Our Style is Legendary: Trip to Notts (See You on the Ice)

Yesterday, the cast, myself and the director of "Our Style is Legendary" went to Nottingham on a wee trip to explore the locations of the play, re-imagine the memories, get a feel for the place and bond over a few jars.

It was a wonderful day, really wonderful.

Not only did it bring the cast together for the first time (and don't they just look amazing) and began the process of the formation of a gang mentality, much needed for the us and them of live theatre (I am happy to see we've already developed a few in-jokes and phrases that link us a group) but is also acted as a catalyst to provocative thoughts on character, environment and the push and pull of space upon humans.

(Speaking of space and architecture, here is a sneak preview of the set design by Rich White.)

Perhaps, more importantly, it wetted the appetite for what was to come in the rehearsal process this February and ramped up the excitement to what awaited us all on this fantastic adventure.

Of course, visiting some of the locations was difficult, it as far too easy to transpose myself some 18 years back and see my young self, resting, nonchalant, against grimy, graffiti tattooed walls and thus, to see apparitions of friends, much loved but long dead; co-exisitng with my past self. The only place these friendships can ever exist again.

I didn't have a little cry until I was safely ensconced on the Piccadilly Line train back home...home, which is London now, not Nottingham.

So now, we wait, wait until the 21st February when rehearsals start in posh and ever so far removed Battersea, where we will take our Notts field-trip learning and make that little corner of SW11 forever NG3.

"See you on the ice..."

On Benefits?

Don't get me wrong, I love where I live but when I saw this sign, in one of those pawn brokers/gentrified loan sharks with colourful branding that must comfort vulnerable people as they are exploited, my heart sank.

I mean, how on earth can you repay any loan when you are on meagre state benefits? How is that possible without, I don't know, selling your kids or a crucial organ? Who in their right mind would loan money to people unable to pay it? Surely the interest rates are exorbitant? Money is being made, yet again, off the back of poverty.

*shudder*

And with perfect timing, London Mayor Boris "Ball Bag" Johnson announces that this New Year's Eve, the free transport service is being sponsored by Wonga! That's right, Wonga! an exploitative short term money lender with shiny branding that does it's best to disguise it's utterly horrendous APR as it rips poor people off left, right and centre.

So on one hand with have the anti-debt, deep cuts narrative and on the other we have tacit encouragement to plunge levels of personal debt to new depths.

Cool.

I then saw what on first glance appeared to be a dead child in a skip on my road:

Merry Christmas.

Kill Keith Filming Awaits

As mentioned previously, tomorrow I am filming for my next feature film entitled "Kill Keith" that stars Keith Chegwin (naturally) and a whole raft of classic British TV stars. It's a small role playing the investigating detective but it is always nice to asked and comes nicely before popping off on holiday to Aruba.

If no one out there knows who Keith Chegwin is, as may be the case with many non-Brit readers, this informative and amusing video should provide all you need to know about the man in question.



As always with these things, it is all kicking off at some ungodly hour, all the way out in Hayes, so it'll be early to rise for me before making my way out to Middlesex/West London borders. And I forgot to order more Nature Valley crunchy granolas bars (Canadian maple syrup flavour) from Tesco online. They make for a fine breakfast snacklet. Bugger. I may have to suffice with a sausage bap.

Now for some reason I am listening to a lot of Jimi Hendrix of late and this track keeps pulling me back to the play button over and over and over and over again.



I love the intense imagery of the crippled girl, stranded on the cusp of suicide as the golden space ship, which really didn't have to stop, sailed on by her. My mum got me into Hendrix and that particular verse always stayed with me as a child, haunted me as I tried to unpick what it meant. I'm still not sure but it is beautiful.

On on that note, I leave you with this:

British People and Their Bins

(Not quite sure what this image means but whilst Googling for wheelie bin based pictures, I found this one. It has the air of a new sub-genre of dogging that is bin and back alley based, either that or a new fetish where upon you find wheelie bins a turn-on. Lovely. Any advocates or either practice please make yourself known in the comments section)

I don't know what it is about Brits and their waste (and receptacles of that waste) but we are obsessed with it, nay, nigh on in love with waste. We love arguing about rubbish, complaining about rubbish, dedicating front pages to news stories about rubbish and we get very precious about our rubbish and how we dispose of it and the rights we have, as Brits, to special waste status. And woe betide any fucker going through our rubbish...

