The Final Nolan the Coffin

Life's been a lot kinder to me than it has been to Kerry Katona. You know things are bad when you're relegated to days of watching ex-bandmates win Celebrity Masterchef by cooking fantastic, fresh, quality food - and now even Iceland don't want you! KICKINTHEFACE! Or, as I like to call it, "really getting Bjorked". Presumably the whole scandal was because she was caught snorting coke, while Iceland have an exclusive contract to peddle E to bored housewives - "That's why mum's go to Iceland." And why Colleen Nolan has managed all this time without self-harm.

The last few weeks have been particularly good, for example, because I have had loads going on. Contact from two different companies I've worked with before, my theatre sister moving away and leaving me -sad moment-, the emergence of a new competitor for me to beat in this race, and the awesome results of a very wet photo shoot from a month or so back. West Side Story is now the dream amateur scenario I prayed for, thus confirming that there is a God, and that God loves a musical, racist Stab-a-thon about as much as Colleen loves the pills (*allegedly* - legal understanding of any sort pending). So far it's been a blast. We're a bit like a (distant and unfamiliar) family already, which, after only 4 rehearsals, is a bit like meeting someone in a doctor's waiting room and deciding that, because you're both coughing and flailing your arms at roughly the same time, you should exchange phone numbers (it sounds like the patients are the weird ones, but at least they've had the foresight and good sense to see a doctor).

Speaking of doctors, I don't have one. Haven't been to the doctor in about 5 years. Might be an idea...

So anyway, things are great (apart from that lesion on my arm - getting itchier, turning blacker. Jet black, even. Note to self: Novelty will be hilarious - don't get it seen to til after West Side Story). We're getting t-shirts too, specific to the Jets and Sharks so now we can feel even more like we're in actual gangs ("Goooood, let the hate flow through you!") and possibly some kind of tournament consisting of different team games across the coming months: my suggestions include Shark vs Jets Game of Life - lets see who, after their leaders' deaths, managed to really make something of themselves, get married, have babies, before being dragged back to the mean streets after a bored Schranke kidnaps their kids. "BRING ME BABY JOHN!", Schranke will growl as Krupke delivers his newly sharpened hand-hook, a constant reminder of the day Anita maimed him and then swallowed a clock (she later found it hard to pass the time...euw).

Intense.

Thankfully, given that the lines between what is Game of Life and what is Hook have been blurred, this isn't the only thing occupying my mind at the moment. Drama school application time is fast approaching, and this year there are a few I'm probably going to have to turn down offers from. In fact, I might just be too busy deciding which school I should grace my presence with to do any housework. Bummer.

The thing with drama school is that there are a million different ideas about how they "cast" their intake, and almost none of the information is helpful, because it doesn't matter what you do, it's still crapshoot. I mean, obviously, if you're applying for an MA in Musical Theatre (which certain people who write this blog might be doing, I won't name names), it doesn't hurt to be able to act, sing and dance. The issue then is that, in certain circles, it is believed that you have to be fully mouldable, easily stripped back and built up again, so it's maybe not fantastic that you sing or dance or act particularly well. I have honestly come out of auditions for musical theatre courses and the one that got in was the only one that didn't got rhythm (and who could ask for anything more?). But then part of you knows that the more talent you show the better your chances. Unless your talent is arranging flowers while your wife sings opera, in which case you're not winning the damn thing in a million years. Though, if this is the case, at least you can console yourself at night knowing that you lost out to an obese child and his vaguely Grecian father who like to jiggle with their tops off. You never stood a chance! And you still have more fans that Kanye West (and fewer bees in your bonnet, which is odd given that you keep the flowers in your car)!

Another inglorious mystery: the audition pieces. When choosing audition pieces one should always pick contrasting monologues and songs, but somehow this is easier for everyone who isn't me. For someone who prides himself on being very versatile as a performer, I somehow always end up doing monologues that seemed varied when I picked them (Merchant of Venice followed by foul-mouthed sock puppet) but ended up being too similar (sock puppet spouts profanities about Jews).

