Thursday 28 November 2013

Firsts

On Monday, I had a dream that I got a 68 on the essay that I stayed up for thirty hours straight to finish. I've been jokingly telling everyone that this is how comas are born, that I would gladly have never seen my family again to live in a world where I get 68s on essays. And then this happened:
Seventy. Motherfucking. Eight. That is a motherfucking first, motherfuckers. I can't believe this. I genuinely expected the grade to have polymorphed into a 46 as I was writing this post. Even in Australia, where my academic achievement skyrocketed (I mean, I actually managed to pass syntax), I never got a grade this high. And, unlike my Australian grades, this one actually counts toward my final mark for my degree- yes, you understand correctly, for this brief period at least, I am averaging a first on my degree.
HELL YEAH!

On top of this, my dissertation is gaining momentum quickly, and it looks like the online survey that I shall be deploying in order to gather data may be going live this week, and then, I do believe the shit has officially hit the fan on this whole degree malarkey.

In other extremely exciting news, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is being remounted- this time in none other than Bedlam theatre herself.
This is brilliant because a) I absolutely adore this story, this show and this script and b) I haven't even been able to pass production merit (i.e. the decider of whether or not the show is even good enough to be voted upon) on a show on Bedlam since October in my first year. It's no secret that there was a major stigma attached to my name, and I like to think that, through hard work and perseverance, as well as just waiting for most people to leave, I've managed to eliminate that stigma. It's like I said a while ago: 'I got what I wanted because I tried'- in that post, I tried to make myself remember this during 2013, and, since it's November, this is definitely my longest-lasting New Year's Resolution ever.
I am very excited to execute this script again, but with a bit more money and no bloody pillar in the centre of the stage this time. Some members of the original cast have said they might audition again, but pretty much everyone involved has gone onto bigger and busier things since the show, so it'll be an entirely different experience this time around, I should imagine.

Panto has also begun and it's a lot more fun this time around. I really had almost nothing to do in Harry Panto, and, were it not for the fact that I got to play tonsil tennis with Chris Craig Harvey, I would wish that my part had just been a cameo so I could've gone home and not had to sit through all of act two in the freezing backstage of Bedlam Theatre. But now I see Joseph, playing the same role (although his Santa definitely has more to do than mine did- for one thing, Santa's apparently immortal now and so can't die in the first ten minutes), and having an awful lot more fun with it than I did- ad libbing lines, adding in jokes and giving himself awesome new minor parts as propmty the line-learning elf- and I wonder if this is one of the few times I can't shirk the blame onto someone else and should actually take responsibility for myself.
And then I think that's stupid.

And finally, I have a face like a wombat.

Monday 25 November 2013

Sister Sister

My youngest sister (who's still older than I) came up to see me this weekend, boyfriend in tow. This was the first time I'd met said boyfriend and, as previously stated, my sister had justified reservations about such a meeting. However, it went nearly perfectly- I found him charming and easy, and he apparently thought I was 'hilarious', which is exactly what I was going for.
Comedy personified.
Sis and I got along great- although she insists she visited me in first year, which I'm pretty sure is nonsense- and I was genuinely, acutely sad when we thought we might not be able to meet today. Luckily, we managed to squeeze one last walk before she set off back down South. It was lovely and refreshing and reassuring and then I remembered that I'd be seeing her in, like, a month and wondered why we'd even bothered with the whole thing.

We had a first act run-through of Panto yesterday, in which I debuted some of the improvisations that Craig and Callum had requested, nay demanded, and they went down pretty well. I always feel slightly bad putting extra lines into someone else' script, especially as someone who writes scripts myself, but I've been given free reign, so expect ad libs ad nauseum.
As is traditional, the panto contains a lot of explosions, and this means that tiny little mines have to be planted throughout the stage. During the run of Harry Panto, I managed to knock over an impressive six of the little devils, earning me the Lillis Meeh Award for Fire Safety. Last night, Jodie managed to reach half of my record in a run-through of the first half of the show. The force is strong in this one: I may have to retire (I still managed to knock out one, for old time's sake*).

*Ruth and Charlotte, if you see this, I'm making a joke- I understand pyros are dangerous.

