"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!