Then there's:

Your appearance 

Your age

Your weight

Your size and body shape

Your hair colour

Eye colour

Skin colour

Height

Natural accent

Mannerisms

Posture

Previous experience

Previous degree

Does this seem too eager?

Does this seem too nervous?

Does this seem too informal?

Does this seem like I'm not bothered?

Are my clothes the right clothes?

"Do you speak much Welsh?"

"Do you consider yourself to be disabled?"

Is it a bad thing that they're totally in silence and she's shaking her head so much?

God, that's a big head for such a skinny woman.

...

She can totally tell that I'm staring at her head...

It seems that you just won't know that you did everything right until you get in, by which time it'll be too late, because you'll never have to audition for a drama school again. Thank God the rest of the world doesn't work that way or we'd have had people getting addicted to cigarettes for years before anyone pointed out that they cause you to be very dead. *Imagines non-sarcastic dream world where scales could tell you exactly how fat you'll be in three days if you eat the entire box of Pop Tarts*

So that's what's to come, folks. More auditions, more rehearsals, more applications. Surely it's not meant to be this complicated? Colleen Nolan has it easy! A life of musical family parties, frozen vol-au-vents and Jane McDonald? 

How do I apply for that?!

To Sir (female, plural), With Love

So there aren't many things I dislike about Glee.

There. I said it. I'm a Gleek. I am a Gleek first-and-foremost because I like the music. Many have a problem with "what Glee does to old music". To them I say that having someone else sing a song in a slightly more modern way does not screw over the original. Rather, it brings attention to it. You guys have a problem with theatre companies that present Shakespeare in a way that lets kids get into it? End of song.

Notice that rant just then? That's how much I like Glee.

Anyway, as aforementioned, there aren't many things I dislike about Glee. It's actually not so much that I dislike anything about Glee at all, really, it's more the people that have jumped on the bandwagon. For example, Glee tributes, which have brilliantly decided that the world was somewhat lacking in Glee, and that, since Glee is obviously no longer around to fulfil our Glee-based needs, they should supply us with the Glee we are so lacking in our daily lives.

"I just can't deal with life," the children say, "now that Glee is gone. It was a part of my life for so long, and has made such an impact."

A woman, mid-30s, WASP, suggests over cocktails with the girls "There's a Glee tribute band playing next week - shall we go?", to which one of the girls replies "Ooh, gosh, that takes me back."

IT'S STILL HERE YOU MORONS!

Glee-based reality shows are possibly worse (but how you would go about measuring that I really couldn't imagine). For those of you who have already stopped believing and therefore thought "that doesn't apply to me" (switching over to The Biggest Loser, because that rings true), these are full of people who, despite having strong musical backgrounds and a BA in Grinning, seemingly didn't realise that this was what they wanted to do with their lives until 12 months ago when TV told them it was. It's great that people want to make music and, you know, smile (you worked hard for that 2:1!), but I dislike anything with a bandwagon. Especially horses. I just can't get behind a horse with a bandwagon.

Cultural bandwagons are everywhere these days, and I don't much care for it. When I was younger there was no TV show offering a chance for sixteen-year olds who wanted to be Britain's Next Top Vampire Slayer. Good thing too, 'cause these days Buffy's not going to be slaying vampires so much as decapitating the hordes of teenage girls defending said vampires just because they're glittery (don't get me started on glittery vampires).

There is a point to this, I promise. Though it's been waylaid by my new job as a writer for Grumpy Old Men.

The point is this (and you're going to hate me for taking the long way here, but you may as well get used to tangents): There are things I DO like about Glee, and one of those things is that it makes me feel better about the relationships I had with my teachers.

There were only four things in school that I was actually good at:

1. English. Quelle surprise! (I sucked at French)

2. Biology. Somehow I respond well to diagrams of the reproductive system, despite the fact I never intend to use it for it's real purposes.

3. Computing. I was creating spreadsheets in the womb. Perhaps more impressive was that my mother has Microsoft Office installed.

