"A Piss Stained, Piss Poor Country . . ."

So I'm back from a busy weekend in London with considerably lighter pockets.

I managed to cram 4 shows into 3 days and all for the grand total of £94.50. Some where considerably better than others but, we'll get to that.

Firstly 4 shows for £94.50.

They weren't shit seats either. Front row, center-mid stalls and centre dress circle - not too shabby considering these seats normally range from £60 to £85.

I should have spent about £200 plus, but thanks to the miracle of days seats (and some very lovely box office people) I didn't even hit triple figures. 'MAZIN.

So for a break down.

Jersey Boys

The tale of Frankie valli and the Four Seasons. It's been on my to-view list for a while but, its a jukebox and quite frankly, there are better more original shows out there. But Phantom was sold out of cheap seats and Richard Blackwood was still in Shrek so I kinda had no option.

I got all excited cos my program listed Ryan Molloy as playing Frankie Valli, and yer know, he's pretty fuckin' awesome. But when the curtain went up, Jon from S-Club 7 appeared and made me all confused.

No preshow announcement, just a wee note in the programme - at some performances the role of Frankie Valli will be played by Jon Lee. Annoying to say the least.

Not a great deal to say about this show. Lots and lots of songs. Typical jukebox audience who think that 'cos they know the songs they're entitled to sing along.

But all in all, good. The band should deffo get a shout out 'cos they were AMAZIN. Surprisingly this was also noted by the audience who didn't rush to leave and actually stood and applauded the orchestra after the curtain call. (Aberdeen audiences take note por favor!)

Once you've seen it, you've seen it. I won't be going back but I would recommend a visit. Even while Jon from S-Club is in it. He's bloody good.

Crazy for You

Me and the new flatmate made our traditional (well, we did it last year too) trip to Regent's Park open Air theatre to see their production of Crazy for You.

The weather held out, for the most part, and the show went on. The dancing in this show was crazy, tap numbers galore (it is Gershwin after all) and PERFECT synchronisation. The set was clever and the costumes bloody gorgeous.

There's rumours of a transfer to the Novello which is awesome for a wee open air production. Probably wouldn't see this production again, just because the atmosphere of and open air show cannot be recaptured in a housed production, but you'd be missing out if you didn't give it a shot.

Betty Blue Eyes

Holy. Shit.
THIS is the standard that all new musicals should aspire to. Witty dialogue, tear jerking performances and gorgeous songs.

The fact that its closing is horrific. The fact that Mackintosh didn't pull his finger out and get a cast recording made and released earlier on in its run is fucking criminal. A sentiment shared by Sarah Lancashire, who played the female lead Joyce Summers, whom we met at stage door.

The show is charming, heartfelt and so completely joyous you walk out of it feeling that you can take on anything in life.

There is not a single bad comment I can make about this production save for the fact that each and every one of its marketing team members should be strung up. Few TV appearances, hardly any marketing outside of London and hardly any publicity surrounding the fact that Sarah Lancashire, Reece Shearsmith and Adrian Scarborough were all leads. And they weren't even stunt-casted. Each and everyone of them brought something to the show.

I can only hope that after pouring a lot of money into buying an animatronic pig, the producers give it a second chance on tour.

The Wizard of Oz

First of all, don't judge me. I love the film and have played Dorothy so I was dying to see what a professional production would look like.

Frankly, it was all a bit panto.

We got the understudy, Sophie Evans, for Dorothy who was lovely. Played the role perfectly to be honest. In fact, you can't fault the performance at all.

To blame for the gaudy spectacle are the people who decided what a 72 year old classic needed was some new songs, and that the Wicked Witch of the West needed to be sexed up a bit, and her minions needed to writhe around to a nightmarish polka number.

Fucks. Sake.

We only spent £15 on our tickets and I'm glad. If I'd have paid full price I'd have reported the Really Useful Group for theft. It wasn't memorable, it wasn't groundbreaking, it was a mess. Which is a shame, because the cast were all fantastic (except the children, who I could've done without) and really looked like they were having an ace time.

"Scaramouche! Scaramouche! Will you do the fandango?"

We Will Rock You.

A very bold claim for anything to make, let alone a musical based on the back catalogue of Queen.

