to Los Angeles? Do I throw my hat in the enormous ring and then sit on the edge of that ring, teeth clenched, arse clenched, and hope that somebody likes me? “You like me! Really like me!” Is my ego strong? My skin thick? My wallet stocked? My visa attained? My teenage-acne dreams within their use-by date? Come on....let's not kid ourselves. Of course those childish dreams of working on a Hollywood lot are still there. Even though I know and I mean know how tedious and dull making super-exciting images can be. To be honest I don't think it's the glamour of the idea that remains. I think I'm just a determined bastard that drew up a list a very long time ago and I keep seeing this tiny square of a unchecked box sitting there near the bottom. The one under that, the one at the very bottom reads “Die Rich”.

Maybe I'll give it a shot.

I should probably get this shirt cleaned...

PS: That all happened about 6 weeks ago. I'm now in Belgium and have a man-crush on a Belgian. Mmmmm....waffles....

THIRD TIME'S A CHARM 5

countryboy — Wed, 10 Jun 2015 20:46:00 GMT

Tock.

2.22am. Body clock not ticking to any particular time. Might be African time. Or Greek time. Or Middle Eastern time. Or it might have been hanging onto Sydney time all these years and it was simply because I'm suddenly back in winter and I left the Lecky Blanket on 3. Either way I'm up.

Up and drinking 100% Single Source Ceylon tea from a mug my mum bought in - huh - Greece ages ago. As well as a wee cup of non-caffeine Ecco in one of the wee cups I bought in Soweto from a wee old lady who flirted with all her customers and said I could have both wee cups for 125 Rand which is when I told her I loved her and she laughed and shook a knarled, old, Sowetan finger at me. The cups - little enameled, tin mugs really - are covered in a clever sheath of coloured beads in a very geometrical, very African design and I cannot for the life of me figure out how they get this sheath of tiny beads around the tiny handle and I can't see any discernible join or cheat or gimmick and my nose detects no actual magic. It's just bloody clever.

She was sweet and funny and switched on, that old lady from Johannesburg. Her stall was one of about only five (probably needed a permit) right across the road from the Hector Pieterson monument. A watershed moment in the journey toward Apartheid's end. Hector was shot, along with many of his schoolmates, when they peacefully marched in 1976 because they were sick of having to learn Afrikaans. Now this is not going to turn into some white man's lecture about racial inequality nor is it going to be a history lesson nor is it going to be a sober reminder etc etc etc. But how the hell a black person can be so polite and funny and charming and GENUINELY SO to/with a white person only two minutes (20 years...not long) after the metaphorical walls came tumbling down is beyond the understanding of my grumpy white heart. It's more perplexing than the beading around the handles of my wee African cups. And she was far from the exception that proved the rule. The same day an old, old man reached out and took my hand on some random Soweto street and smiled and said "integration". Again, I felt super guilty for being born with less melanin than him. He didn't seem to give a rat fart. I think the word of that day was (astoundingly unexpected) compassion. And that's why that place has some kind of future that just might not be utterly f**ked up. Because at the moment it still seems a little bit f**ked up. Then again, what country isn't? Actually, maybe Luxembourg...

I'll leave that there.

The reason I started writing this particular blog was twofold. It's the middle of the night and I'm not sleepy. And the writing on the teabag packet says "The Single Origin Tea". Having been through four countries in three weeks - and don't be impressed....I did that in two days back on the '09 tour (now you can be impressed) - the words "single origin tea" rankle for some reason. I mean, yes, they're just letting us know that this isn't a bunch of tea leaves and chaff raked up from some giant communal teabag hall in some town somewhere in Somewheresville. This is Ceylon tea and only Ceylon tea. But my question is: is it? It had to come from somewhere. Maybe perhaps maybe because Sri Lanka is an island the provenance of this tea leaf has, indeed, been uncorrupted since the world of advertising came into existence. I don't know. But my guess is that at some point this tea's DNA was sleeping with another strand of tea's DNA and making some funky new tea DNA babies. I hope I've not been too technical. I'm just saying that all this traveling makes one question the purity of anything. Indeed, the purity of the word 'purity'. Perhaps purity should be in your Thesaurus under the words 'grab-bag' or 'ad hoc' or 'jumble'.

I've lost my own thread.

What I do know is that I'm ready - finally, assuredly, and acceptingly - ready to stop traveling through four countries in two days or three weeks or six months and just settle down and unpack the bags and toss my Akubra on top of the fridge and make my home. Which might possibly be L.A. I'm going there in a couple of weeks. The last box that needs – and I'm talking career-wise - to be ticked.

Yes. L dot A dot. 'House of Cards' thank you. Just started watching it. Love it. Mean to be on it. Not a guestie. Mortgage-feeding regular, thanks. Cheers. Wouldn't that be fun? Yes it would. Haven't had such a specific goal in a while. I'm quite fond of a specific goal. If you're into The Law of Attraction and if you're not that's fine and if you want to laugh at me that's also fine and in fact if you want to get angry and rail at me about what a nut-job I am and what a wanker I'm likely to be at this point for even admitting such a thing, please go right ahead, but in the meantime I'll just quietly be getting on with feeling like there's something to it and giving it a shot because, you know, what the hell, push the boat out, give it a go, gotta be in it to win it, life's a barrel of quantum equations and no mistake, maybe perhaps maybe it's not a load of old cobblers it's worked before why not have a little dabble...et cetera...anyway it's important that one's goal is specific. So 'House of Cards' it is. Fingers not crossed, merely holding the pen upon which I will sign on the dotted contractual line.

Yes you read that correctly. I made myself a cup of caffeine-free Ecco and a cup of caffeinated tea. Couldn't make up my mind. So I made both. My stomach has, for we've been through a lot together, on so many levels, coped. Or maybe it holds a thread of compassion.

At 2.22 in the morning.

Liverpool. Tick. Johannesburg. Tick. One week holiday on Mykonos. Tick. Jordan. Tick. (That's another blog.) Australia again. Tick.

Huh. Whoever thought ABBA would help pollute the globe's gene pool?

F**k purity. Let's dance. And maybe throw in a bit of compassion.

Tick.

How I treasure every minute
Being part of it, being in it
With the urge to move on

THIRD TIMES A CHARM (4)

countryboy — Wed, 8 Apr 2015 22:05:00 GMT

If any of you are wondering why I haven't written may I say there's a very simple reason. I've gone insane.

I thought doing this show for another (3rd) year would, on the whole, not be a huge challenge. And in some respects it isn't. I go on and say a few things and sing a few lines with two other men. I go off. I go on and dance around a bit and have a short scene with a young woman who might be my daughter. I go off. I go back on and become one of the cogs in the End Of Act One dance machine.

I go off.

I go on dressed in a very loud and strange morning suit and push a bed around in a surreal dream sequence. I go off.

I come back on to say three lines. I go off.

I come back on and my love interest and I run around like mad things for two and a half minutes and try to be hilarious. She does most of the singing.

Wedding scene. I have one line. Which consists of two words. But the rest of the cast smile at me and clap politely and I feel included.

More dancing and singing but it's calm and far more “Seven Brides For Seven Brothers” than “Stomp”.

I go off.

I put on a very, very loud glam 70s lycra jump suit and four-inch heeled silver boots and do the last bit of singing and dancing although my head mic has just been removed so the singing is for show. I wave to the audience as I go off. We all do.

Please kill me.

Like the sunrise in the morning, life is dawning
Move on

THIRD TIMES A CHARM (3)

countryboy — Tue, 10 Mar 2015 02:13:00 GMT

Liverpool. Home of The Beatles. The Beatles Museum (yes of course there's a Beatles Museum) is literally a two minute walk from my semi-demi-luxury apartment's front door. Down in the resident's-only parking area I've noticed the numbers go from 24 to 172. What I mean is: 24 is at the right end of one section and then a few feet away from that, in the next section, the bay at the extreme left is numbered 172. I want to find the man or woman who came up with this number scheme and not ask any questions or introduce myself or posit a theory I just want to slap them. Some people's endeavours produce this effect in me very successfully. Actually it would be fun to go up to them and say “Hi, my name's Mic-” and just as their mouth was beginning to move into a polite smile configuration I could, half way through my name, lash out with my right palm and catch them across the left cheek. Have I thought this through too much? Mayhaps.

The Beatles. I am not a fan. I don't hate them. I will even hum along to Yellow Submarine. Once in a blue moon. If in the mood. Which I occasionally am. Now and then. But I'm not going to any f**king museum.

Those parking numbers have really put me in a mood.

