Saddle Sore

There’s a freshness about the show since we got back after the Easter break. Not that it was getting stale, you understand, but after eight weeks on the road including 5 weeks in Ireland without any time at home I think we were all in need of a little R&R.

The Travelodge is a staple of the one and two night touring week, and before next week’s jaunt to Ireland we’re in four of them. We arrive at Scotch Corner in the late evening and, without being cruel, a motorway Travelodge is best taken with a substantial slug of wine so Fiz and I get some in before we check in. The lady on reception mistakes our arriving together for a more intimate relationship, but it takes us a while to catch on. This happens quite often, and the trick is to put the situation straight whilst not suggesting that the mistake is a ridiculous one. It’s a complicated manoeuvre. What’s more bizarre is that the receptionist’s FIRST name is Dineen, so if she and I were romantically involved she’d be called Dineen Dineen. This is, if anything, rather less likely than Fiz and I getting hitched.

Big People's Shoes

In Bury you find the only functioning Regency theatre in the UK, and what a delight it is, too. It's just perfect. From the macroscopic:

...to the microscopic. Isn't the detail of this script just wonderful?

And there's a nice surprise for us on our dressing room door, too. Although the gentleman in question really requires a "Sir" appending next time someone's passing with a paintbrush.

Hang on a moment, though. Didn't someone else have a stab at this, too?

Good try. But not quite.

Home Town

Our first week back in the mainland is split between Cambridge and Bury St Edmunds, and over the years I've been to Cambridge a fair bit, both for work and for play. I came to the Trinity Ball here when my brother-in-law graduated (in law, as it happens) and I ate an oyster which made me so sick I ruined some picnickers dinner by vomiting on the lawns. Also, it is home to an American friend of mine who lectures here. 

One of the Great Eternal Truths of Theatre is that when you get to my age, friends will only see a show if do it for them in their living room. But then they've seen you in so much unutterable crud over the years that they can't be blamed for being a touch wary. Now this isn't quite my friend's living room, but it's definitely on her doorstep and I confess I'm pretty surprised that she is too busy to come. When your job is showing yourself off in public, I guess you take it personally if people don't want to see the exhibits. However, as younger and wiser friends point out, perhaps she feels the limited time she has is better spent talking to me rather than watching me...   

I've never taken anything to Oxford, my real home town, except when I was a bratty child actor working for the Oxford Playhouse Company. However, I did tour "Dealer's Choice" to the seaside resort where I spent every summer as a kid. The venue had only just been built and had excellent facilities, it was a perfect summer evening and publicity was well in hand. Having played some very small and remote halls, we were looking forward to a bit of a treat.

No-one came at all. I still shudder now when I visit.

Bodhran

The Dubliners have never had anyone on bodhran, but since I don't play anything which involves moving up and down a musical stave it's my folk instrument of choice. It's enjoying a bit of a musical renaissance at the moment; there's a young female rapper called MissElaneous who does a bit of bodhran-beating, and when we were in Dundrum the marketing manager told me about a young rapper/bodhranist called Jim McConnell that I finally tracked down. Sadly he died a couple of years ago, but this brilliant footage remains:



RIP MC Lunitic, as he is also known.

That's how you play the thing. Quite how this old fellow I saw in Dublin playing on Grafton Street gets away with his double-beater flat playing style is a mystery.

Dubliners

When I was growing up, folk music was a bit of a joke. I mean, it was the sort of stuff that inspired the Vic Reeves spoof, where bearded men stroll about in tight nylon rollnecks which showed their nipples. There was a  bit of it on telly - the Spinners and Steeleye Span and what not, but it was noteworthy mainly for being hugely inoffensive and safe family viewing. When you recall that this was the era when Jim Davidson was on telly it makes you blench.
Then I discovered the Dubliners, and not the later incarnations but the Original Dubliners line-up of 1966-1974. Just a look at the album cover suggests they're a bit dangerous:

That dodgy-looking geezer second from right is Ronnie Drew and the wild-looking dude in the middle is Luke Kelly, and they were the heart of the group and sang many of the great songs. Then l-r John Sheahan, Ciaran Bourke and Barney McKenna. Hard-drinking, heavy-smoking legends. Bourke suffered a brain haemhorrage on stage in 1974; Kelly collapsed on stage because of a brain tumour in 1980; Drew died in 2008 of throat cancer - perhaps a million cigarettes are why his voice sounded "like coke being crushed under a door". Sheahan and McKenna are in the band to this day. In later years they started to self-censor a bit - the rebel songs like "The Old Alarm Clock" and "Rising of the Moon" largely disappeared from their roster, and for supposed reasons of decency you'll never heard all seven verses of "Seven Drunken Nights" on their albums.
But it's the Original Dubliners you want - the classic quintet - before the politics got in the way.