But, fair do's, my tickets were free. So I shouldn't complain.

Does NOT mean I won't though.

First, the fact that the set and costumes looks like they were sponsored by some sort of collaboration between Dixons and your local S&M store. TV screens as set are friggin lazy. Charging people £45 a ticket to sit and watch a massive television show pictures of deserts and rivers for just over 2 and a half hours is down right rude. As is advertising it as a family friendly show and having the female ensemble dick about in their underwear for the majority of it.

Secondly, when did musicals stop needing plots?
Plot seems to have fallen out of favour circa 1999 with the birth of M*mm* M**. (No, I can't even bring myself to say it.)

Having seen it now about 10 times (not paying once) the story seems to be something like, its the future, all non-autotuned and manufactured music is banned, this guy hears song lyrics in his dreams and thinks they'll make good songs, he finds a load of "bohemians" (haha!) who celebrate music from "the good ol' days" and finds out about Queen, he then finds Brian May's guitar, plays We Will Rock You, then him and the cast do encore after encore and leave the stage 2 and a half hours later.

In summary. Shite.

Finally, the MAHOOSIVE PLOT HOLE.

If all man made rock and roll music is banned, how the hell do the main characters get away with not only singing Queen, but singing it with a live band?
For anyone who hasn't seen the show, this often happens when they are onstage with members of "Globalsoft" the folks who make the rules and make sure people obey them.

It makes my head hurt.

The only redeeming feature is the quality of the cast. Props going to Amanda Coutts who played Scaramouche, an enormous voice for a tiny tiny person. Props also going to Noel (of of Hearsay) Sullivan who played Gallileo for having a nice car but failing to signal in it and nearly knocking me off the pavement in it. My waistcoat's pretty hard to miss mate!

'nother redeeming feature: Brian May, who came out on press night (that's why my tickets were free) and played the guitar solo for Bohemian Rhapsody. Even if it was right at the very end meaning I had to actually sit through the show first, that's one of those moments in life that are pretty fucking special. Noel from Hearsay couldn't believe his luck, first performing for Nicki Chapman and now Brian bloody May! Just look at his face on that picture.

We said goodbye to the show on Saturday in't 'Deen. I believe they're heading to Birmingham for 5 weeks next, but if you must see it it's on at the Dominion Theatre in London running from now til the end of effin' time.

One can only hope that Freddie wasn't a musical loving gay.

"Shaggy, Matty, Greasy, Oily . . ."

About 4 weeks ago I made THE most diastrous hairstyle decision since I was about eleven and decided I wanted to look like Buffy.

11 year old obese females from Lancashire are NEVER going to look like Sarah Michelle Gellar, especially when she has naturally straight and obedient hair, and they have something like a cross between a jew-fro and a springer spaniel.

Having not learned from my previous mistakes I decided that now would be a good time to get a fringe.
I've had many fringes before, but these have been mainly your yellow bellied kind, a chicken fringe if you will, as they've always been to the side.

Over Easter, I went for a full blown, blunt edge, eye-lash skimming, bloody awful fringe.

FML.

Reasons why this was a bad decision.

1) My hair has a natural side parting. The fring tends to part like lopsided curtains.

2)When it rains or I exercise (Yeah! I do that now!) it transforms itself into a mess of curls.

3)IT MAKES THE MOON FACE MOONIER!

Seriously! I didn't think number three was even possible. Turns out, it is.

The fringe isn't the only issue.

I went with specific instructions to the hairdresser.

"No more than 2 and a half inches off the bottom, please."

Bearing in mind my hair fell about three inches below my chest, this would have kept its length and balanced out the fringe:moon ratio for my face.

Turns out she obviously couldn't fathom what 2 and a half inches looked like as now my hair falls about half an inch above my tits.

Nae. Happy.

Apologies for a fairly boring post, but where the hell else am I supposed to vent my rage and ten to one in the morning?

I'm looking at wigs as we speak.

Great rates for cancer patients, but I'm not sure it's that serious an issue.

Mine'll grow back at least.

"Your looks are laughable, unphotographable but you're my favourite work of art . . ."

Things I've learned whilst being in a relationship.

1) Valentine's day can be nice.