No other country is so bothered about rubbish.

I suppose we have long has special status here in the UK, fortunate enough to chuck whatever we wanted away into seemingly endless holes in the ground, rarely recycling and rarely setting fire to it. The terrible environmental impact of this laissez-faire attitude has put all of this to an end, we need to find new solutions and as we do so, our very British attitude to waste rises it's nimbyish head.

We get very upset about local government investigating our waste in order to get us to recycle and cut down on it and that nimby attitude means that plants to treat and burn waste take an eternity to get planning permission, all the while we keep chucking rubbish in ever shrinking holes and fight in ridiculous bin wars.

I always thought this silly malaise only effected the bourgeoisie but I too have become afflicted.

I live in a London Borough that does not use wheelie bins, so our waste is collected in black bags with hardened receptacles for green waste and another for recycled stuff. This has two problems, first up was pikey sods ripping open our bags and sifting through for stuff that was of use to them. I actually caught one of them at it once, she was trying to fish out the skeleton of an old PC and I had to fend her off with swear words and a raised fist.

The second issue is that wild animals, such as foxes or feral cats, can attack bin bags at night with great aplomb and to be clear, I use quality bin bags, not them poxy thin ones and spill the fetid contents all over my drive.

So I have taken to lobbying Enfield Borough Council to get wheelie bins, the same wheelie bins that many parts of Britain complain so fervently about but where we are, whether its wild creatures or foraging gypos, we need them to protect our precious rubbish.

How British am I?

Last Two Days: Acting Summation

Pretty wise.

I like to think so, last two days have been a nice collection, a nice condensation of what acting is, or what acting is for me anyway. What makes me wise I suppose.

First up was yesterday, finishing off a four-day workshop on Harold Pinter with the legend that is Harry Burton, a real honour and it ended with a wee showing of our work. I was good, the scene was good, it was all good. Confidence, as always, high.

Then, after a few drinks with workshop comrades and the lovely mates that had turned out to support me, legged it to the excellent Roxy Bar and Screen in SE1, to do a Q&A with director Julian Kemp at a screening of "My Last Five Girlfriends", my feature film debut.

I sat there and watched my big face up on the big screen and marvelled, once again, at how far I've come and although I had arrived at the screening anonymous, as I made my way to the front with Julian to take questions, I became famous, an object, to one degree of another, of famousness, of celebrity, of the viewed. What's wonderful, at the place I am, is that I can then leave the screening and become anonymous again and slide out of SE1 on the Northern Line, Northbound, changing at Leicester Square.

And then came today...

I should probably precis this by saying that I am very good at auditioning and whether I get the job or not, I nearly always leave a casting feeling as if I did my very best.

Today I had a relatively important casting for the BBC, relatively important because anything for the BBC is important and because it was a casting director I'd not had the pleasure of meeting yet. I have had equally or more important castings this year. I prepared, as always, meticulously and tubed it to White City, Westbound, changing at Oxford Circus.

During the casting preamble I had little feeling of what was about to occur. I shall spare the details but I fucked up quite badly and although it was by no means a bad audition, it was not up to my usually high standard, which considering the importance of the casting made it all the worse.

To be very clear, I hate the part of me that fucked up, I want to kill it, smash it to pieces because life is all about opportunities and each and everyone has got to be taken, even if it, as is often the case, is all there is. The myth of things leading to other things is a destructive one, I believe in opportunity for opportunity's sake, each on it's own merits.

My anger is slowly subsiding at my error, it still burns but this sting of my perceived defeat will kill off any further failure for the foreseeable future. And by kill off I mean smashed to fucking bits.

However, no regrets, press on, better to be pretty wise then pretty fucking stupid.

Sick, 105 Redchurch Street, E2 7DL

I like to shop.

I like to buy interesting clothes, accessories and knick-knacks and occasionally I peruse Time Out for shopping recommendations, to add to my list of places I always go.

They recently had a special feature on Redchurch Street, which is just off Brick Lane and one shop they mentioned, called "Sick", caught my eye.