4. Drama. Which I never left.

Far be it from me to be the saddest boy at the party, but if I wasn't sitting in the Drama department I was at the chippy across the street getting a deep-fried pizza (surprisingly healthy - if you weren't fit enough to run, you weren't getting across that road). There are maybe a handful of people I would say have really inspired me in my life, and at least four of them were drama teachers. Which does sound pretty sad, but I doubt my mother lay awake at night and thought "why can't he be more influenced by adulterous, over-paid, arrogant football players, or that nice Eminem fella?" (my mum doesn't say "fella", but that's 'cause she's not Vera Duckworth).

So I'm at Glasgow Central Station Lower Level, three days ago, when I felt someone tap me on the back. One of those moments when you'll usually turn round and it's just that someone has accidentally hit you with their guitar or their ridiculous nose (try not to gawk...NO! Don't look again! He'll know you're-OOPS! Yeah, let's pay attention to the stairs again...).

Pleasantly surprisingly (see "Things I was good at at school Number 1"), it was one of those four people I was talking about a whole tangent ago, on her way to meet another one of those four people. What really impacted me was that here I was, eventually talking to them both, about what I was "doing with myself". And they made me feel genuinely proud. A point was made about how they never hear anything from me, and usually stuff filters down, so when I started talking about what I was doing, some of it was a total surprise to them. Apparently I never struck them as the musical theatre type, but whether that was because I was a pretentious eejit or just too fat to dance remains a mystery. But here were these women, five years on, still the same people, still making me feel good about where I was in life.

It's not much, God knows. But I'm so happy with the opportunities I've had in the last year, and yeah, I'm still not getting paid for it, and I don't want to be doing amateur theatre and short films for my whole life. But where I am - it's awesome, for now. And it just spurred me on to spend the next year really working at this, because I have more people rooting for me. And I want new things to be able to tell them next time I run into them (preferably with lots of hard-earned money in my pockets, just to pad out the ol' thigh muscles).


So a new, even more long-term goal is set:

One day I will turn up at that school, walk into that department, and say the immortal words "Hi guys, look at all the parts I have". And there, as they watch the police wrestle me to the ground, I know they'll be proud.

And hopefully post bail.

Tonight, Tonight

*sigh* Amateur work.

Occasionally there are amateur projects that are just never going to work well. Okay, quite frequently, there are amateur projects that are going to make you look like an idiot. Amateur work is well-known for it's tendency to...well...be absolute crap. 

I've been in the audience for these things. It's not pretty. Too many times I've watched bad "actors" trying to "act", totally miscast (not that long ago I watched a man in his 50s play a Disney prince). Generally, it's just because people take it far too seriously, and in entirely the wrong way. 

Picture, if you will, my lovely smile. Now imagine the pretend version. Imagine me standing at an aftershow party, for an amateur play. A crap amateur play, that I was (thankfully) not in (actually, scratch the "thankfully" - I can't be choosy). Listening to other audience members talk to the cast and the director about how fabulous that cardboard tree was at the back of the stage. Imagine a drink in my hand, quite regularly going to my lips just to give my mouth a rest from all the pretend-smiling. You see that smile, tree-play people? Now that's acting, bitches. Can this be my life? Can I now be forever relegated to watch and perform crap like this?

Don't get me wrong, there are excellent amateur companies out there, run by people who dream of also doing it for money some day; people with talent; people who take it the right amount of seriously. I'll take amateur theatre jobs. I love acting so much I'm willing to do it for free while I'm not doing it for money. Once I'm doing it for money then obviously I'll re-assess my position on it and become a snob, but for now it's the best thing I can be doing. Keeping my foot in the door, hobnobbing with people who, one day, could be big. Exercising my acting muscles (which involves my glutes more often than I'd like). Companies like this, though, are but a distant dream. They are the next step up. These companies will save me from the Fourth Ring of Amateur Hell.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, almost as if I'd planned this story to go in this direction...

HALLELUH! 

Three words: West. Story. Side. Not necessarily in that order. (Damn, that's eight words.)

An amateur job! And this won't be the same. It won't. I have reached the dream amateur scenario. 