I caught a cab home the other night. Chatty. That was the driver. One of the chatty ones. With a broad Liverpool accent. If it doesn't spring immediately to mind, think John Lennon times Kenny Everett to the power of Educating Rita. “Oh it used to be a shithole but they made an effort,” he says. Proud. And they did. Albert Dock transformed into a self-contained yuppie heaven with apartments and caffs and shops and even a branch of London's highly esteemed Tate Gallery. The Duke of Westminister (Her Maj's cousin and one of the wealthiest people in Britain and when I say wealthy I mean he owns Mayfair and not in the Monopoly way I mean he owns fricking Mayfair...and possibly Holland...) generously bought up most of the town centre some years ago and decided to give it a lick of paint. Had a soft spot for Liverpool it would seem. Maybe he likes The Beatles. His idea of a lick of paint was to build an entire shopping mall. But it's an outdoor shopping mall. Which simply means there's no roof. Just a lovely wide boulevard down the middle and escalators and stairs to different levels and indeed it manages not to feel claustrophobic or … well … like a mall. Clever.

The rest of the town centre is a bit of a shithole. Beyond the immediate centre it kinda gets better again. Doesn't feel as mugger-ish.

Although to be fair it has – wholly unexpectedly - some truly grand buildings gathered together in a small clutch very near the theatre where we're playing. They would not look out of place in Rome or Athens. St George's Hall boasts 16 Corinthian columns on its front portico which is rather a lot. Certainly more than ten. Or four. It's the sort of building for which the word 'imposing' was invented.

Liverpool also has the third-highest number of Heritage listed buildings in England. Although because of neglect many are on the Heritage At Risk register. In my more pessimistic moments I think this might be a fitting description for Britain writ large.

I've not been to the gay quarter yet and as my birthdays tick over I'm not so sure how many gay quarters I'll be visiting in future years. We now have so many apps on our phones it's too easy to order in. I had a man around yesterday who even vacuumed and scrubbed the flat. (Found him on one of the apps for submissive blokes. Certainly cheaper than getting a cleaner in.) And afterwards he even let me do him. Well... “let” isn't exactly how it went... anyhoo... he went away happy and my bins are empty.

Magda Szubanski was born here. Never knew that.

Like a wind that's always blowing, life is flowing
Move on.

THIRD TIME'S A CHARM (2)

countryboy — Tue, 3 Mar 2015 13:27:00 GMT

[Wrote this a few weeks ago....]

So. Where are we?

We're in Camberwell. Denmark Hill. Brixton. South East London. That area. Specifically Coldharbour Lane. Brilliant name. Is there a novel somewhere in Henry Pordes second-hand bookshop on Charing Cross Road called Coldharbour Lane? There should be. Nicole Kidman can be in the film. It's set in the 1800s and there's a long-departed sailor involved. Nicole plays charcoal spoons in a damp street market to survive. The edges of her skirts (plural) are just filthy.

Hmm. Still with the film references/fantasies. After this long it's...well it's unavoidable. Even after 75 years in the business (thank you for that gag Julia Morris) I still feel self-conscious being an actor and kneading film images to explain and illustrate my life. My life experience. My story. My script. My God, should I be embarrassed? I dunno. Seems like I might be.

I'm past the half-century mark now and occasionally I wonder if this was ever a good idea. Let me wander off the narrative path for a paragraph or so to help flesh out my point. My theme. My tagline.

The other day I was discussing, with a straight friend, casual assignations. How I was walking away from some guy's apartment in Singapore semi-recently and how I was then instantly feeling shallow and whore-ish and – this next expression sounds American to my ears – down on myself. What had been the point? Didn't I want love? A relationship? Longevity? Life support? On that day and at the time I walked another few steps before breaking into a huge grin and thinking to myself “Hang on. That was awesome!” For indeed the other man had been stupidly handsome and the time spent together in his tiny Singaporean flat had managed to be both dirty and cleansing in coincidentally equal measures. My thinking ran on: “While I'm waiting for depth, why not dog-paddle in the shallows?” In conversation, I successfully transferred my momentary philosophy to my straight friend who, though now diving through deep waters and happily so, got my point and smiled nostalgically. Even went so far as to agree out loud.

I suppose extreme financial rewards are the depths of this business. Any business. We can all agree on that point. Except perhaps Nicole and her charcoal spoons. But she can stay out of it for now. Back off Nicole. Stop interrupting. Hang on again. She isn't. Come back! She isn't interrupting because indeed she is pretending to earn her keep by the playing of The Lord Is My Shepherd on her black and fragile spoons. In reality there'd be trucks full of Omega watches backing up the driveway of her and Keith's farmhouse somewhere in New South Wales. Tipping the lot out all over her carefully tended rhododendrons in the front bed. Nicole is swimming in the depths! In a platinum snorkel-and-goggle set. Good on you, Nicster! Nice work.

So. Where are we?

Where we are is here: in a stranger's flat in the inspirational Coldharbour Lane after a day rehearsing The Show for yet a third time in six years and feeling slightly dirty and wondering how I got so good at playing charcoal spoons in the shallow end of the pond but enjoying the paddling and admitting that it is, forsooth, a handsome pond and the far end, the deeper end is still in plain and goading sight and I know and trust that I'm quite good at overarm and oh look I now have proper metal spoons and the pond is in Singapore. Dubai. Lisbon. Milan. Et cetera. I may have Kitchen Whizzed several metaphors into a Reference Smoothie just then but if you were here with me now you would see that I'm not deeply concerned. Not by that or the floaties someone seems to have sutured onto my biceps. Sometimes I'll stick pins in them but they have the uncanny ability to re-inflate. Although I do like drifting...

So. The tagline is this: In Coldharbour Lane, No-One Can Hear You Scream.

Actually, after last week's mugging, we know that's not really...anyhow...moving on...

It's probably: 30 years ago, he left Coldharbour Lane to sail the world. Did he know the cat was dead?

No.

It's more like: He wanted more. But in the meantime, he screwed Latinos.

No.

It's definitely: Every sailor comes home. Sometimes with a Rolex. Always with herpes. And she couldn't see a watch....

No.

The tagline – at the moment – is:

At the end of Coldharbour Lane was a harbour. It was cold. Coldharbour Lane. It wasn't genius. It was just right.

So. What else?

I'm writing a book. One day at a time. It has no title but I write a page a day. Except when I don't. It's about a man called Joshua who's rehearsing a musical called Milky Coffee. He's done it before and he's doing it again. It follows him through his daily adventures. Some are genuinely adventurous. Others, perhaps, not quite up to Raiders of the Lost Ark. If we're honest. But it is that. Honest. In a nom-de-plume/quasi-truthful way. Don't see the affix 'quasi' nearly enough these days.

Where were we?

Um.

Wasn't Birdman aMAZing?

THIRD TIME'S A CHARM (1)

countryboy — Mon, 2 Feb 2015 13:23:00 GMT

It starts with a scream in a dream. And then it's suddenly not a dream. It's really real and it's across the road. I get up from this new bed. Open the curtains in this new room. In this new place. In this new chapter. Spanking new. I've been off the plane for about 15 hours. I've spent most of them sleeping. In and out of sleep. In and out of dreams. Some guy won Lotto. Two million. I remember dreaming “that'd do it”. That'd cover the costs of an itinerant lifestyle for ever and ever Amen thank you God praise Jesus show me the numbers.

But the screaming drags me away from that and drags me out of bed and I see some guy and some woman across the road and they're close enough to be clutching the same handbag and she's screaming “let me go!” over and over and over and I drag on trousers and then I nearly run into - what turns out to be - Jack from one floor down and we're both rushing out the front door and in that short time the whole scene has cut forward to the next set-up and now the woman is praying to a fire hydrant, head on metal; some older guy is crouching behind her, not daring to reach out and touch her; another guy as u-turned his tiny car and has stopped in the road to see if praying lady is okay; and Jack's girlfriend is on the other side of the street, our side, the non-screamy side, just in her winter PJs and watching the men inch toward the crouching woman who now seems as permanent as the fire hydrant. Completely still. And no intention of altering the tableau.

“You okay?” I ask. Someone has to.

She's up in a second. Glowers at me. She's beautiful. Spanish. Italian. Something. She won the bag. Clutches it high against her ribs. She has fantastic, dark, curly hair.

“No. I'm not,” she says. Not angry. Or scornful. Just stating a glaring fucking fact. Definitely not English.

She strides off. Confident. I'd say late for work if it wasn't three in the morning. Six people – a bit further down another couple have come out – don't move. The victim seems decidedly sure in her exit. The guy in the car is facing the right way and follows her. Jack has found momentum and follows. I don't. It's all too weird. Next thing, the woman gets in the car and they drive away. Jack returns.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“He's taking her to Stockwell.”

Stockwell. Huh. I moved into my first, proper, long-term London accommodation in Stockwell in 2005. With some guy called Luke. I went to his wedding three years ago. Happy memories flit. Can't help it.

People disperse. It's still dark. The event is over bar the head-shaking.

I nearly walk into the wrong building. Remember I'm in the same building as Jack and his girlfriend. They ask me something. My response includes information about having just returned after many months away.

“And welcome back to London,” I add. Jack and GF in PJs laugh. We've all done bombs and riots. We're getting over this micro-incident already. Well...micro for us. Not the girl. Woman.

They re-enter their flat from the un-carpeted landing.

“I'm Mick.” Jack offers a hand.

