Tom Marshall’s Blog October/ November 2009 (A part fictional blog that inspired novel)
Blog 1: The day I kissed my agent goodbye (October 1st)
This is it. The new start. Write a blog - make something positive out of my daily pursuit of the insignificant. I'm an actor. I'm not embarrassingly unsuccessful nor assertively a-list (or b-list or c-list). I'm in the middle. In about an hour I'll be walking into dressing room J at the King's Theatre Edinburgh to play five characters with three lines each and a five minute cameo with four laughs and a fight. No-one in the audience really remembers me. Occasionally an agent or an actor or a casting director who has seen me in a larger role a few years ago will introduce me to their friends as "a brilliant actor" or toss up glibly "Tom should be a star" which for a week I believe I am in all but income. Then reality bites and I find myself peering through the cracks in the scenery at white hair and blankets and imagine what it would be like to be Chris Martin singing Viva la Vida in Tokyo.
I'm not bitter and twisted - I'm still hopeful - but ever since my mother died three years ago I've felt I was in a race against time to break through the glass ceiling. People say I should be grateful in these recessive times - I'm working, I've got my own flat - but I'm forty four , single and earning peanuts net a year. And last January my agent dropped me-
You might make it in the next few years but not with me - I have to look after Emily Blunt and Helen Mirren now and that means being in LA....sorry Tommy mate, we think you're an excellent actor - if you got the breaks you'd win an oscar.
Sometimes I believe that will happen, then I meet my public in the brasserie -
Were you in the cast?
I was the mechanic bloke with the grimy face in the blue overalls
Well, could you sign here anyway you never know you might be famous one day
Yeah, one day Tommy mate, one day. You'll wake up and smell the coffee and sign up with that supply teaching agent. I forgot, I didn't tell you I'm the teacher type did I? Well, I am, I've got a PGCE, got it through the Open University when I was unemployed for most of 1996 and 1997....and 1998.....and....don't go there Tommy, you'll only get depressed. Try and find a new acting agent instead - glass half full and all that.
Good idea, just as soon as I've done my tax return.
Blog 2: I’m Not a Sex Addict – not today (October 5th)
Right. I'm not a sex addict. And this post has no sex in it. But stick with me because there will be sex. Lots of it. As soon as I get some. Which will be very soon. I promise. It might even be today. Who knows? Each new second is a new opportunity. "The power of NOW". Eckhart Tolle. Apparently "The New Earth" is even better, though I'm still trying to get through the first one. My pain body keeps distracting me while I wallow in the comfort of my suffering - but I digress and I'm losing you - back to SEX. If I don't get any sex today or next week or any time in the future I'll write some flashbacks about when I did get some because let's face it what's the point of putting all this work in if no-one reads it. And I'm not carrying on if I don't get at least 30,000 hits. And a book deal.
Secondly I'm not called Tom Marshall. You know this because you've clicked the link on Tony Bell's Facebook. And no-one will read this who doesn't know me unless they trawl the archives in a few months time. When I will have one or two random followers. But until then I know I am talking to Tony Bell's facebook friends. Exclusively. So my name is Tony Bell. And everything I write is absolutely true. But for the purposes of libel and common courtesy I am Tom Marshall and all that I write is fiction. But dressed up as truth. When infact it is truth dressed up as fiction. Look the bottom line is if I am offending anyone but myself let me know and I'll weigh up personal gain with conscience and get back to you.
Right. I have to go and do a matinee now and I really mustn't be late but I WILL BE (I knocked the caps lock) because I always am much as I always try not to be. I will write about sex either during or after the matinee.....
Blog 3: Fear and Loathing in Plymouth (October 7th)
Tom is in his B and B in Plymouth post petit mort. He hears a man shouting in the street outside: “Suki you fuckin little twat”
Tom looks out of his window at Suki. She is dressed in a pink jumper, frozen in post-pee position, hind legs taking the strain, droplets of urine mixing with the rain. Suki is, he guesses, a Yorkshire terrier cross-breed, though he’s not that well up on dogs. He’s more of a cat person.
Half an hour later Tom is in the breakfast room, talking to the landlady -
“I’ll have the full English please”
“I bet you will”, that’s the landlady
“And coffee – is it fresh?”
“It’s over there in the tube packets – hot water’s on the table - did you see that programme last night?”
“I was doing the play”
“Course you was – well, it was brilliant. He made love to ‘er round the back then ‘e murdered ‘er”
“Could I have a new fork?”
“And if you think that sort of thing doesn’t ‘appen you’re wrong, 'appens all the time round ‘ere – one egg or two?”