Wednesday 20 November 2013

Vainglorious Bastard

The last time I got a good review, I wrote a frankly vainglorious post about how it made me feel. This time, I will say just this: "the Robbie Coltrane of our time".

In other news, it is freezing. I was flyering today and I thought at one point my fingers were going to fall off- then, even worse, I stopped feeling the pain and they went this weird white colour. When my shift finished and I went to open the door to go inside, my finger clunked unbendingly against the handle and made a hollow sound. Ow. Still, I'm typing this, so they're still attached for now.
Esmond, who spent last year in a post-apocalyptic, frozen wasteland, says he is also effing cold right now, so it's not just that my time in the sun spoiled me for other weathers.

It was Bedlam thanksgiving dinner on Wednesday, and it was as fun and ludicrous as ever: we all sat and broke bread and stuffed our faces together, and then played a huge-ass game of ninjas in the café. After, we made hand turkeys and then had a dance fest on the stage to, what else, Disney songs. Niall chased me around the theatre while nearly blind, which was funny as hell, and I managed to steal Izzy's shoes, which I'm pretty sure obligates her to give me her pot of gold.
I remember my first year, when, after having never had anything to do with Thanksgiving before and only vaguely even knowing what it was, I was suddenly invited to three Thanksgivings and, in classic sitcom style, I tried to have my turkey and eat it too and attend all three events and ended up going to all three and enjoying myself immensely, because life doesn't always imitate bad television. The climax of this paradisium (that's what she said) came in the form of Emma's inimitable pumpkin pie and, having celebrated two thanksgivings since (apparently, it's not a thing in Australia, despite Jason's attempts), nothing has quite lived up that treacley delight.
The most notable part of Bedthanks, as no one but me is calling it, was how at ease I felt, despite being surrounded by Freshers. I even let one of them hug me. I disinfected myself afterwards, but that's just common sense. I mean, you don't know what they've been rolling in (I'm looking at you, Bussom).

It was Henriette's birthday yesterday, and I managed to show up, still sporting my goblin make-up, to the dinner in a fancy restaurant.
Like this, but less lovelorn.
Needless to say, I dazzled everyone with my rapier wit, amusing theatrical anecdotes, and complete lack of dining etiquette.
Afterwards, we went to an Australian-themed bar, and, in the immortal words of Rosie Swayne, "I saw an opportunity to talk about myself for two hours", but I was trounced by the presence of an actual Australian (and a Melbournian, to boot!), to whom I graciously deferred on matters Antipodean. Still, it was a very fun evening, and, even better, Henriette's parents footed the bill so I can also eat today, huzzah!

Tuesday 19 November 2013

Urban

Adam gave me a lift home from rehearsal yesterday. As several people remarked, it would actually have been quicker for me to walk, since he was parked more than halfway between my house and the rehearsal venue and it took us a while to get to the actual vehicle itself due to having a lift war with Izzy. But, it wasn't the (lack of) time saving in which I was interested: it was the car journey with friends. In Melbourne, I was in a car every second day, and sometimes, yes, we would drive places to which we could easily have walked (I remember several trips to the McDonalds in Clifton Hill; especially the one where Victoria snagged me the number of the Drive-Thru server). I know it's a ridiculous thing for which to be nostalgic, and that being in a car with my friends is more confining than walking with them, so there is no inherent gain to spending time in such a manner, but I can't help it: I remember the car ride to Michael's, where the CD player got stuck, and we listened to 'The Name of the Game' ten times in a row; I remember when Andrew took us driving out around the countryside, and then we parked right next to a couple dogging in a red bull vehicle, and they stopped; I remember Aspen and I considering running over pedestrians, just to see if we could get away with it. I remember all this, and the thing I take away is 'cars', not 'friendship', proving just how terrible a person I really am (because the pedestrians thing left if ambiguous).

I chased a fox around for a while last night, because that's just how exciting my life is. I don't often see foxes in Edinburgh, which surprises me, because they seem to be all over the shop in London. This particular vulpine was quite brazen- he was just sitting in my neighbour's garden, eating quite a large chunk of meat (I thought he was a dog at first), and he really only left when I was more than halfway towards him. And even then, he only went three houses up the road. He was obviously an urban fox, is what I'm saying, and what surprises me is how unafraid of foxes I am. I'm very nervous around animals usually, and this is a feral beast with both claws and teeth, but I followed him for a time, just to see where he was going. It seems a contradiction, when I will balk at a dog, which is supposed to be domesticated.

