Play
Bang bang!
IT'S.
MY.
BIRTHDAY.
(Champagne + high velocity rifle = double-plus good)
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Manifesto
Why don't people dance more? All these people walking around plugged into their iPods. I can't be the only one who occasionally wants to start jiving along to the music. People should just dance when they feel like it. Imagine, walking to work and seeing all these people, dancing.
And people should just sing when they feel like it as well, come to that. I went through a phase of wanting to sing "On The Street Where You Live" every time I went on the Underground. Sometimes I actually did, if there weren't many people around. Sing, folks. It doesn't matter if you think you're a bad singer - everyone can sing, just with varying degrees of success. Trilby is one of the most tone-deaf guys I know, but I love it when he sings because it means he's joyful.
Running for no reason, that's great too. Just breaking into a run and sprinting as hard as you can for a little way, then stopping and gasping for breath with a big smile plastered over your face. Brill.
Yeah, and people don't smile enough. At least, not in this city. Smile more, damn you.
Jumping through sprinklers. When did I stop jumping through sprinklers? It was the best thing in the world when I was a kid. In the summer, the council should set up big sprinklers in all the parks and people on their lunch breaks could just jump through them to cool down. Business people in their suits getting soaking wet and squelching back to work feeling a million times better.
And dressing up! When do we ever get to dress up nowadays? It's one of the best parts of being an actor, getting to wear all these crazy costumes. You should be able to wake up in the morning and think, "Today I am going to dress like an Elizabethan courtier." How much more fun would that be? If I had my way, I'd be dressed like a pirate right now.
At what point did we stop being enchanted with the world? Sometimes I look, properly look at something - a tree, a flower, a park bench, a building, someone's face, whatever - and it's so fucking amazing and complex and unlikely that it actually hurts. Kids have that, and somewhere along the way we lose it. How great if we all stopped being so damn jaded and started being amazed again.
It would be nice if the sun would shine a bit more, too. But I guess that's not something we can do anything about....
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*smiles*
Oh, I am in such a good mood right now, due to a variety of reasons.
(1) It's Spring. Oh, I know it may not really feel like it, what with the snow and the cold and all, but believe me, the sap is definitely rising.
(2) I am wearing a brand new pair of skinny jeans. Skinny jeans, people! Suddenly all that time spent sweating in the gym seems so wonderfully worthwhile.
(3) I watched 'Napoleon Dynamite' for the first time last night. Dang!
(4) Rehearsals for the show are going really well. Sure, I've got a bruise on my neck where one of the actors got a bit over-zealous during my big confrontation scene, but you've got to suffer for your art.
(5) Most importantly of all, it is only 33 days until 13th May. What happens on 13th May, I hear you ask? Well, that is the day I MOVE IN WITH TRILBY! Woo! Yeah!
If life was any better, they'd have to make it illegal.
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The horror... the horror...
So, after a bite to eat at Loch Fyne, courtesy of the Times Dine with Wine vouchers my father kindly donated to me, Trilby and I approached the Palladium with trepidation. The Baboon's talk of a rampaging killer zombie cyborg Sinatra had made us nervous. I worried that the miniscule fish pie I had just consumed might actually be my last meal on this earth. Man, would that be depressing.
We took our seats in the stalls. I casually inquired how much they would normally cost. Surely they wouldn't give us top price seats for free. Boy, was I wrong. Apparently, we were sitting in one hundred and ten English pounds worth of red plush tip-up seat. This made us feel special. 
Trilby: a special guy.
The lights dimmed. And then the horror began.
As the dancers began their opening routine, jiving winsomely on the wing of a plane to the strains of 'Come Fly With Me', the re-animated corpse of Sinatra lumbered onto the stage and proceeded to cut a bloody swathe through the cast (most of whom were still smiling as they died - troupers 'til the end). A combination of blood, brains and entrails rendered the floor very slippy, and more than one dancer slipped over, before being devoured by the enraged ex-crooner. Oh, how we laughed! Then, with a feral roar, Ol' Dead Eyes turned on the conductor and ripped his head clean off, leaving his body still standing, the arms jerking spasmodically. This gave the music an interesting reggae beat which had all the audience dancing in the aisles.
"Hey Frankie, you've got something on your chin!"
Then, once he had decimated the orchestra and the dancers, Zombie-Sinatra turned his insatiable lust for human blood on his unsuspecting fans. The first two rows of the stalls were turned into an abbatoir, as bodies were ripped apart and blood and innards sprayed as high as the Royal Circle. An audience member who expired a couple of rows ahead of me was heard to exclaim, "But you haven't sung 'My Way' yet!" as the blood-crazed singer tore off her left arm and beat her to death with it. All this to the sound of wild applause from the punters up in the gods, who couldn't see very well and so thought it was all part of the show.
Or, at least, that's what I wish had happened.