On Saturday during the matinee there is a disturbance outside the bank. I can hear a girl with a buggy and a toddler shouting at a boy. A small crowd is watching.
“Are you deaf Shane? Are you? Then watch my bleedin’ lips. I don’t love you ANYMORE.”
The boy turns to the crowd – “’Ave you got kids mate? Then you know what it’s like.”
This is Jeremy Kyle only without Jeremy Kyle.
Three days later I’m in Scotland. There is a smell of yeast. I walk into a café near the theatre. A man in his thirties is playing jazz on an upright – “I’ll have a skinny latte please. To take out.”
I leave the jazz and sipping my latte walk up the hill to Edinburgh castle. Where were we last week?
Blog 4: Shower or Bath? (October 9th)
I was wondering where the bath plug is? I tried the one in the sink but it doesn’t fit. Then I worked out a way of fixing the shower mat over the plughole using the suction of the rubber but it would probably be more efficient to use the plug
It would be more efficient to use the shower. We don’t allow baths. It’s on a timer you see and the water runs out.
This is Edinburgh, Mrs. This is the civilised week.There was a communal shower at the Citadel B and B in Plymouth last week, but the head was so lime-scaley it could only manage a tiny trickle. And much as I’m sure this is a super deluxe one with jet force hot water…I HATE SHOWERS.
Okay all you eco-warriors I know a bath is an extravagance but it’s my only vice. And an absolutely necessary vice. I need a bath like a fish needs a water. It keeps me sane. And more to the point, it stops me from going insane.When I wake up every morning I’m sweating and stiff - and not where I’d like to be – but in my neck and shoulders. I’m tense and anxious and I’m going to die and I still haven’t found what I’m looking for and unlike Bono that still means something to me because I’m not a multi-millionaire-family-man-rock-star-musician-still-touring-stadiums-middle-aged-and-happy-person. I’m a credit-card-interest-paying-childless-boy-in-a-man’s-body-jobbing-actor-still-touring-plymouth-middle-aged-and-pass-on-that-one-person.
And I want a bath. To soak in. Not a Shower. Thank you. And goodnight.
…maybe when she goes out I can do the rubber mat trick again…
Blog 5: Meltdown in Musselbrough (October 10th)
I'm having a meltdown. In Edinburgh. I know I said Musselbrough but I need a catchy title and I'm absessed with alliteration. It's all going wrong. No-one is reading my blog. I've posted twelve consecutive status updates advertising the link on facebook and my comment wall is empty. When I asked for advice about buying this computer I got twenty-five comments. Since the blog I've had one. It said -
It's a mistake to limit yourself to sex
I should explain when I first started the blog it was called sex addict seeks love because I thought I'd get more hits that way - oh, and because I used to be a sex addict.....when there was sex out there to be addicted to.....back in the day. Well, blog-follower number one is right, it's a mistake to limit yourself to sex, especially if that has limited itself to the limit of not actually existing. So I've changed the title - it's now A Midlife Crisis in Reverse.
Let's see what happens now. Something's got to give. That's the title of a Jack Nicholson film about mid-life crisis isn't it? Bugger. It's all been done before hasn't it? I'm sorry. I'm in a bad mood. My glass is half empty. Actually my coffee cup is completely empty. I'm in The Elephant. The girl in Cornerstones (which doesn't have Wifi in case you're a bit part actor/wannabe writer and you find yourself on tour in Edinburgh), told me this was where JK Rowling wrote Harry Potter. Actually I'm not in The Elephant, that doesn't have Wifi either -
Hi I heard this is where Harry Potter was written and I'm writing a novel too, actually a blog, but it's going to be a novel, it's not the normal throwaway blog, yesterday's news tomorrow's fish supper type blog, it's a kind of nick hornby meets bridget jones concept blog with a plot and everything, this guy writes a blog and he's a failed actor and it gets published and his whole life turns around but hey you're busy you don't need to hear the whole pitch what I wanted to ask was.....how does your Wifi work?
What is Wifi?
I kid you not. I must have picked the only barista in England, sorry England AND Scotland that hasn't heard of Wifi. He was obviously Italian or Spanish or French or something but that doesn't excuse him from being a NUMBSKULL. JK Rowling my arse - bugger, that's Ricky Tomlinson's catch phrase from The Royle Family. Do I ever have an original thought? Please don't answer that, my needy narcissistic ego (alliteration again, see) can't handle it just now.