“Jack.”

They seem nice.

London is cold.

VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU? 7

countryboy — Sat, 10 Jan 2015 18:47:00 GMT

In keeping with the MO of most world leaders and U2 I've utterly failed you this last year. As a blogger in my case. Actually the U2 album is ok. Already lost my thread.

Let's all see what countries I've experienced since October 2013.

England. Kuwait. France. Canada. India. Portugal. Latin America. Canada again. China. Philippines. Australia briefly. Singapore. Back to the Philippines. Kenya. Jordan. Iraq. United Arab Emirates. Libya.

It's been a truly international year.

And this is where we did the show. Seoul, Daegu, Busan - all South Korea. Basel in Switzerland. Blackpool, England. Hong Kong. Singapore. Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia. And now here...Dubai, UAE.

It's been a truly international year.

The first five months were all in Seoul. That hurt a bit. Great people. Crap pollution blowing over from China. Truly awful coffee. Great alcoholic drink called Soju. Very cold winter. But bizarre to be there so long. We felt, no, we WERE residents. A month wouldn't have earned us that but five months did.

Had to pop north to get the photos of the Pyongyang Hotel interior for World of Interiors (see attached) but apart from that it was a routine few months. Apologies re the guy who thought I was working for the Ministry of the Interior and a double-agent. An easy mistake. I hear he stumbled into Nimbin looking for the Big Tally-Ho and is only now about to leave rehab. Apparently the blogs became a bit confusing. Big Apologies from the Big Dubai Building, Larry. Woops. There goes your cover. And it was all slightly in vane. They do tours now. Oh. And thanks for strapping your jubblies down Kate.

That blog that surfaced about us having a drunken and raucous dinner with three Middle Eastern ambassadors in the hills of Seoul? That was actually true. Never thought I'd see a middle-aged Middle Eastern diplomat robot dancing. These things keep me interested.

Highlights of the tour have been tut-tutting about the people who went to the FOURTH bar on a boozy night in Seoul only to then see the way young Tom (ensemble) looks at me. "You were one of them," he says quietly. Similar in theme to finding photos of me drinking shots in The Beach House in Blackpool with usherettes, having no idea who they were until told. "When the hell did that happen?" I ask at next day's warm-up. "Just after you insisted we all drink shots and ordered them," says Fran (ensemble).

Despite these two tales, I've actually been rather well-behaved this tour. Although I'll never get those spectacles back.

Genuine highlights have been Basel and Hong Kong. Just love 'em both. Basel fashion is still emulating Aha and/or any bikers' club. But it's really old and really cool and it's on the fricking Rhine. Several of us grabbed a finklefish (I think that's the correct name) and floated through the city as some of the commuters do. One pops one's work clothes in said finklefish, which cleverly folds into a waterproof floating device. One then hugs the finklefish and floats with the Rhine's steady and continuous flow and then paddles over to one of several ramps or ladders along the way to leave the river. "Bitch of a commute back," observed friend David Anthony as we stand on the Mittlere Brücke (Middle Bridge) looking down on the river's singular direction. No doubt.

And popping up an alp with expat Aussie Sara Drew in Luzerne. A-mazing. Makes the Burj Khalifa look like a short flight of stairs.

Not so much a highlight but certainly memorable were the student demos in Hong Kong. At first unnerving and then rapidly part of life. The threat of a nuke being dropped on Seoul kept me beautifully tense for five months and gave me great abs. Moving to Daegu let me relax until the F111s began taking off from South Korea's principle Air Force base VERY near the hotel because Kim Jong-Un had started lobbing rockets into the Yellow Sea or thereabouts. That went on for days.....

Busan was a beach town. Hurrah! I can relax. As long as I don't go in the sea because the Fukushima radioactive spillage drifts this way. Sigh.

What else? Ah, who cares? I've signed up for another year and have every intention of not failing you as a blogger. Also, there are now no end of dating apps for the homosexual fellow. Grindr. Growlr. Jack'd. Lord knows what happened to all the 'e's. Oh that's right we ate the little f**kers in the 90s. There's also Gaydar, Scruff, Hornet, Maleforce, and now hetero Tinder is letting us in. When you join you have the options of Straight or I'm Gay And I Already Know How This Works Get The F**k On With It There's A Guy On This Bus I Really Like The Look Of No I Don't Want To Crop My Fricking Photo Aaagggghhhh He's Getting Off Why Are Heteros So Slooooooow????

My point of course being that there will be stories of a romantic nature threaded throughout the year. I hope...

This year has been peaks and troughs. Last night was a peak. In fact it was Mount Kilimanjaro standing on the shoulders of Mount Fuji saying "I can see your dream come true from here!"

A few days ago it was a trough. James Cameron could have made The Abyss 2 during the events of a few days ago. Use a recent photo people. I thought the sepia was just an effect on his iPhone. Buh baah.

What I have learned is MEET THEM FIRST. Occasionally they really do seem okay. Occasionally I am horribly wrong. Have I REALLY learned? Let the next 12 months be our collective test.

Anyhow, once again apologies for the shambolic stumble of blogs this last year. Truly underwhelming.

It's back to Oz for a fortnight, then back to London to rehearse in the new cast and THEN let the blogging begin! We start our very interesting not-staying-anywhere-for-five-fecking-months tour in Liverpool, England. Birthplace of a Beatle or two and lots of rough Scousers on Gaydar. That's got to offer up something interesting and perhaps related to Paul McCartney surely? Can't wait to visit the Merseyside Maritime Museum. Knot.

If anyone does a hello-sailor joke I'm leaving...........

So long. (Public acknowledgement of approval if you can spike the reference.)

Perhaps a touch deceptive for the potential guest... see next...

VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU? 6

countryboy — Tue, 15 Jul 2014 18:48:00 GMT

Phewski! The leaking of my missives onto his World Nomads page has been a plus. Judging by the comments, everyone just thinks it's some incredibly self-indulgent pastiche. So. No harm done. Nonetheless, I've moved again and am sending this with triple encryption embedded in an ad about Hot Winter Getaways. I'm also testing a new program The Team gave me before I left. It should deflect any and all cyber-stalking and arrive in your inbox. As opposed to being posted on World Nomads. Gotta trust The Team. Let's see if it works.

By the way, this town also has a big “thing” to lure the tourists. Without giving my position away, you can eat it, and there's a famous ad campaign you'll have heard: “Throw another _____ at the barbie.” What are the chances I'd pull up at these two towns one after the other? Will send you the co-ordinates when this is all over. Starting to realise where Jeff Koons got his ideas. Yet another sculptor not referencing the enormous influence of Australia on modern art.

Also, here's one of the lost blogs as promised. Sorry I didn't do it sooner. I have been very drunk.

I spoke to (cracked onto...witnesses tell slightly different stories) the French head of some company at some whiskey tasting who told me they actually employ psychologists for Westerners spending a long time in South Korea because our inability to read Korean and communicate develops into a real malaise that needs treating. It's called Idontunderstandanyfuckingthingitis. Ordering a coffee is like doing your own tax. Confusing and taking much longer than it should. And no one has soy milk. Or 'tuyu'. And milk is 'uyu'. So picture me going into many, many coffee shops and raising my eyebrows and saying “tuyu uyu innayo?” Soy milk you have? I'm using the right words and structuring my sentence just like Yoda but maybe my accent makes it sound like “go f**k your grandmother” because I always get that polite-but-slightly-insulted face which makes me want to punch the pastries.

So, so illiterate. And no-one speaks English. Well, hardly anyone, and let's face it, in a lot of countries they just do. We get lazy. We expect everyone knows a bit of our lingo. Korea doesn't. And the alphabet – although around the same size as ours – is just a bunch of angles and circles to our King's English eyes. Their E is a T. Their C is a D. I is an 'ee' sound. A square is an M. And that's the shit that looks familiar.

I made an effort. I really did. But when you realise they're crow-barring adverbs and pronouns into their verbs without lube and that all verbs come at the end of the sentence except when they don't and that if I want two beers I have to add a suffix to the word “two” that is completely different to the suffix I would add if asking for two pens or two dogs or two hamburgers or two live octopii – all of which require their own suffix oh yeh they f**king do – well...I gave up. After a few months I kinda hear it. To get it. It's a brilliant language. Clever. Succinct. Economical. But a complete bitch.

Il. I. Sam. Sa. O. Yuk. Chill. Pal. Gu. S(h)ip.

That's one to ten in Korean.

IN ONE OF THEIR NUMBER SYSTEMS! Which you WON'T be using for dates, money, addresses, phone numbers, and numbers above 100. Discovering things like this is when the malaise (stabby feelings) start to surface. And breathing out...

I thought the whole reason he got the gig was because he spoke Korean. Or was this another brilliant piece of obfuscation? (It is one of his listed skills.) I look forward to decrypting your response.

a d @ ♣

Let's see if it works.

VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU? 5

countryboy — Fri, 11 Jul 2014 21:48:00 GMT

Well bugger me sideways. I don't know the How and I'm starting to be less sure about the Who, but somebody has planted a cyber-tracker in The Cloud and virtually knows my every virtual move. I'm livid.

