"I've Packed My Bags and I'm Leaving Nothing Behind. . ."

Some disturbing news reached my ears during Thursday's "Wizard of Oz" rehearsal.

When Mr Producer, wasn't making useless suggestions ("Does the yellow brick road need to be yellow? And do you HAVE to HAVE ruby slippers?") Petite Rouge took me to one side and asked me if I was aware of the latest "Twat" revelation.

"He's leaving you know?"

I beg your pardon excuse moi and come again?
Leaving?

Apparently, he's jetting off to London to be with "The Girlfriend."

It seems that the long distance relationship has proved to be too much and the right job has come along and he'd be stupid not to take it.

Now correct me if I'm wrong but . . .

Isn't he gay?

I mean, all the signs are there amigos!
Male Pattern Baldness, Fey Tendencies, A Passion for The Arts, Enjoyment of Circus Performance, A Girlfriend Who Lives A Long Way Away not to mention the friggin' book!

Come along! It's not like all of the above scream HETEROSEXUAL is it?
And, I'm sorry to say it but, why would you leave Scumshaw?

It's the easiest pissing place to work in the world surely?

Personally I reckon it's all a scam.
He's been rejected by everyone on the Northern gay scene and is having to resort to the South for new options.

Anyway, just a quick question.

Isn't the Yellow Brick road an integral part of L Frank Baum's classic?

Or is that just me bing a diva?

"So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersein, Goodbye . . ."

Well folks, it happened.

The last ever lesson. Bad times guys, bad times.

The idiot took us outside for our final Brecht orientated learning sesh, where we re-enacted any play that we'd studied in a Brechtian fashion.

After myself, The Grandad, Fringe and The Not-So-Quiet-One (NSQO) rejected re-enacting Romeo and Juliet and West Side Story (we wanted to incorporate Dalehead's fire escape Okay?) The Grandad suggested the terminator.

He then proceeded to march up the staircase in a robot-esque fashion, before quickly being heckled by his remaining sane cast members.

So eventually we settled on Phaedra. To say we got distracted is an understatement. Highlights included . . .

1)

Moi: What scenes should we do?

Fringe: "Ah! She is Dying!" scene?

NSQO: Yeah, and maybe the opening?
Grandad: Wasn't Punch and Judy based on Romeo and Juliet?

2)

Moi: [To the Grandad] Hold the sign higher!
NSQO: Now it's covering your face! LOWER!

Idiot: Why does it say Haemon?

Moi: We're doing the bit where she tries to seduce Haemon.

Idiot: I think you mean Hippolytus. Haemon's in Antigone guys.

Moi: Don't tell Colette!

Fringe: Especially because I'm resitting this paper next week!

3) The Lothario hitting himself with a stick/twig, thinking no one had noticed and going red when he realised that we did in fact see everything.

4) The Grandad attempting to return a football to the people on the Astroturf by kicking it over the fence, missing it completely and having to walk slowly up to it before camply throwing it back over.

The best part was probably the cheesy "gather round the table" moment at the end of the lesson, when we all divulged our most favourite drama-related moment to the group.

The Lothario: Pulling on two trips.

The Idiot: The lesson where he attempted to teach The Lothario not to swing on his chair.

These two where majorily outfavoured with the majority of The Cast deciding upon The Grandad's falling incident earlier on in the year. The highly comedic pratfall was furthered by the ever so embarrassed and gentle whisper of "Don't Look At Me!" as he lay bent over the theatre seating, bag over his head and arse in the air. I only wish I'd taken a picture.

The lesson ended all too soon.

We packed up or stuff, said our goodbyes and left. No tears, no hugs . . . nada.

True, we had a lesson with Colette the morning after, where amongst other things The Grandad, Lothario, Little Miss Topshop and Myself touch on topics including midget sex and Spit-roasting (Yes, that kind!) but still, the occasion went by fairly unmarked.

Hence the muffins. Individually iced. So atleast when people think back to their last lesson, their heads might not be able to think of much but their stomach might go, "ahhh yes, the 5th of June 2009, approximately half past ten in the morning, I believe I enjoyed the best chocolate muffin I have ever eaten, all thanks to the girl in the spotty red dress."

So until the 30th of June, that's it really. 25 days til we all get on that coach and take the 5hr trip to The Capital. We plan on getting as drunk as possible. Until then, blogs'll be few and far between and probably not drama related, more a case of what's grinding my gears (theraputic this malarky I tell thee).

So to The Cast thanks a bunch for two amazing and unforgettable years together!

And to the people of London I say this:

Brace Yourselves!

"If you see me fuss and fret, please don't take it as a bet..."

Mrs Grandad taught The Grandad a good way of not letting stuff get to him.

He just has to stop and think "Will I be bothered about it in 20 years?" If the answers "No" then he has no right to get pissed off about it, and so he moves on with his day.

He tells me it works.

Unfortunately, yours truly has no such coping mechanism. Nope, madame here gets anger bubbles in her tummy which work their way up to her eyeballs and spill out in hot salty streaks.

S'not pretty.

S'not cool.

And I FUCKING HATE IT!

The issue I have is that it looks like I'm crying and sad about whats happened, when nine times out of ten it's because I'm angry. I don't actually cry when I'm sad, I just mope. When someone gets to me though, the friggin' flood gates open.

Then it gets worse 'cos such events tend to happen around groups of people normally people I want to impress or that I don't want to see this side of me (see year 9 history lesson, year 11 biology nervous breakdown and today's drama lessson.) This then means that I get worse 'cos I get angry at myself. Cue more waterworks followed by a bit of sobbing. Then the embarrassment sets in so the moon face goes more mars-like in colour and more often than not mascara streaks its way down making me look like a 2 year olds attempt at drawing a tiger.

In short its not pretty.

So today's lesson, when I walked out, trust me, I spared The Cast from one of the most hideous things they could possibly see.

Walking out was the only coping mechanism I could come up with at that moment.

'Cos unfortunately, I can't dance it out like Billy Elliot or The Cast of Cry Baby (how feckin' appropriate!)

It also explains why I didn't want to speak to The Twat afterwards, cos I would have been a sobbing mess again.

And I might also have used the C word, as I ever so nearly did before the incident.

(Spot on Lothario "It was probably worse than "idiot"")

So fingers crossed it won't happen again.

And the Cast's final week won't be ruined by a wailing git.

Ooof, maybe he'll send me off to a counsellor 'cos I have "emotional problems?

Or maybe I'll just hire Mrs Grandad to sort me out! :D