"A grungy thrift shop, run by the founders of cult 1980s label Boy, which specialises in '90s vintage (if you can call it that). The store also sells a good selection of restored bikes and is shortly to open a fashion 'laboratory' in the basement. Whatever that is."

Well, I was always a big fan of Boy and I'm looking for 90s fashion at the mo, both personally and for my play and I do love a good restored bike, as well as a chance to rustle around in some brick-a-brac.

I stepped into what could only be described as an odd smelling shit-hole which contained hardly any stuff at all, most of it artily hanging off the walls, surrounded by detritus. The two people sat down chatting at the far end of the store, not actually that far away from the door in this mini-retail hell-pit, barely acknowledged my entrance; aside from a vaguely discernible sneer.

Now I don't mind them being vacuous, self-important fashion ponces but at least show you can grasp basic customer service techniques, especially when you're asking ridiculous sums of money for bits of old tat. Anyway, I went in further and looked at the "restored" bikes, which actually hadn't been restored at all and I should know because I've just been restoring two 80s bikes for my play.

I ventured closer towards the two wittering shop workers: one was about 50, leathery and dressed like a Frankie Goes To Hollywood off-cut; the other, a female, had some sheer material draped about her visage. They stared at me in utter silence. I politely enquired:

"Is there more...er...stuff downstairs?"

The leathery old pillock frowned at me like a frazzled Bukowski wannabe and the lady breathily exclaimed an affirmative. As I peered down the stairs, into what looked a tramp's basement, it occurred to me that maybe the bit of material hanging off her head was a symbol of her empathy with French Muslim women, who are banned from wearing certain types of religious headdress. I digress...

Downstairs was worse, basically an explosion of stinky old clothes, dis-figured mannequins, bits of sheeting used as dividers and an all pervading stench of damp, sick and piss. Two other customers were poking about in the melange of crap, trying to be cool no doubt and they briefly confused me for a member of staff, until I smiled at them, therefore belying my lack of pompous coolness and giving away the fact I was a decent human.

I made my way back upstairs to escape from this God awful "shop" (I use that word in its loosest possible sense) to find the polyester enveloped crone blocking my exit and seemingly impervious to my massive physical presence. My patience by this time was wearing very thin indeed, so I manhandled the dozy bint out of the way, bolstered with a booming:

"Excuse me duck."

She made some kind of noise as I stomped out of their pretentious car-boot sale emporium, to which I shouted:

"THIS IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS! THIS IS NOT EVEN A FUCKING SHOP!"

And with that I was gone, chuntering under my breath about how some parts of London seem to be in love with pretending to be poor and forgetting that basic customer service is not some old-fashioned concept but an important part of being a decent human being.

So in summary then, Sick of 105 Redchurch Street, London, E2 7DL is the worst fucking shop I've ever had the mis-fortune to step into, in my entire life.

Who Ate All The Pies?

"Punter likes football, Punter likes Pies, on the last game of the season, Punter dies..."

Some may call this musical about football a shameless cash-in on the world's greatest sporting event which is, of course, happening right now. Others may say that football and theatre should never mix and any fool that puts them together is making theatrical hemlock. With regards to the former point, they may well be right (and quite frankly, who cares? Football has long been about cashing in, something this show touches on well) but on the latter they'd be a long way from the mark...indeed with regards to this play, it would be a Geoff Thomas-esque spoon towards the corner flag.

I'll put my cards on the table and make it clear that I fucking hate musicals but along I went to see this show and I was pleasantly surprised and thoroughly enjoyed myself.

It is a short play, which is a blessing and if you can't say it in 90 minutes it just ain't worth saying and "Who Ate All The Pies?" is a brisk hour and fifteen that flashes by at a fine pace. Just like Arron Lennon...

The plot, quite frankly, doesn't matter but in a nutshell; it is built around a dysfunctional father and daughter relationship and a fictional football club that is pretty shite. That's it. But you shouldn't really be here for the plot but rather the big laughs that the lyrics, dialogue and performances demand.

It being a musical and all, people break out into song quite often and for no apparent reason. Trouble is, the songs are so bloody catchy and nearly all uptempo enough to get the entire audience tapping their feet and humming the tune as they leave the theatre. The only real low-key number is actually quite moving and was beautifully sung.

