ONE FLU OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST Just another Corona jab.

    I am writing this drunk. It is 3.19am and it is two days until I leave London and Shuttleworth’s (my favourite bar) and night buses for some time. I am sentimental. I saw Newman tonight. He left on the last tube at the Disneyish hour of midnight. So early. We kissed and he said “It’s not over until the fat lady sings.” This made me smile and sad and smug all at once. Clever Newman.
    I started writing this instalment (the stuff below) days ago but I was inspired to shove these paragraphs up front just now on the 188 night bus from Waterloo Bridge. Because getting home on the night bus is an authentic London ritual that needs a little illustration. Basically, the buses turn into gypsy caravans after about 1am, full of interesting characters and interesting food and interesting singing and people too drunk to be violent, despite their up-bringing. Tonight, for example, in the sub-category of Interesting Characters, I saw Clark Kent eating a smelly kebab two seats in front of me. His shoulders went from Bristol to Norwich but the hair and the shirt and glasses were utterly Daily Planet. Yum. Which is the word the manager of “Rupert Street” (ludicrously popular gay bar in Soho) texted me at this time yesterday after I snogged him in the “2 Brewers” (ludicrously popular gay bar in Clapham/why wasn’t he at work?). I shouldn’t because he has a soft spot for me and I don’t really want to go there but he’s a good snog so why the f**k not, eh? The answer is: because I’m playing him like a lute in the Dark Ages and that’s not fair. As Newman is me. I thought I was playing him but it would seem that he is the Federer to my Roddick. Which brings us back to the original instalment written some time ago…

    I’m in Wimbledon! The day of the Men’s Final! I’m not at the tennis!
    It’s the day after the annual London Gay Pride shindig and in a courageous break with habit, I went to the other guy’s house and so wake up in Wimbledon. (Love-15! cries the referee.) I feel like a bag of month old trash out the back of KFC, all low-grade chicken carcasses and dead gravy. (Love-30!) And some sneaky nocturnal surgeon-demon has lined my frontal lobe with a veil of lead. (Love-40!) Nonetheless, I let Big (for it is he) go to work at the net and for a moment I feel better. (15-40. 30-40. Deuce.) Soon after, Imminent Death wanders back towards me and sits on my face. (Advantage: Hell.) I ask the very air why I feel so bad, and Big gives up a clue: “You did drink a pint of champagne.”
    “What?”
    “Tracy handed you that pint glass of champagne and you drank it.” (Game Hell. Hell leads by one million games to love. New balls, brains and livers please. Actually, f**k it, just ring the people who did Steve Austin and get a quote.)
    The trip home the day after is oft referred to as The Walk Of Shame. I usually call it The Sprightly Jaunt Of Arrogant Satisfaction. However, on this specific day it is The Public Transport Slog Of Please-Don’t-Let-Me-Vomit-On-The-Northern-Line. I came larynx-close as we lumbered into Clapham Common station, but experience and the potential for liquid embarrassment kept my jaw and will-power clenched. I make it back to Bermondsey with unbesmirched shoes and a juvenile pride.
    Our five-week break from the show began when I flew back into London six days prior to this vomitless day. The night before that I was standing in a long taxi queue in Lisbon with Tim C, the only other Aussie in Mamma Mia. As the cabs come and go and we move up the line, Tim C from Perth asks: “So what are you gunna do after the tour?” I’ve been thinking about this very topic and so have an answer prepared. “No more bloody musicals and back to Oz for about 6 months,” is my unambiguous response. The next day I fly into London, grab my part-time flatmate Steven and drag him to a bar beside the Thames for a beer. My phone rings.
    “I have an audition for you for Chicago on Wednesday. Billy Flynn,” says Ollie.
    “On tour or in town?” I ask, half-hoping he’ll say ‘on tour’ so I can decline politely.
    “In town,” he says.
    “Bugger! That’s completely exciting,” I think.
    I’ve developed a very precise, personal auditioning style which I like to call Just Look Like You‘d Rather Be On The Night Bus. It requires a very specific level of under-preparedness and an exact percentage of daring apathy on the day, mixed with a hint of actual ability but this last element must only be conveyed as you walk in and then out of the audition, never whilst actually performing. Two days later I leave the audition and meet a friend for lunch. When he asks how it went, I tell him I’ll get a recall when the Pope stops making me have horrible nightmares. Nonetheless, my agent calls between me changing my euros into pounds at the Post Office and having my contractually-uncuttable hair cut at Mr Toppers for six quid. He tells me I’ve got a recall.
    “Hmm…must’ve looked less interested than I thought,” I think.

    I’m not writing this drunk. Although, once again, it’s several minutes after 3am. I’m in Bangkok and even after a week my body clock refuses to budge from Greenwich Mean Time. Which is mean. I will continue the above instalment soon. Did I get Chicago? Or am I heading home? Did I resolve anything with Big or Newman? Or did I run away to Yorkshire for a bit? There’s a clue in the last blog about me running way to Yorkshire. Anyhoo, you’ll just have to stand behind the base line for a bit…

    Hasta Manana ’til we meet again.