Saturday, 28 August 2010

Thursday, 26 August 2010

Our Story Will Be Told Brother Death (You're Never Over)



You'd have killed me man. Punched me on the tit or summat.

I was busy feeling mardy today, too easy sometimes to get all grumpy over nothing, to get all vexed over nowt like a right ponce. You know me right? Like I have anything to be mardy about? I'm alive for a start, have my health and a beautiful woman who loves me and I'm shooting a film and then going to a casting for a great play...fuck, my life is transformed; things too good to be true. What a fine life.

Then my Eva-Jane let me know some good news about our play "Our Style is Legendary", casting is going well and things are coming together on all fronts, exciting developments and it hit me hard, smacked me right out of my self-indulgent bullshit like a punch to the solar plexus.

Our story will be told Brother Death, people will come and watch versions of me and you nobbing around, mostly speaking verbatim what we said to each other all those fucking years ago homes, word-spears being thrown 20 years and still hitting the target as true as they did then. And that ain't even the best bit.

The best bit is you'll live again my Brother, you'll fucking be alive again my sweet boy, you'll be alive again for every single show, like a beautiful re-run and our story will be told and people will laugh and cry and hate us and love us and you will live again.

And I'll be there, every night, tears in my eyes, living every moment because you know me, I don't believe in that God bullshit, you're in a hole in the ground Brother but you live on in my heart and in our play and people will be able to see you as I saw you and love you.

I miss you.

I think of you often.

I really miss you.

I'll never forgot you homes.

Hope I make you proud.

I love you.

It's the best memoriam I could ever give you Mike.

I dedicate this song to you.

Peace.

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

Kill Keith Filming Awaits


As mentioned previously, tomorrow I am filming for my next feature film entitled "Kill Keith" that stars Keith Chegwin (naturally) and a whole raft of classic British TV stars. It's a small role playing the investigating detective but it is always nice to asked and comes nicely before popping off on holiday to Aruba.

If no one out there knows who Keith Chegwin is, as may be the case with many non-Brit readers, this informative and amusing video should provide all you need to know about the man in question.



As always with these things, it is all kicking off at some ungodly hour, all the way out in Hayes, so it'll be early to rise for me before making my way out to Middlesex/West London borders. And I forgot to order more Nature Valley crunchy granolas bars (Canadian maple syrup flavour) from Tesco online. They make for a fine breakfast snacklet. Bugger. I may have to suffice with a sausage bap.

Now for some reason I am listening to a lot of Jimi Hendrix of late and this track keeps pulling me back to the play button over and over and over and over again.



I love the intense imagery of the crippled girl, stranded on the cusp of suicide as the golden space ship, which really didn't have to stop, sailed on by her. My mum got me into Hendrix and that particular verse always stayed with me as a child, haunted me as I tried to unpick what it meant. I'm still not sure but it is beautiful.

On on that note, I leave you with this:

Tuesday, 24 August 2010

The Politics of Hair


Some of you may be aware that very recently Iran banned certain types of haircuts as being too Western and too decadent. Pathetic because a genuinely powerful, secure, confident, democratic nation should never have to worry about the haircuts of it's citizens. As if haircuts can bring an entire nation crashing down? That kind of 'not one domino shall fall' bullshit will be the death of them...here's hoping.

The kind of haircuts Iran have taken umbrage with are mullets...


Ponytails....


And elaborate spikes (whatever that means)...


Naturally, the hairstyles these backward fucks approve of are just as fucking diabolical, shit like bouffants, quiffs and 90's throwback curtains...


Gel, however, can be used if sparingly. I kid you not.

I swear, some people are clinging so desperately to a bare modicum of power that they actually think this undignified flaying around at moral decay makes them look strong. Iran is not alone in this of course, the UK is blighted with Broken Britain (Copyright. All Rights Reserved) bullshit and America is contorting itself into ever more vulgar, vile and grotesque positions over the non-Mosque that is at least two blocks away from the place formally known as the World Trade Centre.

Whilst Iran may be an extreme example of the politics of hair, with thuggish militia forcing vigorous trims on Iranians with degenerate haircuts, it is not alone in connecting hair with some kind of insurgency.

North Korea controls the hair-do's of it's citizens, demanding exacting standards and seemingly, a desire for all males to look identical because long hair, naturally, drains you of your mental powers...


In Iraq barbars have been murdered by retarded religious bigots for distributing Western haircuts, while Indonesia hopes to bring in laws regarding suitable hairstyles and many other countries around the world are hatching similarly idiotic plans.