This leads me onto the performers, who to a man/woman, were all excellent; great voices and good acting, as well as making the dance routines work in a very compact space. Man-of-the-Match for me though was Ben Redfern, closely followed by Ali James. Both had energy, conviction and the real presence that such a show demands.

Even for those who don't care about football or know nothing about it, the musical has plenty to offer and really is very, very funny.

All in all, football was the winner, so if you're around in London, go and check out "Who Ate All The Pies?"

Blood on the Tracks

I've only just gotten round to uploading all of my Bob Dylan collection to my iPod, pretty much everything from his first album through to Desire, minus Self Portrait and plus all the Bootleg Tapes.

I was walking around London town today, in the sweet sunshine, head full of love, on my way to an audition and with the old iPod on shuffle, "You're Gonna' Make Me Lonesome When You Go" came on.

It took me right back.

Like anyone whose been in important relationships and has good music taste, "Blood on the Tracks" is the finest break-up album of all time and I remember, back in the Summer 2001, having broken up from my girlfriend of 8 years, it was always on my then DiscMan, spinning in my ears constantly.

I'd pace the streets of Wollaton late at night for hours at a time, rain or shine, weaving a path between cul-de-sacs, avenues and bungalows; the entire album on repeat, trying to absorb the wise words of Dylan, finding breakthroughs, finding solace, finding bits of me and bits of him. Or so I thought.

Head down. Hands deep in pockets. Occasionally, I'd look up, waiting for something to strike me from above but it never did. I'd watch plane trails and think about a piece of engine seeking me out. There was a lot of guilt and a lot of crying whilst pounding the streets of the suburbs and sometimes I'd look up and the sky would open and it would cloak what I was feeling. I wasn't really too sure what I was feeling.

That all passed of course and I ended up stealing so many of the albums lyrics for my next girlfriend, because I couldn't muster them myself. She was too young to know but her parents knew. I never liked that. I used to like my lies concrete, deep and all consuming.

No more.

All those thoughts rushed into me on Margaret Street and were soon gone again.

After the audition I listened to the album in its entirety, twice. It is now something else to me, it is just one of the finest records ever made.

Simple as that.

And I'm glad.

Bumping into a Daft Racist

I can't believe it but I am working for the BBC.

After three lengthy auditions and much nail-biting I am taking my very own comedy creation, the legendary New Basford resident and top bloke Kirky (named after my great pal Kirky...I'm looking forward to seeing you bro!), onto your television sets.

I don't want to talk in too much detail just yet, or give too much away but yesterday was the first day of filming at BBC Television Centre. This was like a dream come true, pulling up to that famous building in a Jaguar (not mine, they had it come and pick me up) and gliding past security and onwards and upwards, deep into the bowels of the BBC to do my first day of filming there.

I remember standing in a corridor, waiting to go in and do my stuff outside of the studio we were filming in and had a real moment of "what the fuck I am doing here, how did I manage this?" before I heard action and was diving into what I do best.

The only downside, in what was a spectacular day in my life, was touching the BNP's uber-fuhrer Nick Griffin. I actually walked into him, or he walked into me, not sure which way round it was...it was all so quick. I was surprised because the fat, daft, one-eyed racist was moving at quite a pace for a big lad and was lurching far ahead of his burly minders and apparatchiks.

He kind of bounced off me, made his apologies, as did I...even instinct in an instant can bypass my loathing of bigots and scuttled off into a lift.

I discovered that my dressing room was right next to his and I thought about knocking on and having a chat with him but I thought better not cause a scene on my first day at the BBC.

Turned out he was there to do an interview for Radio 5 Live, which you can hear right here if you want to hear the daft racist blathering on.

5 Years of Railing Against the Dying of the Light

I find celebrating blogging anniversaries a little vulgar and self-indulgent but what the hell, this one passed a while back, I've never blown me own trumpet before and it only just occurred to me, so I thought I'd leave a marker here.

On the 2nd of March 2005 Blurred Clarity came into existence and it's been going strong (with brief intermissions of resting) ever since.

It has always been personal here, with plenty of swearing, politics, silly pictures and as much a record of my life these past five years as it is anything else. A document of all I love and hate. Some of the archives make for painful reading, some naive, some just awfully put together but they will stand, I delete and re-edit nothing. Some of them however are damn fine writing.

