Showing off for a living
Hiatus
I'm back from Cyprus, taking a break (hah!) before the Oxford leg of the tour. Notable events of the past week include: - Sleeping with the air-con on too high, thus rendering my head completely immobile on the day of the first show. Cue lots of tears, shrieks of agony and a trip to a masseuse who, should the bottom fall out of the massage market, could easily secure the position of Head Torturer in any banana state you care to mention. Fortunately, Doctor Theatre weaved his magic spell, and the ol' bonce was in nearly full working order for the show.
- Sunburn. And a costume that chafed.
- Realising that my days of staying up until silly o'clock are over. 3am is now officially my limit.
- Not having a single hangover. Not one. It's a miracle. I put this down to not staying up until silly o'clock.
- Finding the BEST RESTAURANT IN THE WORLD (also known as the Seven St. Georges Tavern). Authentic Cypriot meze made by angels. Organic wine from their own vineyard. Free orange liqueur from their own orange trees. Dessert meze with the best bread-and-butter pudding I've ever tasted. Music and laughter and song and kittens. And NO HANGOVER. Hooray for organic wine and going to bed before 3am!
- Getting trapped in a lift with 7 other cast members. For three-quarters of an hour. In 45 degree heat. By the time the engineer freed us, we looked like we'd all been showering in sweat. We then had to dash for the plane. Mmmm, fragrant.
- Losing my return ticket, and having to pay thirty Cyprus pounds to get it reissued. What ever happened to electronic tickets? This is the year 2006 for Chrissakes!
- Seeing Tim Westwood (the white DJ who thinks he's black) in the airport, dressed like a 13-year-old boy and talking into his mobile in a very middle class accent while his homies stood around trying to look cool. Jerk.
- Coming home to find it was nearly as hot here as it was over there. Only here there is no air-conditioning or swimming pool.
That is all. Good to be back. Sort of.
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Picture from the 'Pool
One of the guys from the cast of Windermere just sent me this picture of all the Scousers together: 
(My paisley culottes are fortunately obscured in this picture - begad, but they were loud).
I wish we were still doing the play (although maybe at a venue where the lighting board doesn't blow up). We had such laffs. A nicer bunch of people you couldn't wish to meet.
And oh, that Chopper. I desire it so much. In a surprisingly altruistic gesture, Raleigh donated it to the show and we all had a lot of fun pelting around the rehearsal room on it. Now the writer is thinking of selling it and, despite the fact that I know it would get nicked within ten seconds, I'm still half-considering making him an offer... I'd be mad to, right? Right?
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Fin... and begin again
The play is over. I'm knackered, my throat hurts from all the cigarettes I smoked on stage (and off - oops!) and I still wake up in a cold sweat when I think about the night I came on a scene too early, to the confusion of cast and audience alike (my solution? Smoke a cigarette and pretend it's some sort of clever "split screen" device. Oh, the shame).
So what have I been doing today?
Why, sending off letters to try and get another acting job of course.
It never bloody ends.
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Methodical
Ooh, but I've been having fun today.
My favourite part of doing a play is not, as one might expect, the actual getting up onstage and doing it in front of an audience. The best bit by far is the preparation. The rehearsals where you tease out the nuances of your character. Making up your working script by photocopying it and pasting it into the pages of a notebook. And the research - oh! the research.
Being by nature the sort of person who made her university notes in three different coloured pens (i.e. organised to the point of obsession), I just love doing research. Looking for articles and pictures and sticking them neatly into the back of my script makes me happier than someone covered in Pritt Stick and bits of paper has any right to be.
So, as the play is something of a slice of life drama, I've been on Getty Images today finding pictures of my character's "family". And I thought I'd share them with you, because I'm so pleased with my discoveries.
First up, here is my daddy giving me a cuddle:
Isn't that just lovely? It makes me feel all weepy just looking at it.
Here's me helping my mum hang out the laundry in the back yard:
Me with the girls from the factory, aged 16 (I'm in the middle of the second row, with the white collar): 
Being the anal type, I've given all these girls names. Go on, ask me the name of any one of them, and I'll be able to tell you. I am taking this too far, I think...
Next photo. Me marrying Frank Harrison in1966:
Frank in our front room, holding Jayne (next door's little girl) on his knee, 1969. Three years before his death.
That last photo makes me feel rather strange. I think I've rather fallen in love with it. Or rather, with the man in the photo. My Frank.
It's odd how a character starts to bleed into your real life. I'm finding it harder and harder to drop my character's Liverpool accent. I've gone all maternal - I've taken to carrying around boxes of SunMaid raisins just in case one of the cast need a snack. I've even started cleaning. It's all most unnerving (not least for Trilby, who is beginning to wonder where his girlfriend has gone, and whether the Scouse housewife that's replaced her is going to stop nagging him anytime soon).
God, I'm enjoying myself.
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Rubble: The Sequel
So, after spending all of yesterday grumping about the director not calling me... the director called me.
And offered me the part. Outright. I don't even have to do a second audition. In fact, I'm going along to the second audition to help with the rest of the casting.
Woot! Woot! Woot! Woot! Woot!
Ahem... Sorry about that.
What a waste of energy all of yesterday's moping was, eh?
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Rubble
You know what I really, really hate?
(Apologies in advance for the actor-specific nature of this post).
You practice an audition speech all week. You practice it when you're in the shower, when you're on the bus, when you're walking to work, when you're on the loo. You get it just right.
You go into the audition room, and the speech goes perfectly, exactly as you'd practiced it.
The audition panel are all really enthusiastic about you. The writer even says "You're exactly how (character you are auditioning for) looked like in my head when I was writing the play." You are understandably encouraged by this.
The director tells you about recalls and rehearsals as if you're a shoo-in for the role.
You allow yourself a little dance of victory (in the privacy of the toilets).
You go home, feeling justifiably pleased with yourself, and wait for them to ring you and ask you to a recall. Or even just call you and offer you the part straight out.
You wait.
And wait.
And wait.
You check your phone for missed messages.
You wait some more.
You wonder whether they meant the recalls would be next Tuesday.
The realisation slowly dawns that they're not going to call you for a recall, let alone give you the part.
You contemplate giving up acting. Or maybe just sticking your head in an oven.
That's what I really, really hate. Knowing you did a bloody good audition, and then not even getting a call-back.
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Take it easy, with Bobby George
I've just done a voice-over for one of those interactive games wot you get when you press the red button on your Sky remote control.
I had to do an impression of the Cadbury's Caramel bunny. Hell, I can do that.
So I'm thinking sensual, silky, a little bit playful. And then they show me what I have to say:
"A hundred and forty!"
"Oooh, a hundred and eighty!"
"Bullseye!"
It's a darts game...
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