2) People's surprised faces when you say "I have a boyfriend" are funny.

and

3) I will get up at 3am and walk across town in the rain for sex.

Lets deal with number one shall we?

I have always always liked the idea of Valentine's day. Guys taking a risk and actually saying how they feel, even if it is through a tacky as hell card or a bouquet of petrol station flowers or a box of cheap heart shaped chocolates, is really really sweet. And anyways, the thought and sentiments are there and that's enough. (Granted, if your other half shows up with any of these items on any other day of the year its probs because he's been sticking it somewhere he shouldn't but, I digress.)

To be fair though, I'd never actually experienced a Valentine's day as a part of a relationship until 2 days ago, so, I very much had had the typical RomCom Single Girl experience, except without the witty dialogue or the ability to pay a personal trainer and dietitian to help me lose the "Bridget padding." In short, I had no problem with the idea of love being displayed gaudily in public for just one day of the year.

So this year my expectations weren't much different.

I didn't actually hear off of the boyfriend until 4pm in the form of a text message that read:

La Tasca? 6pm X

Odd now that I think about it. No mention of Valentine's day whatsoever. You'd think a romantic like myself would have freaked out, started sobbing or comfort eating or both but, nah.

I replied with a simple:

Ta. See you there :) X

Tres laid back.

I didn't put much effort into getting ready.

Sort've showered, did my face, sorted my hair, put on a frock and was doing my lippie when someone knocked on my bedroom door at 5.30.

Dickhead didn't wait for me to say come in, just opened the door to reveal himself all done up with a bouquet of roses in one hand and a huge parcel in the other.

I practically jumped him there and then. But waited until the flowers where safely in some water and the present had been unwrapped.

Boy did good.

The present was equal parts cute and filthy. Moi to a tee.

We then went and did your typical date; ate together and watched some people do some acting on a big screen, before heading back to mine.

It was lovely.

Romantic, but not overly soppy.

I'm pleased to report that there was no PDA, apart from when the bitch of a waitress flirted with him. There may have been a bit of hand holding to mark one's territory, but that was all.

All in all a good night.

And I didnt have to walk across town at 3am to get the goods 'cos they were within reach all night long.

"I Heard Somebody Say . . . Burn Baby Burn"

Being President of a Musical Society is no mean feat. Especially when that society is "Treading the Boards."

First of all there's the election process; writing your speech, trying to persuade people that you're not going to ruin the company, trying to make yourself funnier and more appealking than the other candidates. Sounds easy, sure, but remember that this is me, the awkward-everyone-must-love- me-or-I'll-die-and-I-want-everything-so-badly-I'll-explode-if-I-don't-get-it me.

Then of course when you get elected there's organising your committee, making sure your production team stay on target and don't act like a bunch of wankers all the time and making sure you don't run out of money.

The latter is possibly the most important.

Musicals eat money like Charlie Sheen's prostitute problem and are far less rewarding.

They also swallow all of your free time. If I'm not studying or working chances are I'm in the dance studio running a scene/number/routine for the umpteenth time.

This year, our marvelous production team decided to do "Disco Inferno" a romp through the 70's jukebox catalogue. Yup. Its as a gay as it sounds.

Somehow I managed to land a lead who wasn't a fat chick (I know right!?) but actually a vamp - I got to get my boobs out and everything - A far cry from the Scumshaw days of playing a mute obese best friend. Not that I'm not over that . . . obviously.

We auditioned, casted, rehearsed and staged this show with a total of 30 numbers in just under five months, which is impressive considering at least 1 month of that was what's known as "dead rehearsals" where you might as well not have bothered showing up because no one else has.

This was due to the ever fascinating Aberdeen am-dram scene having swallowed up our males, not, I might add, as filthy as it sounds. There's only a very limited number of lads in the Deen who for one actually like theatre and who can then actually sing and sort of dance. It follows then that every company in the city wants them and they end up doing more than 1 show at a time, picking and choosing which rehearsals they want to attend and making their castmates lives a living hell for 2 or 3 months.

But the show went on and on and on for two and a half hours every night for a week and sold lots of tickets. And got a rave review. And was nominated for local awards. And was voted the number one thing to do in Aberdeen.

All in all pretty epic.

