Always Stay in Character
The following blog is primarily about two rules of acting, which are as follows:
Rule 7: In An Audition, Always Say Yes (or IAAASY as no-one abbreviates it to). It makes some kind of sense. The last thing you want when you trek to an audition is to cut yourself out of the running immediately by saying you can’t do what they need you to do. There are a few exceptions to this - I’m unlikely to say I can do something when attempting it will likely end my life or at least present a few major months of physical therapy (things like fire juggling, lion taming or using the crossing outside Ealing Broadway station). Nor will I take my clothes off. When drunk, yes. At castings, no. That’s what’s called having principles, people. Anyway, with that in mind, when I was asked by my agent if I could come up with a comedy character for some filming the next morning, despite the fact that I was gigging and knew I wouldn’t get home till 11pm at the earliest, I said “yes”.
Rule 19: Always Stay in Character (or ASC as……or forget it). This is based on the assumption (often true) that producers/casting directors etc can only see you IN the part if you come to the audition AS the part. So when told to come to the filming as the comedy character I’ve prepared (as mentioned above - come on, keep up) I thought “no problemo”. Cos my brain’s so awesome it adds “o” to already perfectly serviceable words.
So, I get to the location and we start filming (I’m going to skip the fact that they were running three hours late and I was attempting to pull off this filming during the one-hour lunch break from my day job - true but irrelevant).
There’s a panel of people and they are interviewing my character, who I’ve decided is from Bristol - something about it sounding slightly dappy but endearing. They’re asking me questions; I’ve pre-prepared some answers to other questions so twist their questions to fit my own answers. All seems to be going well. Not brilliantly, I’ll admit. Neither of them has done more than smile at what I think is a completely acceptable comedy character given the hour or so I’ve had to come up with him. But, given my own low parameters, it’s going well. They ask another question. I answer it.
I mentally pause.
My mouth goes dry. My brain freezes, but as my mental functions are going into shut-down mode, I have enough time to think:
“Did I just say that in a cockney accent?”
I’ve been asked another question. Somewhere my brain has registered this (well done, brain) and has uttered the only time-delaying response available to it, due to the aforementioned brain-freeze:
“Er……”
Balls. Even that sounded cockney. If not cockney, certainly not from a specific region of the south-west.
My brain has seemingly recovered from melt-down and is now working in overdrive (ironic really, as my brain is the thing that’s caused this horrendous problem by deciding to spontaneously switch accent - a problem it could easily solve if it would stop being so bloody useless). I’m mentally running through every possible sound in the English language but, in my stupid head, they’re all coming out cockney. Hilariously, it’s not even good cockney. It sounds like Dick Van Dyke has taken up permanent residence in my skull.
You know when a song gets stuck in your head and, try as you might, you just can’t remove it? And how, even if you think of the words to another song, somehow you fit those words to the tune that you’re failing to dislodge from your internal radio station? It was like that. In front of two rather famous people. Being filmed.
By this point I’ve been asked three more questions. I honestly don’t know if I’ve answered them, acknowledged their asking or whether the panel are, just out of sheer pity, asking questions in an attempt to get to the end of the interview in the swiftest time possible. What I DO know is that I can actually answer these questions - despite minimal prep time, I’ve actually come up with a vaguely rounded character. He’s got a day job. I know the names of his parents. I know what his favourite video game is. He’s certainly rounded enough to get through ten minutes of cursory hot-seating. It’s just, well, now I don’t give two shits about the answers to the questions. I care about the accent in which the answers are given. I’d be happy just to ask the panel to repeat the question for ten minutes as long as I ask it in a GOD-DAMN BRISTONIAN ACCENT!
I don’t really know what I’m doing at this point (though I’m fairly certain there’s a short moment where I go to put my head between my legs in preparation for a crash-landing, but I fortunately recognise this and pull myself out of it quickly). I’m clearly saying words, though still in a London accent.
A part of my brain (yes, it’s still there) remembers that I’m just acting and I could stop this hell by saying (in a normal accent):
“Sorry, chaps, I seem to have lost the accent I started in. Can you give me a second to get it back and then we’ll run over those last few questions again?”
Even if that would be a massive acting faux pas (I can even hear the overly dramatic intakes of breath from fellow actors reading this), at least it would stop this senseless horror.
But no, rule number 19! I was told to do this in character and even though he seems to have relocated 117 miles to the east (thank you, Google maps) he’s still the character. So my brain (what a bastard it’s turned out to be) clicks into a gear. A new gear. A decidedly London-based gear. But it’s back. I’m firing off answers to everything. I’m like the Kung-Fu Panda of question-answering. Pow! Pow! Pow! The character seems to have become somewhat more sinister and aggressive since his accent shift, but at least he’s talking again.
After what seems to be another eternity (there must have been at least 5 of those in this interview already), it’s all over. The panel politely applauds and I walk off camera. I’m within ten metres of ending this horrific experience when the director calls out that we need to just run through a couple of those questions again, due to some background noise affecting the mics, so can I pop back onto my interview spot? No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.
Rule number 7, Gareth.
Balls.
“Yes”
Um, what was that? Did that “yes” just sound like it was from Bristol? Did I just switch BACK to the accent I started with? Having embraced the ridiculous cockney twang, has Bristonian come storming back into my life? Yes. Yes, it has. This is getting stupid. But this time no panic sets in - it’s actually encouraging. For one, I’ve not totally lost the ability to do a particular accent (always something to be thankful for, as an actor). Secondly, I can redo some of the material we’ve already covered, but this time in the accent I originally intended which means in the edit I may not look like a schizophrenic moron (though I suppose I could always say it’s a character choice).
The interview actually finishes well - the panel seem happier and I, despite being shaken by the whole ordeal, have managed to get to the end of it without dropping character. Accent, yes, character, no.
Once again, I find myself walking towards the beautiful, beautiful exit (it’s a worn, wooden door in an old town hall - but it’s beautiful to me) and once again the director pipes up, stopping me in my tracks (I was SO CLOSE!).
“You a Bristol lad, then?”