Fair City

I'm not gonna bang on about Dublin. It's a great city and you've may well have been there, although if it was for a stag night in Temple Bar then it's possible you haven't seen it at it's best. Instead I'll give you a couple of snapshots:

Molly Malone - the bronze (or brass?) at the top of Grafton St

Dubliners are fond of iconoclasm. They happy to nickname Molly "The Tart with the Cart" or "The Trollope with the Scallops", and they enjoy tearing into Oscar Wilde, James Joyce and WB Yeats in a similar vein. An expression of affection really. Although judging by the colour of Molly's boobs, they've been polished rather more enthusiastically than the rest of her so perhaps the affection isn't all innocent.

Dublin has a fantastic art gallery (although it seems to be beyond them to display anything like a reasonable portion of the collection when it's under refurbishment) and the Irish collection is magnificent. Jack B Yeats (brother of the more famous William) is especially well represented, with the Liffey Swim and other key works in the canon. My favourite picture, though, is this one by John B Yeats (father of the more famous William...): 

The sitter is the family priest and Irish language etymologist/lexicographer Padraig Ua Duinnin - or Patrick Stephen Dinneen in non-vernacular talk. Author of the definiive Irish-English dictionary and namesake of your gentle author. Nice looking feller, too.

Trade Secrets

You learn an awful lot about people on tour. I don't know whether it's because people let down their guards or what, but after a few weeks you generally have a suitcaseful of gossipworthy and possibly libellous information on almost everyone, and keeping a lid on it is sometimes quite a challenge.
However, one individual who suffered from astoundingly painful piles was only too happy to share. I heard about these during the first rehearsal week and I may well have been the last to know. We eventually came to regard this actor's affliction rather as you would an old friend.
We asked after their health often. We suggested possible reliefs and remedies.  If their owner had chanced to sit awkwardly on the arm of a sofa during a scene, or there was an unprecedented pause in their delivery we'd all exchange sympathetic and understanding looks which meant "Gosh, we'll be hearing about that at the interval." It all put my own mild IBS quite in the shade.
Of course, if I discover anything on this tour, you'll read all about it here. Names changed, naturally.

From the Horse's Mouth

I met a group of Dublin actors today who had assembled for a workshop run by Michael on taking first steps in the profession. Mostly aged about 25 but there were three 16-year olds (including one from Limerick) and a lady of 43 with extensive tv and film credits looking to extend her stage experience.
It was a very inspiring afternoon in some ways, and humbling in others. The latter chiefly because the major sticking point for most of them was difficulty in reaching people who can help them find work, and they were saying that Dublin seems to be a rather closed-shop theatrically. Humbling too was the knowledge that they are probably working much harder than I usually do to stay employed, and that by any yardstick I am very lucky.
However, it was inspiring to hear Michael's strategies for maximising your chances of getting in the audition room and what to do when you get there, which have little to do with credits or experience and which buck the overwhelming statistics which send any rational actor into a tailspin. I think it was something that we all needed to hear.

It's a shame Michael can't stay to see the standing ovation after tonight's show; it brings the biggest smile to our faces and is the best way of signing off from Dundrum.Our next stop, Thurles, is horse country (so rumour has), and perhaps the first place where we might get thumped instead of feted...

See What I Mean? Mk II

This painting by Jim Partington hangs in the Mill green room.
The title was a surprise -even to the regular staff...

Dirty Old Town

I don't know Dublin well - I was here for a week in 2005 with "Midnight", and then we were at the Dun Lagohaire Pavilion in 2008 with "Abs Party" but I scarcely spent any time in the centre, so I'm looking forward to a few days (including a weekend!) in the capital.
Our digs are fantastic, and only a couple of  miles from Dundrum and Dublin centre. My advice - get digs with the director if at all possible. Michael hasn't seen the show since leaving Cork after the first week, and he joins a pretty packed audience for our first night here.
There's a great energy to the show, an almost electric charge. It's partly the very positive response of the audience, who are very giving and enjoy the lighter moments very much whilst affording the darker stuff the appropriate attention. The fact that the show's been enjoying a period of intense development, both from us as individuals and as an ensemble, gives the show a tangible frisson now we're presenting it to the director. What he makes of the work we'll find out at notes tomorrow.

The Field

I'm told that it's not compulsory to go out drinking every night after the show, and having examined my contract that seems true, but it's damned difficult not to. Especially in Kilkenny, where there are six bars in a row directly opposite the theatre and dozens within a few minutes walk.
I may be generalising dreadfully, but in my experience a weekday night out in Ireland is incomparably better than one in the UK. Tonight we found ourselves listening to "The Briars" in a hurling pub and joked with the band, got bought drinks, spoke to a man called John who looked like D'Artagnan and pogo'ed with a guy called Nicky who was the bodhran player's brother - and who was more drunk than any man I have ever seen still standing. Maybe it's because we're visitors; perhaps being the sole man in the company of three young women in their early twenties doesn't hurt, but "there was yet no animosity no matter what persuasion" (in the words of the Dubliners), and a bonhomie which seemed genuine and inclusive.