Not many of those that were with me 5 years ago are with me now, a few early subscribers are still knocking about, most have left ghost town blogs, trapped in 2007, little echoes of friendships and lives that still occasionally send a curious visitor my way. A real trip down memory lane.

Here's to the next five years...

Anyway, yesterday I was shooting out in West London, a new commercial for VW and it was a big budget affair with a great director who also comes from Notts (we get everywhere, I tell you, we are the future) and it was a blast, it'll be a fine spot on British TV and cinema and I look forward to seeing how it turns out.

After I'd done, about midnight, I was driven away from the set and back home and as the houses flew by me and London slipped past I was hit by some heavy melancholy. At first I thought it was the way the extras, who had been deemed surplus to requirements, had been let go; there was a sadness there that kinda struck me. But I was lying to myself, it was guilt, guilt at how far I've come and those that I've left behind...but no, not guilt, it was just a deep sadness, sadness based on missing your best friend who would've loved to share all of this with you and who...just whisper it, was probably a better actor than you.

But what can I do about that, he made his choices and I made mine, here I stand and I'll be damned if I'll not savour every second of this amazing adventure.

My Last Five Girlfriends Preview

You may recall that some time ago I got a part in my first feature film, having only done short films previously, managing to secure a supporting role as the lead actor's best friend was something of a breakthrough and lo the film was called "My Last Five Girlfriends". Since then it has to gone on to do great things in New York and then Edinburgh.

Well, I've had to keep it under my hat for some time now but the movie got picked up by Paramount Pictures (which is, as you can imagine, is a very fucking big deal) and it is on general release across some 100 cinemas in the UK from this Friday the 19th March (unfortunately, no US release, not yet anyway).

Tonight, I'm going to the preview type premiere thang (not as spectacular as Eva's green carpet trip with Patti Smith of course, this was a low budget affair) at the ICA to not only see the film for the first time but to also see how much I have been cut out, or not, indeed, much of my best work may indeed be laying around on the cutting room floor but hey, that's the actors life.

I'm quite excited and nervous at the same time.

Now, with small budget films like this, we need to pull out all the stops in terms of people seeing it over the next few weekends, otherwise it'll disappear not long after it has come out so this is where you chaps come in.

GO AND SEE IT PLEASE!

Here is the trailer to wet your appetite and I'll let you know how it all went as soon as I can.

Market Estate Project

On Saturday me and the lovely Eva-Jane went to see some art.

An old school friend of mine (and I'm talking Primary and big school, so we go back a long way) called Rich White, is an artist of some serious ability. Rich makes quite brilliant, epic work; usually large, usually vigorous, usually from found materials, usually robust and hardy; Rich is an artist who always has dirt under his figure nails and if you squint, you could confuse him as a very lean steel worker.

I like Rich's work not because he is an old friend but because it is excellent and it always manages to make me feel small, not an easy thing to do to a 6ft 6in man, clocking in at 15 stone. It nearly always looks as if it was hewn by the hands of giants, it has a visceral feel, a roughness.

Whenever I can get a chance to see Rich's work in the flesh, I do and Rich was one of the many artists that were involved in the Market Estate Project. In a nutshell, the Market Estate was a typical 1960's London housing estate and as time moved on, it became a breeding ground for crime, disaffection and typical inner-city living. The solution was to knock it down and build new houses but before this site of murder and death, drugs and crime was to be torn down, it was to be turned into an art installation, part homage, part art opportunity. So 75 artists, 66 site-specific projects, 20 vacant flats, and one soon to be demolished 1960’s housing estate all came together.

As we wandered around the old estate it brought to mind the many estates I've strolled around in the past, either as a kid, behind my childhood home in Nottingham, or as a youth worker, or when I used to live on one when I first moved to London in 2004 and called Camberwell/Peckham borders my home. Never mind the times I stumbled into one, taking a short cut they may not have been as good an idea as I thought it was.

As you walked in, a man was hanging from a building for dear life...

