Meet Hotten Crusty!

The author, entirerly comfortable doing a first-time Northern accent in front of cameras.

 

 I swear, I didn't just come back on this blog to plug stuff, but back in December, I was asked by Jamie Annett – the director of that episode of EastEnders I'd enjoyed being in so much - to take a day off from the Polar Express, to come and film a lovely little scene opposite "Bob Hope" (played by Tony Audenshaw) in Emmerdale. That scene went out tonight, and the internet has gone WIIIIILD...

 

  Okay, that scene's not actually mine, mine is fourteen and a half minutes into episode nine-thousand-and-five, HERE. Personally speaking, I liked Bob. His child's just died, and when I ask him how the guitar playing's going, he finds sweet relief in pretending they're still alive. Another really lovely scene then, and Tony was beautiful, and I remembered to hold my clipboard the right way round, and no-one asked me to drive the van, and the rain held off, and, once the scene was done, we all had Christmas dinner at the top of the hill. Rock on.

 

(Note, road sign right way up.)

Staying In My Lane

 Those old explanations of ghosts – echoes of a trauma baked into place – is it only human trauma that has that power? Might parks be crawling with the ghosts of worms? Is this river haunted by fish, fish ghosts targeted by heron, more than a millenia-worth? I'm trying to get into the Hallowe'en spirit now that the weather is proper October.

 

 Unfinished business – that was another explanation. Do only humans get to have that then? Wait, is that all a soul is? Business? Is it? I haven't been busy this year. Maybe. Have I felt like a ghost? A bit. And it hasn't all been unenjoyable, but I watched a youtube essay last week about the films of the Beatles which reminded me that being A CREATIVE FORCE is, you know, an option, and initially may require nothing more than just thinking to yourself "I'm going to be A CREATIVE FORCE" and then seeing what happens, and it's really picked me up. (Here's that video essay.) 

 

 In this case a bit of what happened appears to be me going for a walk and then posting shit phone pictures of it here. Well, good. You'll have to take my word for it that there were joggers. It's odd to me, by the way, that that that's what it's called: "jogging". That's definitely what it looks like, but it's not the aspect you'd think they'd want to advertise. Jogging's normally something you want to avoid, in case you scratch the record or spill your drink. How can I make running forward feel more like running into something? Jog!

 

 Are these pavement demarcations a hangover from the pandemic, or permanent now? And has anyone studied their effect on a pedestrian's mental health? I think I hate them. They just seem like another thing to get on the wrong side of. It's nice to have somewhere to record that though. It's nice to be A CREATIVE FORCE. The next paragraph contains swearing.

 

 I also hate seeing so many people right now take the side of a side, rather than siding with people – to see so many call for an end to Netanyahu's response to the largest mass murder of Jews since the Holoocaust while not also calling - seeing as we're calling for things - for the safe return of Israeli hostages, as though we've finally run out of internet and there was just was no room for the Landaus. Well fuck that and fuck the war and fuck taking sides unless that side is Peace. Fuck Bibi. And fuck Hamas; buoyed by their actions, the Iranian Government announced last week it would be targeting Persian journalists working in Britain like my friend Faren. And, parenthetically (do go on, Simon) coming up to a year after the murder of Mahsa Ahmini by Iranian police for having loose hair I decided to search Xitter for any more news of protests, and found myself enaged in the following fun coversation about... let me check... yes, apartheid. Stick with it.

 

 

 

 I know, "mroe"...

 By the way, you can now find me on blue sky at @slepkane.bsky.social. 

 I really hope you're all okay.

Republicans Reaffirm Historic Commitment to Paganism

 I take no credit for this spot, which reached me – like so much other news I get through twitter – backwards. But to give you some context, this is the "Othala", "othal" or "odal" rune; according to research by the Anti-Defamation League, quoted in a piece from 2016 on Forward.com...

"Nazis in Germany adopted the othal rune, among many other similar symbols, as part of their attempt to reconstruct a mythic 'Aryan' past... Following World War II, white supremacists in Europe, North America, and elsewhere began using the othala rune. Today, it is commonly seen in tattoo form, on flags or banners, as part of group logos, and elsewhere.

However, because it is part of the runic alphabet, the symbol can also be found in non-extremist contexts as well, especially runic writing and runestones used by non-racist pagans. Consequently, care should be taken to evaluate the symbol in the context in which it appears."

 Care should be taken, absolutely. Here then is the health and safety nightmare that was the stage for this year's Conservative Political Action Conference, "AMERICA UNCANCELLED", star speaker yesterday: Donald Trump...

 

 So, yeah. Pagans. 

 Importantly though, not just pagans. Pagan conspiracy nuts. Because literally only conspiracy nuts think you're meant to hide clues to your secret identity in a design; the conspiracy nuts have taken over the conspiracy.