Then we all got wasted at the aftershow at my place.

I love my TTBers to pieces.

But God I am more than willing to step down at the election come May. 1 year is more than enough.

Maybe next year I'll take up a more relaxing hobby like watercolour painting or crocheting?

Yeah Right. . . . I'm allergic to paint.

"The Houselights are Dimming, The Footlights Are Bright, The Toast of Society's BurningTonight . . ."

I actually have the best job in the world.

I go in, seat people, sell a few programs, watch a show, sell ice cream, watch the rest of the show and go home!

And get paid to friggin do it!

I have a tiny torch that I get to shine in people's faces if I catch 'em filming stuff or talking or rustling sweets too bloody loudly.
I have been bollocked several times for the latter.

"He was rattling his friggin' M&Ms!"
"We sell them! He's allowed to eat them! You cannot flash your torch in his eyes!"
"He was on his third strike!"
"You most certainly can't then take them off him and attempt to escort him off of the premises!"
"Ahhh bollocks!"

My first shift was a genuine "pinch yourself" kind of day.

Boss: "There's a spare shift going for The Sound of Music over at HMT. Do you reckon you could keep an eye on the stalls?"

An hour later I was sat in one of the boxes (that's the best place to "watch the audience" apparently) watching Connie Fisher twirling about a mountain.

It was a bit weird later on like, when I bumped into her backstage. I wasn't stalking her or owt, our changing rooms are right next to the dressing rooms and we crossed paths. It got even weirder when I bumped into Captain Von Trapp looking for George Street then practically walked him there. He was wearing lycra running shorts. *SHUDDER*

Ice cream selling is a skill. Balancing the bloody tray around yer neck whilst trying to stop greedy little nose pickers tea-leafing tubs out of it is an art! I find a good swift shin kick does the job.
And I don't think I've ever had to smile so much in my life!
I've actually developed dimples! And with my friggin' hamster cheeks that is quite impressive!


There's only one downside.
You do have to deal with snobby theatre folk, who I can effectively offer no comment on as I'll sound like a bloody hypocrite.
Except this: I offered to walk you to your seat, you refused, and now your sat in someone else's seat because you have counting issues. Please don't look at me like I'm thick or treat me like I'm special needs because you can't tell the difference between numbers and letters. And if you tut at me, I will shove my torch through your teeth. I'll see you at the interval twatbag when you'll no doubt pay for a £1.50 tub with a £50 note (true story!) and take all my change so I can't serve any bugger else! Enjoy the show! *FORCED SMILE*

"Nobody Screws, Somebody Who's, Legally Blonde. . ."

Apparently, studying Law used to be up there with studying medecine in the "Prestige League" but that was before every Tom, Dick and Polytechnic started offering it as a degree level course. Now, literally anyone can blag their way onto a course and there's so many different ones (LLB/BA/Diploma) that no one actually gives a shit anymore. According to the the latest legal journals (yes I've read them, I spend half my life these days in the friggin' library in between hangovers) law firms are now looking for students who've pursued an interest of their's as a degree and later converted to law, with the intense 1 year conversion course before they take the DLP (Diploma of Legal Practice) in Scotland and the LPC (Legal Practice Course) in England, as it means that job candidates will have a wider amount of knowledge. The list of preferred subjects includes (seriously) History of Art, English literature and 20th century studies.

Excuse me?

You're telling me that I could have been spared 4 years of MIND NUMBINGLY BORING lectures on the importance of delegated legislation, Donoghue v Stephenson and Delictual feckin' liability and sat around reading the works of Charles Dickens instead whilst essentially coming out of Uni with a more worthwhile qualification to the legal industry?
Not only that but I would have been spared the TORTURE of the cliche law students, most of whom fall into one of three categories:

1) The Rich Git/Git-ess

Mummy and Daddy are paying their little Angel's way, sending them care packages including smoked salmon (I kid ye not) and emergency cheques, which quickly get spent on Jack Wills merchandise or reservations at Soprano's or behind the VIP bar at Tiger. The Rich Git/Git-ess do not need to study, their parents get on famously with the course leaders and have given a large donation to the Taylor Library so it can afford some new tables to give the poor kids somewhere to study. They sit on FaceBook during lectures on their brand new netbooks and contirbute to conversation monosyllabic expressions such as "Ya" "Hmmm" and "Right." They control the law society, and make the law ball so expensive anyone who doesn't own half of the home counties can't afford to go. I don't like them.