In reality, the audience were faced with a bunch of moving screens on which film of a strangely uncomfortable-looking Sinatra were projected. He "sang" (or rather, they played a recording of him singing) while the orchestra played along and the cast danced about wearing fixed smiles. It was just like that boring bit in the Oscars where they play the 'Best Song' nominees and a bunch of dancers try to jive it up a bit.
It was nosebleed-inducingly dull. Stick that on your posters, Mister West-End Producer.
The best bit in the show occurred half an hour in, when one of the screens ground to a halt at the top of the proscenium arch and refused to descend any further. The orchestra stopped, the house lights came up and an apologetic announcement was made.
Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for the technical error. The show will continue shortly. Please remain in your seats.
YAAGers: Not bloody likely.
We virtually ran out of the theatre. It is really saying something when the best bit of a show is when a bit of machinery breaks down.
So unfortunately I didn't get to do any heckling, as I was too busy getting the hell out of there and into a nice Irish pub where I could drink beer and watch football. But I feel that walking out of there was the best form of heckling I could have done, under the circumstances.
And I didn't even get to kill any zombies. I want my money back. Oh, hang on...
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Ol' Blue Eyes is back... Sorry, I meant dead.
When Trilby is not doing his acting-schmacting thing, he works for a ticketing agency. It's easy enough work (although he gets very enraged about the number of imbeciles who phone up wanting tickets to see 'Phantom of the Opera'), and every now and then he gets a couple of free tickets to a West End show. Which is great for me, his ever-loving girlfriend.
Because the tickets are usually for shows that are in previews, you never know what you're going to see. Will it be good? Will it be bad? Will I have to sneak out of the theatre disguised as a box of mint Matchmakers?
So far this year we've seen the RSC's 'Comedy of Errors' (brill) and 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?'(bloody amazing). Trilby went to see 'Blackbird' with a mate (I was otherwise engaged), which turned out to be a lucky escape for me because apparently it was sphincter-clenchingly awful. And yet it's been getting great reviews. Go figure.
Anyway, tonight we have two free tickets to see what is surely the oddest show on the West End. Yes, Trilby and I are going to see 'Sinatra at the London Palladium' (ooh, check out the flashy web site).
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that Frank Sinatra was dead. He is dead, right? Yeah, I thought as much.
So, what we are going to see tonight is effectively going to be some film footage of Sinatra. Granted, there's going to be a whole bunch of very lively dancers and a live orchestra, all of whom I'm sure will play their hearts out. But still, it's really just like watching a glorified pop video, right?
And people are paying FIFTY-FIVE POUNDS (not including booking fee, Cheapy) for a ticket to see this show?
*cough* Emperor's new clothes *cough*
An evil little part of me quite wants to stand up halfway through and yell, "Hang on, that's not really Frank Sinatra! This is just a film! They're ripping us off! I want my money back!"
Do you dare me?
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Sunny memory
I'm feeling a bit miserable today, for one reason or another, so I decided to have a look through my photos from the summer to cheer myself up. In doing so I came across this picture:
It was one of our rare days off during the "Twelfth Night" tour, and we were back in London on one of the hottest days of the year. It was a weekday, and while all the poor wage-slaves were sweating away in their offices, we merry bunch of actors donned our sandals and went for a swim in Hampstead Ponds. We went the long way round, via Parliament Hill, and paused at the top to see London shimmering in the heat. Then we dived into the cool brown waters of the ponds and splashed around while fish swam between our legs. Afterwards, we had a picnic and read the papers while the sun dried us off. Then we swam again.
It was such a wonderful day, one of those rare moments when you feel absolutely happy. I would give anything to be back there right now.
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Beggared
Friday night. YAAGers and Trilby are on their carefree way to a gig.
YAAGers: Oh hang on, I just need to get some cash out.
She skips over to the ATM and inserts her card.
ATM: Hello YAAGers. How can I help you today?
YAAGers: I'd like £30 please.
ATM: I'm sorry, how much?
YAAGers: Thirty pounds.
ATM: Really? Thirty pounds, eh?
YAAGers: Yes.
ATM: As in three-zero pounds?
YAAGers: Yes...
ATM: Are you sure you don't mean thirteen? As in one-three pounds?
YAAGers: No, I mean thirty. As in three-zero. As in ten pounds more than twenty. Or as in half of sixty pounds.
ATM: Ah.
YAAGers: Ah?
ATM: You're sure you don't want to take out thirteen pounds?
YAAGers: Positive. I want thirty pounds.
ATM: Ah. Then I'm afraid that won't be possible. You don't have thirty pounds.
YAAGers: Don't be ridiculous. It's only halfway through the month. I haven't spent a whole month's wages in two weeks, have I?
ATM: *clears throat*
YAAGers: Have I?
ATM: *whistles*
YAAGers: Oh sweet suffering fuck.
ATM: Thank you for your custom. Have a nice evening, and try not to worry about your descent into penury.
YAAGers bangs her head against the wall of the bank for a few minutes, then goes to the gig and allows Trilby to buy her a lot of beer.
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