March 2010

Had some interesting times in the latter part of last week.

I had left you on my way to Basingstoke. Some people mistakenly pronounce the name as: Bah-sin-stow-kee.

I’m just going to go out on a limb and say it: what?

We performed at the Haymarket Theatre, which is a fantastic space to work in, and the theatre staff are great.

One of the technician dudes was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, which made me think of beer. If you can’t get drunk in Wisconsin you aren’t trying hard enough. Beer is cheaper than bottled water in Wisconsin. And it’s so good.

You could almost call Wisconsin: the Shire State.

But nobody would know what you were talking about.

So don’t bother.

Basingstoke is a pretty town, and it yielded up a thrilling (for me) sunset:

From there it was on to Sudbury

The home of cute little theatres

and humongous swans

It was a bright, bright day, in Sudbury, which made it seem all the more lovely. Even though if it had been raining I’d have still felt the same. Just look at it:

We stayed that night at Pub called the Bay Horse Inn, which had rooms for rent.

Now, my show was fun, but the real evening’s entertainment came from a wicked blues-esque band called the Smoking Hogs.

The audience in the pub went wild:

They were the best entertainment to be found in Sudbury, that Saturday evening.

Early the next day we embarked on a mammoth trip that involved six trains, two Tube subway lines, and bus to get to Winchester. “Good things come to those who wait”, or in this case: change train platforms a trillion times.

It’s was my second time back to the Winchester and the perfectly proportioned Theatre Royal.

Our B&B was very posh, covered with art and furniture fit for the home of an aristocrat. I was almost afraid to breathe too hard when I entered the place, but the Hostess (who was as charming a person as I ever met) made me feel completely at ease. I asked her if I could take a wee picture of one of the adorable drawings on my bedroom walls. (I sound like a twerp, I know) Look at her:

Much to my joy and happiness we were booked to stay in Winchester for a day off.

Instead of sitting on our arses- as we usually do- Christine and I willingly got onto a train (on our day off) and made our way to Salisbury. From the Salisbury train station we boarded a bus- all of this was made much easier as we had no luggage to carry- and went to go check out a stack of rocks.

There are moments of clarity in life when you realize that something neat is going to happen: like the first time I went up the Empire State Building, or when I performed at a giant Star Wars convention. You prepare for it, not knowing exactly how you’ll react to it- this could be the first of many times to come or perhaps this will be it.

I’d been told you can’t get close to the stones, but I thought it wasn’t bad.

If I was a bird around there I could nest in Stonehenge:

There were a bunch of sheep too (aside from the tourists):

Someone should seriously consider opening a little pub up there. Maybe an underground pub, so that the view isn’t compromised. Besides, alcohol and tourists go together sooo well.

Maybe not.

Anyway, after seeing that ancient wonder of the world, I felt a overwhelming sense of connection to everyone:

I almost didn’t want to get back onto the bus. Most people didn’t:

On my way back to Winchester from Salisbury, with visions of Stonehenge still swimming in my head, I noticed that a rescue helicopter passing overhead looked a lot like a little water bug:

And as I stepped off the train back in Winchester, I found myself searching for the right words to express what I felt. What could I say that would make people understand?

Suddenly, I looked over and realized that a sign in Welsh must be experiencing a similar kind of angst, but directed towards me:

I have no idea exactly what it was trying to tell me. I know it was important. It might have been something that could have changed my life- even saved it someday.

What can I say?

Go see Stonehenge.

It’s cool.

So are helicopters.

🙂

It started out in Barrow (see above), a town on England’s north west coast. It’s a lovely place to be a duck, swan, or goose.

What a beautiful sunny day Tuesday was:

Of course a sunny day spent on train platforms is like a Belgium chocolate coated beer-cap.

I shouldn’t complain about train platforms- nobody’s forced me to live out the rest of my days on one. I’d rather think of it like this: every train platform is taking me that much closer to home.

I like to take a moment to say that Virgin Trains (1^st Class) rock! You get served coffee and apples from a person who actually begrudges you a smile. More of a face stretch, really, but there’s still the effort made.

I got to sit, sipping my coffee, and stare enviously at the jets flying overhead.

The next night was in Preston.

Preston… has nice hardwood floors.

The bathroom at my B&B had pink shag carpet- you don’t see that very often- I won’t mention the actual name of the B&B, only that it was in Preston.

Enough said.

The hallways at the theatre appeared to made of chrome.

I don’t want to sound unkind towards the not-so-lovely places that I travel to. If you can’t say something nice etc..

That being said: Preston isn’t the prettiest of all places.

Now I was born in an industrial (kind of shabby) town and since then I’ve lived in my share of hideous places.

Does that make me worthless? An ugly home does not an ugly person make. Even a Shangri-la can be populated with ghouls.

Hell, even my family has moved away from a picture postcard town (a place very close to my heart) to an industrial town (a place that I associate with the smell of sulphur). Despite its esthetic inferiority, the place has started to grow on me with every new memory we make there as a family. The surroundings almost don’t matter.

I suppose that means that even life on a train platform could be bearable if the right people were there. And if it was sunny.

Preston has good people, I know because I met some of them while I was there. I hope that I get to go back.

Solihull was the next night. It’s a great town and we had an awesome Victorian era B&B.

Plus, I got to meet up with my old partners (Richard and Anne) in crime from my One Man Star Wars UK tours:

It was my second time back to Solihull. I’d forgotten that the theatre sort of boarders a giant mall. There are tons of malls throughout the UK, but this one is special. It could be because one store had these (and only these) to sell:

I was very pleased to realize the morning I woke up in Solihull, that my glass had become half full. There were more days behind (at least as far as this tour is concerned) than lay ahead.