So I'm in Black Medicine. Which does have Wifi. It nearly didn't happen here either. I put my computer bag on a free table, asked the nice transatlantic year abroad student to keep an eye out, went to the toilet, took a little longer than usual as the toilet paper (post wipe) had blood on it (piles I think, nothing serious) and by the time I got back my latte had been thrown away and a happy couple had carefully moved my bags and sat in my seat, so never trust a transatlantic year abroad student is the moral of that little story I think.....am I over-writing....get a grip Thomas.
I found another seat but the screen was reflecting the sunlight. I found another seat. I ordered another latte. I changed my blog title. I wrote this post. I wrote a lot of sentences starting with I. I needed the toilet again.
Blog 6: Clearing Up My Arse (October 11th)
I don't want you to worry about me. So I thought I'd better clear up the "blood on the toilet paper " reference in the "Meltdown in Musselbrough" blog last week. There's a history behind my arse. Which I covered in my aborted "actor in a midlife crisis" blog written before the tour. But I've read that real writers never waste material. So here's a great opportunity to cover some old ground. Firstly, I have a habit of checking my toilet paper every time I wipe my arse. It dates back to when I visited a private doctor in 2006 because three antibiotic courses hadn't shaken my bronchial cough and we had no understudies. He asked for my medical history. When I told him what mum had died of he suggested I go for a bowel check. That's when I started the habit. In The Madness of King George they call it stool inspection.
The first time I noticed something irregular was in Tokyo. During my pre-show preparation I found a red worm. My hands started shaking. It jumped off the toilet paper onto the pristine floor and vanished forever. I was sweating now as well as shaking. The worm had done its job. And so had I. After flushing and washing I knocked on the star dressing room and spoke to Hideki Noda, the most famous actor in Japan. I told him the whole story about mum dying of bowel cancer and how I now had parasites in my bowel and could I have an appointment to see his doctor in the morning. Back in my hotel room I sat on the electronically heated toilet seat and examined my arse a second time. I found hundreds of these red worms, on the used paper, in the bowl, everywhere. I wiped three of them clean wrapped them up and put them in my wallet for safekeeping.
The doctor had one of those white mouth masks on that surgeons wear in Casualty when they're saving lives. I gave him the worms to look at. He started to speak to Hideki in Japanese. I thought I heard the word for "cancer", I was shaking again. I thought I might faint. The doctor removed his mask and explained in broken english that as far as he could tell and without forensic examination these were tiny pieces of tomato skin but he would test my blood for cancer anyway.
The next day the tests came back. No cancer, tomato skin in my fesces and above average cholestoral in my blood. I cut down on chips and left my arse alone for a while.
Until an irritable itch caused me to check again. There was blood on the paper so I went straight to the star dressing room. This time Toby Belch reassured me that it was probably piles, they were quite common, he was always getting them. One had probably burst and would heal quite naturally.
So when I noticed the same symptons this afternoon I didn't panic.
And nor should you.
Blog 7: The day I kissed my landlord goodbye (October 12th)
I was in a good mood this morning. It's Saturday. Last day in Edinburgh then home for the weekend. Just before I set off for a latte and a flaky custard tart I went to see Jim, the landlord. I might not see him before I go for good early tomorrow and I need to apologise for last night. Or this morning to be precise. I couldn't find my keys when I got back from Espionage (no dark mystery there though, just sticky floors and sticky legs) so I rang the doorbell. I looked at my watch after a few rings, oops, 3am. After a few more rings Jim opened the door in a pair of boxers. He was remarkably sanguine as I bumbled a story about a hole in my 501's. I hadn't got as far as my box room at the top of the stairs before the keys fell out of my rucksack.
So here I am in the nice part of the house saying sorry. He doesn't seem quite so sanguine now.
What are you going to do about getting in tonight I don't want a repeat performance?
Actually I found them in my room (safer option)
You're a proper actor you are. Proper actors forget their keys. And take things without asking. You used my wife's shampoo. Did you forget your wash bag as well?
I couldn't tell if he was being deadpan and Scottish.
Yes I did actually. But I couldn't find any toothpaste so I went without. Have to give those teeth a good scrub when I get back to London.
Have you got the rent?
I forgot. I'll go to the cash point on my way to the theatre and leave it on the table. Sorry.
You're an idiot.
I'm not really used to this deadpan delivery. I should be, my grandad was half-scottish. I have been unusually forgetful though. It's since I got this new laptop and started writing the blogs. I was on a roll yesterday, despite some technical hiccups. I hope Jim doesn't mind me changing the WEP password on his wireless router to make it Mac compatible. I found the ISP number on some paperwork in his office and got it sorted while he was teaching. They said it should work on all PC's so I'll leave the new password with the rent tonight after the last show.