They held auditions, which is a start. No directors casting themselves, and their friends, and their friends-friends, thrashing about with no sense of what it is they actually want their cast to look like (because what they want their cast to look like is their most recent Facebook album). 

They have a design plan. They have a rehearsal schedule. They have a choreographer than I know is good (she runs her own dance school). A musical director, directing music, making it sound like music! With music! Real music!

And the director is going to crack...the...whip. 

Mecca? Is that you?!

Now nothing goes wrong more easily than musical theatre. You're more exposed because if the singing or the dancing or the acting aren't executed well it totally shows, and audiences have more purists in them who are looking for things to hate.

But this won't be that. This WON'T be like that. These people know what they're doing.

And tonight: MAMBO! I have to impress. This is just the first in a long line of auditions that are going to go my way. It's looking up. 

Please, God, let it be looking up!!!


Edit:- The rehearsal is not tonight. It's next week. There is no rehearsal tonight. 


Talk about keen.

The Bottom of the Heap

Tangent: Prologue

I can't do simple introductions. It's always been a problem. The first sentence of my dissertation was the hardest to write, and probably the one that got edited the most. I never know how to begin a good e-mail or a letter or a birthday card, and it's hard to make people understand: a card containing "To Jessica (I'd write more than that, but this was all I could think of)" doesn't go down very well, especially when you realise that Jessica doesn't have any sense of irony.

So let me just say how grateful I am for the fact you've gotten this far. I apologise if you don't like this. I'm not nearly this much of a douche in real life. Well, not entirely this douche-ish. I do have douchey moments, but generally this is just my over-the-top writing style. Which is pretty douchey. And tangent-riddled. Okay, focus. Apology: end.

Here goes.

This, for lack of a better way of introducing myself, is me:

At this point in time, I am drunk. Kind of. Not only drunk, but I'm in a photo booth, in Glasgow Central train station, at 6am, trying to look pretty and keep my eyes from closing as the camera goes. This is not easy. This was attempt number five.

The thing about getting your photo taken is that you've got so much to think about. How big does my hair look? Smile a bit, but not like you're trying. Keep your head at a slightly downward angle. Look at the camera thoughtfully. Pensively, even. What is wrong with your nose?! Okay, so lift your head a little. There! Now...smile...

"If you wish to take your photo again..."

You have a lazy eye. Fix it. Smile more next time, you just look pissed off. Hair: Disney-Prince-like (in your dreams). Collar: fixed. Head: angled. Eyes: smiling. Remember what Tyra taught you!

And that's when you realise: you really need to get some acting work. Because you have self-indulgence overload.

I left University two year ago this Summer, with a top second-class BA (with Honours - very important, means nothing) in Drama. While I was there I did all sorts of things - sometimes I even studied. But mostly I acted. We'll get into all of this later, but for now, all you need to know, is that in three years I performed nearly 30 different productions. Some of it might've even been good! And if not, everyone does some crap at some point (and that's how I sleep at night). Anyway, mini-success. Big-ish fish, small-ish pond, bright-ish future

Two years on. Paid work, lead roles, my own place!

*cough*

Sorry. Amateur work, supporting roles, living with my mother.

Two years dipping in and out of acting, focussing more on getting a real job to fund a relocation (somehow it seems that London might have more acting work, which is strange, because London's tiny!). But now, I'm realising I can start now, while I'm still making the (very little) money.

And THIS, my friends, is what gets us to the whole point of this blog. I have the ambition, and the talent, and the drive. I'm even getting to the stage now where (thanks to muchos running) I'm on my way to having the body. But none of it is quite there yet. It needs to be organised! Documented! Told to strangers!

So I'm setting myself a challenge: 

To get my first REAL paid acting job by July 17th 2011 - exactly three years after my graduation.

To do this, I'm going to try everything. Classes, networking, amateur work, talent websites, short films, student productions, begging, borrowing, stealing (though what I'd steal and who from is anyone's guess). Just one fully paid acting job, in less than 11 months. And I'm going to do it.

After that, we'll see about getting regular work.

Gosh I'm scared.