Friday, 26 April 2013

Show Stopper

I can see why the phantom of the opera turned into a great beast of doom and hate and vengeance and putrid firey balls of stomach acid (I haven’t seen the show) it wasn’t because he lost his face, oh no, it was because he lived in a theatre.

Damn those infernal pits of ego and lust. Well there’s always a bit of lust somewhere even if I’m too busy passing a stool to notice.

An actual chair type stool! As in passing it to someone. Blimey you really do dig around in the dregs of innuendo, don’t you?

So basically the point I’m trying to make is that if my life blood isn’t being sucked away by some invisible ether in the wind (or cheese) then I am giving it away. Slicing open my own arteries and pouring my sacred juices all over the general public.

I SHOULD stay inside. Not talk to another soul. Dedicate my life to my writing, my precious, precious writing (I’ll do some at some point). But oh no. What do I do?

I waltz along like a ditzy fairy lost in toy-town and think ‘oh I’ll do a bit of that play then shall I?’ In my inefficient imaginarium I see myself as laughing and frolicking around with actors and directors, having the time of my life, making jokes and having an audience jawlessly gawp at my face as it is wedged in front of them against their will or knowledge. 


But then what happens?

Well the inevitable, the obvious, the expected, foreseeable and predictable happens. Do I see it in advance? No. I’m too busy dancing around with a butter cream pony in my imaginarium.

I hate it. I hate the worry, and the nerves, and the stress, and the other people, and the changing room, and the having to leave my bed, and having to go out, and interact with other people that I don’t know and shouldn’t like, and the need to do things right, in fact the need to do things at all.

I only have a little bit of effort. I have the ability to put in effort equal to about a quarter of what other people can put in before I collapse in a bedraggled heap.

So everything I had was put into that. All of it. Every last bit of venom and crisps and jokes and laughter and rage was sucked into the sucky hole of the theatre and pressed into the faces of the audience, and the other actors come to think of it. 

Then it was over.

Was I relived? Was I happy to be free of the ties of the dreaded theatre? WAS I?

No. I am not happy. I somehow remember it being ‘fun’.

When? When was it fun? Was it fun when I hated it all? When I hated all the people everywhere and when I didn’t want to do it and wanted to hide in an oven or something? Was that when it was fun?


I have lost precious time. Precious, precious time. My scripts, my plays, my books, my blog, all forsaken for this putrid belly filling, nausea inducing state of ‘fun’ perpetuated by those who live in the eternal cycle of show after show after show after show. All held together by the praise of the audience and their comrades and the promise of yet another show.

I will not be sucked into it again. I will not listen to the songs of the pixies in my brain. I WILL NOT.

Unless they do an Agatha Christie.

Wednesday, 24 April 2013

My Only Sunshine


So this is it then, is it?

The time has arrived.

That’s it. Winter is over, just like that? No slow transition? Now long goodbyes? Just a whistle and a pop and then gone.

Snow one minute, then sunshine, daffodils and distant lawn mowers the next. That is how I am treated.

The bitterest coldest winter, which had been biting at my face and toes and that little bit behind my right shoulder where the draft always seems to get in, just switches to summer.


What happens now?

Well now is when the madness sinks in. Grown men wear shorts, oversized women tuck their pendulous breasts into their unhappy floaty trousers (don’t question me, I’ve seen it, in places like Aldi and the internet) and children frolic and scream and generally fill up the place.

Usually I get some sort of in-between bit.

Where it is warm enough to walk around without a coat, but not so hot that you crumble under the weight of your own sweat. Where there are clouds that hide the burning rays of the sun, ensuring that I am not blinded by opening the curtains.

That has not happened here. The occasional and limited rain has been most welcome, but the days now seem to be filled with bright, overwhelming sunlight. The deranged happiness of ‘people’ seeps into my life through the window – I hear their jubilant laughter and inane chatter, people have ‘pic-nics’ and ‘start running again’.

“Oooh I’ve just started running again! Would you like to take up running again?”

“NO!”

I stopped running when I was four. There was I, happily running around the edge of the field (for no discernable purpose) with my fellow pupils, not caring if I was in front or behind, simply enjoying the wonderful state of ‘being’ when from the depths of parental psyche my father decides that now is the time to publicly declare his support for my athleticism.

The phrase “Come on, Holly!” Still has the power to make me sick with humiliation.

So how did I react to this at the time? Did it spur me onto the finish line? Did it somehow provide me with more energy, more speed, more motivation to compete?

No. Of course it bloody didn’t. I stopped running. I folded my arms (as best as I could manage, I always had trouble with that for some reason, I thought perhaps I might be an alien left here by my mother race, always waiting to be collected by a superior intelligence. I’m still waiting). And I promptly left the field, and my running career, behind me forever.

“What are you getting at?” I hear you ask, bemusedly.

I don’t know. I can’t think. The infernal sun is searing through my brain with rays of hope and joy and spring and it is rotting me from inside.

Monday, 15 April 2013

The Week of The Play

As I have been away from this bloggy blog for a long time, I thought I would share a rough approximation of the emotions I went through during my week performing in a play:









Thursday, 11 April 2013

Diary of an Illiterate Wench

If you have been following me on facebook and twitter (and you really should, now that they have invented cyberspace you don’t have to press your greasy face against my window as much as you do) then you will know that I have been busy.

So very busy that I couldn’t possibly look at your face for long enough to fill in this blog box over the last few weeks.

However, if I am to eventually take over the world then I suppose I must continue to update you, so that you can look at me with wonder and awe, eventually voting me Pharaoh of the world or something.

So I shall tell you what I have been up to (are you on the edge of your seat?) as you may have guessed from the cryptic title of this blog: I have been dressing as a wench, learning how to wench, practising wenching and finally, last night was the culmination of my life’s dreams and ambitions: I became a fully fledged wench! Wenching here, wenching there, wenching myself everywhere.

The first night of The Country Wife went better than I anticipated! I moved things to the right place, and then moved them back again, I shouted at the audience as their baffled, frightened faces peeped through the door to buy their tickets, I sold them broadsheets for a single gold coin (that confused the poor little things) I even got some of them to squeeze my oranges. Which was nice.

Tonight I shall be doing it all over again. Moving furniture, laughing raucously, lathering on layers of makeup, making terrible and slightly unhealthy innuendo – as you can tell, it isn’t that different to what I normally get up to…