I don't know what it is about Islam and it's intolerance of good hair cuts, it makes me laugh that their God is so petty and envious that the way a human wears their hair can anger the daft twat, that and eating pig...like any omnipotent motherfucker would give a shit about tedious shit like that. We make our silly, pointless Gods in our own image, wracked with insecurities and weakness.

Facial hair is a whole other can of worms, ironically, considering how much Islam hates a good do, it loves a big beard, long the preserve in the Western world of real-ale drinkers, folk aficionados and pedophiles.

Iran has only just accepted the goatee, which is a horrible little beard, whilst Somalian Islamic militants (following a line led by the Taliban in Afghanistan) has instructed all men to grow beards but sans moustache; which is clearly flawed as a good moustache establishes a man as a true gentleman and a God amongst his hairless peers.


Haters of beards include Turkmenistan, Albania in the 1970s and Japan right bloody now, where beards are are deemed quite unpleasant but shit like this is perfectly acceptable...


Currently, I am rocking a beard because of filming commitments but normally I am resplendent in a fine moustache and proudly so, mainly because it's an excellent social device by which to measure the intelligence of anyone you're engaging with. If they are compelled to mention Hitler, The Village People or P0rn then they are an idiot and you can, pretty much guilt free, erase them from your life with no major loss.

And woe betide any loon that tries to police my facial hair and hair-do...

Friday, 20 August 2010

Falling Off Of The Cusp



As promised, I share here that what was yesterday a moment of being "On The Cusp" has become a moment of falling off of that cusp, as I did not get the acting job in question.

On reflection, or as a device to cushion the blow, it was not as big a deal as I made out; it was merely yet another commercial but the money and director involved gave the job an extra air of kudos but I think I got ahead of myself and carried away about it's importance.

Doing commercials is a case of ever decreasing circles, the more you do the less you can then do, over exposure is a killer, this job would have been the nail in the coffin. I'm talking a good game of course but not getting this job means I can do the feature film I mentioned with Keith Chegwin and also do a theatre casting for a great wee show. I'm lucky enough to be able to have these options.

I suppose what galled me about this job was that people involved made me feel that it was mine, even at the casting today and so you build expectations, hopes, plan what you will do with the money and whatnot.

Acting is a career where sometimes the best man does not get the job and this was the case, I was the best man but the reason I didn't get the job? And if this doesn't speak volumes about the line of work I've chosen...I wasn't from Yorkshire.

That's right, it was all down to the county I was from.

You couldn't make it up.

Thursday, 19 August 2010

On The Cusp


I am currently on the cusp of yet another large job, tomorrow will be the do or die. If I secure it, further grand financial renumeration comes my way and further exposure and further advancement and so on and so on and so on.

My current exceptional run of form will either come to an abrupt end (it will have to sooner or later of course) or continue to new, giddy heights that will make the eventual fall all the greater. Such is the life I have gleefully chosen. No regrets. No fears.

The present is very much about juggling and maintaining momentum, as I am currently attempting to cast an actor with profile (ie: famous, ie: on the tele) for my play for next year, you have to move early to secure talent and have meetings lined up with some very exciting people indeed, performers I would be honoured to have in my play but so much is up in the air. It will be with some regret and a hint of relief when all is pinned down and "Our Style is Legendary" begins to fully take shape.

And then there are the impending commitments I have next week, filming and then preparation and packing, as on the 28th August, all being well, Eva-Jane and I go on a holiday of a lifetime to Aruba; a luxurious vacation with no expense spared as we indulge ourselves and each other. We deserve it.

So tomorrow is a day that will shape a large part of my near future, I approach it like any other, I have already achieved much in 2010, I will press for more of course but understand that any good run has to end because you get stitch and then vomit into a hedge.

Wednesday, 18 August 2010

God is Imaginary


God is imaginary.

I think I've just found my new favourite website.

It makes for pretty awesome reading and provides me with extra ammunition for any debates I engage in with uppity religious types.

Get into it now.

Tuesday, 17 August 2010

British People and Their Bins


(Not quite sure what this image means but whilst Googling for wheelie bin based pictures, I found this one. It has the air of a new sub-genre of dogging that is bin and back alley based, either that or a new fetish where upon you find wheelie bins a turn-on. Lovely. Any advocates or either practice please make yourself known in the comments section)

I don't know what it is about Brits and their waste (and receptacles of that waste) but we are obsessed with it, nay, nigh on in love with waste. We love arguing about rubbish, complaining about rubbish, dedicating front pages to news stories about rubbish and we get very precious about our rubbish and how we dispose of it and the rights we have, as Brits, to special waste status. And woe betide any fucker going through our rubbish...