Yet again, my last missive was posted as one of his blogs.

The owner of the Wikileeks Café assured me he had a free download of Trojan Whore installed on all his terminals. He also had a beard. I trust beards. If I can't trust a man with a beard who genuinely enjoys cooking leeks, who can I trust? Liv. Id.

I have, of course, moved towns again. Not giving anything away, but there's an enormous sculpture of a certain fruit about a click down the road. Hilarious. When this is all over, I'll send you the co-ordinates. Why is it not featured in the Qantas ads? Another mysterious path at the end of which sits a cologned knob in a high-backed swivel chair with a brain the size of a teste. So glad I got out of advertising.

But I digress.

Despite it being very annoying, my leakage in The Cloud might have a silver lining. Blort Ferttlewert (you know...Blort) has posted a comment that, as usual, seems to make no sense whatsoever to the casual Observer reader. I know, as more of a Hindustan Times girl, you will unravel its true meaning instantly. I went to the link you suggested by the way. But the apparatchiks had got there first. I enjoyed the Hulk Hogan video nonetheless.

My point being this. Whoever is leaking my blogs might, indirectly, be helping us. Then again, we all thought that about Ruddsie.

I continue to sift through the recovered blogs. Seoul didn't seem to inspire him in the same way as Bratislava or Vienna or even Malmo. Or was he aware he was being monitored? Keeping a low profile and all that? There's little mention of personal interactions and not even one reference to W.A.N.G. Which is probably a good thing.

I do, however, want you to cast your eyes over the one I shall include tomorrow. I'm sure there's some cleverly hidden code words in there. Let me know what you think, Ms Cress. I know you have a good eye. So sorry to hear about the other one. (I know a great ophthalmologist in Nairobi if you're interested.)

फिर मिलेंगे

VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU? 4

countryboy — Thu, 10 Jul 2014 11:44:00 GMT

Brilliant. Some finger-licking hackmeister infiltrated my emails and posted my encrypted message to you as a frickin blog entry. I'm never using Firewall-Free Fred's Internet Café services again. I should have flinched when I saw Nachos With Open Source on the menu. Can't believe my own stupidity. Damn their large plastic window displays of Nachos With Open Source.

I'm hoping most of the readers will just assume drugs and/or alcohol and too much Abba.

Hopefully today we'll be okay. I've moved to another town and have found a tiny place called Wikileeks Café. I'm thinking I might try the No Barriers Burger. It comes with a free drink.

But I digress.

Since my last missive I've managed to recover more of the lost blog entries. It would seem that he remained working in Seoul for some time. He was watched, I have no doubt. But not removed. I've also checked Kate Winslet's filming schedule and she's still quite busy. Consequently I think he kept working away – unaware of the surveillance – until at least March. Maybe longer.

His blogs, however, were removed the second he posted them. Clearly he never checks the 'Comments' section at the bottom the day after or he would have realised something was afoot. Most bloggers like to check the comments, I'm told. Our man clearly hasn't the glaring need for attention we all just assumed.

Some of the blogs seem to be clean. As in, no-one has tampered with them. Others were clearly re-worked with subtle propaganda. Maybe they intended to re-post them? Why they didn't is a mystery.

I include one below. I'm hoping you'll have some insight as to whether or not he was hiding covert messages himself. Maybe he knew what was going on the whole time? We must always remind ourselves: he's never been as thick as he seems.

I dare not post more than one at a time. Despite their most effective trawling program being a wooden abacus from the Joseon Dynasty, they somehow make it work.

…

One must be sensitive in these matters. I assume. Therefore I shall be. So I will not divulge the exact countries represented this evening at a dinner held at a certain embassy to which I and the other principals were invited here in Seoul .

That bastard den of iniquity that we will one day save from itself!

I shall, however, go so far as to say we met ambassadors from three countries whose current status might be referred to as “touchy to say the least”. I shall now go on to say that it is this calibre of people who should really be running the world. The sort of people (ambassadors) who will robot dance at the order of a Scottish actress after several courses of food and even more courses of fine wine at a crowded dinner table...with, I shall happily add, gusto. Yes, this actually happened.

Hilarious.

Long Live Kim Jong-un!

This is why I said yes to this tour. Because weird shit like this happens. That rocks your concept of how the world really works. These three countries don't always get on – on CNN. Their ambassadors? Best buddies that eat and get slightly shozzled together at least once a week. Makes you realise things aren't always as bad as we think. I asked the ambassador of _________ how the economy of China is, having heard things might be heading toward a slump. “It's fine. Don't worry.” I ask him about America. “Fine. Don't worry. They're on the up. It's slow. But they're okay. Don't worry.” The world? “Your country is totally fine. Europe? Definitely better. Asia? Better. Don't worry. It's fine.” “Really?” I ask, a little dubious. I admit to not watching the news or reading newspapers because, in my opinion, they exaggerate the negative. “You are completely correct. They do. It's fine.” He says it with something beyond confidence. Smells like knowledge.

Apparently everything – economically – is fine.

After a looooong dinner with many courses and a shitload of wine (despite two of their countries being officially non-alcoholic) we move downstairs to the karaoke room.

I would like to have dinner with dennis rodman! Dennis rodman is a great guy!

The Filipino maids continue to hover and top up our glasses and serve us dessert. Richard is in the middle of a heavy discussion about Israel but abruptly excuses himself to sing 'Copacabana'. It's that sort of night.

…

This was written in February. I've checked. He really did have dinner at an ambassador's residence. They really did get that drunk. I've also managed to get hold of the security footage. The robot dancing was hilarious.

Let me know your thoughts.

Gotta go. (Burger's arrived.)

VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU? 3

countryboy — Wed, 9 Jul 2014 17:11:00 GMT

It is with great excitement that I write to you, Ms Cress. The blogs are found.

I know. I know. I, too, was at my wit's end. When we never heard anything after just two blogs, I feared the worst. But as you know, hope is the one thing onto which I held. That, and my undying belief in never ending a sentence with a preposition. Unless that word is 'preposition'. Then it jumps over into something of a more philosophical situation wherein one can create reverse analogies apropos chickens and eggs; gods and writers; et al.

But I digress.

We were right to assume that your being in North Korea with a doco crew only some months before he landed in South Korea was part of this mystery. None of us believed they could have made a connection. Simply because there wasn't one. It actually was one of those situations that necessitated the creation of the word “coincidence”. Hence, my use of it now.

Nevertheless, their version of spy-on-everything Echelon - which is basically a spreadsheet program and a box of pencils – found a connection. They found you had collaborated in the 80s. In the art world. Whereas most countries would shrug or even junk-mail you a grant form, up there they know the power of words, imagery and a nice dolly tracking shot. When they looked up both your frequent flyer points and spotted the trip to Mexico back in the 90s, their alarm bells rang. Well...a lone bulb on a wooden peg board next to the word Australia gleamed a dull orange for a moment before using up its saved power. But someone was watching.

The upshot of this preamble is to give you a brief insight as to where he's been and why the blogs stopped.

Although vaguely amusing, his defiant rejection of a day-trip to the Demilitarised Zone in that blog of December 2013 was the third domino in a line of about four dominoes. Why the plural of domino needs a surprise 'e' is utterly beyond me.

But I digress.

One: he knows you. Two: you had just been 'up there'. Three: you collaborated together in the 80s. Four: you went to Mexico together in the 90s. Five: He was the only Australian in an all-British cast of 'Mamma Mia'. Six: He openly rejected the idea of going near the border. Seven: about seven dominoes.

I've managed to hack into the 'Mamma Mia' company records (harder than that clause implies) and discovered that he didn't miss a single show in Seoul. Or Daegu. Or Busan. But if it wasn't him, then who was it? And why didn't anyone realise a different man was playing 'Bill'? I hear it's a smallish role, but it is a lead. Or do we all look the same to them? (You know...the Brits.) The Australian accent is a bugger to pull off. Kate Winslet got damn close in 1999's Holy Smoke, but apart from her it's pretty much a laugh-fest. And, okay, Benedict Cumberbatch sounded okay when he was having a bash at Julian Assange in The Fifth Estate, but even he started hiccupping English Standard every fourth or fifth vowel. This means that the Bill replacement was an inside job. Or Kate Winslet.

I have more information. But I'll have to move to another internet café before I dare write more.

I do hope his cover isn't blown.

The upshot is this: he's alive!

VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU? 2

countryboy — Tue, 28 Jan 2014 17:41:00 GMT

It's very easy to make fun of another country simply because of a few cultural/linguistic differences.

So here we go.

The manicurist shop called Hand Job.

The Korean award clearly displayed in that tiny coffee shop in Gangnam. It reads: Master of Cupping.

The burger shop in Itaewon called Piz Burger. Wait. That's not the funny part. The funny part is the sign on the wall inside that proclaims, “A fairly enjoyable meal at a reasonable price!” And you know what? It was. Fairly enjoyable.