The time may be drawing near where I have to actually put my mouth where my money's already been spent and deploy my TEFL qualification: three separate interlocutors- my mother, Rik's sister and Lydia- have bought it up in the last week and I got an email the other day saying that now is the best time to look for jobs teaching the old English-as-a-second-language.
This terrifies me, much more than any fox ever will, because once I start applying for jobs post-uni, I am officially admitting there will BE a post-uni and that it is near. I know logically that my degree must end and that, were my tertiary education to be interminable, I would, in fact, not appreciate it. Uni's only good because it's evanescent- it's a time to experiment and do stupid things and sleep all-day and stay up all night and take on five shows at once because you can put the rest of your life on hold for a while. But the energy would dissipate if it had to be sustained for too long: I had much the same thoughts about Australia- I liked it because it was impermanent, and so I knew that I had to do all I wanted within the space of a year. In the end, I completed most of my Australia bucket list, but there were things left that I wanted to do, and I can see the same situation arising with Edinburgh. By which I don't mean the city of Edinburgh, but the university lifestyle I lead here; I know there will be classic student larks that I have not undertaken by the time I graduate. I'll probably never make it to Big Cheese or GHQ, or sled down the crags, or walk into a random lecture theatre, say 'your professor's ill and asked me to fill in' and then proceed to blag my way through a lecture (this might, in fact be for the best). And I doubt I'll make it to fifty shows. Oh well, better luck next degree.

Sunday 17 November 2013

Vino

I met Rik's girlfriend, Johanna, for the first time yesterday. This was a bold move on his part, as I have a habit of making an atrocious first impression, especially on my friends' significant others: I consistently referred to Ella as 'Mrs. Joel' during the early days of our acquaintance; and the second time I met Emma, who was introduced to me as Fraser's girlfriend only the night before, I completely forgot who she was and why I should know her. Naturally, things got better in both these friendships.
However, from what I remember I didn't do anything too awful. I did drink quite a lot, though, which is quite an easy thing to do in Rik's company. He's the only person with whom I drink wine, mainly because he's just so damn insistent on it; one of the first things he said to me upon my return was that, by hook or by crook, he would make a wine-drinker out of me. He has certainly succeeded to the degree that I no longer refuse his frequent profferings of vino- but I don't consume it with quite the vim he desires, I think. Part of the reason for this is that wine makes me so damn sluggish- it's a lethargic kind of intoxication, and it means it takes me a long time to finish one glass simply because moving the vessel to my mouth can take upwards of a minute. And the morning after is even worse- I woke up at half-nine this morning and didn't manage to actually get out of bed until one. And I was constantly moving in that time.

Rob and Roberta was accepted to BedFest earlier this week, meaning it will have broken even more ground for the Kelly Canon, as no one but me calls it, being the first Kelly script to be performed in more than one country. I've also taken it down from the Writings page (and deleted the link from that Rose Middlehurst's wall) for the time being because I don't want to spoil the surprise twist ending to those who have yet to read/see it, A.K.A. most people.

Goblin's Story is heating up, by which I mean both that rehearsals for the show have increased in frequency and intensity and that the sexual tension between Jonathan and Adam, two of the minions in my heinous group of scoundrels, is becoming unbearably prevalent.

They're just so lost without one another.
Theirs is a rare chemistry- the kind of Grant-Hepburn, Astaire-Rogers, Colbert-Gable, Lockwood-Sparks relationship that can elevate a piece of art to new heights of sparkiness. I'm delighted to say that they're both involved in Rob and Roberta, though, somewhat sadly, not playing legendary super-couple Flyby and Cheeto.

And finally, throughout my life, I've been called a bear and today that prophecy came true.
Feel pity for Craig, who walked in on me taking this picture.
Good lord, I'm terrifying sometimes.

Friday 15 November 2013

Death/God

Firstly, I would like to welcome Emma Patten to the blogosphere, and not to blow my own horn, but it was totally my idea.