No other country is so bothered about rubbish.

I suppose we have long has special status here in the UK, fortunate enough to chuck whatever we wanted away into seemingly endless holes in the ground, rarely recycling and rarely setting fire to it. The terrible environmental impact of this laissez-faire attitude has put all of this to an end, we need to find new solutions and as we do so, our very British attitude to waste rises it's nimbyish head.

We get very upset about local government investigating our waste in order to get us to recycle and cut down on it and that nimby attitude means that plants to treat and burn waste take an eternity to get planning permission, all the while we keep chucking rubbish in ever shrinking holes and fight in ridiculous bin wars.

I always thought this silly malaise only effected the bourgeoisie but I too have become afflicted.

I live in a London Borough that does not use wheelie bins, so our waste is collected in black bags with hardened receptacles for green waste and another for recycled stuff. This has two problems, first up was pikey sods ripping open our bags and sifting through for stuff that was of use to them. I actually caught one of them at it once, she was trying to fish out the skeleton of an old PC and I had to fend her off with swear words and a raised fist.

The second issue is that wild animals, such as foxes or feral cats, can attack bin bags at night with great aplomb and to be clear, I use quality bin bags, not them poxy thin ones and spill the fetid contents all over my drive.

So I have taken to lobbying Enfield Borough Council to get wheelie bins, the same wheelie bins that many parts of Britain complain so fervently about but where we are, whether its wild creatures or foraging gypos, we need them to protect our precious rubbish.

How British am I?

Monday, 16 August 2010

BUY ME!


Today, the 16th August 2010, is the release date of my debut feature film on that there DVD.

Back of the net!

"My Last Five Girlfriends" is still doing the rounds in the US on pay-per-view and is even playing on planes, so that as people travel huge distances they can stare at my face and silly hair. How cool is that?

But today I came out on DVD (you heard) and that is a moment worth savouring because who knows if it'll ever happen again? I mean, I hope so, I'm good enough to do more films but this business is a fickle and merciless thing.

Anyway, many of you have mentioned to me that you would like to know when it was coming out on DVD and today is that day.

I've already got my copy, hot off the press but feel free to buy your own copies right bloody here. I can't recommend them enough for all the family and the DVD would make for a very suitable Christmas gift.

More importantly, you can watch me again and again and even pause the bits I'm in an gaze at my mane.

Friday, 13 August 2010

He Said He'd Get Me A Signed Gary Barlow...


Yesterday an old school pal called Phil made contact after seeing the VW advert.

He was a good lad, full of beans, lanky, like me and my mum and dad even had him round for tea once (where he told me how to break double glazing if I ever needed to escape from a fire in my house), so he must have been alright.

I remember going round his for tea after school one day and his dad, a big strapping bloke, lifted me up and put me on the roof of his porch for a laugh. I just dangled there for a bit and then he got me down. I can't remember what we had for tea, my memory from my childhood is sadly shot to pieces...my own fault, so no regrets.

Anyway, Phil got in touch, which made me happy and we filled each other in on our lives and I tried to imagine Phil as a father, as the last time I saw him he and I were about 22 but now he's got a fine boy. Phil then started talking about his mate who is an autograph hunter and then Phil said:
"He wants your autograph for his collection, he said he'd get me a signed Gary Barlow in return for my girlfriends Birthday."
Well, how could I refuse that?

I felt honoured to be honest and I think that getting a signed Gary Barlow as a swap for me is a fantastic deal, as Gary Barlow is proper famous and a good songwriter...

Autograph swaps. Christ. I'm sure if you'd have told the 16 year old versions of me and Phil what we'd be up to some 18 years later, we'd have pissed our pants and then ran off to do summat daft.

Thursday, 12 August 2010

Legalise Gay


Some good news.

On the 4th August of this year a federal court judge by the name of Vaughn Walker overturned the Californian ban on gay marriage, the simply awful Proposition 8.

Judge Vaughn Walker made it very clear that the state of California cannot ban gays and lesbians from marrying because it violates America's constitution. Of course, this will not end here and an appeal is bound to happen and it will, no doubt, finally trundle all the way to the Supreme Court. As it should because this awful mess needs to be sorted out but make no mistake, this is an important step forward in the civil rights of America's gay community.

It is a shame that we are even here in the first place but humanity, it seems to me, moves far too slowly as a mass, to keep up with the it's own individual progressions. And the fight to recognise marriages (let us not faff about with terms such as "domestic unions" or "civil partnerships" but marraige, any other term for it is patronising and demeaning to same sex couples) between gay couples will, as it always does, bring out the foulest homophobic bile and prejudice.

