30th November, 2010
I'd
had a wine.
Apparently
I failed to mention, in the last blog, the name of the piece in which
I'm currently appearing. It's The Invisible Man, based on the
HG Wells novel. There are a number of illusions in the show
(Invisible Man drinks milk, Invisible Man opens drawers, Invisible
Man holds knife at throat of innkeeper, Invisible Man does tax return
quickly and easily, etc), all created and taught to us by a certain
member of the Magic Circle Club. We have even signed a contract to
swear we will not divulge the logic underlying the visual effects to
outsiders. You are an outsider. If we do, we are forced to join
Grease for 12 months at The Piccadilly Theatre.
Anyhoo,
during one illusion, without giving too much away (shoo
bop shoo wadda wadda yipitty boom de boom, a wop ba-ba lu-mop, a wop
bam boom), I appear
naked, facing upstage. I just heard your eyebrows go up. During
technical rehearsals, one of our young crew stood in for me,
shirtless, not knowing I had arrived. He is 19 and thin as a Jenny
Craig whippet. His name, Pele. I asked out loud: “Could Pele adopt
some of my back-fat between now and press night?” John Gordon
Sinclair, our titular Invisible Man responds in his natural Sean
Connery brogue: “It's un illusion, no' a focking miracle.”
I
like John.
Many
of you may remember John from the hit 80s film Gregory's Girl. He
was Gregory. I have downloaded it through a torrent and will,
of course, be pointing out to John that he won't be getting any
financial recompense from this viewer.
18th
December, 2010
Several
weeks later...
It's
snowing. 'Ah!' you think. Unless you've lived in London. Then you
will be thinking 'yikes apocalypse'. Four snowflakes bring London to
its knees. Then it just kind of belly-flops face down moaning 'I give
in' over and over and generally behaving like a backpacker in an Eli
Roth film set in the packing house district of an Eastern European
country surrounded by rusty power tools. Sure enough, I'm typing this
at 6.14pm on a Saturday evening. Surely I should be at the theatre,
between the matinee and the evening shows of The Invisible Man,
eating something cheap and pre-packaged from the Marks and Spencer's
food emporium? But no. I did make it into the theatre, but several of
my fellow actors did not. If the local trains had skirts, they would
lift them and scream like Bugs Bunny in drag at the sight of this
fluffy white stuff that falls from the sky. As my cast-mate, Natalie,
pointed out a couple of weeks ago in similar circumstances and in a
northern accent: “We can put a man on the moon, but get a train
through a bit of hard water between Crystal Palace and London Bridge?
(Raise hands, palms out.) That's all I'm saying...”
I
like Natalie. She also has some wicked coats.
Before
leaving to return home (via strange and odd ways because my usual
train had fainted), our producer produced low and stern mutterings to
the effect that the show will go ahead tomorrow come hell or high
water. Both these situations London can deal with. We have Oxford
Street in tourist season and the Thames Flood Barrier. Unfortunately
he forgot to include temporarily solidified water crystals in his
brave speech, and just quietly I'm looking forward to another day
off.
In
other news there is barely no other news. The show has taken up much
up my life. It's one of the trickiest bastards with which I've ever
been involved. Somewhat akin to putting on Starlight Express
in a caravan. Of course, after a few weeks it now runs as smoothly as
a train on...hang on...bad simile...as smoothly as a well-oiled
Samoan lashed to a... …anyway, it's going well. Reviews were good
and houses are pretty much full.
So.
Next up: Christmas. Or as I like to call it, Obligation Day.
Pass
me the gift-wrapped communal spirit and don't spare the K-tel
Christiness. On the nth day of Whatsit, my true love gave to me...a
day off and a will to live. Silent night? Not if I can help it...
x
PS: This is Mildred. Another cat. She is a new flatmate.
