8th
November 2010
Funny
how we manifest things we imagine. Here's a nice example: in my last
blog I wrote “I've been here two weeks and two days and for some
bizarre reason I'm not yet working on the West End in a marvellously
witty comedy opposite Judi Dench and a tray of small cakes.” I'm
now in a witty comedy, in which I eat - hold onto your hats - cake. Three pieces of it per
show. It's all about the tea cups and the cake-eating in one
particular scene. Dame Jude will be miffed not to have been involved
come opening night, I'm sure of it. She and Maggie Smith will be straight onto their agents: "Why didn't I hear about the show with cake? Why?!" And no, it's not West End, it's Off West End - which basically means it's not West End - but the
truly excellent glamorous part, as always, is this: I'm gettin' paid.
We
begin technical rehearsals tomorrow and do our first preview this
Saturday. We still have many...many...bits if illusion to
incorporate into an already busy little show, and I personally am
involved in some pretty fiddly business that I look forward to
cocking up mightily before getting it right. I refer, of course, to
my four accents. Then there's the actual illusions. Bend me over and
call me Shirley is all I can say at this point. Interesting days
ahead.
You
might also recall references to Dynasty. By
mentioning it in the blog, I came over all nostalgic and have since
been watching loads of old episodes. Here's my favourite line of
dialogue so far: it's Blake Carrington – the dad – saying to his
gay son, “It's a shame the American Psychiatric Association has
decided that it's no longer a disease. That's too bad. I could have
endowed a foundation. The Steven Carrington Institute for the
Treatment and Study of Faggotry. Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta
go get married.”
Yowza.
You're not going to hear that on Packed to the Rafters.
Mind
you, for every jibe about being gay, Steven reminds his dad that he
cosies up to Middle Eastern terrorists to get at their oil. This is
1981! And Fallon (faggot's sister) screws everything with a pulse and
gets stoned at her dad's wedding, even pretending to roll a joint at
the breakfast table the next morning whilst explaining she got a bit
“drunk”. Blake just looks at her, shakes his head and smiles. “My
crazy, wacky, fun-loving, whore daughter!” he seems to be thinking.
Krystal, the new wife, keeps her facial reaction within Thunderbird
limits, while Jeff, Fallon's soon-to-be fiancé, is the only one
sitting there gob-smacked, barely able to breath as everyone else
tucks into their half-grapefruit with a gold spoon. Effing brilliant.
But
let us leave Denver, Colorado and 1981 and fly across time and time
zones to London 2010, a mere twenty-nine years later. This little
Steven Carrington has been very well-behaved and barely ventured
forth into the London night. Okay, a couple of times. But sadly
nothing of either a romantic or bromantic nature to share. Some of
you will sigh with relief. Others will sag in disappointment. Though
there is a handsome
man working backstage on our show who I'm hoping has been an enormous disappointment to a very wealthy father...
I have left the house to see some shows. Love Never Dies,
the Phantom of the Opera
sequel: first half utterly brilliant, second half more Willoughby
Musical society. But got a freebie, so happy days. Priscilla
the Musical: F-A-B fab. And A
Number: a little 50 minute Carol
Churchill piece starring Timothy West and his son Samuel. About
clones. And being a parent. Possibly interesting if you've
procreated. I haven't. It wasn't.
And
I'm now living in a place called Norwood. South Norwood to be
precise. Who knew Norwood was so significant as to need compass
points to delineate itself? On the way here in the cab (only
yesterday) I seriously thought we might soon enter the Chunnel and I
would have to brush up on my French conjunctives, so far did we
travel. But now that I'm here I recall how nice the flat is, and I'm
living with a girl. Emma, an old mate from A Few Good Men days. A clean, neat, unmessy,
owns-more-than-two-plates-and-a-spoon girl!
I am so happy. I like neat. I like clean. And her CD collection is
wicked.
Took
a turn around the environs earlier. Norwood's economy is built around
fried chicken, Caribbean take-away, hair dressers and hardware
stores. So I can eat some jerk chicken in the barber chair whilst
picking out a colour to paint my hammer. Move over, St Tropez, you've
got competition.
Next
up, Mick manifests a film career out of absolutely nothing but
chutzpah, curried goat and a lovely tap fitting...