This week has been devoted to runs/performances for Death/God, and I'd almost forgotten how much I hate tech/dress runs. It seems I was actually totally spoiled in Melbourne, because the theatres had central heating, not that they really needed it. Bedlam does really need it, desperately, but remains resolute in its chill, and as the saying goes, 'if you can't stand the cold, stay the heck out of Bedlam.'
Death/God, with which I fulfil my dream, admittedly somewhat tenuously, of working with Woody Allen, for it sprung forth from his pen, ended up being slightly more stressful than I had imagined, because an hour before we went up, our lead fell ill, prompting him to be replaced by a complete unknown with no experience and only grit and gumption to keep him going. Then, we didn't have anyone to staff the theatre, so we weren't legally allowed to open and then there was a genuine and rather pressing fear that someone would be choked to death live on stage. Of course, I would expect no less from mother bedlam on the night that I returned to her stage.
After all, the first time I was there, I evaporated.
In second year, I remember having a conversation with Callum wherein he lamented the dearth of intimidating Bedfellows, since this had lead to him playing a thug no less than three times. Poor, innocent Callum, a thug. Well, two years later it was my turn, in Death/God, portraying a mob enforcer with vague Catholic overtones. At the height of my nastiness, I snatched an umbrella off someone. Method.
At the helm of Death/God was Emily, a second year engineer and one of my favourite new additions to the Bedlam roster. If she weren't a second year, I feel I would probably count her among my friends now. But, as my mother constantly reminded me in my infancy, 'animals don't count as friends'.
Death/God had a very sizeable cast and thus included a lot of Freshers. This lead to that thing that most fuels this blog and my very existence: narcissistic introspection. I was forced to consider how other people, especially those who don't know me well and are unaccustomed to my sometimes brash persona, view me: Jonathan, with whom I shared a scene, said I was 'a lovable asshole' and Hona, whom I had briefly spoken to in a pub, said I had 'a heart of stone'. Someone with whom I'm more well-acquainted said that I gave the impression of being 'more violent than I actually am', but that I'm actually OK when you know me. On the other hand, I was also called a cunt twice during the runs. So, swings and roundabouts.

Last night, we had a panto fundraiser in the form of a murder mystery- I played Velma, cos the ladyfolk of Scooby doo are simply more interesting. Afterward, we went to play pool and air hockey and I fucking won, again! Yes, both times in my life that I have won a one-on-one sport, it was that most virile and physically demanding of endeavours: air hockey. I then topped this evening of intense masculinity by performing poetry in an underground bunker. Smell that? It's testosterone. And it's mine.

Friday 8 November 2013

Essaches

The title for today's post comes from my sister when she was two years old, and my mother, pregnant with me, would get up at five am to work on her dissertation for her MSc, and my sister would sometimes ask if she had been 'having essaches'; this is a wonderful portmanteau which I am now stealing.

I actually didn't know until yesterday that my mother was pregnant with me when she was doing her MSc in psychology- in fact, if I'm honest, I didn't know until yesterday that my mother had an MSc in psychology! Though, in my defense, and to her credit, she has never once boasted about it or used it to pull rank, which is what I would've done in her position.

I had an essay due in at noon yesterday; despite my propensity for being a perennial last-minuter, until this point in my university career I have never actually had to, in the vernacular of my peers, 'pull an all-nighter on an essay' (it's the use of the preposition 'on' in this phrase that I like so much- in other contexts when you pull something 'on' something it's either a gun or a con). This streak was broken yesterday, when I stayed up for a grand total of thirty hours in order to get this bastard out.
It was strangely easy- I didn't actually feel tired until around eight in the morning, by which time I was already well into the second draft. What was annoying was that, even though I found the subject matter- 'can one acquire language if one isn't exposed to it early in life?'- very interesting, I just couldn't put pen to paper about it. Every time I tried, it was like my fingers and the keyboard were both positively charged magnets- they adamantly refused to meet.
Eventually, though, I managed to spew out a few thousand words and slap a bibliography on it. I will know before the beginning of December, I have been informed. Can't wait.