What? Dost mine ears deceive me? Did he just ask if I was from Bristol? Some kind of over-whelming love wells up inside me for this man who, despite my massive slip into a totally different accent for at least 40% of the interview process, believes I’m actually from Bristol. I’m elated, over-joyed, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
No. No, I’m not. I’m from Cornwall. But even then, I don’t have a Cornish accent. I’ve got a middle-of-the-road, Southern accent. It’s quite posh. I’m just lying now. Lying in character, hoping to take away something positive from what has turned out to be a woefully depressing day. I don’t even know why I’m lying - what am I hoping to gain by agreeing with his barmy assumption that I’m actually from Bristol? Maybe I’m hoping he’ll offer me a pint, or a regular slot on the show, or perhaps a part in his new movie about the construction of Broadmead Shopping Centre - all because I’ve told him I’m from Bristol, when I’m not. Even if one of these actually occurs, it would then involve me having to perpetuate my stupid fallacy. I’d have to carry on shimmying between a Bristonian and cockney accent for as long as the friendship lasted. How long do you let a lie like that carry on? Days? Months? Years? What if we become best mates and I’m invited to be the best man at his wedding? What then? I’d have to either do a speech in a Bristonian accent in front of all his friends and family (which, if this blog is anything to go by, I clearly can’t do in front of two people, let alone a hundred) or I’d have to pipe up and tell him I’d been lying all these years. That I’m actually from a couple of counties to the south-west. Awkward!
“Oh, whereabouts?”
Balls!
I’m panicked now. He clearly knows Bristol. I don’t know Bristol. I’m not from there. We’ve already established that I’m NOT FROM BRISTOL. I’ve been there a few times but there’s no bloody way any of the names of any of the boroughs are going to spring into my mind now.
“Oh, um, north…?”
I say, with that slight upward inflection which indicates either a question or an intrinsic plea to accept my answer and not take this any further.
“No, no, which part.”
BALLS!
Did you not hear the intrinsic plea? You should have. It was intrinsic. Perversely, the interview is over and I’m sure I could get out of this by just explaining that the character was from Bristol but I’m actually not, I was just doing an (admittedly dubious) accent. Is my brain going to let me do this, though?
Nope.
“Oh, well, y’know, I’m not from right in the middle of Bristol. Actually a few towns away. To the north. Of Bristol. Y’know?”
So for some reason I can admit to lying about being from Bristol but I can only lie about it in character and I can only extend that lie by a few miles. My lie has a limited radius. I’m an idiot.
Fortunately at this point the director senses the massive level of unease between us (FINALLY) and says with a nonchalant shrug:
“Oh, well, I used to be from Bristol.”
Which is a bizarre way of putting it (surely you’re still from Bristol, right? How would that change?) but at least he’s acknowledged that there is nothing more to be gained from this exchange and I am free to go about my daily business (such as hurry back to work and somehow explain why I’ve just taken a 3 hour lunch break).
So off I stroll. Wearing a binliner and red monster-slippers (don’t ask) my head held……well, not high exactly. But not low either. More tilted to one side in a state of utter bewilderment. I’m not quite sure how one can view a performance such as the one I just gave. Where I dropped my accent more times than my nephew drops his spaghetti on the floor. Or the more times I lied to cover my ass, the more times it got me in trouble (ooh, moral! Moral!!!)
But one thing I do know is this: I stayed in character.
My drama teachers would be proud.
My accent coach would not.
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Monday, 10 October 2011
5 things everyone should have
Let me just clarify that title (I seem to have to do that a lot; maybe I should think of better titles). I don’t think anyone should have anything. I’m not about to go off on a diatribe about how important it is to own an X-Box 360 (even though they’re awesome), a pair of GHDs (similar to GBHs if used incorrectly) or the latest nonsense iPhone app to lose hours of your life to. Do what you want. Own what you want. It’s not my place to tell you what you should or shouldn’t have. The only reason I titled this blog “Five things everyone should have” is because it’s slightly snappier than my original title: “Five things I think it might benefit everyone to have even though you don’t really have to have them”. And it’s infinitely better than my stream-of-consciousness title: “Wow, these things are cool - I like things that are cool. Maybe I should use my blog to tell people how cool these things are and then they might go and get them too. Then we can all be cool together. Maybe I use the word cool to much.“
Clarification over.
Onto the “things” themselves. I wanted these items to actually be obtainable - a possession, but not “a flat screen tv” or “a fast car” or half of the shit that gets put on bucket lists all over the internet and/or gets looted from high street stores during times of increased insanity. Something you can own that doesn’t really cost much (if anything).
Also, this little rule of having to own the item prevents me from choosing stupid things like “a sense of self-worth” or “a dream for our future”, mainly because that would make me sound like some kind of worthy prick (and I will be walking that line through the rest of this article anyway) but also because it’s not something you can tell people to have. You can’t ask someone to have “a sense of self-worth”. I mean, where can you pick one of those up? It’s not like you can go to the local Tesco and get one (ironically, though, you can easily lose your sense of self-worth in Tesco). You can ask someone to get a book or a piece of fruit, you can’t ask them to get an emotion.
So, those are the rules. Here‘s the list.
1) A library card
Education should be free. Money spent on education is never money wasted, it’s money invested. Libraries are a more massive part of this than most people comprehend, especially now that adult education (and I don’t mean educating the masses about pornography) is so freakin’ expensive.
In a library, everything is free. Well, alright, not the dvds or cds or talking books or photocopying or those language courses - curse you Rosetta Stone! - but the majority of stuff (mainly the books) is free. You can just wander into a library, pick a book off the shelf and you can then devour (not literally) the knowledge contained within for up to 4 weeks. And you can renew it if you want, so you get it for another 4 weeks. That’s two months. For free. Read it. Read it again. Read it to your kids (OK, not all the books - keep the Dean Koontz ones to yourself, if for no other reason than his surname sounds like something you don’t want to be telling your kids about just yet). Get another book. Get loads at the same time. Get some non-fiction. It’s education. But don’t be scared. Because it’s free.
2) A map of the world
Sometimes it’s nice to know just where the hell things are - be it your car keys, the local cinema, or a country of the world we live in. Did you know there’s a country called “St Kitts and Nevis”? No? Me neither. It’s one of the 196 recognised countries in the world. Fun pub quiz fact for you there.
So with pub quizzes in mind, my next recommendation is “a map of the world”, because beerintheevening.com can’t tell you where everything is. Just where the pubs are. And things occasionally happen outside of the pub (who knew?)