2) The Activist

They buy all their clothes from people tree, don't believe in deodrant and are studying law to help the ruddy planet. They're your stereotypical hippies and when they're not protesting against the campus recycling policy or holding up the queue in Tikki Cafe ("WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T HAVE SOYA MILK?!") you can find them lecturing the lecturers on international environment laws out on the corridor. On the unfortunate occasion that you find yourself sat amongst a group of them in a 3 hour public law lecture you will be bored to death whilst they fill any pauses with talk about themselves and their travels. You will hear the phrase "y'know" more times than you care to remember but enough times to know that you want to actually consider throwing yourself from the top of the MacRobert building. (To my non-aberdonians, it's bloody high.)

3) The Know it Alls

Their hands are permanently raised. They've done all the required reading and then some. They spend hour long tutorials arguing with the tutor on the finite complications of replacing "and" with "or." They shoot daggers at you for answering a question. They smirk when you get it wrong and bristle when you get it right. Wankers. The lot of em. You do not want to get stuck with a bunch of these when you're working on a group report worth 25% of your final mark.


Seriously???
It's a bloody good job I don't want to actually be a lawyer.
Could you imagine strolling into an interview after four years of uni then two years on the DLP to be asked:

"So what can you tell me about Van Gogh?"
"Ermmm, he painted some daffodils or was it sunflowers?"
"Ahhh, that's the trouble with Law students these days, they may well possess the skills to defend Robert Mugabe or come up with a solution for the current backlog of legislation within Parliament, but they know jack shit about the history of art."

"Oh Hallowed Halls and Vine Draped Walls, The Proudliest Sight There Is . . ."

This is a love letter to my now adopted home town: Aberdeen.

Thank you for giving me a place at Uni.
Thank you for giving me amazing flatmates.
Thank you for giving me the chance to nap in an afternoon.
Thank you for giving me Belmont street, Siberia Vodka Bar, The Priory, Pearl lounge and Liquid.
Thank you for giving me a job within 4 weeks of living here.
Thank you for giving me the chance to meet like minded people.
Thank you for giving me impressive weather.
Thank you for giving me King's College; I feel like I go to Hogwarts.
Thank you for giving me a scottish lecturer called Dr. Taggart who has to say "murder" a lot.
Thank you for giving me Mental Mitchell and his amazing drunken compositions.
Thank you for giving me Law Society Socials.
Thank you for giving me a lead role in your musical society's production of Bad Girls and my new drama friends XD
Thank you for giving me the chance to appreciate the mates that I've left behind, feels like I'm missing an arm.

Thank you for making me realise there's more to life than education (It's only taken, what, 14 years?) and there's definitely more to the world than what the NorthWest has to offer.

I would not trade this city for the chance to perform at the Albert Hall.
I would not trade this city for the chance to star in a brand new Alan Bennet play.
I'd be tempted, but I'd be more than happy to say no.

Cheers Aberdeen!

Now it's off to work to hand in my resignation and to drown my sorrows in The Bobbin.
But not before a quick 40 winks.

"Toucha Toucha Toucha Touch Me! I Wanna Feel Dirty . . ."

I've well neglected this blog!

I'm sat in my room in Aberdeen (yup ABER-fecking-DEEN) and Neil Diamond's just been on the radio and it sort of triggered my memory a wee bit and got me back to the blog.

It's only a quick one, 'cos its 2am and I've got the best part of a bottle of Vodka inside of me, but also cos I don't feel like I've a lot to say.

Except of course Summer 09 (best summer yet) is over and done with.

The weather up here's kinda been like a second summer but officially, the frivolities of freshers week have arrived.

With it though come the inevitable problems.

1) Freshers week doesn't give you a license to grope. If I wanted your hand there, I'd have put it there. Kindly remove it.

2) No, I do not want a shitty little card with info about a drinks offer at a shitty little club.

3) No I do not want a shitty little card with info about your shitty little mass, Father.

