Ring-a-ding-Zinger

At the start of any production week, I make promises to myself for the duration. Usually it's stuff like working out every day, eating properly, forgoing alcohol and the heavy, heavy drugs that I'm all about (I'm wicked mad like that, yo). While each promise has its own individual benefits (focusing my energy, feeling healthy, staying conscious and keeping me tweak-free, respectively), the overall outcome is to make me feel at my best all week. Nobody wants to be going on stage feeling anything less than terrific (unless you're doing stand-up, in which case I understand it helps to feel like absolute shit about yourself).

My latest project with Glasgow Music Theatre opens this Tuesday and runs until Saturday. Company is another Sondheim one, but unlike West Side Story it's:

• less well known (despite winning a boat-load of Tonys)
• far less dancey
• much more grown up (imagine How I Met Your Mother if it starred Kelsey Grammer)
• a comedy (only subtle racism in this one. "Where is she from?!")
• completely lacking in the random dream ballet sequence league
• far more vocally demanding (at first sight of the libretto I wet myself with fear. Then I wet myself with urine.)

So, once again, I'm going through my pre-show rituals of taking good care of myself, starting today. But this doesn't just include taking care of myself, it also means avoiding embarrassment. Ever since the break-up of my relationship back in November, the universe seems to have been out to get me. Right, that's a bit extreme. What I meant to say is that the universe is determined to have me make a total ass of myself at every possible opportunity. It's stepped up its game recently, giving us such memorable classics as:

• "Germolene Gym Disaster"
• "The Elastic Band"
• "I Swear I Was Only Staring At Your Shirt"
• "The Day Yesterday's Underwear Fell Out My Trousers In The Street"

The God of Epic-Fail (GEF, or "Geoff", as I like to know him) is to me what Death is to Final Destination characters (the only major difference being that Death doesn't happen in real life). Avoiding these embarrassing moments for a prolonged period of time is something I like to call "cheating Geoff". A public Geoff-smiting is enough to ruin anyone's day, so it is crucial that I avoid similar incidents during production weeks.

I had planned on starting the rituals today. No junk food, no alcohol (which I was already off), no coffee, loads of exercise, no behaving like a total life-failure in front of people who will never know you well enough to forgive you for it. This morning went well -Special K, water, housework- and I decided it was time to go buy my wedding ring for the show (I play a married man. Talk about performing what you know!). After a little perusal in Claire's Accessories (from the looks they were giving me I'd put money on the sales girls having only ever experienced men who've robbed them, though I'm not sure how much facial movement either of them is capable of in those foundation husks they had on), I tried Primark. The Motherwell Primark is a funny one. There's not an awful lot in it, but from all the screaming red-headed children running around you'd swear there was a sweatshop in the back. No wonder there's not much for them to sell - their workers are clearly revolting.

Anyway, I was looking around their ladies' accessories section (the men's accessories section was just belts, sunglasses and one very lonely jelly watch with a snapped wristband), and there really wasn't anything appropriate. There were loads of rings (Primark has LOADS of rings), but they were all either too girly or had a bird on them. Still, one caught my eye. It was fairly discreet, it wasn't too girly. It was part of a four pack, and the others were just completely useless to me, and very, very feminine -big jewels, a flower, a seagull- but for £2 I'd buy the lot.

Deciding to try on the large (accounting for my man-knuckles), I put all four on at once.

'They fit! Fantastic!...fuck.'

They wouldn't come off. It was impossible! They had no problem going on, but now they wouldn't come off? I'm standing there, in the middle of Primark's ladies' accessories (which I'm now noticing is incredibly close to the ladies' lingerie), yanking at my finger to get off the very noticeable, very effeminate, very stuck ladies rings off my finger. At first I attempted to keep it as gentle as possible to avoid arousing suspicion. When that didn't work, I became a lot less concerned with people noticing me. Good thing I didn't care or else that ten-year old boy in the pink and red Elmo t-shirt shouting "Poof" might've hurt. Yes, I could've quite easily been embarrassed, or enraged, or defensive (when all you want to do is shout "I forgot that a real man lets his mother dress him" at a child, it's gone too far. Especially when you'd wear that t-shirt yourself if they did it in adult sizes).

But this week, I'm not getting embarrassed! I'm not getting worked up! No siree, nothing's bringing me down!

Though I have just devoured a pizza. And I still don't have a ring.

I can start again tomorrow.

That kid looked stupid.