3) A musical instrument
I could tell you how great it is to be able to play an instrument. I could tell you how amazing it is to have those creative doors opened and to find yourself swimming in a vast sea of new and exciting music. I could tell you how satisfying it is to compose your first piece, to feel yourself join an historic legion of composers - from Mozart, to Beethoven, to Scott Joplin, to Mark Knopfler, to Iggy Pop, to Rebecca Black. I could tell you all these things. But I’m not going to. All you really need to know is this - musicians are cool. If girls know you can play an instrument your attractiveness increases 13.72%. That’s scientific fact, my friend. A scientific fact I blatantly just made up. But a scientific fact nonetheless.
Also, it doesn’t matter what instrument. You don’t have to have an expensive piano, saxophone or violin. You can get a harmonica for £4. I bought a ukulele for £20. You can pick up a classical guitar for £15 on eBay. Hell, get a triangle - but don’t assume learning to play it is just about hitting it at the right time (it is).
So, get an instrument. It’ll help you get lucky.
4) A pen and paper
We’ve all got something to say. Granted, not all of our thoughts are winners (enough about your bowel movements, @jakesullivan73) but it’s nice being able to express yourself. So even if a computer isn’t to hand (you might be in one of those countries you learned about in section 2; one that doesn’t have internet/electricity), you’ll be able to jot down all those little gems you’ve got stored away up there.
5) Toilet paper
Nothing worse than going to the loo and there’s no toilet paper.
Clarification over.
Onto the “things” themselves. I wanted these items to actually be obtainable - a possession, but not “a flat screen tv” or “a fast car” or half of the shit that gets put on bucket lists all over the internet and/or gets looted from high street stores during times of increased insanity. Something you can own that doesn’t really cost much (if anything).
Also, this little rule of having to own the item prevents me from choosing stupid things like “a sense of self-worth” or “a dream for our future”, mainly because that would make me sound like some kind of worthy prick (and I will be walking that line through the rest of this article anyway) but also because it’s not something you can tell people to have. You can’t ask someone to have “a sense of self-worth”. I mean, where can you pick one of those up? It’s not like you can go to the local Tesco and get one (ironically, though, you can easily lose your sense of self-worth in Tesco). You can ask someone to get a book or a piece of fruit, you can’t ask them to get an emotion.
So, those are the rules. Here‘s the list.
1) A library card
Education should be free. Money spent on education is never money wasted, it’s money invested. Libraries are a more massive part of this than most people comprehend, especially now that adult education (and I don’t mean educating the masses about pornography) is so freakin’ expensive.
In a library, everything is free. Well, alright, not the dvds or cds or talking books or photocopying or those language courses - curse you Rosetta Stone! - but the majority of stuff (mainly the books) is free. You can just wander into a library, pick a book off the shelf and you can then devour (not literally) the knowledge contained within for up to 4 weeks. And you can renew it if you want, so you get it for another 4 weeks. That’s two months. For free. Read it. Read it again. Read it to your kids (OK, not all the books - keep the Dean Koontz ones to yourself, if for no other reason than his surname sounds like something you don’t want to be telling your kids about just yet). Get another book. Get loads at the same time. Get some non-fiction. It’s education. But don’t be scared. Because it’s free.
2) A map of the world
Sometimes it’s nice to know just where the hell things are - be it your car keys, the local cinema, or a country of the world we live in. Did you know there’s a country called “St Kitts and Nevis”? No? Me neither. It’s one of the 196 recognised countries in the world. Fun pub quiz fact for you there.
So with pub quizzes in mind, my next recommendation is “a map of the world”, because beerintheevening.com can’t tell you where everything is. Just where the pubs are. And things occasionally happen outside of the pub (who knew?)
3) A musical instrument
I could tell you how great it is to be able to play an instrument. I could tell you how amazing it is to have those creative doors opened and to find yourself swimming in a vast sea of new and exciting music. I could tell you how satisfying it is to compose your first piece, to feel yourself join an historic legion of composers - from Mozart, to Beethoven, to Scott Joplin, to Mark Knopfler, to Iggy Pop, to Rebecca Black. I could tell you all these things. But I’m not going to. All you really need to know is this - musicians are cool. If girls know you can play an instrument your attractiveness increases 13.72%. That’s scientific fact, my friend. A scientific fact I blatantly just made up. But a scientific fact nonetheless.
Also, it doesn’t matter what instrument. You don’t have to have an expensive piano, saxophone or violin. You can get a harmonica for £4. I bought a ukulele for £20. You can pick up a classical guitar for £15 on eBay. Hell, get a triangle - but don’t assume learning to play it is just about hitting it at the right time (it is).
So, get an instrument. It’ll help you get lucky.
4) A pen and paper
We’ve all got something to say. Granted, not all of our thoughts are winners (enough about your bowel movements, @jakesullivan73) but it’s nice being able to express yourself. So even if a computer isn’t to hand (you might be in one of those countries you learned about in section 2; one that doesn’t have internet/electricity), you’ll be able to jot down all those little gems you’ve got stored away up there.
5) Toilet paper
Nothing worse than going to the loo and there’s no toilet paper.
Monday, 26 September 2011
Insecure Keys
I’ve just moved house. I’m not bragging (if I were, I’d tell you I moved to Kensington. I’m not and I didn’t), just stating a fact. Apart from the obvious joys of settling into a new location (pub crawl) and the obvious pitfalls (where the hell is everything?), the main difficulties I’ve encountered so far have ironically been with the internet - usually the most mobile and flexible of entities.
Try to log into an account of yours on anything other than your home computer and suddenly the bars come down - your account is blocked and you’ve got to now prove, through a series of gruelling tests involving reading a jumble of smudgy, incomprehensible letters and remembering what on earth you chose as your memorable name (next time mine will be “irony“), who the hell you are and what the hell you think you’re doing using the internet elsewhere.
Surely one of the key USPs of the internet is the fact that you can use it anywhere. It’s not designed to be restrictive. It’s not designed to be used behind closed and locked doors in the privacy of your own home (apart from the porn. Definitely close and lock the doors). It’s designed to be used everywhere (again, apart from the porn).
Facebook was offended when I tried to log in at my local library - not 100 metres from my house. Apparently that constitutes potential hacking and my account was shut down until I went back home, logged in from there and told Facebook that it was me attempting to log in, so I could then go back to the library and log in from there again. Good use of my, admittedly extensive, free time.