Similarly, the very helpful web page about film times in Seoul. When I hit the 'English' button for opening times for a Megabox near our hotel, it proudly announced 'Closed All Year'. Another translator who is either taking the piss, really shit at his/her job or was perhaps dumped by the owner of Megabox. By text.

It is these same translators who, I presume, are responsible for the names of many of the coffee shops. First of all, let's establish that there's hundreds and hundreds of the buggers. Many of them belong to franchises. There's Starbucks, of course, but also a wide selection of local brands. The Coffee Bean. (Sure.) The Caffé Bene. (I see what you did there.) And then there's places with slightly less standard names. Like Standard Coffee. (Translator being brutally honest?) Daily Motion. (Translator being brutally honest?) Angel-in-Us. (I'm sorry? What? There's an angel in you? As in...in you? What the...? IN you? I can't...even begin...just...no.) W Cafe. (Well that's fine. Pretty cool actually. Let's have a closer look at the sign...We Make Price...okay you can fuck off.) And my out-and-out favourite, Adjective Coffee. My fellow actor Richard is convinced it was a miscommunication. “Well...of course the name of the shop has to include coffee. So you have Something Coffee.” “Something Coffee?” “No. Not literally the word 'something'. But an adjective. You know. Adjective Coffee.” “Ahhh!!!” Lots of head-nodding and smiles and one stupidly named coffee shop later...

What else?

Gag Story. This is a little shop within the theatre complex selling chocolate and canned drinks and instant noodles. Gag. Story. It's like I'm standing outside a room without a door. Or shipwrecked on a small island with Colin Farrell and Hugh Jackman and they've both broken all their fingers and need help with absolutely everything. I just don't know where to start.

And then there's Meat Packing Restaurant. (No The to lull you in.) Sits near the top of a hill. A block of a building. Dark and square. The words of its name shoved into the top left corner. It forces you to crane your neck to look at it. I imagine this is what a restaurant would be if The Texas Chainsaw Massacre had been turned into a restaurant franchise. In fact, I've imagined it all too vividly. I see patrons stripped and tied to revolving crucifixes. Bursts of red light breaking the blackness in slow, staccato beats. Sex Pistols demo tapes are jack-hammered out of the speakers while you could swear they were playing a Puccini opera in another room. A room you will n e v e r see. Naked Korean chefs wearing only black Tae Kwon Do belts around their heads and aprons of pig's blood throw the food at their customers' spinning, screaming faces. If the Bulgogi you ordered lands in your mouth, you eat. Not exactly Jamie's Italian.

Absolutely. Everything.

The sporty hiking active clothing shop called Kolon Sport. I need add nothing to this.

The other sporty hiking active clothing shop called The Red Face. Even the font and logo are similar to The North Face. But whereas The North Face is crisp and cool and makes you think of people dying heroically and somewhat pointlessly on mountains, The Red Face makes me think of people falling over on ice rinks. Or just farting in public. Not so sporty.

Oh. And yesterday I passed a gym called Painstorm. The font was angry and jagged. People who just love Meat Packing Restaurant go there. I mean, I think it was a gym. Was it a gym? I was sure at the time. The stairs did go down...

But let's move away from the streets and into my apartment. (It's called an apartment but it's really an hotel room with a kitchenette hiding behind some folding doors. A bit like calling Australian politics “politics”.) Within my bathroom is a typical Korean toilet. What does this mean exactly? Well, it's like comparing your washing machine to a T1000 Terminator robot from the future. There's a gap in the technology. Firstly, the seat is heated. So it feels like somebody else has just had a long session just before you wandered in. We all found that a bit hard to get used to. Now? We love it. If you ever happen to sit on a loo here that isn't heated, it's a shock to the system, and, quite frankly, an insult to the buttock. Secondly, there is a modern panel of buttons at seat level, immediately to your right when in sitting mode. It controls sprays and jets and air drying for both the anus and the vagine. (Yes. Vajeeen.) There are controls for temperature, pressure, and direction. I have, after much research, set mine to Best Friends Forever. The world needs to catch up. This isn't a toilet. It's a Day Spa for sphincters.

As for the social aspect of Seoul? Well, there are stories to tell. I've been to Homo Hill. It's a hill full of homos. Was not a total surprise. Occasionally I'm acting half my age. So nothing new there. But not four times a week as I did on the last tour. So something new there. In fact I've kept myself (relatively) nice, as we/they say in England. But those stories can wait until next time. One of those stories began with a Corona-rita. If you guessed that that's a margarita being stabbed with a bottle of Corona, you're bang on. This did not instigate a night of meditation and stillness. Not even the T1000 Best Friend Bidet can flush those memories away.

Cultural differences? Absolutely. Similarities? Koreans and Brits and Aussies and Americans and heteros and homos and lezzos all like to get really pissed occasionally. Actually, especially the Koreans. And I think we need more Corona-ritas at these world summit thingies. Hugs and real demilitarisation would follow. And lots of hilarious photos on Barack Obama's Facebook page. For example, when he was dared to snog the musical director of the touring production of Jersey Boys. And he did. Hilarious.

Adjective noun until we verb again.

(Every.

Thing.)

VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU? 1

countryboy — Tue, 3 Dec 2013 16:56:00 GMT

VOULEZ DÉJÀ VU 1

I found Whore Street.

But more of that later.

Welcome back, gentle readers. Welcome back to the proper blog. We all know there's been a few entries since the last tour in 08/09. A few from London. A couple from Oz. We've read them. We've smiled politely. A gentle “a-ha!” to pretend we're enjoying them...

But we haven't. We've been missing the real thing. The genuine articles. The ones that take place all over the place and place me in untoward places after which I describe what took place. They're the ones we like. The ones that start with sentences like

I found Whore Street.

It's a street here in Seoul, South Korea. I'm here because – are you clenching your fists with joy? hope so - I'm doing 'Mamma Mia'. Again! Another world tour. And this is AirportTheatreHotel Place Number One. The Republic of Korea. The nice side. Everybody's talking about doing a day trip up to the border, or more specifically, the DMZ (the Demilitarised Zone) – which, just quietly, is about as demilitarised as a nuclear warhead dressed up to look like the Apocalypse Now Robert Duvall clutching a grenade in a gun shop with a Dare me! stare and an armistice shoved down the front of his underpants – but you know what? I'm thinking 'no'. Not entirely convinced about paying to feel oppressed and frightened. A bit like watching amateurs do Ibsen, I expect. Not what I would call “a nice day out”.

Back to Whore Street. Back to last week.

I'm on a break. I've had my hair cut by the lovely Wigs And Hair Department and realise I have some time up my sleeve before our technical rehearsals recommence. So I escape.

The theatre is in an area called Itaewon and there's a lot of Americans here. Soldiers. A military base or something. (A kindly, helping hand for the demilitarisation, no doubt.) I leave the main road and begin wandering the back streets. Because that's where the Interesting Shit is. Sure enough, I notice a tiny, uphill street that makes the back street look like the Champs-Élysées in Spring. There's a small (I think) restaurant called “V.I.P.”. So says the dead neon. I sense that any P with even a smidgen of V-and-I had never been anywhere near it. The whole street has a strange vibe. I deliberate. This city is new to me and I to it. I'm alone. No-one from the company knows where I am right now. I don't really know where I am right now. I should probably...

I turn and walk into Tiny Street Going Up. The diminutive glass front of “V.I.P.” is dark and secretive. As I walk past, a portion of the dark glass – a door! - opens and a women in a short, silk dressing gown takes one step out. She might be on a lead. “Annyeong!” At this point I still have my restaurant theory going. That moment ends and I quickly add up the dark glass, the short gown, the beckoning finger and the carnival-is-over atmosphere and realise it equals Prozzie. I smile and then it's a small laugh and then I stop that in case it's rude and so I wave for reasons known only to the God of Awkward. However, I keep going. In my book, a prostitute in the first two metres is a promising start. At intervals of about 8 seconds (roughly) doors keep opening and happy Korean prostitutes pop out, the bells on the doors ringing sweetly, their silk dressing gowns covering a little thigh as they beckon and say hello in English and Korean. It's something out of Mary Poppins. I need an umbrella and a smidgen of choreography. A hop, skip and an ankle-crossover. A tweed cap to tip to each and every happy whore as my jaunty walk cues another door, another tinkling bell.

Just a spoonful of dollar

Makes the prostitute “Annyeong!”

The prostitute “Annyeong!”

Apparently it's called Hooker Hill. Nice. Over the main road is, I'm told, Homo Hill. Not man-whores; just a couple of bars. I think we'll all be more informed about that in a blog or so.

But there's more to Seoul than alliteration. It's quite large with a population of 10 million. “They can't all be blockers or fanny-vendors,” I clearly hear you all asking. Correct. They're not. The rest are in the food industry or work for Samsung.