 Thanks to @hami and @sgallagher83 for the spot.

A Brief Bad Case of the "This"es. But This

Warning: this might not be a happy post.
 

 Uh. I. Uh. I just want to say. For the record. Fff. The reason I'm trying to stay off twitter is not because I want to stay out of squabbles, although with its unremoveable new "what's happening" sidebar the place is definitely pivoting towards the prana farm – You know. Prana. It's a Sláine reference: aliens are farming the world's bad vibes to feed a giant space maggot. Prana farm, yeah? – no, the reason I'm trying to stay off twitter is because it's too cold outside to walk off the helpless rage I feel every time any attempt to scrutinise the liquefying - with calls to violence if necessary - of democratic accountability in the US and UK is characterised as the work of "the left", or "tribal", or as something "polarising" and to be avoided, as if the problem is the noise and not the grinding of the gears. Hey, remember when a British MP was literally assassinated for defending the EU? Is it polarising to even just remind people that that happened? (Or this, a few months earlier...)

 

 

 Will even mentioning Jo Cox become like mentioning Hitler, a thing that just isn't done in demure political debate because it's somehow cheating to remind people that fascists are real? I've wanted the blog this year to be haven from reactive angst, I know, but I don't think remembering Jo Cox is reactive. Oh, unless it's a reaction to this: this is the polite response that twitter's Ian Dunt received when trying to engage a Brexiter in civilized public debate, the success of which I guess would be measured, like the cocktail task in Taskmaster, in decibels:

 

 "But we did at least avoid violence."

 See? So demure. I wonder if he just forgot.

Show 317 (... Always Be Closing, cont.)

So hey! As you may have seen, we finally finished making that Money trailer. And into our fourth run the houses are full once again. COINCIDENCE?!?!?!?!? We're well past the three-hundredth show, and it's still fun to perform, more fun than when we started in fact, because all the niggling ideas of the other shows this might have been have long since faded now, and we can just get on with it. BUT... now, yes... the bad news is – here we go – Shunt's newly desperate straights have forced them to serve us two and half weeks' notice on the show! I KNOW! So, ignore the trailer. Stupid old trailer. We're running until August 7th now, NOT the end of September. ALLEZ therefore! VITE already!

There is a slim chance, after the 7th, that we'll be running the show part-time, rather than killing the old girl off entirely. but you know, who knows? I hope she lives, of course, because this job has been a life-saver: it was there to take care of me from the moment I came out of hospital to a life of homelessness and burnt goods back in March 2009, and it paid for that flat-share with Mossad, and the pool and sauna that helped me catch my breath while I fell in love.

And it's been my creative focus for over a year now, something I've been able to work upon, and within, alongside people whose company over a complimentary bottle of whatever's-nearest, in a car park full of chairs come dusk, cannot be matched. And it's offered us complete artistic freedom (and no artistic control, but that's the deal in any system, isn't it, freedom or control... but, now I think of it, that's probably why I made this trailer, to snatch a little measure of control). But most importantly, it is quite simply a very exciting show, and not enough people have seen it. No, I'll be gutted if she gets killed off. Chugging away there... Well I sent an invitation to Terry Gilliam yesterday, anyway. Priorities, exactly.

ReTweet @antimega "It's the London Dungeon for cultured adults. That's not a bad thing." I liked that.

Day 3 of my exciting election blog! AN INVITATION TO JOIN THE GOVERNMENT

 I started following Jennifer Ehle on twitter today (cf "Who I'd like to meet" on the homepage) and learnt thereby of the proposed gathering in Trafalgar Square calling for electoral reform, so thought I'd head over. You know, Jennifer Ehle! She wasn't there though. Morris Dancers were there. Even the statue of Sir Keith Parks had buggered off. Confused, I took a call a from my sister to let me know everyone had now moved to St. John Smith's Square where Tinyteeth and Clegg were deep in something or other and the real action was. But again I arrived too late, there was no Jennifer Ehle. I thought of calling out her name but didn't know how to pronounce it. Billy Bragg was there though, which was nice, giving out free hugs, and a few protesters still hanging around looking very happy, but mainly now it was just men from the telly. Men, no women.

 

A BBC piece to the camera in Arabic. "Gosh, of course there might be a scuffle" I heard one onlooker say. Nope.

 

 And I have concluded the following on the train home: The Libdems would be mad to settle for anything less than electoral reform in a deal with the Conservatives. BUT the Conservatives would be mad to grant it. BUT everyone would be mad to settle for a minority Conservative Government when what's called for is stability. BUT the Libdems would also be mad to form an alliance with Labour if it meant Gordon Brown was still PM. BUT Labour would be mad to change him for a leader with an even smaller mandate, again when what is called for is stability... So the only possible resolution? Nick Clegg as PM EXACTLY AS I PREDICTED! God I'm good.