We’ve been so manipulated into being scared about our accounts being hacked (seriously, in the grand scheme of things, how horrific is it really to have some unknown hacker post comments about your sexual preference on your Facebook wall?) that it looks like we’ve had all rights and privileges revoked. We’ve essentially been told to “stay in your room”! It feels like we’re naughty children - given the responsibility of looking after the school bunny rabbit and we’ve been caught in the playground throwing it against a trampoline to see if we can bounce it into the sandpit 50 metres away (answer: it only travels about 4 metres then hops away with a broken foot).
The same can be said for internet banking. I’m a massive fan of internet banking. I love it. I don’t think I’d be wrong in thinking I was probably one of the first 100 people in the world to use internet banking, I was that ready for it. I don’t think I’d be wrong there. And it was perfect. For a few years. Now, however, they’ve ruined it. They’ve started to restrict us. Now, we have to use our “Secure Keys” in order to log in and perform even the most basic of transactions. For those of you who don’t know what a Secure Key is - it’s basically a little device (like a chip and pin pad) that gives you a unique number to use every time you want to log in. Or transfer money. Or make a bill payment. Or do anything at all. Surely the existence of a Secure Key defeats the very purpose of internet banking, right? Because, where previously all you needed was access to a computer, now you have to tote around your Secure Key wherever you go. And if you have to take your Secure Key with you, along with your bank cards, it’s actually less secure. And more of a pain in the arse.
Some of you will think I’m over-reacting.
“It’s just another form of security to help protect our money” you may cry.
First of all, dry your eyes, it’s not that dramatic.
Secondly, if the banks genuinely wanted to protect your money they wouldn’t have gambled it away so recklessly causing a world-wide recession (Boom! Take that, banks!)
Thirdly, the fraud squad (or whatever they’re called) at the banks do a great job of keeping your accounts secure - when things seem out of the ordinary, I’ve received a call questioning the purchase/withdrawl, confirmed it and all has gone back to normal. I had my details stolen once - the following conversation then took place:
“We’re just going to go through your recent transactions”
“Ok”
“£10.75 - Tescos in Seven Sisters”
“Yup, that sounds about right”
“£6.20 - TFL. Seven Sisters”
“Again, probably true. I do travel”
“£3.50 - Tuna Nicoise sandwich from Pret a Manger on Charing Cross Road”
“Definitely me”
“£500 cash withdrawl. Germany”
“Um. Nope. Don’t think I did that one”
“You didn’t withdraw £500 from a cashpoint in Germany?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I’ve never been to Germany in my life, so pretty sure”
“You’ve never been to Germany?”
“No”
“Are you sure?”
“Is that something people generally forget?”
“In which case your card details may have been stolen”
“Looks like”
“We’ll get that sorted for you”
“If you would, thanks”
There’s a point in the life of new technology where it eventually becomes circular. We’ll become so obsessed with internet security that our money will have to be kept under lock and key and the only way we’ll be able to access it is by visiting the bank, in person, with our debit card, proof of address and two forms of identification. So, y’know, 20 years ago.
Try to log into an account of yours on anything other than your home computer and suddenly the bars come down - your account is blocked and you’ve got to now prove, through a series of gruelling tests involving reading a jumble of smudgy, incomprehensible letters and remembering what on earth you chose as your memorable name (next time mine will be “irony“), who the hell you are and what the hell you think you’re doing using the internet elsewhere.
Surely one of the key USPs of the internet is the fact that you can use it anywhere. It’s not designed to be restrictive. It’s not designed to be used behind closed and locked doors in the privacy of your own home (apart from the porn. Definitely close and lock the doors). It’s designed to be used everywhere (again, apart from the porn).
Facebook was offended when I tried to log in at my local library - not 100 metres from my house. Apparently that constitutes potential hacking and my account was shut down until I went back home, logged in from there and told Facebook that it was me attempting to log in, so I could then go back to the library and log in from there again. Good use of my, admittedly extensive, free time.
We’ve been so manipulated into being scared about our accounts being hacked (seriously, in the grand scheme of things, how horrific is it really to have some unknown hacker post comments about your sexual preference on your Facebook wall?) that it looks like we’ve had all rights and privileges revoked. We’ve essentially been told to “stay in your room”! It feels like we’re naughty children - given the responsibility of looking after the school bunny rabbit and we’ve been caught in the playground throwing it against a trampoline to see if we can bounce it into the sandpit 50 metres away (answer: it only travels about 4 metres then hops away with a broken foot).
The same can be said for internet banking. I’m a massive fan of internet banking. I love it. I don’t think I’d be wrong in thinking I was probably one of the first 100 people in the world to use internet banking, I was that ready for it. I don’t think I’d be wrong there. And it was perfect. For a few years. Now, however, they’ve ruined it. They’ve started to restrict us. Now, we have to use our “Secure Keys” in order to log in and perform even the most basic of transactions. For those of you who don’t know what a Secure Key is - it’s basically a little device (like a chip and pin pad) that gives you a unique number to use every time you want to log in. Or transfer money. Or make a bill payment. Or do anything at all. Surely the existence of a Secure Key defeats the very purpose of internet banking, right? Because, where previously all you needed was access to a computer, now you have to tote around your Secure Key wherever you go. And if you have to take your Secure Key with you, along with your bank cards, it’s actually less secure. And more of a pain in the arse.
Some of you will think I’m over-reacting.
“It’s just another form of security to help protect our money” you may cry.
First of all, dry your eyes, it’s not that dramatic.
Secondly, if the banks genuinely wanted to protect your money they wouldn’t have gambled it away so recklessly causing a world-wide recession (Boom! Take that, banks!)
Thirdly, the fraud squad (or whatever they’re called) at the banks do a great job of keeping your accounts secure - when things seem out of the ordinary, I’ve received a call questioning the purchase/withdrawl, confirmed it and all has gone back to normal. I had my details stolen once - the following conversation then took place:
“We’re just going to go through your recent transactions”
“Ok”
“£10.75 - Tescos in Seven Sisters”
“Yup, that sounds about right”
“£6.20 - TFL. Seven Sisters”
“Again, probably true. I do travel”
“£3.50 - Tuna Nicoise sandwich from Pret a Manger on Charing Cross Road”
“Definitely me”
“£500 cash withdrawl. Germany”
“Um. Nope. Don’t think I did that one”
“You didn’t withdraw £500 from a cashpoint in Germany?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, I’ve never been to Germany in my life, so pretty sure”
“You’ve never been to Germany?”