The home stretch had begun.

Yes:)

Blogging is like “Life” as described by Monty Python: a game, where we make up the rules, while we’re searching for something to say.

The only guarantee of blogging is Spam- makes me think of Spamalot. I never actually saw the musical but loved the Holy Grail movie.

This country has so many varieties, its landscapes its people. I saw the power station above maybe twenty minutes before the Shire. It’s amazing: the diversity that exists from one town to the next, even if it’s only twenty miles away.

Travelling across this place, as I have, by train, it’s as though I’m seeing it from a great height. I feel close to it, but can’t quite reach out and touch it.

I sometimes feel as though it’s all a dream. Then I find myself waking as with every train station a little bit of the world gets on board.

We live in a bizarre symbiosis with each other. There are the annoyers and the annoyees (not a real word, but you know what I mean).

For example: there was this person who sat on our “quiet coach” (a type of train car which hopefully requires no further explanation) and loudly recited a monologue into a cell phone, regaling someone with every minute detail of life. (I sort of sound like the blog-pot calling the cell-kettle black, don’t I?) Anyway, I say “monologue” because it seems altogether impossible that anyone be willing to participate in such a dull “dialogue”. (To me, even if the person on the other end had spent their entire life trapped in an elevator, I’d imagine them hanging up.)

Tales of video games, quiche and croutons, mortgages, and the best choice of bottled water, after two hours became kind of an annoying thrill.

It’s unfortunate that this person looked and dressed in such a fashion as to resemble a muppet.

This person was like a television in a bar. I was hypnotized and utterly powerless to ignore it.

So this last week has been very much the hors d’ouvre plate of locales. I never imagined the subtle differences between Epsom, Barnstaple, Lichfield, Buxton, Newcastle, and Birkenhead. In some ways they may as well be from separate countries.

There’s been mountains and snow,

Shires minus the Hobbits, cities in name rather than in scale,

accents, accents, accents, and some theatres so grand as to humble me to my very core.

I’m never sure what’ll come next.

or

The memories are fleeting- I hope that there’ll be some kind of carry over of this experience to the rest of my life. Watching Canada win Olympic Hockey gold made the huge impression on me. That makes sense, though- touring is my job- the hockey is something that happens once every thirty years. Or if we believe Roland Emerich’s movie 2012, it’ll never happen again.

The Mayans knew it.

Touring it seems serves to remind me of the life I’ve left behind. Real life is so precious to me.

I remember an Oscar speech made by a woman who’d suffered greatly during WWII. She said that people today don’t appreciate the luxury of a boring evening spent at home. I’m paraphrasing, of course, but that was the gist of it. For my own part, I feel the truth of it, even though her life was terribly hard in comparison to mine.

I implore you, if you have the opportunity to savour an extra embrace with your loved one: do it. Take the time to smile at each other and make a joke. Phone a friend before the prospect of dodgy cell phone service plagues your day to day. Go visit your parents or grandparents if they live nearby. If you have the luxury of it, relish it. Ketchup. (get it? dumb)

What matters to me most is what’s left behind. If I could fly it all here, believe me, I would.

If anything, that sentimental feeling has made me empathize a bit more with this world  I cannot touch. I am travelling through the lives’ of others. Even if I never meet any of them I can assume that this is their home and what matters most.

It’s like passing through the fields of sheep and pheasants, on the the way to Barnstaple, I remember how “quaint” it all seemed. Even the warring pheasants, battling it out over dominion of a small section of a field. How could it matter? What could possibly be the difference?

The lives’ of sheep and pheasants cannot be dismissed, they must be lived to be understood. I pass by in the train, yet for all the windows in the car, I see only an impression of it. I’ve spent so may years “just passing through” places that I’ve lost my ability to see any of it.

It makes me think of the muppet on the cell phone and the person with the lovely red socks. My meagre observations of them are as nothing. I’ve not revealed the underpainting, the textures, or their complexities layered beneath the surface. They’ve shared a part of themselves with we strangers. It makes me question why I’m bothered by it?

Is it because I don’t care to hear it? Or do I wish I was as free?

Part of my longing for home is that I know there are people in my life who care enough to listen about what I ate for dinner. It’s a comfort. (I promise never to tell you unless you ask, because it’s really boring.)

I’ve failed to appreciate that for maybe thousands of generations of pheasants, a mere passing field might represent their entire world. What appears to me as a squabble between birds may in fact be the passage of power. Unless I live in those fields (or wear another person’s socks), all I have is just my lazy observations.

I have begun to understand that touring is a gift that can’t take come home with you. It’s something like a long rite of passage, that after a while, it changes the way you view the world. It ‘s been a privilege that I haven’t necessarily earned, and for that reason, I will try to be worthy of the honour.

Last night in Newcastle, the show at the incredible Theatre Royal (one my favourite theatres in the world), it was rejuvenating.

I felt my blood happily race through my bruised body with slightly greater gusto. It helped that there were over 600 people in attendance and that they really got it. It’s the variable that can never be controlled during a live show: the response. Regardless of it, you have to keep going. Some days I wonder if the morgue has been taken out on a field-trip to see my show.

In Newcastle though, if was as if the embodiment of joy and youth found living expression in the form of my audience. I thank them for being so.

I spent today off in Chester, which has a quiet bustling beauty to it.

I had coffee in a Medieval crypt this afternoon,

this is just a local coffee shop. No big deal.

I was lucky enough to see some friends this week, and here they are in no particular order.

I also was lucky enough to have a night out in Barnstaple with Henry (my comic support) and Christine (my tour manager).

Lastly, I saw two funny signs that I wanted to share:

And, in Chester:

I’m an eight year old.

🙂

Thank you Pheasants.