They like food. There's a lot of it here. Lots and lots. Much of it meat. The rest is pastries. Meat and pastries. Meat and pastries and Apple relegated to oh-yes-that-other-phone-company status. Yyyarrrhh! Stick that in your ipod! If you've upgraded! To the new docking port! Or forked out for an adaptor! Yyyarrrhh again.

Where was I?

Meat and pastries. Yes. I may retire here. Seriously, there are restaurants and coffee shops abso-bloody-lutely everywhere. Or, in Korean, abso-bloody-lutely yoggichoggi. The main streets. The back streets. Ground floor. First floor. Second floor. Whore floor. I think that some of the restaurants may contain other restaurants. And so many coffee shop franchises. With names like “A Twosome Place”. Mmm. Nearly.

It's a shame their love of coffee doesn't extend to loving the taste of coffee. Weaker than mermaid piss. Freshwater mermaid at that. I quickly cottoned on to the fact that I must ask for a double. Yesterday that became triple. They were a little taken aback but, being Korean, they were bloody lovely about it and got on with it.

Yes that's the other thing I need to mention. Koreans. Helpful. Helpful and polite. More helpful than Jesus at a wedding. Well. Jesus anywhere, pretty much. If the stories are true. Which, I understand, is a subject of not little contention in some parts.

Where was I?

Prostitutes. Meat. Pastries. Piss-weak coffee. The Messiah (...maybe...) ...

Samsung! The big, main, Very Important headquarters are not only here but also very near our accommodation. I think you can go in. I'm hoping it's exactly like Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. I'm sure it will be. Hope I'm not disappointed.

Anyway, that's enough to be going on with. I, and therefore you, are going to be in Korea until late April, so no need to cram everything Korea into this little blog. There are palaces and … other things to see and talk about. Can't wait.

Right now, I have to go on stage and arrive on a small island in Greece in Spring. In Seoul. In Korea. In winter.

Showbiz, eh?

Oh. And last night a lesbian from Wellington tried to cop off with me in a sports bar. For ages. Despite me telling her I was a card-carrying Spartan. Despite her Nebraskan girlfriend being next to us. And despite her being a lezzo.

Showbiz, eh?

Mamma mia. Here we go again.

AUSTRALIAN STORY 1

countryboy — Fri, 2 Aug 2013 22:59:00 GMT

I've read Ulysses. Or rather...

That bloody book. Ages it has. Haranguing and haranguing. Four times I tried. Four times! But done it is it is the. Done. One word after another just like in that Stephen King thing with killing things and never a Latin quote to spoil the bloody sport of reading it and. Kidney. Still. Where was it purchased? At his favourite second-hand book shop, Henry Pordes, being located at 58 to 60 Charing Cross Road in the city of London for one pound and 99 pence from the small table on your right near the stairs. Why was it on that table? That was the table where Mr Pordes placed all the specials. A new book. New as the day. But cheap. All the books that no one cares and no one cares for but I said yes I will Yes.

And I read the f**ker.

I'm letting everyone know. And since I've not written one blogging word since I arrived back in God's Own VIP Section – seriously don't come here by boat, not even P and bloody O, you won't be allowed off – I thought that bragging about reading exploits was as good a start as any. And, by the way, it's hard at times, easy at times, beautiful at times, and, sometimes, you don't understand how he's done to your imagination what he's done. I think an angel reached up through his arse and down his arm and pushed the pencil around occasionally. I give it 5 stars and a drunk comet.

I've been back for over 6 of your months. There's been no regular work but a lot of house-sitting and a lot of living in the mother's grannie flat and one trip to South Australia and I might have gone to Queensland back over Christmas but I can't remember.

Nonetheless I'm now a University Lecturer (my capitals) in the Humanities Department (their capitals) at the uNIvERsiTY oF nEwCAsTLe, oUrimBaH cAmpUS (stream-of-consciousness capitals). Which means we're a fair whack from Newcastle but you still get your piece of paper at the end. I've seen the online HR site where I electronically complete my time sheet and I'm applying for a course to learn how to fill it out electronically. I hope there's a free spot. Of course, one may have to do it online.

I was sitting at home at a desk writing a marvellous screenplay called “Avoca” - it's a heart warming love story that goes over a whole lifetime and set on a beach and I think when it's made some people might call it a bit slow – when the phone rings.

Stuart: “My friend needs someone to lecture for her at the university. Mind if I put your name in the ring?”

Me: “Think of a reason to say no. Think of a reason to say no.”

Stuart: “What?”

Me: “Sure.”

I hang up. Jocelyn rings.

Jocelyn: “I need someone to lecture about Acting and Performing for the rest of the year. I have two blokes with proper degrees but are you interested?”

Me: “Think of a reason to say no. Think of a reason to say no.”

Jocelyn: “What?”

Me: “Do I have to do my time-sheet online?”

Jocelyn: “Yeh but it's not hard.”

Me: “Sure. Whatever. I've read Ulysses.”

Next day I'm sitting in exactly the same position. The script is in exactly the same position.

Jocelyn: “Yeh. The gig's yours.”

Me: “Thanks.”

Jocelyn: “Bye.”

Me: “Bye.”

And that's how you interview for a position at a university

I did my first lecture last week. Went okay. In my own head I'm calling it “How To Play Cowboys And Indians As A Grown-Up”. I'm going to teach them about Theatre of the Poor, Theatre of the Oppressed, Epic Theatre, Street Theatre, Forum Theatre, Theatre of Cruelty, Noh, Artuad, Butoh and Brecht and then I'm going to teach them about what actually happens. I'm kidding. It was too easy. I had to go there. (I'm not kidding.)

On a personal note I'm back in that strange land I wandered into in 2011. The land with no magnetic north. Or south. I feel nothing pulling me forward. Or up or down. Or anything really. Which is not really...um...me. Mind you, according to a few books I've read since I started work as a dresser on Rock of Ages on London's glittering West End last year – boy did that situation turn out to more spiritual than the poster implied - I'm not really here. Here isn't really here. This is all a dream. An illusion. A massive hallucinogenic movie. An amazing non-thing that isn't really happening at all.

Okay...

So I've decided I'd really like to be non-realistically wealthy. Might have to stick an exclamation mark on the end of Avoca. Avoca!

To my English friends – I miss you and wish you all well. I will return. One day.

To my Aussie friends – I've not caught up with all of you face-to-face yet, which is ridiculous after all this time. Apologies. Will be well-received. Where's my dinner invite???? I'm kidding! (I'm not kidding.)

I'm also turning 50 at some point in the near-ish future. Or at least, this body through whom the universal WooHaa is flepturating is putting 50 sun orbits on its time-sheet. Which, if we ignore the circular motion is really just a long piece of cosmic string, and seriously, how long is a piece of string? Urh. It's enough to make you paint your whole body white and let the spirits take over your kinetic movement thus creating a physical semiotic experience that can be observed and enjoyed by a spect-actor in a non-linear ludic space.

Me? I think I might organise a big game of Blazing Saddles.

Don't worry. Political Correctness isn't really real.

Apparently you can get that on a t-shirt in Port Moresby.

Exclamation mark.

AUSTRALIAN STORY ZERO

countryboy — Fri, 1 Mar 2013 23:08:00 GMT

I don't know where the fuck I am.

I mean, yes, I'm in Australia. In Saratoga. Camped between the eucalypts and good fishing. In my mum's granny flat. All good. There's two geckos (small Australian lizards). One in and one out. And they make a noise like someone hitting a small, tight drum. Once. I hear this twice a day. Once during daylight hours, once at night. They call to each other once a day. I expect they're a couple.

"I'm here."

I'm here. The Schedule of the Geckos is pretty much my tempo these days. Tok. Twelve hours. Tok.

Another day.

Hard to get motivated.

The weather's just changed. Summer is sliding off into the north and Autumn has slipped in sideways. Hello long sleeves. The jeans are back on.

Good to see friends. Good to hang out. Catch up. Hear the news. A fair bit of as-you-were. A few notable exceptions of as-you-weren't. Okay. Wasn't expecting that.

Mum's better. That's good. Makes me feel ready to move on again. Me and my suitcase. "Me and my hat" is far more melancholic and poetic. But really...it's me and my suitcase. Can't carry a toothbrush in a hat. It'll fall out eventually.

Make the trip to Sydney now and again. Good to see friends. Good to hang out. Talk to actor friends and even though I'm three feet in front of them I feel like we're Skype-ing. Doesn't seem real. I don't know if it's a case of "I don't believe I'm really here" or whether I never really left London and just sent my body and its several senses here to check things out.

Yesterday, really felt like I should be in London. Different to missing it. Just felt like this holiday was over and I should be back in the real world. The thing is...this is real. Very real. Quite possibly more real. As mentioned, there are many trees, tall and old, around the flat and the house. The land behind the house is still bush, rising for another 50 or so metres before curving and dropping down the other side. Full of birds and lizards and possums and ferns. Whole fucking documentaries of ancient species of living, scurrying, gripping, thriving, transmogrifying things. It's all going on back there.