A couple of days ago, during a rehearsal for Goblin's Story, Laura asked me if I have a pool of anger from which to draw for the purposes of being the nefarious nasty Nurgle.
That's Daniel's replacement, Sandy Alice, that I'm lifting
What a dick.
Immediately, James Beagon burst out laughing because he knew me during first and second year and the thought of anyone questioning my ability to rage back then would have been laughable. After all, I was voted 'Most Likely to Punch an Alpaca'.

My hair was so much shorter then.
Plus, I used to do this.
But it was nice to know that people who have only met me recently don't think of me that way- they don't know me for shouting or apoplexy. Who knows for what they do know me, but it's a boon that I've moved on at least a little from just being angry. It's like when Charlotte and Simon said they had a hard time imagining me as the livid neo-fascist that I described in my accounts of Pre-Melbourne Rory, it makes me feel that I've improved.

Wednesday 6 November 2013

Fireworks

I ran into Flo the other day. For those not in know, Flo was the only other Burgher who I knew in Melbourne, though I'd really only say that we properly met one another in Melbourne. This is the first time I've seen Flo since coming back, and it was nice to have a tangible link to that year, especially since she echoed many of the same sentiments I've been expressing recently: it feels like longer than four months since we left; it doesn't feel like we were there for a year; it seems like it didn't really happen; and, most importantly, Edinburgh feels like a goddamned fridge-freezer in a way that it just didn't before we left- Melbourne has stripped us of our ability to withstand the weather here in the frozen wasteland that used to be Scotland. This last one is particularly interesting, because Flo is from Dundee originally- so it's not just me with my inferior English blood being a wuss; doing a year abroad actively changes your genetic make-up and makes you better than other people more susceptible to changes in temperature.

Another unexpected side-effect of my time in Aussie-land is that I have a newly acquired disdain for Christmas decorations. Seeing them out of context (i.e. in a land which is pretty much green all year round and where it's light and hot during winter), made me start to view them in a completely different light. And I now can't help but harrumph when I see weird blue star shapes in the windows of the shops on the high street.
Jason giving his famous Hannibal lecture about how ridiculous it is that Australian Hallowe'en decorations include orange leaves, when it occurs during their Spring.
I can't help but feel that this is the start of my transformation into that thing I hate the most: a contrarian. Those people always complaining about Christmas and birthdays and anything else that makes people happy becoming something designed to make people happy (admittedly, with the added cost of massive consumerism) rather than the original pagan festival/unmarked day/whatever. I like getting excited about silly things- it adds spice to life- and this newfound ennui is an unwelcome change.

I have had a complicated with fireworks ever since I was three years old and a firework went off right behind me while I was sat upon my father's shoulders, which understandably made me somewhat...recalcitrant towards fireworks shows.
This is a shame, because one of the few interesting things to happen in Ironbridge every year is the Power Station Fireworks Show, which is so utterly spectacular that it makes us all forget the horrible, horrible things that that station is doing to our air. I especially had a problem with the noise- I remember covering my ears and then complaining that my ears were too warm because I was wearing gloves (I cannot overemphasise how irritating I was as a child). Anyway, I eventually began to get over this insecurity and actually enjoy watching technicolour explosions in the sky, especially the one time Becky gave me a ticket to the Virgin Fireworks Concert in the park. That was just magical.
Anyway, I had a rehearsal last night, and some of the Fresher members of the panto cast were discussing climbing Arthur's Seat to view the pyrotechnics from on high and I flashed back to when I did this in my own first year and realised that none of the people I climbed that hill with- Dillon, Callie and, if I remember correctly, Rosie- are here anymore. This made me sad even though all of them left of their own free-will and, in the case of the first two, they weren't expected to stick around and it would just be odd had they done so.
Due to an essay which I am meant to be writing even now, I ended up watching the various Meadows-centric fireworks displays through the Library windows, which may actually be the perfect way to do it: with none of the noise that used to cause me such duress, and the warmth of a building that students aren't paying to heat. Lovely.

And, finally, I saw Gem yesterday. Gem is someone with whom I had a fraught relationship- she would utterly agree with me about this. However, before I left, I apologised and lamented that she and I had not been friends. She agreed, and we left with a hug. When I saw her yesterday, it was smiles all around. It's nice to see that buried hatchets don't always have to resurface.