Eighty quid would have been reasonable if they'd not been sniffy about only having showers. I managed a five out of six baths using the 'shower-mat-over-the-plughole' routine so it all worked out in the end. Much better than the B and B in Plymouth last week where you had to pee in the sink or risk the communal toilet. I've been more settled here but I still think they could have been friendlier. If this wasn't my final tour I'd consider putting a question mark in my "tom's good digs guide" pocketbook. As it is I'll let it go. Onwards and upwards.
Blog 8: Losing My Mind (November 2nd)
When I said I'd been 'unusually forgetful' in the last post I forgot about being 'usually forgetful' usually and while this week's level of forgetfulness might be unusual for you it probably isn't unusual for me. I just wanted to clear that up.
Two weeks ago in Chichester a package arrived for me. It contained my IPod. I didn't even know I'd lost it. I've got two so I never know where the one I'm not using is. I had three but I left one at Leicester Forest services I forget when. There was a covering letter with the package-
We found this on the train. My grandson explored the contents. He found your name and a very large number of music downloads.
13,386 songs to be precise. I downloaded CD's from seventeen london libraries when I was unemployed for a month or twelve last year. It's illegal, I think, but I did it on the spot and no-one stopped me. There were plenty of raised eyebrows flying around but I'm thick-skinned. Back to the letter -
Google suggested you could be an actor and my wife said you looked a bit like the Tom Marshall in the photo with Keith Allen so we phoned the Festival theatre and
you are indeed the same.
Some people can restore your faith in human nature can't they?
Ps We didn't reclaim the socks that were with it
What socks?
I left my wallet on the same train that week and spent the lunch hour on a trip to Havant where a nice inspector handed it over. I could have sworn I'd had cash out that morning but when it came back with just the cards I let it go. He had an honest face, and it wouldn't be the first time I remembered I'd done something I hadn't and forgotten I'd done something I had.
I dropped the same wallet on the Lothian Road the first day I got here. A nice lady in a Volvo rescued it after she'd run it over. On Tuesday I lost my flat cap but that was cheap so I'll write it off. Except it's the third one I've bought this month. The first two I left in the charity shop on Lordship Lane. Which would have been fine if I hadn't left my squash racket as well. I popped in to find a suit for the role-play jobs at St George's hospital after a match at Brixton Rec. I didn't know I'd lost that either, the racket not the match, until I passed the shop in the afternoon and saw a squash racket in the window. I tried to buy it (you can never have enough squash rackets) but the shop was closed. Then the penny dropped.
Next morning I waited outside the shop for an hour listening to my ipod before the volunteers let me in at ten past ten -
Can I have the squash racket by the window?
Three pounds please
That's quite a bargain it cost me a hundred new and the re-string was thirty - you didn't find a flat cap by any chance?
Blog 9: I forgot my medication (November 4th)
I’ve run out of pills. I had one in my pocket. In Edinburgh. And three months supply in the bathroom cabinet. In London. Kitty bought that from the distressed pine shop eleven years ago. The cabinet, I mean. She bought everything eleven years ago – including the Home Base Powder Blue and Victorian Lilac paint combo that's gently peeling in the kitchen. If it wasn’t for the flat screen in the bedroom you’d guess at female occupancy. Infact, I’ve lived in the flat sans une femme for nine years (except for year six but let’s not go there). It’s a little tired now – I nicked that euphemism from the estate agent. I got her round to discuss a short-term let option while I was on tour. It was an option. If I made a quick decision….and organized storage…I might re-decorate when the tour finishes.
If you miss a pill you can fuck up the cycle and lose the hair that’s stable. After a week you might as well forget it. So it’s a big deal. An Edinburgh to London return trip isn’t an option. Since we’re on the subject. I don’t have an understudy. I am one. I’m just going to have to watch my hair fall out.
I found two on the keyboard during the first paragraph. Hairs, I mean. I could see the round bit at the front of my head shining through when I put on my mud make-up and in the quick change when I bent down to tie my boots I saw the dresser looking at my crown. And I can’t take extra ones when I finally get home or my testosterone level will get dangerously low. As it is, normal dosage can affect libido and volume of sperm. But it’s been quite a celibate year (on and off) and making babies usually comes after making relationships. So that’s good news.