The Buzz

(originally posted on myspace here)

Coming up shortly another romantic, police-state-themed anecdote, but first:

Let me fill you in on Money. So yes we're into our second run. It's January - no it's not it's February, sorry - the snows have departed but Winter's still on us like the knackering corpse of some giant squid and the "houses" (industry term) are smaller as a result, but baby we're nailing it. It's so nearly all there. A-hundred-and-thirtyish shows in, and each one different, and each one - chiefly thanks to Lou who's sat in on about a-hundred-and-twentyish of them - zipping along now with a minimum of anguish (not an absence but a definite minimum). Although the first half takes place in a waiting room I have finally been talked round to the idea that JUST LETTING THE AUDIENCE WAIT does not make for a good show - kills it (industry secret) - nor I now realise does it even lend authenticity: the audience is in a dream, you never wait in dreams. At least I never have, surely that would play havoc with your REM. 

And external validation has come anew from both The New York Times (I know, what? They can make or break a show, bud! "And I mean that as a compliment." The New York Times) and The Independent (again) in the first review to actually acknowledge the writing as anything other than a terrible mistake, which is great because you know, there's words of mine in there and you know, they're doing a job (even if it's the same job Chinese newsprint performs in a cocktail umbrella).

OH! And then, last night, Derren Brown came. Because Neil Patrick Harris had brought him. And they loved it. And it's on twitter. And they lurved me. ("Staggering" Derren Brown... Now where can I take that?) I am using short sentences to try and convey the magnitude of this. Awe. "Hi, I'm Neil." Aw. Yeah you are! And your boyfriend David Burtka's lovely! And - and Derren's first words to me were "Where do I know you from I know you I've seen you it's driving me crazy is it a - a play have you been in a play is it channel four a - a meeting - I've seen you." No. We'd never met. But look, standing here in front of me is Derren Brown WRACKING HIS BRAINS. That was a good night (but no seriously where can I take it?) 

And the Lounge? I don't know. It's opening its doors again to something tomorrow and I'd like to be there to see what. Maybe I'll be a stewardess. Maybe I'll have some kind of tiny show to hang from the title "We Should Sh" (good title eh?) but I doubt it, my baby's sick. I must go to her. I must find something to call her other than my baby...

And this is a while back now, but we thought it might be romantic to go to the fair, my baby and me:

And she took me on The Waltzer. I'd never been on one. And I thought I'd die. I'm thirty-five, I've been in a fire, I thought I'd die. I went pale and couldn't walk. I was too old and she said sorry. So we left the fair. And as we passed a news-agent she also went pale and said "Ah! Can't you hear that?" The shop had a hypersonic Mosquito "youth crowd dispersal system". No I couldn't hear it. I'm thirty-five. IN YOUR FACE,  YOUTH!

The Wallpaper at Brady's

(originally posted on myspace here)

This is my twitter wallpaper. It comes from Brady's, in Brixton. Yes that's another thing that happened last month, I started tweeting. Because John Cleese does. Once I tweeted Tom Waits teetering, but it's not a page I particularly recommend you visiting. However if you get the chance to see inside the building I actually took it from, visit that. This is Brady's below. I'd see the clock face at eye level whenever I went swimming, but for my nine years living in Brixton I never actually saw inside Brady's. You didn't go inside Brady's:

I'm posting this between shows from the low-lit office of "Money" once again, dressed in my riot gear and balaclava. I can hear a woman's voice from the other side of the Venetian blinds go "No, it's a real person. That's fucked up!" Well them's the breaks, miss. By tomorrow I'll need to have written fifteen minutes of material for That Mitchell and Webb Look, from scratch, but I promised to post shots of a site that the Shunt Lounge (closing tomorrow - TOMORROW) had considered relocating to, and Friday the 13th's an apt a date as any. Because what Brady's looked like on the inside did not disappoint:

Okay but I bet that wasn't really a torture room. 

Okay but I bet there weren't really witches... This is three or so months ago. We'd taken a break from rehearsing Money to be shown around and it was probably the first time I'd returned to Brixton in daylight since the fire. I felt very at home. Very excited.

"Oh, Jimi Hendrix was born in this room, you say? Wow. We're all vampires anyway."

Ooh! And what's under the mattress in the corner? Actually forget that what's the other side of that window?

I see.

"Wow! Let's leave!"

And the view?

Oh I loved it. Imagine if we moved there! And then imagine if I moved back! We're not moving there though... BUT - Actually I'd better get my balloons, it's showtime. We shall continue this anon. Bye bye, Brady's. Hit it Dr. Buckles! Loveyoubye.