It's only Rock Rivals

Well, aren't I busy? Audition yesterday for an ITV thing called Rock Rivals, auspicious for the fact that it's by the same people as Footballers' Wives, a show which was both the big break and final testimony of a friend of mine a few years back. Now, I thought I remembered Robin auditioning for this a good long time ago, and I was right. I did what any curious person with too much time and an internet connection would do, and googled the shit out of it.

Now, as it turns out, it's been filming for about seven weeks and suddenly the guy who was playing the part I was auditioning for dropped out. Something funny going on there. Oh, and the other thing: The last guy they picked for this part is about as different from me as, say, Nelson Mandela is from a cartoon shoe.

So, it was with no real expectations I arrived at Shed Productions near King's Cross, waaaay too early for my audition. I inherited the early gene from my mum. Even just thinking about arriving on time makes me feel late. So I inevitably end up wandering round the block, or up the road and down again so as not to appear pathetically desperate. This is a great opportunity for me to focus and relax, and for my brain to try and sabotage my career by pretending not to remember the way back (see previous post).

Shed productions is not in a shed at all. It's in one of those semi-industrial-turned-media-offices estates, with a buzzer on the door that it looks like you'll get in trouble for pressing. Back to the Crystal Maze, but very much in Future Zone now. There's a tiny little reception area a bit like a youth centre with TV Quick awards on the wall. There's a nice receptionist with an impressive collection of speech impediments considering his main job is answering the phone and swingy chairs in brown suade. All this to lull you into the false idea that this is a cosy little place, before you go into the meeting room with the glass wall looking down onto the shop floor, where about fifty people look like they should be holding their collective breath to see if Hanks can pull Apollo 13 through on manual. Or at least shouting 'sell,sell,sell.'

Margaret Crawford is casting, and she's fairly abrupt. Not that she's trying to be unkind, I think she's just like that. Read through the part with her and did it fairly well. Something tells me I won't get it though. Possibly the camcorder on the tripod that she singularly failed to point at me, or even turn on. But she casts a lot of things and there's a lot to be said for just being seen by these people.

Back downstairs, with the door refusing to perform it's egressive duties, the receptionist said "Jutht click the button on the wight there and it'll let you thtraight through." If only there were a similar button for casting directors at auditions...

Spin off this.

I need either a) a printer, or
b) a more reliable brain, or, ideally,
c) an artificially intelligent compact gutenberg press.

The reason for this is I seem to consistently get a little bit lost when I go for auditions. This one for Casualty spin-off Holby City spin-off Holby Blue. It's a bit like a Babushka Doll crossed with The Bill. Anyway, it was at the London Welsh Centre, of all places, on Grey's Inn Road. Easy, I thought; a short walk through Russell Square from RADA, where I'd spent the previous eternity sticking address labels on envelopes as if it was somehow important.

Now, I'd looked it up on multimap, and it was really easy. Turn left, it's a little way up on the left. Or so my brain remembered. I walked along until I started thinking 'Crikey, it didn't look this far on the map. Probably just a bit further.' At this point I should have turned around but the part of my brain that thinks I'm clever refused to in a bout of pride. It's the same part of the human brain that, say, presses the big red button despite being told not to, or tries to annexe Poland and exterminate the jews despite having given a man called Neville a piece of paper.

Because London Welsh Centre was not on the left. Oh no. It is decidedly on the right. La droite. Das recht. The not left. I hurry back some five minutes later to see that in my diligence to find it on the wrong side of the road, I have walked within inches of a Large building painted bright red and white, flying a large flag with a dragon on it. And that thing I tripped over earlier was the message "IT'S HERE, YOU TWAT" written in leeks on the pavement.

