Boiley and Dominance

A large portion of that year was taken up with trips to Islington and Kings Cross for zero-paid or 'profit share' jobs.  All of which were coupled with 'networking' on the periphery (otherwise known as making considerable use of the 'pub' part of 'pub theatre'.  But at one point or other I'd decided to buy a car and earn some money.

The car part was a 2CV known as Boiley, which was sold to me by a long-haired chap who did a show at the Hen & Chickens with me and who lived in an enormous house in Sussex with his family. The car cost me £200.  That friendship's high point was, without a doubt, a cast trip to the country pile in question which consisted of a day/night of smoking and a morning of playing tennis.

But the paying job was somewhat more local.  Selling advertising at the St Albans Review was an interview I sailed through after citing my experience with Olan Mills (I can't remember if mentioned this - selling photo sessions to bored housewives) and having a modicum of articulateness that seemed to elude the other two candidates who were being considered at the same time as me.

The highpoints of that experience included completing a half page advertorial on complimentary medicine treatments available in the area.  It also included a quick foray into classifieds and discovering what 'dominance' consisted of when being featured by some advertisers.  I became adept at both designing (cutting and pasting bits of artwork from a scrapbook - literally) and selling adverts - especially at 'cut down price Tuesday'.  I got into terrible rows with the 'lads' on the Reps Table and my boss (a properly rotund (unlike SG) asian chap) took great pleasure in taking the mickey out of my car - to the point where he posted sarcastic messages on the front bumper.

But the phone rang with an enquiry about running another show at the KH.  This time in the evening.   This time for proper money.

  

SG

In many ways I'm deeply conflicted about SG.  One of the reasons that I started this blog was to exorcise some of the demons that have made me 'cringe in the shower' ever since.  SG is, to a degree, one of those.  He died quite a few years ago now and I remember there being an appeal in the newspaper asking for contributions towards his healthcare.  I didn't give.  I wish I had.

The first day of rehearsals was in a 'space' a few 'blocks' south of Angel.  There was a sandwich shop on the corner that's still there.  I don't think the space is.

The show was a one-act Moliere, being directed by a manic American called RG.  More on him, I imagine, anon.  We were going into the lunchtime slot that is programmed by SG under the guise, for some reason that I've never established, as Elephant Theatre.  I think the 'company' died with him.

RG introduced SG, prior to his arrival, as 'colourful and sweary'.  No-one knew quite what to expect, I'm sure.  I most certainly didn't.  SG was a rotund (although that term conjures images of the roly-poly bon viveur to some - he was none of those things), lank (grey) haired, tracksuit wearing, dog on string-toting and extremely sweary individual who claimed to have 'found theatre' whilst serving time (an involvement in the Great Train Robbery was also claimed - as yet unverified).  The C Word featured prominently and very quickly after introduction.

SG was 'Producer not Director' on this occasion but he'd be keeping an eye, he said, on the rooky American.  If required, he'd apply his standard 'week of blocking followed by a week of subtext' methodology on this particular piece of overblown French farce.

SG gave me a number of opportunities and experiences in the Kings Head from that point onwards.  The majority, bar one, at lunchtime and the majority, bar none, sparsely attended.  All of those 'Stage Manager, Kings Head Theatre' credits from that point onwards certainly helped my CV.  It got me a couple of waste of time interviews further down the line.  The interviewers thought that I couldn't have gotten such experience without training and equity card ownership.  Just an acquaintance with a man who claimed to have broken out of a prison transit van with a piece of scaffolding secreted down his trousers was all I had and needed.  I didn't get those jobs.

By the way

There's a gap, I appreciate.  It's complicated.

Back

Returning home I was greeted by my Mum and Dad at the airport.  Which is more notable than it might sound.  I hadn't been in contact for a number of weeks and although I had left them with my return flight details, anything could have happened and I most certainly hadn't said 'I'll see you in a couple of weeks at Terminal X' when we last spoke.  Oh the wonders of pre internet and mobile phone life!

It really was very sweet of them.

I'd been on a flight or two for around 24 hours and the drive back home wasn't as surreal as one might have thought.  I guess I've always been quite good at not embracing the drama or the culture shock.  I was just back in the UK.  Back home.  Without a clue what I was going to do with myself.

By massive coincidence, L called within the hour of my arriving home - not knowing that it was the day (just the period) of my arrival.  She, Mum, Dad and I went out for lunch at a local pub and that was it - back to normality.  Without a clue what I was going to do with myself.

The period of re-normalising was typified by getting more-or-less straight back into the social circuit of 'ten phone calls resulting in a trip to the same pub as usual'.  Not that that was dull - it was just what it was.  A particular memory is of someone who I wasn't particularly close to saying 'where's the tan from?' - and me telling them. 'Wow - good for you', they said.

I was lucky in that I still had some money left and I was living at home so there was no hurry to get into work - or any work.  And then the phone rang.  It was L again.  She was saying that a friend of hers needed some help putting on a show at the Kings Head Theatre.  She wasn't quite sure what the job was but perhaps I was interested.  And within days I was within the vicinity of one of the minor legends of the London Fringe.