“No”
“Are you sure?”
“Is that something people generally forget?”
“In which case your card details may have been stolen”
“Looks like”
“We’ll get that sorted for you”
“If you would, thanks”
There’s a point in the life of new technology where it eventually becomes circular. We’ll become so obsessed with internet security that our money will have to be kept under lock and key and the only way we’ll be able to access it is by visiting the bank, in person, with our debit card, proof of address and two forms of identification. So, y’know, 20 years ago.
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Secret Edinburgh
This is a piece I wrote during August - the topic was "Secret Edinburgh" i.e. things to do at the fringe festival that basically weren't watching a show or getting drunk.
---------
The Edinburgh Fringe Festival is full of people telling you what to do. Shows to see, places to visit, food to eat, even what to avoid. What you don’t tend to hear is “hey, why not have a break from all this for an hour or two and just relax”.
Just relax? I’m aware that it’s probably not the coolest thing to promote (and I’m practically world-renowned for my coolness). Most stories don’t tend to begin “So, I went out last night and got totally relaxed”. Unless they’re set in Thailand and it’s a euphamism. In which case I hope to god the story stops there.
But something that Delete the Banjax, the sketch group I’m in, discovered early on in our first Fringe is, if you’re in Edinburgh for longer than, say, 2 days, you’ll need somewhere to sit down and read a book, or just generally chill out and escape from the all-pervading atmosphere of the Fringe. Most of the locals have already found a way to do this, which seems to be the “get the hell out of Edinburgh” tactic (usually using the ridiculous sums of money they’ve charged in rent for their “cosy” apartment to fund their excursions abroad). However, if you’re a performer at the Fringe, the likelihood is that leaving isn’t an option (well, it‘s one you probably consider on a daily basis, you‘re just never going to act on it), so it’s of benefit to your physical and mental sanity to occasionally avoid the stresses of the Fringe. Because, despite what some may think, Edinburgh is stressful. 2,500 shows are jostling for attention in a 3-week time-frame. You’ve got your show to worry about, your material, your performances, your ticket sales, your reviews (firstly getting them at all, then worrying about what they might say, then actually reading them and either worrying that potential punters will read the review or worrying that they won‘t). All the while there’s also that niggling thought in the back of your head that you will probably be putting yourself through this again next year. So that’s a lot of stress to pack into 3 weeks. It is also great fun - the atmosphere, the people, the shows, the food, the street performances, the parties, the drinking, the waking-up-at-four-in-the-morning-on-a-traffic-island-with-no-clothes-on-and-no-idea-how-you-got-there-with-your-last-memory-being-of-only-taking-a-sip-of-beer-after-last-night’s-show. All of it, fantastic. But it would be remiss of me not to mention that it takes a superhuman constitution to perform your show (and likely other slots around the Fringe), then be out on the town, socialising yourself into a coma every single day of August.
Two places we found over the last few years have provided some well-needed respite from these daily excesses. Despite what anyone might say, Arthur’s Seat is not a place to relax - it takes ages to get up there, you’re very likely to get wet and muddy, and it’s normally so thronged with other visitors that you end up feeling like you may just as well have stayed back in the city and bought an aerial-view postcard from one of the billions of tourist shops adorning the Royal Mile. Then you can sit staring at it for as long as you like, while tucked away in a warm local pub with a refreshing pint.
No, the first place we found is a lovely café on Canon Gait called “Has-Beans” (I always love shops with a silly pun as a name - no town or city can’t be improved by the inclusion of a chippy called “The Codfather” or an Indian called “Second to Naan”). The other is, surprisingly, “The Holyrood 9A”. I say surprisingly because it’s normally absolutely rammed with people jostling for a table and waiting to be served one of their excellent burgers. How exactly is that “a place to relax”? Well, if you happen to pop in early afternoon on a weekday, as we did last year, you’ll find it to be a lovely, atmospheric pub, which serves a cracking cup of tea. Which is just what we needed 2 weeks into a manic Edinburgh Fringe run. After an hour of sitting, reading the papers, sipping on our beverages of choice, and not talking to each other at all, we were ready to bounce back with gusto into the mad mad world of the Fringe.
I think later that day we went to Silent Disco till stupid-o-clock in the morning, and I like to believe that our little chill-out session aided the drunken hilarity later that evening. A caffeine-based calm before the alcohol-fuelled storm.
So, if at any point, I begin a story with the words “I got totally relaxed the other day”, please don’t automatically assume it’s a reference to a happy massage. And don’t tell my mum.
---------
The Edinburgh Fringe Festival is full of people telling you what to do. Shows to see, places to visit, food to eat, even what to avoid. What you don’t tend to hear is “hey, why not have a break from all this for an hour or two and just relax”.
Just relax? I’m aware that it’s probably not the coolest thing to promote (and I’m practically world-renowned for my coolness). Most stories don’t tend to begin “So, I went out last night and got totally relaxed”. Unless they’re set in Thailand and it’s a euphamism. In which case I hope to god the story stops there.
But something that Delete the Banjax, the sketch group I’m in, discovered early on in our first Fringe is, if you’re in Edinburgh for longer than, say, 2 days, you’ll need somewhere to sit down and read a book, or just generally chill out and escape from the all-pervading atmosphere of the Fringe. Most of the locals have already found a way to do this, which seems to be the “get the hell out of Edinburgh” tactic (usually using the ridiculous sums of money they’ve charged in rent for their “cosy” apartment to fund their excursions abroad). However, if you’re a performer at the Fringe, the likelihood is that leaving isn’t an option (well, it‘s one you probably consider on a daily basis, you‘re just never going to act on it), so it’s of benefit to your physical and mental sanity to occasionally avoid the stresses of the Fringe. Because, despite what some may think, Edinburgh is stressful. 2,500 shows are jostling for attention in a 3-week time-frame. You’ve got your show to worry about, your material, your performances, your ticket sales, your reviews (firstly getting them at all, then worrying about what they might say, then actually reading them and either worrying that potential punters will read the review or worrying that they won‘t). All the while there’s also that niggling thought in the back of your head that you will probably be putting yourself through this again next year. So that’s a lot of stress to pack into 3 weeks. It is also great fun - the atmosphere, the people, the shows, the food, the street performances, the parties, the drinking, the waking-up-at-four-in-the-morning-on-a-traffic-island-with-no-clothes-on-and-no-idea-how-you-got-there-with-your-last-memory-being-of-only-taking-a-sip-of-beer-after-last-night’s-show. All of it, fantastic. But it would be remiss of me not to mention that it takes a superhuman constitution to perform your show (and likely other slots around the Fringe), then be out on the town, socialising yourself into a coma every single day of August.