4) If you go out looking like that you will end up in a ditch. Underwear is meant to be UNDER your clothes love.

5) If you ring my doorbell at 5am and scurry back to your flat with the manliness of Christopher Biggles in a florist, I will hunt you down.

The twats in Block 44 Flat 202 should pay attention to 1 and 5 please. You've been warned.

So how the devil are you all??

Grandad? Shrew? All present and correct?

Guys, seriously, keep in touch.

The drama baton has been passed on to the sisterling, in spookily eery and deja-vu-esque circumstances. "There's this boy . . ." :S

Here we go again . . . Christ I hope not.

"There's a Hole in the World Like a Great Black Pit and the Vermin of the World Inhabit It . . ."

Well London came and went, without much notice really.

The whole thing was a bizarre affair from standing around Eskdale carpark with Little Miss Topshop, The Shrew and The Lothario like some sort of tribe, clearly separated from the other groups (or "enemies" if we're being dramatic) in the form of A-Level Theatre Studies group 2 and The B-Teckers, waiting for the coach, to certain members of the group being threatened with Rape (I kid you not) by the tour guide "Mo" if they won a quiz.

There were genuinely hilarious moments.

1) Rapey Mo riding the children's ride at the service station whilst making some questionable faces.

2) 50 drama students running out of Covent Garden tube station and weaving through bewildered looking locals to get to the theatre on time.

3) Being asked to leave a sex shop.

There were some ridiculous moments.


1) Seeing Mo from last years Big Brother still working in Hamley's.

2) Trekking for HOURS to get to the Hard Rock Cafe.

3) Going in a sex shop sober.


And, of course, there were some extremely drunken/embarrassing moments.


1) Playing stupid drinking games with neat vodka.


2) Saying stupid stupid things to people.


3) Nearly knocking myself out by hitting my head on a bedside table and rebounding straight back up.

4) Sitting in a darkened room and thinking that because it's dark no one can hear the STUPID things you're saying.

5) Walking back to your hotel room unsteadily as the corridor literally moves from side to side.

6) Waking up to discover your head had been bleeding and reading your inbox messages.

And so idiot drunken Robyn struck again - ruining another trip and damaging a few friendships along the way.
(The Shrew was less than happy with me and has had to be bribed with promises of musical tickets.)

But not all was lost.
I got to see The Lion King and The Woman in Black (for the third time) and despite extremely badly behaved theatre audiences (another blog post for later on I assure you) I thoroughly enjoyed them both. Even if the Woman in Black actually made me to never want to step foot in a theatre again (that bitch gets scarier every bloody time).

"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

"I'll Bet You'll Get A Camel Through A Needle . . ."

The C*nt: Why are you sat on the floor? Like some sort of Dude?

The Grandad: Do you know what "dude" actually means?

The C*nt: I know what you're going to say, and it's not slang for "Camel Penis"

The Grandad

[STRAIGHTFACED]: It's Camel Foreskin, actually.



And so the tone of Thursday's lesson was set.

It must be said, random useless facts are more commonly associated with the Lothario, who seems to fill the time between watching back to back Guy Ritchie flicks about hooliganism and such surfing the trivia section of IMDB or Wikipedia (but only if he's desperate.)

Needless to say, the quick and straightfaced reply from The Grandad, left yours truly in stitches (read: collapsed on the floor and weeping).
But, it also lead to an interesting bit of research (read: destraction from biology revision).

According to various sources on the interweb, the word "dude" has had numerous meanings which have gradually evolved over time.

For example, the word "Dude" originally referred to the little hairs on elephants arses before cattle ranchers in America developed it into a phrase used to insult the clueless city people.

There is in fact heavy debate out there on the ol' internet. Serious, serious heated discussion.

Some people seem fairly riled - "It doesn't mean Camel Foreskin you C***! It's a slang word!"
Some simply want to provide insightful responses - "The definition of dude is an ingrown but hair."
Whilst the rest (moi included) are amused that the issue is being discussed.

So there you have it. You really do learn something new every day. Even if it is about camel foreskin.

Now if someone can tell me how to clear my google history?
Only at the moment, it looks like I'm into some kind of wierd Camel related shennanigans.

"I Just Can't Find The Words"

"If we could draw a graph of your productivity over the past 2 years, what do you think it would look like?"