The pills I’m talking about are little orange ones labelled “sunday, monday, tuesday’ and so on in weekly packets just like the iconic contraceptive. They’re called Propecia and the doctor prescribed them instead of Prozac when he discovered the root of my depression. Thinning hair means I’m not Peter Pan or Dorian Gray or Brian May. It means I’m going to die. But before that I’m going to get bald. And Propecia means I can put my finger in the dyke a little longer ‘til I get my act together and find a wife. And having slightly more petit petits morts is a small price to pay. If only I wasn’t so scatty.
Three more have landed on the keyboard. I'm destined to play King Kanute.
Blog 10: Sex in the City, well, East Dulwich, actually (November 11th)
I actually had sex on sunday. You don't believe me do you? You think I'm making it up so I can have a sexy blog too. Adventures of a Call Boy, Diary of a Call Girl, Sex in the City Girl, Confessions of an Office Girl, Tom Marshall's Year Book. Spot the odd one out. Not anymore...
She felt his oversized banana under the strain of his boot cut 501's, but this one wasn't going in the smoothie maker it was going in her mouth and, even without the crushed ice, it was going in right now.....
I'd better start at the beginning. You know I told you I went on Premier League dot com after I split up with my ex-girlfriend a few months ago. No, I didn't? Well, blog-followers, we've got some catching up to do haven't we? Maybe we should save that for later. I'm just dying to tell you what happened on Sunday when I got back from my de-stress week in Scotland. I had a date planned with one of my 'fans' from the site (if you press on a photo you automatically become a 'fan' and link up profile pages). I have 354 fans so I'm top of the weekly popularity chart. "Pop goes your Cherry-Ade" is number one, folks, for the third week running. Grab him quick before he goes out of stock. I'm not letting it go to my head though (fnah, fnah), because I worked out if you press a girl's photo she sees yours first in the search pages. By pressing 2,563 photos I easily secured top spot. So what if I cheated a bit? If it increases your chances of meeting Ms Right - and quite a few Miss Wrongs - what's Miss Wrong with that?
Fast forward to Sunday and I'm meeting up with date number 326 (I haven't slept with all those, I wish, nor have I dated them, but I have emailed all 354 over a three month period). She doesn't look as young as her picture but that's okay she's still a good fifteen years younger than me. We've already struck up a good msn chat chemistry and we obviously share the same gsoh so it's looking good. Three leffe's in and I'm buzzing -
So she said I've met someone else and it's love at first sight so I said that's what you said about us and she said fuck off so I said people don't just fuck off so she fucked off and I followed her and she went back to the flat we used to share so I went to the florists and rang the buzzer and she said fuck off over the intercom and I said people don't just -
Can I stop you there? Is this about your ex, about Nikki, the girl from your first seventeen emails?
Yes, it's about Nikki, of course, who else would it be?
First rule of dating don't go on about your ex
But I need to talk about it, get it off my chest
I'm not your therapist
No your my rebound date
Did you want an early night?
What's your line of thinking exactly?
That you're a twat
Now you're probably wondering how we got from here to rampant rabbit aren't you? Well it took quite a lot of back tracking and another four leffe's to get to this -
Don't you want to go out with me?
No
Why not?
You've got desperate stamped on your forehead
How about a shag?
I'm not into one night stands
You're on Premier dot com what are you talking about?
Ive been out of the country for seven years, it's a way to meet people
And I've been out of my head for three years why don't we get back to the garden together?
Get back to the garden?
It's a song lyric from Woodstock, which Joni Mitchell sang at Woodstock, iconically, written by Crosby Stills and Nash who also sang with Neil Young, also iconically
You're too old for me
I know but hey it's sunday, we've had seven leffe's, why not come back to mine and I'll play you the track?
Now you're talking, Mr Pop your Cherry Cheesetastic, NOT
I didn't hear the 'not' I was too horny
Great Miss 'Italian Job' - shouldn't there be a 'blow' in there somewhere?
I'm calling a taxi
We can walk
I'm not going to yours it'll be full of first world war break-up memorabilia we'll go to mine
Coolio Julio
I really don't know why I'm doing this I don't do mercy shags
Nor do I
That's cleared that up then - I'm in Clapham - and no funny stuff in the cab ok?
And that's how it happened. She told me she'd been teaching in Italy since she graduated and wanted to settle back in England and I told her I was an actor and had always wanted to live abroad but for now Clapham was fine. And then we made a smoothie together.