Two places we found over the last few years have provided some well-needed respite from these daily excesses. Despite what anyone might say, Arthur’s Seat is not a place to relax - it takes ages to get up there, you’re very likely to get wet and muddy, and it’s normally so thronged with other visitors that you end up feeling like you may just as well have stayed back in the city and bought an aerial-view postcard from one of the billions of tourist shops adorning the Royal Mile. Then you can sit staring at it for as long as you like, while tucked away in a warm local pub with a refreshing pint.
No, the first place we found is a lovely café on Canon Gait called “Has-Beans” (I always love shops with a silly pun as a name - no town or city can’t be improved by the inclusion of a chippy called “The Codfather” or an Indian called “Second to Naan”). The other is, surprisingly, “The Holyrood 9A”. I say surprisingly because it’s normally absolutely rammed with people jostling for a table and waiting to be served one of their excellent burgers. How exactly is that “a place to relax”? Well, if you happen to pop in early afternoon on a weekday, as we did last year, you’ll find it to be a lovely, atmospheric pub, which serves a cracking cup of tea. Which is just what we needed 2 weeks into a manic Edinburgh Fringe run. After an hour of sitting, reading the papers, sipping on our beverages of choice, and not talking to each other at all, we were ready to bounce back with gusto into the mad mad world of the Fringe.
I think later that day we went to Silent Disco till stupid-o-clock in the morning, and I like to believe that our little chill-out session aided the drunken hilarity later that evening. A caffeine-based calm before the alcohol-fuelled storm.
So, if at any point, I begin a story with the words “I got totally relaxed the other day”, please don’t automatically assume it’s a reference to a happy massage. And don’t tell my mum.
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
A Single Man....at a wedding
I’ve been invited to five weddings this year. So far I’ve attended three and been single at three. Being single at a wedding is a curious affair. It’s not unpleasant, by any means. It’s actually rather fun, as long as no-one’s there to chaperone you into a night of boring in-excess (not to be confused with INXS, though both can be considered boring).
Below are a few key tips I’ve picked up thus far in my travels through marital celebrations:
1. People won’t respect your single status
The first thing to remember is that everyone else there will think you’re in want of a partner. They will expend a large amount of conversational effort on this subject and you probably won’t be able to divert their attention away from it for any substantial amount of time. You will not be able to convince anyone that you’re in no need of a long-term partner. You’re at a wedding. You’re celebrating long-term partnership. If you don’t believe in it, why are you there? Do you hate the friends you’ve come here to support? Do you wish their marriage ill? That’s what they’ll think. To be fair, you probably are looking for one anyway, aren’t you? I mean, if you happen to meet someone amazing and fantastic at a wedding, of all places, you’re not likely to rebuff them on account of your previously held lone-wolf convictions, are you? I thought not.
Oh, I should just clarify, if you’re there on your own, but you’re not actually single, then you don’t count. Stop complaining. For a start, you can spend the whole time talking about where your partner is and what they do for a living - by leaving them at home you’ve skilfully increased your conversational capacity by 100%. Not only can you talk about you, you can also talk about them. So you don’t have my sympathy.
2. Dress to impress
It’s not just a lazily constructed rhyme. It does actually mean something. Unfortunately, the meaning is lost on me so I usually get someone else to dress me. Not physically (if I could find a girl to literally dress me every day I wouldn’t be writing articles about being single), but it’s worth getting a friend with a sense of occasion, decorum and taste to help with the wedding outfit, otherwise you’re just going to end up wearing that suit you’ve owned for 16 years, that white shirt with the stain on the arm and that tie with a dragon on it that you think is really cool. Just me?
3. Go on your own
Bit of a no-brainer this. If you’re going to the wedding as a singleton, for the love of god don’t bring along a friend, especially not one of the opposite sex. If you get a plus one on the invite, just ignore it. It’s not a requirement. It’s not a stipulation of attendance. The bride and groom will probably thank you for not cluttering up their joyful celebration with some random they don’t know, that they are having to pay for.
If you do bring someone, everyone will just assume you‘re an item. Or that you want to be an item. Maybe you do. Isn’t that why you invited them? No? Really? I think you’ve got a bit of soul-searching to do. But not right now, you’re at a wedding.
4. Book a double room.
You’re not going to get lucky. Accept it. However, you’re also not five years old anymore. Get a double room.
5. Don’t talk to anyone
Seriously. They’re all married anyway. They’ve probably got kids running around the reception hall at this very moment, getting in everyone’s way and ruining a perfectly good piss-up. Why do people bring children to weddings? If they can afford to rent a room for the night, get a new suit and a new dress, why can’t they afford to leave their kids at their grandmother’s? Or check them in at the airport lost and found for a day or two? You’d be doing the kids a favour - I’m 29 and I still find the non-alcohol-based bits of weddings mind-numbingly dull. How kids are expected to sit through a full day of boring hymns, sermons, and speeches without alcohol is anyone’s guess. You’d be making a fuss too if you were that bored. Or you’re already drunk, in which case stop making a fool of yourself.
5a. Wait for the singles to gather
As a caveat to the above, eventually you will have to talk to someone (lest you look like a prowling maniac, glowering in the corner of the dance floor). Fortunately, a group of single people will emerge, previously unseen (usually by the bar or the table with the largest selection of free wine). It’s a sort of social ESP that means singles tractor-beam in on each other, once the drink starts to flow.
Join their conversation with a simple:
“Hahahahahaha, classic. I’m ____ by the way”
And then you’re away, with like-minded souls, enjoying a night of revelry at which all couples will tut and judge (if they haven’t already left to put their children to bed), and which you’ll probably never remember.
And when the bouquet is thrown, you’ll be outside having a cigarette. And when the toasts are given, you’ll be at the bar, knocking back a sambuca. And when the dance is on, you’ll be there, looking like a tit.