And it got me thinking that all this art was all well and good but I couldn't help but feel a little uneasy, as if in the face of all these peoples homes, all this history and all the trouble that had afflicted these homes, it felt somehow flippant and glib. Perhaps it was the annoying arty types I saw there (maybe I was one), like those loud, brash tourists that shout down their cellphones when in military cemeteries, or at Holocaust Memorials. I felt like class tourism, rich folk coming to look at where the poor folk lived: low ceilings, tasteless decor and stairwells that must have be a haven for terror.

It's funny, a friend of ours lives just opposite and has done for some time, she found it funny that people were coming to such a shitty old part of London to gawp at where the poor people lived. You could argue that people were there to gawp at the art ,that was put where the poor people used to live. Fair enough.

What was most fascinating perhaps was the unintentional art, the stuff that was an echo of the residents, the things left behind, the heavy security doors and messy graffiti, never mind the bullet holes in the safety glass.

It was a stimulating experience, art in a crime scene, not sure if it was appropriate, not sure if that even matters; it'll all be knocked down real soon, art and non-art, what was on purpose and what was not and as the place is ground into the dirt what it was will only exist in those that experienced it.

I'll leave you with some pictures of what Richard contributed...

Northolt Blues: Retire From Lying to Kids?

I've never been to Northolt before.

My job, as both actor and a teacher, takes me to all kinds of places but Northolt in the London borough of Ealing has never been one of them, not until today that is.

Having never been, I had imagined it to be gloriously suburban, after all, it is West London, in the posh borough of Ealing, on the fringes of the London Empire; officially in Middlesex and all that. I was shocked to discover that Northolt is actually quite a grubby, shoddy little place, clinging onto the skirts of London town like a mud splatter.

I saw this in Northolt, the first time I have ever seen anything like this in my life...

A knife bin...bin your weapons here...anyway...

I was in Northolt because for the past few weeks I have been doing rather a lot of teaching, or rather story telling, across numerous primary schools in London, working with Key Stage 2 and spinning a detective yarn as part of either World Book Day or National Story Telling Week or some other initiative to get children to engage with reading.

I have been working with children and young people since I was 16, when I volunteered in a primary school in Notts back in 1992. I am very good at working with children and young people, I've no idea way but I do know that I am a fine teacher who can engage pretty much anyone: from an upset 5 year old, to a hardy 15 year old young offender and all in between and beyond.

But I think I may have had enough of working with children and young people.

To be clear this wasn't Northolt's fault, nor the fault of the lovely school I went to and the exceptionally bright, committed and enthusiastic kids I had the pleasure of working with but rather it may have run it's course for me. My time is busy with acting, as well as directing and writing projects; I also am lucky enough that I do not need to work, aside from acting and committing to teaching projects cuts into the acting work I can do and it shouldn't be that way.

So today, as I pretended to be a Private Investigator and told an unsolved crime story I pitched as true to the children in front of me, who watched, utterly rapt by the twists and turns of what was a simple blackmail case that became a double murder (I swear, the children nearly followed me out of the school as they asked me endless questions so they could solve the murder mystery); it crossed my mind this might be the last time I set foot in a classroom. 17 years later.

Maybe.

Some Pictures For The Weekend Sir?

I stumbled upon these, they are a mixed bag of images from Magnum, the international photography co-operative and they are all pretty damn awesome.

Something for the weekend sir?

Have a good one!

Chicago, USA, 1966. Muhammad Ali, boxing world heavyweight champion, showing off his right fist

Harlem, USA, 1963. Fire hydrants are opened in the summer heat

Illinois, USA, 1955. Marilyn Monroe resting

London, UK, 1964. The Beatles during filming of A Hard Day's Night

New York, USA, 1955. James Dean walks in Times Square

North Carolina, USA, 1950. A man takes a drink during the era of segregated water fountains

Omaha Beach, Normandy, 1944. The first wave of American troops lands at dawn

Washington, USA, 1963. Martin Luther King at the climax of his I Have a Dream speech

Henry Rollins at the Royal Festival Hall

Anyone who knows me knows that Henry Rollins is my personal hero and a man who is a day-in, day-out inspiration to me, via his music, his books of poetry, thought and deeds; work with the troops for the USO and his legendary, epic, ass-numbing spoken word shows (seriously, they last 3 hours and kick your fucking ass).

