The public-at-large are not unfamiliar with the carnal misfortune of my unapparelled manhood.

 

Regular readers will have gagged over their google bars as I described inadvertently flashing a group of amiable Japanese businessmen. And yes, should you have happened to partake in a Massamun Curry on a Hackney side-street in June 2007, that was me bounding along the pavement wearing nothing but a pair of frilly pink knickers and a motley motif of tattoos. Seven takes, that took.

 

Nope, I’m no prude. However. Here, for your perusal, a parable:

 

“Once upon a time there were two rising stars, intrepid and talented actors cast in a short film about abortion. Dutifully they attended the eye-wateringly early rehearsals, out beyond the borders of Zone 6; though the director, in his budding professionalism, had neglected to inform their agents of these extra dates, nor were they reimbursed.

 

The director being Danish —as any aficionado of Lars Von Trier may expect— had a somewhat eccentric approach to rehearsals. Here the telltale whiff of perversion begins to moulder. After a ‘chemistry-homework’ fake-date, they discovered that a film about abortion had suddenly become a film about —in the immortal words of Marvin Gaye— gettin’ it on.

 

Those pesky, bourgeois details —script, defined characters, discernable plot— had yet to be accounted for. At this point our fledgling Kubrick announced an improvised sex scene (which I think we’d all agree is an unreasonable request even in real life). Telling the girl that her objective was to seduce the boy, he assured her that the boy would be resisting. Dramatic tension, see. But then —ha ha!— he told the boy that his objective was to seduce the girl, and…well, you get the idea. Bravo, sir. Manipulation worthy of Elia Kazan!

 

At this point he produced his little, ahem, camera.

 

Thank goodness for safe-words. The actors were savvy enough to spare their promising careers from grainy youtube scandals. The director, in his infinite sensitivity, responded to the walk-out by suggesting the girl’s sexual experience was the problem. Tragically, the real problem was eventually revealed to be the director’s own fornicative inadequacy. Bless.

 

The actors’ agents, descending like fairy godmothers, plucked their clients from the clammy palms of this peeping con. And they all lived happily ever after.

Except for the director, who received a righteous rollicking from two influential agents who won’t be dealing with him ever again.”

 

So this is my little paean to the unsung chivalry of theatre, where scenes of a sexual nature, for the most part, are sensitively staged. The collective nature of theatre acts as a safeguard against sweaty voyeurism — not to mention the fact that every stage manager I’ve ever worked with would clout a director for that sort of sleaze.

 

No, theatre’s much cleverer than that. Last year an actor who received lascivious, extra-marital texts from a well-known director used them to blackmail him into casting her in a big West End production.

 

Now that’s integrity. Oh, theatre, you canny minx.

 

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It has, regrettably, come to my attention that there may be a link between acting and action after all. For someone who has developed a method of turning on the kettle with a remote-controlled falcon (thank you Santa) this is very confusing. Acting isn’t work. It’s the delicious and often gleefully tortuous avoidance of work.

 

Hence I am wondering what the damnation this so-called-2009 is up to. Occasionally these fledgling years can spearhead nasty schemes. ’92, for instance, was a deeply nefarious double-digit — the year I discovered damsels, rejection, and cheap deodorant. In that order. Rubbish, rubbish year.

 

2009, however, seems keen on offing me outright. Without pilfering from any popular Fox-produced action-drama series in particular, I now present for your perusal 24 hours in the life of this humble inaction hero. Strap yourself in, kids.

 

07:37

 

Resign myself to consciousness despite the fact that every good boy knows it’s rude to rise before the sun. A cretinous little voice from my cerebral cortex suggests a brisk jog. Stumbling out of bed, I traipse around the Meadows like an asthmatic yak. I blame this lunacy entirely on the character I am playing: Amos. Amos is much healthier than me and is surreptitiously trying to get me in shape for press night. More on that in a future blog entitled The Thesporcist.

 

08:32

 

Collapse in front of YouTube to study baseball pitchers (Amos again). Momentarily disrupted by rediscovering hilarious video of ‘Sneezing Panda’.

 

10:14

 

Run-through of Amos’ play at Lyceum.

 

12:14

 

Run-through centre of Edinburgh and crumple up on London-bound train. Big audition. Opportunity good, perspiration bad.

 

12:31

 

Manage, as ever, to secure seat next to deeply objectionable smiler. He is a tiny, tubby fellow complete with greasy pate, and seems intent on gurning at me beyond any sort of social necessity. At one point become aware of excitable panting and turn, raising my palm as if to thwack a leg-humping Doberman. He is blowing on his glasses and polishing them. He smiles at me.

 

15:53

 

Kevin Costner accent-study (Amos insists).

 

15:55

 

Deposit Field Of Dreams into carriage bin.

 

17:08

 

Late for audition. Tear along South Bank frenetically muttering incomprehensible snippets of speech. Hunt frantically for a busker to give change to in attempt to fulfil ridiculous audition-superstition. Don’t ask.

 

17:31

 

Big audition. Total blank.

 

19:00-22:00

 

Sitcom-research and animal-study (cunning euphemisms for eating junk with my favourite people and playing with my Turkish Swimming Cats).

 

23:30

 

Board sleeper-train back to Edinburgh. Beneath me is depressingly dashing Economics graduate who will soon be making £150k a year. Fall asleep to the gentle rocking of brain against temples.

 

07:15

 

Arrive at theatre three hours early for final run-through of Amos’ play. Amos enthusiastic. Me delirious.

 

07:36

 

Scribble down shoddy blog with mingling sense of guilt and disappointment. Cover this with gimmicky New Years’ rant.

 

Happy ’09 anyway, folks. I’m sure you’re all as knee-deep in glorious, chaotic activity.

 

But please do remember to reserve a little energy for good old-fashioned inertia.

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