But that’s ok. Because you’re single. And that’s what you’re expected to do. And you’d probably be doing it anyway.
Below are a few key tips I’ve picked up thus far in my travels through marital celebrations:
1. People won’t respect your single status
The first thing to remember is that everyone else there will think you’re in want of a partner. They will expend a large amount of conversational effort on this subject and you probably won’t be able to divert their attention away from it for any substantial amount of time. You will not be able to convince anyone that you’re in no need of a long-term partner. You’re at a wedding. You’re celebrating long-term partnership. If you don’t believe in it, why are you there? Do you hate the friends you’ve come here to support? Do you wish their marriage ill? That’s what they’ll think. To be fair, you probably are looking for one anyway, aren’t you? I mean, if you happen to meet someone amazing and fantastic at a wedding, of all places, you’re not likely to rebuff them on account of your previously held lone-wolf convictions, are you? I thought not.
Oh, I should just clarify, if you’re there on your own, but you’re not actually single, then you don’t count. Stop complaining. For a start, you can spend the whole time talking about where your partner is and what they do for a living - by leaving them at home you’ve skilfully increased your conversational capacity by 100%. Not only can you talk about you, you can also talk about them. So you don’t have my sympathy.
2. Dress to impress
It’s not just a lazily constructed rhyme. It does actually mean something. Unfortunately, the meaning is lost on me so I usually get someone else to dress me. Not physically (if I could find a girl to literally dress me every day I wouldn’t be writing articles about being single), but it’s worth getting a friend with a sense of occasion, decorum and taste to help with the wedding outfit, otherwise you’re just going to end up wearing that suit you’ve owned for 16 years, that white shirt with the stain on the arm and that tie with a dragon on it that you think is really cool. Just me?
3. Go on your own
Bit of a no-brainer this. If you’re going to the wedding as a singleton, for the love of god don’t bring along a friend, especially not one of the opposite sex. If you get a plus one on the invite, just ignore it. It’s not a requirement. It’s not a stipulation of attendance. The bride and groom will probably thank you for not cluttering up their joyful celebration with some random they don’t know, that they are having to pay for.
If you do bring someone, everyone will just assume you‘re an item. Or that you want to be an item. Maybe you do. Isn’t that why you invited them? No? Really? I think you’ve got a bit of soul-searching to do. But not right now, you’re at a wedding.
4. Book a double room.
You’re not going to get lucky. Accept it. However, you’re also not five years old anymore. Get a double room.
5. Don’t talk to anyone
Seriously. They’re all married anyway. They’ve probably got kids running around the reception hall at this very moment, getting in everyone’s way and ruining a perfectly good piss-up. Why do people bring children to weddings? If they can afford to rent a room for the night, get a new suit and a new dress, why can’t they afford to leave their kids at their grandmother’s? Or check them in at the airport lost and found for a day or two? You’d be doing the kids a favour - I’m 29 and I still find the non-alcohol-based bits of weddings mind-numbingly dull. How kids are expected to sit through a full day of boring hymns, sermons, and speeches without alcohol is anyone’s guess. You’d be making a fuss too if you were that bored. Or you’re already drunk, in which case stop making a fool of yourself.
5a. Wait for the singles to gather
As a caveat to the above, eventually you will have to talk to someone (lest you look like a prowling maniac, glowering in the corner of the dance floor). Fortunately, a group of single people will emerge, previously unseen (usually by the bar or the table with the largest selection of free wine). It’s a sort of social ESP that means singles tractor-beam in on each other, once the drink starts to flow.
Join their conversation with a simple:
“Hahahahahaha, classic. I’m ____ by the way”
And then you’re away, with like-minded souls, enjoying a night of revelry at which all couples will tut and judge (if they haven’t already left to put their children to bed), and which you’ll probably never remember.
And when the bouquet is thrown, you’ll be outside having a cigarette. And when the toasts are given, you’ll be at the bar, knocking back a sambuca. And when the dance is on, you’ll be there, looking like a tit.
But that’s ok. Because you’re single. And that’s what you’re expected to do. And you’d probably be doing it anyway.
Friday, 9 September 2011
Why accepting PDAs is social progress
Ok, first of all I’m going to clarify that title before it’s leapt upon by predatory nerds across the country thinking I’m qualifying their use of the Personal Digital Assistant. I’m not. We’ve all got Personal Digital Assistants (they’re called mobile phones) and we’re fully aware of their advantages (constant communication with everyone around us) and their pitfalls (constant communication with everyone around us).
No, I’m referring to Public Displays of Affection, or PDAs. I’m immediately aware that PDAs is an ineffective initialization - surely it should be PDsA, you cry! Well, yes, it should, but it looks rubbish, so shush.
So, I received a text message from a friend this morning which annoyed me for two reasons. Firstly, I received it in the morning. I’ll forgive the occasional text at 8am from my bank as it’s probably unaware of my skewed sleeping patterns, but I thought all of my friends knew that I operate on a 4am-12pm system. I think it’s a throw-back to when I first left home and realised I could go to bed whenever I wanted - I still get that same sense of glee when the clock moves beyond midnight and I’m wide awake. I feel that, while all others are in bed and unconscious, I’m vigilant and alert. Y’know, like Batman.
The second reason this text irked me was because it contained the following:
“Two people are snacking on each other on my train. FFS.”
Apart from the admittedly hilarious image of two individuals “snacking on each other” (which calls to mind some kind of sexy lunchbox-based snap-pot scenario), I wasn’t quite sure what response my friend was hoping for, as we’ve had this discussion before and I have no issue with PDAs. I think it’s perfectly acceptable and lovely to see two people kissing. Well done them. They’ve found love. It’s nice.
I thought “Perhaps they’re practically having sex on this train while all my friend wants to do is flip through her stylish magazine”. I texted back such thoughts.
“No, they’re just kissing.”
Right. So kissing is distasteful to you, is it?
“I just don’t want to see that kind of thing at 8 in the morning”.
Ah, so it’s the time that’s offensive? Seeing people openly display affection is something that should be reserved for afternoons and evenings? Or perhaps only the hours between 1am and 5am, so it’s well out of the faces of normal, respectable people on their way to work? Maybe you could send round a spreadsheet detailing the prime non-abhorrent time for kissing one’s partner, then we would all be better off? Possibly a rota system might be an effective tool in combating this unsightly evil?