At the end of a steep drive is a short walk to the very visible water. Big inlets. Connected. Boats. Fishing. Prawn trawlers day-sleeping before they wend their way out between the houses and under bridges until they're Out. In the sea. It's not really that far.

I wrote to a friend recently and described it as feeling like Huckleberry Finn and the calendar was my raft. I was so surprised and pleased by that sentence that I repeat most of it here. There.

Tok.

And how are you? Hard to change the subject when it's autobiographical. Give up.

Right. What else?

I think this short epistle (is this an epistle? … opinions welcome) is possibly more dour than it needs be. It's late and I'm tired but had the urge to write. Apologies if you were hoping for The White Stripes and ended up with Leonard Cohen.

Australia is nice. Yep. Nice. People are - generally - happy and positive and yes, Jackie Clune, everyone asks me how my day is going and what my plans for the rest of the day are when I shop. After seven years in London it even got on my wick for a couple of weeks. But now I'm back into the whole Little House on the Prairie jejeune and banter optimistically with the best of them. I bet no-one's ever put Little House on the Prairie and jejeune in the same sentence. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the cutting edge.

I like it here. Let's get that little conundrum cleared up right away. It's bloody lovely. Even during the summer rains I was wearing shorts. Spend much time with bare feet. This is my idea of semi-heaven.

I've swum in the ocean a few times. Water was a bit cold when I arrived. It's always behind the seasons. But right now it's juuuuuust right. Swam at Maroubra in Sydney's south a couple of times. Bloody ripper. Shitload of seaweed one day. Weird. Mounds of it on the beach. Had to get out of the water because it was just too thick. All gone the next day.

The coffee's good. Stupid good. Nobel Prize good. Those of you who delight in coffee and who've not been here...well. You have a treat in store. Oh. My. God. It's. Good. Moving on... I can't move on. It's like... What is it like? It's like wearing polaroid sunglasses for the first time and realising how crisp and delineated everything could be. Same eyes. Same world. Different lenses. Wow. Okay then. Same taste buds. Same world. Different fucking everything-to-do-with-the-making-of-coffee. That's the best I can do right now. It's like wearing polaroid lenses on your tongue.

And that's bed time.

LONDON CALLING 10

countryboy — Wed, 16 May 2012 13:32:00 GMT

You dream. You hope. You pray.

You think it's over. That's it. It'll never happen again.

You think it will never happen to you. Not again. That special moment. That special knowing. That this is good. That this is right.

And then, out of the blue, here in England's north, it does happen. You find it.

The perfect one.

And the three words appear. Easily. Unforced. Entirely of their own volition.

Lesbian Sheepdog Rage.

Utter. F**cking. Gold.

You see, this is why I haven't submitted a blog entry for some time. I was, I now understand, simply waiting. For the perfect opener. Waiting for those three golden words that all seem like nouns. Although in this instance 'lesbian' becomes an adjective. As opposed to a verb.

I've actually written about four blogs in the last months and deemed none of them worthy. Not a one. Because they began with sentences like:

“Any band that effectively uses industrial catering platters as percussion gets the okay from me.” Far too Sunday supplement.

“It is, as The Proclaimers so deftly put it in 1987, over and done with.” Too 60 Minutes.

“F**king Shakespeare.” Just too angry.

And so it is with some pride and a small nod to Polyhymnia, the Muse of Sacred Poetry - and a condition in people who have hurdled too much (they exist) - that I re-begin today's blog.

Lesbian. Sheepdog. Rage.

And now I summon the Muse of Context! (Hello Pat. Take a seat and help yourself to the scones. Thanks for materialising.)

Right...context.

I'm currently in York working for the local Theatre Royal. I suppose it'll have to do. I'm in a play called Blue/Orange by Joe Penhall. A wordy little chamber piece. Actually, it's a fucker full of verbal land-mines. It goes for over 2 hours and there's only three of us in it. If you do the maths you'll realise we've all had to memorise dictionaries of words. Dictionaries, I say in an italicised fashion and here's a punctuation mark! Then join the little bastards together and actorate them in roughly the right order. Whilst diligently observing the specifically written beats and … pauses … … … and silences … … … … … … … like some fascist Michael Nyman soundtrack. It is, as you might well hear in a traditional North Korean restaurant, a bitch.

Which is, of course, the sex of the dog I mentioned in my sassy opener. (See what I did there?) The dog is called Mika (pronounced MEE-ka although you knowing that doesn't really alter the basic course of the story...actually I don't know if it IS a story yet but let's all hold hands, forge ahead and remain hopeful, eh?) and it belongs to my dear friend Catherine who lives in the village of Goostrey (we're in England, what can I say...actually what I can say is that there's a village up here called Penistone yes you read that correctly so Goostrey is barely worthy of a cheeky nipple tweak and a wink).

Catherine lives in this village with her husband and two sons and, currently, 8 dogs. Jim and Kit are the proud parents of five little sheepdogs, who, yes, were almost too cute and made one feel one was in a Disney film or some project Steve Martin might have walked into during what I call his “Just...Steve...no...” period. You know the films I'm talking about. I got so angry.

I summon the Muse of Just-Let-It-Go! (Hi Gwen. Take a seat and help yourself to the scones. I think you know Pat?)

And breathing out.

Anywhen, I'm at Catherine's. One morning she's telling me how they'd wanted sheepdog Jim to get a little Studio-54-Mezzanine-Level with sheepdog Mika, make some puppies and a profit, but that Mika, strangely, wanted none of it. I'm told this story as we look into the back garden and watch Mika trying to hump Kit (mother I repeat mother of the pups), gums drawn back and, I could have sworn, frowning.

“Have you considered...just for arguments sake,” I begin delicately, witnessing the cleanly unpenetrated air immediately to Kit's rear, “that you might, as t'were, be the proud owner, and this is merely an observation, of a...and I know we're a long way from London but I'm sure you'll cope...a lesbian dog?” We both look out the window. Kit keeps looking around and up, seeming like she needs to explain something to Mika. And if Mika had the power of speech, I know she would have been panting out the words, “Just go with it.”

I would have laughed had I not been in similar situations myself a couple of times. Absinthe, eh?

Catherine nods. I can't remember her exact verbal response but, like Liberace's mum, she must have had alone times when her mind allowed certain thoughts.

The next morning we're in the kitchen. All eight dogs are inside. Mika is furiously unhappy about the five pups. Growls at them whenever they trot by in their cutesy, internal-xylophone-soundtrack way. They simply ignore her, adding insult to injury. “Our mum's not a lesbian, doo-da, doo-da.” How they know the tune to Camptown Races is a thematic peg for another time.

As you can imagine, and at this juncture I really encourage you to do so, eight dogs and two humans within one L-shaped kitchen is a mad scramble of pecking orders. Jim, the Dogfather – heh heh, that wasn't pre-meditated – has no idea where the pygmy dogs have come from and copes by sitting stock still and looking at everyone and everything askance like he's just beamed in from Kentucky, which is run by dogs. Kit's affection for her weaned pups was left behind last week so she doesn't give a flying duck f**k what they're doing.

Mika is growling at anything that moves: female, male, canine, human, cutesy-wutesy or just looking good for their age. Suddenly, she sees Kit caught in the corner of the L-shaped kitchen. Our teenage mum is trying to find the one calm spot in the room. Mika makes her move. She mounts Kit and, as history has let us all know, Kit is entirely unenthralled. A bit like me when my agent told me I had an audition for a UK tour of Carousel. Then some puppies come close. Too close.

It's too much. Too many puppies. Too many Two-Legs. Everyone's talking or barking or crying (I was getting worked up about the Steve Martin movies again) and she's not getting the commitment she wants from the bitch of her dreams.

It's at this moment that Mika's growling goes from pissed off and ramps all the way up to Lesbian Sheepdog Rage! It was terrifying. It was “Grizzly” and “Jaws” and Laurence Fishburne playing Ike Turner in 1993's “What's Love Got To Do With It” - where the hell IS Angela Bassett? - all rolled into one growling, angry, for-the-love-of-Jon-Hamm-save-yourselves scene. I've never seen an angrier lesbian sheepdog. Her growling sounded like she was trying to give birth through a hole that didn't even exist to another dog that was also growling. Her eyes popped like a small goldfish you've accidentally stepped on at your friend's house in Rotterdam. Her body language screamed “MINE! Stay back!” which is an anagram of Ask My Cabinet which makes more sense than the scene I was witnessing at the time. Mika wasn't even trying to dry-hump Kit anymore, just holding on for dear life and pissed off that she didn't have one, not one, opposable digit for purchase. She looked ridiculous. And she knew it. Her paws sliding off to the side every few seconds. Her pride and dignity sliding off more regularly than that. Kit was whining. The puppies were barking. Catherine was yelling “Stop!” Me crying. Hell, I don't even know if dry-humping is the correct usage because we're dealing with a dog and a dog with no penis at that! She wasn't even dressed! Where was I? I remember.

Goostrey.

It – was – UGLY.

The reviews for the play have been just delightful.