What's up? You don't believe me? Is it really so appallingly inauthentic that I pulled? I'm not as bald as I make out you know? Okay, just this once, I'll come clean. I didn't...come clean, or dirty. Nor did she. Not as far as I know. She went home to Clapham. I went home to Duckwich, where I whizzed up three black bananas and watched The Italian Job on re-mastered DVD. Now I've been honest with you, so I expect the same from you miss solo blog follower. Thanks for joining. You know who you are.
It's not a mercy click is it?
Blog 12: Meltdown in Brumingham (November 20th)
I'm in Birmingham. I haven't a clue what it's like. It was dark when we finished the tech - I shoved a tasteless chicken pie down me - credit crunch supper for 6.95 - more crunch than credit. The pastry was overcooked. It wouldn't matter if it was daylight and I had three hours to kill - I can't look outside my own head. I'm going round and round in circles. It's five minutes to curtain up but I can't be bothered to change into generic dust bowl farm hand.
I've lost my Mojo. My Confidence, My Girlfriend, oh that was three years ago, my Mother, oh that was three and a half years ago, my motivation, everything. And the boys are jabbering and yabbering and fucking this and fucking that and cunting this and bag of weed that. My head's about to explode.
I did some research yesterday to suss out the competition for my blog stroke book-waiting-to-happen. I looked at the non-fiction first. That's what this is (apart from the pseudonym - which I've changed to my real name - it didn't feel right). Dawn French's writing is very similar in style to mine. She has written imaginary letters to real life people whereas I've written real life letters to imaginary people. Still no followers. The only difference between "Footloose" and "Dear Fatty" (apart from the fact that blogs are blogs and letters are letters) is that she's very famous. "Fatty" is at number three in the bestsellers so that's a good sign. I just need to get famous double quick.
Amongst the fiction books (which this could be if I pretended it was), some unknown actress has written about looking for a man and has clearly found one judging by the smug photo on the inside cover. Fifty lovers and a funeral, or whatever, cannot honestly be based on a true-life blog called spinstersquest, a long unfruitful search for a half-decent bloke. She is stunning and funny and a bestselling novelist. What has she not got going for her? Why oh why would she not be able to find a lover for four hundred pages? I'd shag her on page one.
Then some unknown actor has written a novel about a failed actor (really???). They should make it a dating website - Actorsnotdoingverywellwithlotsoftimetowrite.com. It's a bandwagon fit to bust and I've jumped on it. Anyway this guy's book is about understudying someone more famous and fancying the other guy's wife. It's outrageously well written. And it has a plot. I've just readHow not to write a novel and the first chapter is all about how not to write a first-person confessional where nothing happens. That's nota good sign
Should I give up now? And join the fabulously witty banter-smog of sweat and foul language clogging up this basement wardrobe-cum-substitute-dressing-room. I'm not bitter just stressed. My squash partner is having a baby, my best friend is playing the lead in a new adaptation of 1984 and my on-off platonic-friend-cum-girlfriend is off. Every way you look at it. Still, I managed to write 500 words.
Blog 13: Meltdown in Nottingham (November 16th)
I should be in Birmingham. Instead I'm at my brother's house. It's like a show home without the show, a spotless Georgian conversion in The Park, the most exclusive part of Nottingham right next to the castle and home to all the 'wannabe' tennis professionals I played against when I scraped into the county squad during my Adrian Mole's Secret Diary days. Now Simon lives here in his Adrian Mole's Lost Diary days, a single parent sharing the parent bit with the not quite legally divorced other parent. That's why the show element has gone, along with most of the furniture. It kind of suits my 'starving in a garret' writer persona. I don't know yet how it'll fit Tom Marshall, we'll have to see.
I caught the cross-country train after the free drinks at the theatre. I was in one of those moods you get on tour when you can't stand the sight of each other. I'd forgotten the harmonica that night so the boys had to pitch the note bareback which they did admirably, but not before they'd had a go at me for being a blog writing, navel gazing, non team playing selfish bastard. That won't stop me being a flaky actor, wannabe writer, selfish bastard. So everyone's a winner.
Truth is, the boys are getting royally racked off with me. I actually missed my entrance for the barbershop quartet last week, which is when they learnt to pitch without stabilisers, and on thursday Bald Dave came in with my line because he thought "my head had gone". Actually I was experimenting with a resonant pause but how would he know? Ever since the Mac delivery I've been back to back blogging. Pete reckons most actors are social animals with "a fifty fifty thinking to socialising ratio" and that 'I'm ninety five to five' - does that make me autistic or just driven? I'd like to think I'm taking steps to crawl out of this bargain basement dressing room and with my 'pen is your weapon' career change chipping away at that reinforced ceiling. Nigel thinks it'll all come to nothing and anyway he's read the bit about worms in my shit and thinks it's, well, shit. Bald Dave asks if I've still got them -
They were bits of tomato that's the whole point - there's a twist in the tale
There was a twist in my stomach I had to put it down when I read about them all red and pulsing.