“It would be alright if they were attractive, but they’re both ugly as sin.”
Of course. As with everything in the world, it’s all perfectly acceptable as long as it involves the attractive members of the human species. We should have seen this coming - I mean, this dictum has been practically spelled out to us in every single Hollywood movie ever released. Things like kissing on trains, saving the world and perhaps one day finding true love with the prostitute you just ordered, are reserved for the good-looking folk amongst us, not the normal to fugly faction of society.
“And they’re old”
Uh-huh. Old people are the worst. I remember when I was 10 and I had that attitude to my parents - “Eurgh! Mum! Dad! Stop kissing. It‘s gross”. Think I grew out of that just about the time I started to realise that “Eugh! Girls? Gross!” had developed into “Mmmm! Girls! Pretty!” (and it doesn’t ever get more developed than that, I’m sorry to say).
Now, my friend is 23, so maybe puberty is setting in late for her, so I’m willing to let all this slide (aren’t I nice?) But, this scenario does remind me of one of the well-advised campaigns that “The Sun” or “The Daily Mail” set out on a few years back - I can’t remember which paper it was and, due to the aforementioned 8am text, I’m too tired to bother to check up on my facts (unlike The Sun and The Daily Mail who, I’ve heard, are fastidious fact-checkers). Anyway, the campaign was to ban PDAs. To ban kissing in public. Good idea, right? I assume that next came the campaign for banning public hand-holding. Disgusting, perverted hand-holding. Like they do in those porno films. They then decided to ban touching of any kind, just to be on the safe side. We don’t want our kids to think that any kind of affection directed towards any kind of living thing is acceptable behaviour. What kind of deviant society would we be if we did that? Then came the inevitable campaign to ban babies - they’re the end product of a chain of events that starts with PDAs; let’s ban babies! And then we’re China. Seems like an effective use of The Sun’s time and influence.
So what am I saying with all this? I think it’s probably that we as a society could benefit massively from developing beyond our childish “Eurgh! Kissing? Gross!” attitude and accept that, surrounded by reports of war, recession and murder as we are, affection and love is exactly what we need to see on the train to work at 8am.
Also, I once got chucked out of a pub for kissing, so screw them.
No, I’m referring to Public Displays of Affection, or PDAs. I’m immediately aware that PDAs is an ineffective initialization - surely it should be PDsA, you cry! Well, yes, it should, but it looks rubbish, so shush.
So, I received a text message from a friend this morning which annoyed me for two reasons. Firstly, I received it in the morning. I’ll forgive the occasional text at 8am from my bank as it’s probably unaware of my skewed sleeping patterns, but I thought all of my friends knew that I operate on a 4am-12pm system. I think it’s a throw-back to when I first left home and realised I could go to bed whenever I wanted - I still get that same sense of glee when the clock moves beyond midnight and I’m wide awake. I feel that, while all others are in bed and unconscious, I’m vigilant and alert. Y’know, like Batman.
The second reason this text irked me was because it contained the following:
“Two people are snacking on each other on my train. FFS.”
Apart from the admittedly hilarious image of two individuals “snacking on each other” (which calls to mind some kind of sexy lunchbox-based snap-pot scenario), I wasn’t quite sure what response my friend was hoping for, as we’ve had this discussion before and I have no issue with PDAs. I think it’s perfectly acceptable and lovely to see two people kissing. Well done them. They’ve found love. It’s nice.
I thought “Perhaps they’re practically having sex on this train while all my friend wants to do is flip through her stylish magazine”. I texted back such thoughts.
“No, they’re just kissing.”
Right. So kissing is distasteful to you, is it?
“I just don’t want to see that kind of thing at 8 in the morning”.
Ah, so it’s the time that’s offensive? Seeing people openly display affection is something that should be reserved for afternoons and evenings? Or perhaps only the hours between 1am and 5am, so it’s well out of the faces of normal, respectable people on their way to work? Maybe you could send round a spreadsheet detailing the prime non-abhorrent time for kissing one’s partner, then we would all be better off? Possibly a rota system might be an effective tool in combating this unsightly evil?
“It would be alright if they were attractive, but they’re both ugly as sin.”
Of course. As with everything in the world, it’s all perfectly acceptable as long as it involves the attractive members of the human species. We should have seen this coming - I mean, this dictum has been practically spelled out to us in every single Hollywood movie ever released. Things like kissing on trains, saving the world and perhaps one day finding true love with the prostitute you just ordered, are reserved for the good-looking folk amongst us, not the normal to fugly faction of society.
“And they’re old”
Uh-huh. Old people are the worst. I remember when I was 10 and I had that attitude to my parents - “Eurgh! Mum! Dad! Stop kissing. It‘s gross”. Think I grew out of that just about the time I started to realise that “Eugh! Girls? Gross!” had developed into “Mmmm! Girls! Pretty!” (and it doesn’t ever get more developed than that, I’m sorry to say).
Now, my friend is 23, so maybe puberty is setting in late for her, so I’m willing to let all this slide (aren’t I nice?) But, this scenario does remind me of one of the well-advised campaigns that “The Sun” or “The Daily Mail” set out on a few years back - I can’t remember which paper it was and, due to the aforementioned 8am text, I’m too tired to bother to check up on my facts (unlike The Sun and The Daily Mail who, I’ve heard, are fastidious fact-checkers). Anyway, the campaign was to ban PDAs. To ban kissing in public. Good idea, right? I assume that next came the campaign for banning public hand-holding. Disgusting, perverted hand-holding. Like they do in those porno films. They then decided to ban touching of any kind, just to be on the safe side. We don’t want our kids to think that any kind of affection directed towards any kind of living thing is acceptable behaviour. What kind of deviant society would we be if we did that? Then came the inevitable campaign to ban babies - they’re the end product of a chain of events that starts with PDAs; let’s ban babies! And then we’re China. Seems like an effective use of The Sun’s time and influence.
So what am I saying with all this? I think it’s probably that we as a society could benefit massively from developing beyond our childish “Eurgh! Kissing? Gross!” attitude and accept that, surrounded by reports of war, recession and murder as we are, affection and love is exactly what we need to see on the train to work at 8am.
Also, I once got chucked out of a pub for kissing, so screw them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)