It was as a depressed 18 year old that I first connected with Henry Rollins, via a bizarre double attack of my cousin Shayne, who turned me onto the awesome Rollins Band album "Weight" and the urgings of Kurt Cobain who spoke endlessly about Black Flag, of which Henry was of course the last and best singer.

So in 1994 I bought "Weight" by the Rollins Band and "Damaged" by Black Flag and the two albums kept me propped up and damn near held me together as a human being and as much as I loved the jazz-heavy metal of "Weight", with its uplifting determination in the fact of adversity; it was the life shattering visceral "Damaged" that saved my fucking life, I swear, a record of such density, rage, anger and empowerment I felt I could rise above whatever life would throw me and knock it down.

That record still has the power to transform me, indeed as a young buck "Damaged I" (take a listen right here), which closes the record, used to be my record to get me pumped for a fight (macho bullshit I know but I was a kid) and I still know the howled lyrics off by heart, a mantra to reach a deep, personal-pain intensity to search and destroy.

The cover of "Damaged" is Rollins smashing his fist into the glass and at that time that's how I felt every single day of my life, grieving for a dead best friend, dealing with a life without drugs and coping with my first grown-up relationship. Needless to say, every time I had spare cash I'd buy another Black Flag record and they are my favourite band of all time, just the best music ever and their emblem adorns my left arm, as it should.

I soon began consuming Rollins' prodigious writing output of poetry, prose, diaries and the back catalogue of the band he formed after Greg Ginn quit Black Flag, the perfunctory titled Rollins Band. He became an anchor, I even wrote him a few times and he kindly replied (I am furious with myself that I no longer have these letters) and even now his writing, ideology and beliefs form a centrepoint for my own beliefs and it was because of Henry that I got into Nietzsche, Celine, Sartre, Miller and the seminal work of Bill Shields; which in turn spiralled into so many great authors and thinkers.

So anyway, Eva-Jane and I went to the Royal Festival Hall last night (of all places to see an ageing, alternative rock icon) to catch Henry Rollins in action, Eva's fourth time of seeing him and what must be my 10th or something like that...lost count.

It will come as little surprise to you that it was an awesome show, so positive, so uplifting, inspirational; like a really good three-hour talk for the best motivational speaker you could possibly imagine, pulling at the heart strings but never mawkish, educational but never a hectoring; absolutely essential, so liberating and empowering. If he ever passes your way you should seriously check him out and before I go I'll leave you with an old clip of Rollins doing so spoken word.

Peace.

Polish Girls Massage

In what is becoming something of a running theme here at Blurred Clarity, I have found more homemade signs stuck to street furniture in my neighbourhood.

This time, not only do they advertise the chance of a Polish girl giving you a massage, they are also cleverly designed so that you can rip off and keep the number for when the moment strikes you that you need a Polish girl massaging you, rather than you having to write it down, or insert it into your phone filed under Polish girl massage or something more cryptic if you have a wife.

Upon closer inspection you may have noticed that it doesn't actually advertise massage but something else called 'masagge', which one can only assume is just like massage but done by Polish girls in very bad English and for the record, massage in Polish seems to be 'MASAŻ'. However, if you step further back from the advert in question, the full horror of the situation hits home...

That's right, a cheap advert for Polish sex workers is attached to the face of a child advertising good road crossing practice for Haringey Council.

Director Dan

Here is a collection of images I found of me directing, flowing on nicely from yesterday's post. The images are of a rehearsed reading I did a month or so ago, of a new play by Tomasz Aleksander Kocinski called 'Good Times' and I think they are a nice document of a time and place.

Poles Apart: Done and Dusted, Perhaps Forever...

I'm back! Although not for too long, as I'm off to Milan this week to do some filming, so going to cram in a few blog posts and get this blog-show back on the road after the brief reprise of Poles Apart.

And where to start with Poles Apart?

Very much mixed emotions really, on one hand utterly wonderful to be back on stage, performing live rather than in recorded media, great to be getting laughs and making people think and theatre, for me, is where it is at. I just love connecting with a whole bunch of people in a room.

But I just feel that Poles Apart has run it's course, there is a threatened third and final reprise some time next year in fucking Shropshire of all places, which considering the voodoo that place has on me I doubt it'll be much fun. Plus, Mark and I's working relationship is not in the best of shape and there is a danger that it could bleed into our personal relationship, which would be frankly terrible and a cruel blow. I just feel that after working together since 1997 our time as a double-act has perhaps come to an end.