They don't understand me. They just want a bit of banter and relaxation, they've got kid worries and wife worries and money worries. Except Pete, and he's with the community cast this week. He struck lucky in Edinburgh and wants to have a second go on the tombola.
I've just got 'art' worries. I''ve had a confidence crisis since I asked my writer friend if the blogs were ready for publishers. She emailed a response impressively promptly to say on no account must I commit professional suicide and that she was sick of my whiny voice and did I have to be quite so fixated on my excrement and was she being too honest? So it's back to the drawing board. And career worries -which is what I do have in common with the boys. That's why we spend too much time in the dressing room winding each other up. We're not on the stage winding John Steinbeck up. The stars are doing that. The Joad family. The top two wage levels. The chosen ones on the ground floor. The family. We're in the basement and we're the bits and bobs - the outsiders. That suits me fine.
Blog 14: Sour Grapes (November 23rd)
That's the headline of the Birmingham Metro review. It says our Grapes of Wrath is a "trudge through catastrophe". Nigel and Dan and Bald Dave say my blog is like that. At least the Metro saw the show before they said it was shit. All Bald Dave has read of my blog is three lines about shit. That's not fair. And Dan is so negative about everything. Sex, women, Birmingham, acting, his life, my life, my blog, my acting, me, myself, I, Joan Armatrading, everything. It's been boiling up in me. So I let it out -
D-d-d-dan, it's so hard to hear you, it's just a c-c-c-constant barrage of cynicism, c-c-c-unt this, f-f-fuck that, he's shit, your shit, we're all shit etc etc etc
I'm winding you up I thought you could handle it
I can normally but not when it c-c-comes to my writing, I'm over-sensitive about that b-b-because I'm pinning a lot of h-h-h-hopes on it
I'm sorry it's just that you're always putting it out there I feel obliged to put my oar in, I'll try to be more encouraging in future
Not more encouraging just not discouraging, just neutral
Okay now I know I'll back off.....I still think your writing's shit though - have you read Irving Walsh?
Blog 15: My Mentor is Seven, no Eight (November 28th)
I've been listening to Alice's stories - Secret Seven, Puppy Patrol - and she's been watching Roman Mysteries on Cebeebies while I'm typing this post. She's my niece and she's eight. She's giving me one-to-one tutorials on plot development. She started on life-skills -
You used the posh plates to eat your quiche on they're not for eating off they're for display, and you used daddy's shower towel for your bath and did you take the toothpaste? And you woke the chinchilla when you came home, try to go to bed quietly
Sorry
Why are you writing that down
I'm writing a children's book (little white lie)
Do you want a few tips? I have good book knowledge
Err, if you like?
Most stories have a group of people (in my case actors- tick), or children (see previous), and a hero (me - tick), and a villain (showbusiness - can it be a thing?)
Can the villain be a thing like a shop or a school?
You can be frightened of people in school but not 'of' a school (the boys in the dressing room - tick)
And you need tension (she was banging her legs on the carpet quite violently now). Like here, someone's close to dying, they've been poisoned by snake venom on a hairpin (yesterday's chicken pie - tick) but make sure you add funny bits (things up my bum?) - what genre is your book?
I'm sorry?
Is it a single book or a series?
Well it's a series if the first one works (I'm looking for a two book deal minimum)
Well you need to leave things on a cliff hanger (will I get any blog-followers type of thing?) cliff-hanger, happy ending, cliff hanger, happy ending, cliff-hanger and so on. This one's a happy ending there's a wedding at the end ( I get a wife?). A good tip is to have a conversation between two characters at the end of the book which tells you about the next one. So the father is telling Flavia he has chosen a suitor for her to marry (I might have to get my platonic ex-girlfriend to find mine) - what age are you aiming at?
How do you mean?
1-6, 7-14, 8+,6+, 5-12?
Is that the time?
Don't put any jokes like that in will you?
7-14?