Nicky strikes! The perils of being young and female in The Field.

Later Helen and Kate join the band for a farewell chorus of something forgettable and we end the night standing for the Irish national anthem. As you do. My penance will be a substantial hangover and a swim tomorrow morning, and a night "off the jar".

Clothed Horses

And so to Enniskillen, which was a controversial stop in the past, and not for the reasons one might imagine. In 2008 this was the site of Cheesegate, where a conglomerate of cheese producers showed up at the venue to take some publicity stills of the cast of "Abigail's Party" with their cheeses, playing on the tenuous pineapple and cheese connection in the show. Only problem was they hadn't really cleared this with anyone first. A cheesy standoff ensued and slightly spoiled the day.
Today we arrive with the prospect of doing the show without the nudity, which is the first and only time this will happen on the tour (Lisburn cancelled their date because the Artistic Director refused to accede to demands for a clothed version of the show). The discussions which have led to this outcome are obviously far too detailed and prolonged to go into here - it is a fait accompli and whatever our artistic feelings about it, we need to respect their wishes - after all, they have booked and paid for the show.
Would it be a good thing if ultimately it doesn't matter? After all, it is a very small percentage of the action. Is it possible that in the final analysis, the nudity isn't all that important to the success of the show?
When the curtain falls, of course, it does matter. And it's reassuring that it does - for all of us who claim that it is justified in the context of the drama; for the two dedicated and brave professionals who disrobe publicly on a nightly basis (something which is the stuff of nightmares for most people); for the hundreds of people who have watched those moments with us and have seen how they throw the story into even sharper relief. Naturally I'm disappointed that the paying public of Enniskillen couldn't share those moments with us last night. I'm disappointed that they didn't get the "Equus" that perhaps they expected. I'm disappointed, too, that they might suspect for a moment that it was a creative decision. However, we go to Kilkenny, Dundrum and beyond with vigorous confidence and empirical proof that this is a story which is best told as we have been telling it - unveneered and unvarnished.

See What I Mean?

No, I've no idea either. Nice clothes for 3 year old girls though....

School Trip

There's no missing the Giant's Causeway in favour of a shopping mall this time, although we're nearly derailed by an outlet village in Antrim on the way. We seem condemned to visit these monumets (eg Lindisfarne) in crappy weather, and we schlep along the footpaths to the stones in drizzly rain, variously grumbling about it (me) and striding out manfully (Malcolm).

It's a quietly spectacular formation. Seeing them from a distance is a but like one of those moments in films where you realise there's a higher intelligence at work - the columns seem so incredibly regular - but as you get in close and clamber over them the variations of shapes reveal themselves and pentagons, hexagons and a myriad of others. The legend is that the Irish giant Finn MacCool built the causeway to reach Scotland to fight his arch-foe Benandonner, and at Fingal's Cave on Staffa Island there are some similar formations.

Looking up at the Organ Pipes or Giant's Harp

There's a very tactile quality to the structures, and climbing all over them only adds to the enjoyment. I always think it's a shame when you can't get close to structures like Stonehenge, or touch sculptures like Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore, where that has clearly been built into the design. In fact there are some very Moore-like rocks lying around which have been weathered over the millenia, but by the time we reach them there's only time for a quick pose before we really have to head on back for the show.

Stuart as Finn MacCool, triumphant over Benandonner

Set Text

We're not usually free on a Tuesday, and it's only thanks to a cancellation by Lisburn that we have a chance to go to the Lyric in Belfast to see "Uncle Vanya". Fi knows the DSM there and we planned this a week ago, and by extraordinary coincidence we also ran into a couple in Dan Lowrey's on our last night in Cork whose daughter Orla is in the show.
It's a cracking show and a fabulous ensemble. The set's been pared down to a minimum, with none of the furniture and associated set dressing that normally accompany Chekhov. Afterwards, in the bar, Orla joins us for a drink and we discover that this paring down happened during the previews, and since a number of lines refer to the furniture, they had to be cut last-minute, too.
On shows like "Equus", where the set is non-naturalistic and the props minimal, when we come off stage that's pretty much job done for us. This isn't always the case. When "Ab's Party" opened we used to spend well over an hour packing up the bottles, glasses and other set dressing ready for loading into the van, because it just wasn't feasible for the stage managers to do it as well as the very intricate set. As the weeks wear on, though, the propping becomes so efficient that you can usually halve the time spent on it. By the time I joined the "Beauty Queen" cast I ended up staying out of the way and just did costumes, they were such a well-drilled unit.
There are limits to what a cast ought to attempt during a get-out, though. The "Vertigo" touring floor was constucted from huge sheets of plywood and massive scaff bars, and you can imagine the damage to life, limb, property and street furniture that used to result from dizzy actors wandering about with such things.