A question posed to me by the C*nt on Thursday.

In my head, the reply went:

"Dunno? Maybe one of the most productive you've seen? 'Cos fuck knows I pay damn good attention, work pretty feckin' hard and hand stuff in early if not on time 9 times out of 10. But please, because I've had a few blips this past week or so, feel free to not only embarass me in front of everyone, but then go and call me "juvenile" to your colleague who's painting an axe in the corner."

But the yellow bellied twat that I am, I said this.

Yup. That's right. Sod all.

To put the duration and uncomfortabilty of the silence into some perspective, imagine every classic western scene that's included a tumbleweed rolling across the screen and lay them end to end.

I just shrugged my shoulders and bit my tongue.

Not in a "I-will-not-stoop-to-your-level" way more of a "I'm-genuinely-scared-of-the-ramifications-of-what-I'll-say-to-you-because-you-are-the-one-with-the-authority-here-and-I'm-not-so-it's-probably-for-the-best-that-I-say-nothing" kind of way.

The set up for this question basically involves me being extemely giddy.

1)Because it's last period Drama and means I'm 1 1/2 hours away from home.

2)Because I'd done my LAST EVER speaking exam that morning.

3)Because I'd been literally locked in the exam room with the examiner during said exam.

Probably no excuse but shut up. My blog. My opinion. Feck off.

I spent the lesson dicking around, which, true, is getting more and more common but I honestly would care more if The Twat had actually prepared lessons and if he hadn't run out of things to teach us.

Both things, I can assure you are TRUE.

But he still insists on making us write essays (timed at 45 mins) during class time, look at exam mark schemes, look at example scripts and (these are his exact words) "highlight the good sentences."

He is ruining my favourite subject. Has in fact been doing so for a very very long time, gently eroding away the complexities at the heart of one of the oldest and most beautiful art forms to such an extent that last week I sat in The Manchester Opera House wondering about the Social/Political message of Little Shop of Horrors, instead of simply enjoying the fact that the black guy from Tracey Beaker was singing the Blues in the form of a man eating plant!

I DESPAIR!

Some of you (yes all 2 readers) might think I'm getting a little complacent, big headed if you will because the word has been going around that people think I'm big headed and think I don't need the help. Bull. Of course I do. But to be helped I need to be taught. Preferably by someone who

1)Isn't a failed actor

2)Doesn't waste 3 hours of my time with ridiculous lesson plans when I could do it in the comfort of my bedroom, with the [TOS cast] to keep me company.

3)Wasn't going bald at the age of 17.

I don't care if that one was below the belt. It needed saying and quite frankly, his unprofessional manner of audibly slagging students off to his colleague's whilst they are in the room, means I get to play the bald card.

End of Rant.

On a happier note.

[Title Of Show] has gots a Tony Nom

NPH is set to host them.

And I got to see The Grandad in a Sailor Suit whilst singing about NYC this week.

It's the little things that make life worthwhile.

Hahaha, Hohoho and a Couple of Tralalas.

That man right there, for the uninformed, is the legendary Neil Diamond.
This man has become a prominent feature in my life ever since I met The Grandad.

The boy got such a nickname purely from his old man style anecdotes and life lessons. Wisdom simply pours out of him, the problem is that it's more often than that is about something generally useless or Neil Diamond related.

(Well there the same thing really aren't they?)

Excellent Neil Diamond one liners in the past have included:

1) Did you know Neil Diamond actually wanted to write musicals.
2) Neil Diamond was an excellent fencer.
3) The first Neil Diamond album to sell 1 million copies was called "Touching You, Touching Me"

The latter of which produced one of those filthy guffaws from The Lothario.

The Grandad is essentially 18 going on 80.
However, like most 80 year olds, there's a lot more to him. The Grandad has deep deep deep levels.

One particular conversation began with this statement from moi:

"What is the actual point?"

The grandad paused and came out with this.

"Comedy and Sex"

I laughed and he explained his answer with a straight face. Apparently the logic goes something like . . .

Comedy is important, because you need to be happy. If you're not happy then people aren't going to get on with you and you're life is going to be a miserable mess. And sex is important becuase its fun, a form of exercise (so it keeps you healthy) and necessary for procreation. But the two must never ever ever be practised together. You don't want someone to burst out laughing when you drop your in the middle of things.