Then it has to be understandable for seven but mature enough for 14 (I think I've got the first bit)
I read a book that was actually terrible (not mine) it had everything, it was really exciting, but the words were too tricky
Mine's the other way round
You mean it's boring with easy words - it sounds like a 1-6 age group (probably)
Actually it could be exciting if I work on it a bit
That's good because it won't sell otherwise (it won't get off the slush-pile let's face it - my glass is draining fast)
Just then my new agent phoned me (is that tension?) for the first time since I joined them three months ago. The tour finishes in four weeks so it's perfect timing. I listened to my ansaphone while Alice gave dad's celery, parsnip and ginger soup combo a verbal rejection slip -
Hi Tony, just to remind you the Spotlight renewal has been and gone but you still have time if you go on line and give them your bank details - sooner rather than later.....
Is that a cliff-hanger? It's not really is it. It's certainly not a happy ending.
Blog 16: Twenty nine year itch (November 30th 2009)
Last sunday a piece of glass came out of my arse cheek. It had been stuck in there for twenty nine years. I was sitting on the platform at Stockwell tube waiting for the Victoria line when I got an itch on my left buttock. I felt a lumpy bit and scratched at it. Like pulling a big splinter it was. Only it wasn't a splinter it was a tiny shard of glass. The years dropped away and I was back at Uni, fresher's week 1980 - I was living on campus, on the first floor, and locked myself out getting ready for bed. I was trying to get back in through the back window above the roof wearing polyester pyjamas and a pair of checked slippers from British Home Stores. Mum packed them to make sure I was warm at night while other more naked students were practising unsafe sex.
I went straight through the skylight and landed on the coke cans in the refectory kitchen. I was rushed into hospital as casualties from a pile-up on the M6 were being brought back to life, or not, and released at three in the morning with a severed nipple, a stapled head, soiled pyjamas and an itchy arse.
Next day I paid fifty pounds for the new glass, chucked the jimjams in a bin bag and started sleeping bareback with a girl from Worksop. You could say that was the moment I cut the umbilical cord.
Blog 16: This afternoon was about Mums (December 1st)
Usually the boy's dressing room is about sex. Or the objectification of the female form. The new dresser is perfection. Beats Plymouth hands down. I'd leave my wife and kids for her, I'm serious. I don't think he is serious.
This afternoon it was about mums. Or at least the "you can say anything to your mum and you know you'll be forgiven" school of mums. Bobby's mum had got a bit teary - not what you do to petticoats on barbed wire but what you do when someone says something hurtful. She wanted him to phone his brothers more often - but as Bobby pointed out -
I'm on tour it's hard enough staying in touch with Alice and the girls besides they're big boys now they can pick up a phone all by themselves
- he should've taken a breath there -
Look mum they're my half brothers, there's a twenty year age gap and we're not close.
That was when she got a bit teary. So he was calling her back this afternoon to smooth the waters. I don't know if it worked. I was sitting on a bench in the Oklahoma dust bowl watching a man with black eye make up talk about his kids' bellies stuck out like a pig's bladder. Then Dan pitched in -
My mum's stress levels are sky high. If I ask her to come to sunday lunch or take the kids swimming it's always "Where will I park?"
On the side of the road mum where do you think?
"Stop it Danny you know I'm on my own since your dad except for the Jack Russell."
Well, kill the bloody Jack Russell and get a new fella. I think he was playing to the gallery.
I haven't got any mum stories of my own any more. Like Patrick Swayze, Heath Ledger and Bob's step mum, she died.
Blog 17: Sex at Teatime (December 2nd)
It was HUGE. And HOT – do you know what I mean? Pete is fresh out of Rada. Like a young Rob Lowe without the charisma. Bald Dave tightens his belt. Pricey though – lunchtime you pay half that.
The boys are back from the “Pubic Triangle”, Edinburgh’s lap-dancing district with the Job Centre sandwiched between three strip joints. It is five to seven, just before the half-hour call. A similar exchange may have taken place some hours earlier. I’d like to suggest. Then they’d have talked SEX. Now they’re talking FOOD. They found “Monster Mash” at two in the morning on their way back from “Sunset Strip”, the song reference nailing itself to their knackered brain cells despite the hormones. Three drama grads who volunteered to be extras tell us it’s won “best student café” this year. They serve five different types of mash apparently – champ, mustard, cheese, spinach and regular. The actress playing Grandma had fish and chips. Mine was curry and chips – I like a lot of sauce to balance the starch.
Healthy option again Stephen. That was Pete, who’d been abusing his body in five different ways until four in the morning.. Before you take the splinter out of my eye take the plank out of your own ingénue-face!
Friendly banter. I dabbed a brown powder marked “mud” onto my character-face and buttoned my check shirt. The opening song came over the tannoy - time for beginners.... When I saw daybreak bright as a beacon, Phoebe arising…
Only another three hours to go.
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