We did however discuss a new idea for a show where Mark and I run for parliament and I must confess, I am very keen on that but will it put too much strain on us and is that strain and unhappiness worth it, in order to make art? Maybe it is, maybe not...not too sure at the moment.

As for the show itself, we rehearsed briefly, the show coming back surprisingly quick and then developed the new material I had written about the BNP and bashed that into some kind of shape.

We then took it to the Lowry in Manchester and proceeded to sell out the venue and then have a cracking night with far too many highlights but the spontaneous applause Mark got for a some anti-racist thoughts and the Vietnamese couple on the front row getting some applause for being Vietnamese were real treats. It just felt so positive, so joyous, a room full of people coming together, what the show is all about really.

Then to London and the RichMix with a sense of dread, as London is notoriously hard to sell tickets in and the audiences can be tough and aloof. Well, the Friday night turned out to be even better than the Lowry, which we thought impossible, not only were the large audience up for it and engaged they were also willing to go wherever we took them, whether that be dark humour, silly visual gags or serious moments of reflection. It was a cracker! We also got given a category for our hard to categorise show: a comedy seminar. Brilliant!

The Saturday night, what could be the last Poles Apart ever, was a game of two halves really, not that the audience noticed I think (thankfully we sold well again) but we were a bit sloppy and lacking concentration in the first act and every time we clawed it back we let it slip again. We gave ourselves a kick up the arse in the interval and pushed hard in the second act to redeem ourselves and I think we did it, just wish we'd gave it our all in the first half and not been so cack-handed with the work; such moments in front of an audience are priceless, who knows when they'll next occur?

You'll be glad to know that no daft racists turned up, as I expected, because they are all deluded cowards, even though we made it onto a few far-right message boards and forums.

Lots of people turned up to support us, which I am very grateful for and would like to say thank you to everyone that helped promote the show and came to see us; we couldn't have done it without any of you.

Some bloggers have even written reviews, including Rog T with his thoughts, Ellie with hers and Rashbre with his and if anyone else chips in with some words do let me know so I can share it, whether it be good or bad.

And for now, that's it, until tomorrow that is...

Poles Apart: Rehearsals Commencing Soon

Well, here we are again, one more weekend at home before popping off to Manchester to rehearse Poles Apart.

I've spent most of this week either re-learning my lines (which has come surprisingly easily I am grateful to say), checking over the statistical details of the show (there is always a know-it-all in the audience), or writing new material.

Mark and I decided that it would be remiss of us to let the election of two British Nazi Party MEPs pass unmentioned in a show that is about immigration, especially as the BNP are so obsessed with immigration and race and fundamentally, upon close inspection, their policies and ideas are actually really quite amusing in a backward, oh my God did they really just say that, kind of way.

Although the downside of this was pouring over BNP policy and press releases to get a decent handle on their bizarre dogma (anyone for chain gangs to restore our coastal defences?) whilst trying to make jokes out of it, when it is already pretty ridiculous and poorly thought out in the first place.

Once written we then had to find a home for them in what is a pretty tight show but I think we've found good homes for the three BNP scenes, which are (not wanting to spoil anything for those coming to watch): a Nick Griffin musical medley, an insight into the night the BNP won two seats in the European Parliamentary Elections and finally, what happens when a Nazi tries to join the BNP.

Blogging will be light obviously over the coming week as I am deep into rehearsals but if you can, please do show your support for Poles Apart and come and see us in Manchester on the 26th November (which is nearly sold out I've been told) and London on the 27th and 28th November (which isn't, not yet anyway).

Do widzenia!

Ideal Present For Family & Friends: Blood Pressure Monitor

I think this sign, situated in my local pharmacy, speaks volumes about either my neighbourhood or the owner of the chemist.

I mean, who seriously thinks that a blood pressure monitor, a precursor to death, is an ideal present for family and friends? If I bought that for anyone I cared for, they'd punch me in the tit.

And how shockingly overpriced was the product in the first place?

But if any of my readers do want to pick up a cheap blood pressure monitor then make sure to drop me a line and I'll let you know where the shop is...