That little gem always keeps me smiling.

That and the fact that Neil Diamond actually allowed an album to be called "Touching You, Touching Me."

"Think I'll Drop My Anchor In That harbour Over There..."

The Players all have their own defining characteristics.

There's The Overthinker, The Quiet One, The Shrew, The Show Off, The Hypochondriac and, of course, The Lothario.

The latter, at first, was fairly insignificant to be honest. He flew under the radar because well, we didn't talk. Shame really.

We'd overhear excerpts of his shenannigans. Anecdotes that would include themes such as:

Drinking

Sex

Films

if not a combination of all of the above.

Now though,

It's a whole different story.

The Tutor [henceforth possibly referred to as The Dick or The Twat or The C*nt - more of whom later] had low expectations. He has his favourites and really that will never change and thats how he grades work along with his prejudiced first impressions. Needless to say, him and The Lothario do not get along.

The Dick reckons L is a timewaster, who only chose Theatre Studies as a doss and although he may not be completely inaccurate, over the past six months he continually failed to give L the credit he deserved.

The two have a bizarre relationship.

From the outside, you'd mistake them for quarelling lovers.

Well . . . on The Dick's part anyway.

Their banter is a rapid exchange of dirty, derogatory, ego stroking metaphors and insults and is really quite something to behold.

The Lothario for example, can turn any innocent phrase into a dirty joke or penis reference 'cos that's simply how his mind works. The result of his sordid brain can be seen in his childish guffaws and outbursts that are frequent occurences and often highlights in the Twat's lessons.

The day I knew the kid was alright, was after this little gem:

Tutor: You will never get anywhere in life acting like that!"

Lothario: I beg to differ."

Tutor: Do enlighten me."

Lothario: I have a massive penis. It's gonna get me a helluva lot further than an A-

Level in Drama."

He swung his satchel over his shoulder and strode out of the theatre.

And let me tell you, judging from his gait, he wasn't lying.

Getting To Know . . . Well . . . Each Other

My time at high school was a friggin' disaster. Any friendship or relationship that I had I burned to the ground with my own paranoia and critical self awareness. Quite frankly, when I arrived at Runshaw, it was daunting. I had no idea where I was going with my life, if I'd get on with anyone, if I'd actually manage to survive the week.

I had a pretty good idea of the pressure I was going to be under. The parents were a nightmare as always, with their high expectations and competitive nature. Woe betide me if I failed to get straight A's or became anything other than a Doctor or an equally prestigious member of society.

I also had a pretty good idea about the academic rigmarole I was going to put myself through.

Chemistry, Christ.

Biology, For feck's sake.

English, SNORE.

Spanish, ME ODIO!

but there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Drama and Theatre Studies.

The parents had already made their feelings perfectly clear.

"It won't get you anywhere." "Acting isn't a career." "You're not exactly talented." "Why not try something a little more academic?" "Keep it as a hobby."

But for once I was determined to do something for myself. YEARS and YEARS I had been under their thumb, playing the role of dutiful daughter and obeying their every whim.

At the end of the day, it would be me sitting through 13 and a half hours of covalent bonding, glycolisis, Hawthorne and conjugating verbs a week. I needed a resbite and an escape.

At the end of the day, that was what Drama was.

What it had been for the past 10 years.

The Wednesday afternoon in September 2007 that I met The Players was easily one of the best of my life. Their immediate acceptance and warmth made me feel at ease for the first time in my life and allowed me to be completely inhibited in the way that I behave around other people.

They have removed nearly all of my social awkwardness and shyness and their continued sunny disposition and light hearted attitudes have helped to lift me out of great big black holes of depression and self doubt.

They are truly brilliant people, and the curtain is coming down on our time together. (Feel free to cringe at that cliche metaphor, by all means.)

This is a blog not about me, but about the last few weeks that we have left together, where I can post whimsical anecdotes as a tribute and long lasting memoriam of the amazing time we've had together.

Without sounding pretentious, Oscar Wilde sums the experience up kinda nicely:

"I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being."

Word Oscar. Word.