Pat and Gwen have stopped feeding each other bits of scone while Polyhymnia takes polaroids and all are now discussing whether or not this was a story.

I think it was a beauty.

I'm still in York.

LONDON CALLING 9

countryboy — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 11:56:00 GMT

Three gifts from three wise men.

Okay. From one wise man.

Would you believe three jpegs from a shop-soiled ex-Christian?

Love from here,

beckley xo

LONDON CALLING 8

countryboy — Sat, 1 Oct 2011 13:18:00 GMT

One of the first things I see here in Leicester is a youngish man walking down the street, an open can of beer in one hand, an open packet of Skittles in the other, and a sly grin pushing up his left cheek. Knowingly taking the famous Tom Brown's Schooldays quote and busting it wide open here on the streets of a Midlands town at a mid-morn hour.

So. Okay. Leicester...City Of Dreams. I take that on board and raise my expectations instantly.

Why Leicester? I'm here to rehearse and then appear in a play that was based on a book that led to a film that we all know and remember even if we haven't seen it for years. And that bookplayfilm is One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.

The audition was some weeks ago. My agent texts me at 9.21pm: “Possible last minute audition tomorrow, thu for one flew over the cuckoos nest. Will call in morning with info. Fab director, Michael Buffong.” I imagine Phil schmoozing Mr Buffong in some foyer at some interval in some theatre and quietly smile. But tomorrow? I've just started working again in London's glittering West End...on a musical...as a dresser...and have my first laundry call tomorrow! Four hours of washing and drying and sorting and ironing 57 charismatically soiled shirts. When was I going to prepare for an audition?

So I don't. Why do a half-arsed audition when you can do a full-arsed audition?

The next day, I grovel and get half an hour of freedom from the stockings and socks. I rush from the Novello Theatre in London's glittering West End and make it to the American Church on Tottenham Court Road bang on noon. Run downstairs. The guy before me finishes up and exits. I immediately tell myself I'm much better than him. (Habit.) Then, through the glass door, I see the director and some other guy start having a chat. That goes on and on...and on...I'm pacing really obviously on my side of the transparent door. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen are-you-frickin-kidding-me? minutes... I bust open the door.

“Hi. I've never done this in thirty years of auditioning for things, but can we, you know, do the thing? I'm on a break from a new job and I kinda gotta go.”

“When do you have to be back?” asks Mr Buffong.

“About five minutes ago,” I say.

“Yeh, we can do something.” Apparently someone can't find my CV, hence the delay. I don't think my face reacts to this info at all.

“So, have you read the play?”

“Nup. Only found out about this last night. Around 9.30. Been working all day today.”

“Oh. Have you read the scene?”

“Nup.”

“Happy to give it a go?”

“Yep.”

I audition for the role of Dale Harding, a Southerner, uses his hands a lot, slightly effeminate. I can do the accent, the hands come naturally, and I've come across one or two effeminate males. It goes well. Director's eyebrows go up.

“Would you like to do it again?”

“Ahhhhhhh.” So many shirts.... “Okay.” I'm opening the door as I start doing the last line.

“So...is it okay if I...” My head does little jerks referencing everything in the world that exists outside of this room.

“Yep. Thanks.”

I'm offered the part of Mr Dale Harding. I'm surprised but not really. My hand acting was lush. A week later my agent calls saying Mr Buffong would now like to offer me McMurphy. “That would be the ballsy leading big bloke part I didn't even audition for?”

“That's the one,” confirms Phil.

Beer and skittles. Once in a while, apparently, it just is. Hellooooooo Leicester.

I really must start conducting audition workshops...

http://www.curveonline.co.uk/curve.php?view=showinfo.php&showid=243

LONDON CALLING 7

countryboy — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 21:16:00 GMT

	There's got to be a morning after	
	If we can hold on through the night...

We're all a bit tired. Although 'tired' isn't exactly the right word. Simone said it was a bit like “tears at the end of a party”. I think some boffin will eventually called it Post-Riot Syndrome. The rest of us will call it Glad I Didn't Get Killed By A Teenager Can I Relax Now?

Weird times indeed, my friends. I've been here for the bombs, now the riots, and, a few week ago, Luke's personal request of 3 hours of karaoke as part of his stag do. They were all scary, but the riots were by far the scariest. We stood around the tele while society crumbled around our feet, around our tube stations, and before our very eyes. I didn't really get worried until they started burning things. Fire will always be a primal signpost. Warmth and safety. Or destruction and disorder. And we were not feeling warm or safe.

	We have a chance to find the sunshine
	Let's keep on looking for the light..

I'm back in the West End by the way. Not acting. Dressing. Backstage on a musical called 'Betty Blue Eyes'. I quite like it. As shirts were ironed and socks sorted for the show ahead, Flower (wardrobe boss lady) had the desktop tuned into the BBC. Now I never read the papers or watch the news, so anything that gets through to me is always substantial. The fact that Flower had tuned into the news instead of running DVD episodes of 'True Blood' did make me think, “Hmm...helicopter shots of people running through the streets of Peckham and not Grant Bowler turning into a werewolf...something is afoot...”. But, you know, it was afternoon. It was a nice day weather-wise. It was, goddammit, Monday. Why would people be running through the streets of Peckham on a balmy London evening? On a Monday? Is there a sale on? Turned out there was. Nick one, get one free. And then another. And another. Don't forget to tweet your mates! Everything must go! Including law and order! Fuck da police!! Anarchy in the UK!!!

Seriously, Flower, am I going to die because of Twitter?

	Oh, can't you see the morning after?
	It's waiting right outside the storm..

This shit had been happening for two days already but I'd missed it. A lot of people had missed it. We're used to sirens and a bit of argy-bargy. It's a big city. Stuff happens. Bombs go off. A few angry people kicking in the window of a Footlocker in Brixton on a weekend can be mistaken for a fun-run. When they're still kicking and running and shouting on Monday, and when the fun slash violence seems to be spreading to random boroughs, and suddenly what-the-fuck they're in Clapham? (read City Road, Newtown, or Brunswick St, Fitzroy) …well, now we've put down the socks, the sewing machine has stopped its soft jack-hammering and the computer screen has become a magnet for the curious and increasingly perturbed. “This isn't right.” I remember someone saying that. And it wasn't. People start texting partners and family and flatmates and taxi companies because they don't want to have to walk through that at 11pm after the show. I text two mates asking for a couch for the night just in case. My train goes to East Croyden and oh-look Croyden's now on fire. Not a wheelie bin or a car, a whole chunky block of shops and houses. This Is Serious Mum.

And yet, even in the face of city-wide adversity, I pass Ian flouncing down the corridor calling out: “Well! There's not going to be any houmus in Peckham tomorrow!” We all laughed and secretly hoped we had enough milk in.

	Why don't we cross the bridge together
	And find a place that's safe and warm

The show, of course, went on. Songs were sung and dances were danced and everyone kept texting but the story was told. It's set in 'Austerity' Britain after WW2. “Fair Shares For All” is the opening number and out in the streets everyone seemed to have taken it a little too literally.

Back on the TV at half-time, the incredibly smart journos on the streets kept crying “There aren't enough police! There's too many riots! There simply aren't enough police!” Yes, Bryce, that's it. Tell the kids at home whose moral compass was lost with the remote that there aren't enough police. Brilliant. Then the next day, the deputy commissioner gets his head on the box and says, “Yes Judith, we're sucking every copper out of every major city in England to get 16,000 of them in London tonight.” Somehow the kids in Manchester and Birmingham only heard him repeat the words 'golden opportunity' over and over. No prizes for guessing who went and got themselves a bunch of free prizes that night. Fucking hell...

You've seen the reports yourselves. You probably understand it's all over including the shouting. Well...there's still the court cases but thankfully the politician's heavy-handed knee-jerk reactions are well under way. There's talk of evicting the convicted from their council estate housing. And their families. How incredibly wise. Let's ignore the underlying social problems and create street tribes of people without a debit card or fear. Bryce and Judith can spread the good news that London's about to turn into a John Carpenter film starring Kurt Russell and an eye-patch. “'Escape From New Bond Street'! In cinemas now! The ones that aren't burning!”

	It's not too late, we should be giving
	Only with love can we climb...

Hmm...might take a little more than just love...

	It's not too late, not while we're living
	Let's put our hands out in time.

Time to wrap up.

So yeh. We're all...I dunno...tired. It's Sunday. Yesterday many of the cast and crew were letting their heads loll. Leaning and slumping. More than the usual end-of-week weariness. It was fatigue. We didn't really feel safe until Thursday, so we've all been tense for days. And I mean tense. Taut. Quietly singing the theme tune from the original 'The Poseidon Adventure' to ourselves: There's Got To Be A Morning After. And this was a skirmish compared to what many people are going through. My empathy levels for people in war zones have had a boost, let me tell you.


	There's got to be a morning after
	We're moving closer to the shore
	I know we'll be there by tomorrow
	And we'll escape the darkness
	We won't be searching anymore.

Not for houmus anyway.