Anyway, London Welsh Centre is a very lovely place, and I would recommend it to anyone who wants to read notices about male voice choirs, or, somewhat more inexplicably, rehearse for the West End musical, RENT. Sara Bird who was casting made a crack about not losing another auditionee to RENT as she took me through. "Don't worry," I said cheerily, "I fucking hate queers!" but either she pretended not to hear, or I didn't really say it. It's probably not best to take a chance on a casting director's sense of humour so early into an audition, anyway.

So yeah, I read for the part of a law student dressed as a pirate and left.

It's a five minute game...

It seems like things might at last be picking up. June and July have been as dry as Jimmy Carr, but everyone said it was a quiet time. I was beginning to think of it a bit like the start of the First World War; they were saying it'd be over by Christmas, but I had visions of rotting in a trench until I shot myself in the foot just to do a bit of T.I.E.

Anyway, today I went to the Finborough Theatre to audition for Little Madam, a play about Margaret Thatcher as a twelve year old seeing her future life played out by her sock puppets and imaginary friends. It's far better than it probably sounds.

I was auditioning for the part of Teddy. Yes, dear reader: I, a clessicly trehned ehctor, may play my first part in a pair of fluffly ears with a black nose. Again, this would be far better than it probably sounds. And it makes me think of Michael Simkins in the cowardly lion suit in What's My Motivation?, and frankly if it's good enough for him it's good enough for me.

Anyway, as well as Teddy the part doubles for Ted Heath and a miner, Maggie's final arch nemesis. Think I read alright, director and writer both very nice once I actually found them. I got there a bit late (the district line being my final arch nemesis), and couldn't get in through the pub, which was closed. Fully five minutes later and almost in despair, I found a fire exit round the side that was ajar and followed the signs up to the theatre which was also closed.

I have never been to an audition that started more like a bad, low budget version of the Crystal Maze. I was half expecting to be congratulated by a genial bald-headed bastard when I finally stumbled into the room where they were sitting. No such luck, but thankfully, no Ed Tudor-Pole either.

The problem with auditions is you don't find out whether you got the crystal until much later on.

And even if you do, five seconds isn't that much time in the Crystal Dome. And your team mates could all be colour blind twats who can't do big aztec jigsaws.

A Cautionary Tale For Winter

First of what I obviously hope will be a regular series: an audition report. Although I suppose if they're too regular, it means I'm not getting the jobs. Ah, theatre, you are a fickle mistress.

Today I auditioned for A Tale For Winter, an adaptation of The Winter' s Tale for 8+'s. It's being written and directed by Nona Shephard, who directed me at RADA in Scenes From The Big Picture. I still think it was some of my best work, but then that might just be me trying to justify being mostly bald for a couple of months.

Seems like a really interesting play. Nona's taken the three youngest characters (Mamillius, Clown and Perdita) and is re-telling the story from their point of view. So you don't get Leontes jealous with rage, you get a seven year old prince wondering why his daddy suddenly went bonkers and threw his mummy into the dungeon. From what I read it seems good. I read for Clown and Mamillius, and it went okay, although I was under considerable discomfort and here is why:

This morning having woken up before my alarm (as it turned out an inspired thing to do, when it spectacularly failed to perform the only task it was designed for, a bit like Charles Kennedy), I thought, in a fine piece of early morning logic: 'Hey, why don't I shave while I'm in the shower - that'll save time,' without bothering to wonder how. Merrily scraping away, I held the razor up into the shower spray to clean it and thought nothing of it. When I'd towelled myself dry, I noticed tiny little shaved bristles all stuck to me over my chest and tummy. Tried to rub them off with the towel but couldn't in my damp state. 'Oh well,' I thought, 'they'll just fall off when I dry properly.'

And oh yes, they did. Unfortunately the particular underwear I had on today (CK, close fitted trunk, loose waist band owing to 7 year age) did a marvellous job of catching all the little hairs and funneling them directly onto my delicate scrotum. You know that feeling when you've been to the barber's and all the little hairs get down your neck and prick and itch? Well I had that in my pants, all morning. It was unbearable. Adjusting did no good, and my god, I tried. I'm surprised I didn't get picked up by the police for the amount of surreptitious fiddling in my pants I did in Hackney. Even at one point, excruciatingly, by a playground with kids in. I now live in fear that if i actually get the job and go back there, I will be razed to the ground by a mob of torch wielding Daily Mail readers.

So here's a tip: don't shave in the shower and don't fiddle with yourself near kids, unless you really really can't help it.

Preferences Need No Inferences: Born to Identify

The Bourne Ultimatum is probably the best action movie for a good few years, let's just get that clear. It satisfies. It is clever enough to make Transformers look like a three toed sloth with explosives strapped to it. It has Paddy Considine in it, for fuck's sake. What can go wrong?

But watching it made me realise something. Paul Greengrass clearly knows it. A single factor so ingrained in each and every one of us, so guaranteed to thrill, that the film would have succeeded if it was none of these things.

About twenty minutes into the film, L leaned over to me and said:

"I can't believe Paperchase is in the film!"

The fact that the taut action happening on screen was at Waterloo sent everyone in the cinema into paroxysms of barely containable joy. One bloke nearly headbutted his date into a bloody pulp in delight. Everyone of us in the cinema was barely able to restrain ourselves from standing up and shouting

"IT'S FUCKING WATERLOO!! IN FUCKING LONDON!!! I! HAVE! BEEN! THERE!"

So powerful is our pathetic desire to bask in any rays of reflected glory we were sold, then and there. We're so desperate for any sense of control over our tawdry little lives that the sight of somewhere we might have farted once immediately evokes warm feelings of nostalgia and ownership. In fact, fuck Paul Greengrass - as far as I'm concerned, I made this film.

I'm prepared to bet that anyone who reads this would be prepared to actually watch Mr Bean's Holiday if I told you that the street you live in is in it. Go on. It is.

You did, didn't you? You didn't see it? It's there, it's about half way through.

You watched it again, didn't you? See what I mean?

We're utter suckers for it. Ever since the day we saw someone from near us on Bullseye. Cavemen went apeshit when some fucker charcoaled a picture of a cave on the wall. Cause they'd been there, man.

And now, the end is near...

And so this blog starts, as all good things*, with the end. In July of this year, I graduated from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art holding proudly aloft my second degree certificate. The other arm waved a fond goodbye to what have been pretty much the best years of my life, my safe little cocoon at drama school and any possiblity of people giving me money without first requiring me to, say, do something for it.

Yes, I was expelled from my twenty year gestation deep in the bloated belly of full time education into the waiting arms of the doctor of life. And, to carry the metaphor slightly too far, the outside world seems like it could be a bit like Look Who's Talking Too, but written by c*nts. Or, in other words, like Look Who's Talking Too.

So, why contribute to the growing collection of people arrogant enough to think that when they scratch their arse, the world should get an email notifying them?

Well, basically, I've occasionally flirted with the idea of keeping a diary, but generally this has only gone as far as asking its name and if this seat is taken, before I end up either forgetting what drink it wanted and wandering off, or in the toilets shagging a more interesting project. A blog seems a bit more low commitment, and god forbid I should have to do anything as quaintly archaic as, say, use a pen. Besides, I see it as a stick-on patch for my facebook addiction, which is frankly dangerous.

I also like writing, and I hope this will be a good place to exercise that particular muscle. I am also in dire need of perspective at the moment, so let's see how that goes too.

You never know, it might turn out that starting out in 'The Industry' might be worth remembering one day too. Also, I can just copy and paste it into the autobiog when I'm rich, famous, and a c*nt.

Oh, and for the moment, it's a secret, this blog. So If you're reading this, well done: You either trawl the directories like the Japanese trawl the Pacific, or you're here by mistake. Or I couldn't resist telling someone in the hope that they would like it and tell me how clever I am. Never got over that one. Forgive me, but I am an actor.

*No, I can't justify that, but I like vague sweepingly grand statements.