Good.

This kind of filth needs to be exposed to the withering white heat/white light of fact and reason.

Judge Vaughn Walker's own words on the matter, in his ruling, provide us that care about the human rights of gay people, with a fine centrepiece to our argument, as we look to change hearts and minds of those of a more prejudiced mindset.

Surgically and methodically Judge Walker made it clear that gay couples seeking marriage are not seeking a new right but merely the same right as heterosexuals, a right that is a civil and not religious matter (thus jettisoning the religious bigots whose holy books forbid all kinds of fun activities, that the aforementioned religious bigots pick and mix from to suit their own moral mores). He also made it clear that procreative capacity has no bearing on marriage, after all, infertile heterosexuals can, of course, marry.

Why this is crucial is that any appellate court accepting the appeal must refer to the body of evidence that this trial has established and to overturn Judge Walker's ruling, a court would have to find a flaw in his logic.

Which will be an awfully big ask.

Further breaking news today regarding Judge Vaughn Walker is that, hopefully, same-sex marriages will  once again be able to resume in the state of California.

Even Arnie thinks so...

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

Last Two Days: Acting Summation


Pretty wise.

I like to think so, last two days have been a nice collection, a nice condensation of what acting is, or what acting is for me anyway. What makes me wise I suppose.

First up was yesterday, finishing off a four-day workshop on Harold Pinter with the legend that is Harry Burton, a real honour and it ended with a wee showing of our work. I was good, the scene was good, it was all good. Confidence, as always, high.

Then, after a few drinks with workshop comrades and the lovely mates that had turned out to support me, legged it to the excellent Roxy Bar and Screen in SE1, to do a Q&A with director Julian Kemp at a screening of "My Last Five Girlfriends", my feature film debut.

I sat there and watched my big face up on the big screen and marvelled, once again, at how far I've come and although I had arrived at the screening anonymous, as I made my way to the front with Julian to take questions, I became famous, an object, to one degree of another, of famousness, of celebrity, of the viewed. What's wonderful, at the place I am, is that I can then leave the screening and become anonymous again and slide out of SE1 on the Northern Line, Northbound, changing at Leicester Square.

And then came today...

I should probably precis this by saying that I am very good at auditioning and whether I get the job or not, I nearly always leave a casting feeling as if I did my very best.

Today I had a relatively important casting for the BBC, relatively important because anything for the BBC is important and because it was a casting director I'd not had the pleasure of meeting yet. I have had equally or more important castings this year. I prepared, as always, meticulously and tubed it to White City, Westbound, changing at Oxford Circus.

During the casting preamble I had little feeling of what was about to occur. I shall spare the details but I fucked up quite badly and although it was by no means a bad audition, it was not up to my usually high standard, which considering the importance of the casting made it all the worse.

To be very clear, I hate the part of me that fucked up, I want to kill it, smash it to pieces because life is all about opportunities and each and everyone has got to be taken, even if it, as is often the case, is all there is. The myth of things leading to other things is a destructive one, I believe in opportunity for opportunity's sake, each on it's own merits.

My anger is slowly subsiding at my error, it still burns but this sting of my perceived defeat will kill off any further failure for the foreseeable future. And by kill off I mean smashed to fucking bits.

However, no regrets, press on, better to be pretty wise then pretty fucking stupid.

Monday, 9 August 2010

Very Busy Doing Pinter


To clarify, 'doing' as in immersed in a four-day intensive acting workshop on one of the greatest writers of all time, with the man who knew him the best and is the nearest you can get to Pinter now the legend is sadly dead; not 'doing' as in some sick sex act with the aforementioned legendary writer.

However, I can leave you with this in the meantime...


All the best to you!

Friday, 6 August 2010

On TV Again Part 2...

As warned, the Bulmers campaign is multi-facted, thus, here is my own individual little promo where I talk about frisbees and name check Ashby de la Zouch.

Have a spiffing weekend people!

Wednesday, 4 August 2010

Fuck This Guy


I love this photo.

Bravo that man.

I can't stand bigots, may they be ridiculed wherever they are found.

And we all know that if there is a God, he or she will most definitely hate homophobes, bigots and the prejudiced.

Have a good Wednesday...what's left of it that is.

Tuesday, 3 August 2010

ONE FROM NONE

The top of my right arm now bears the inscription: ONE FROM NONE.

This being my second tattoo, I was not as wracked with nerves as my previous outing to Prick and all went to plan, this being the first part of a three piece tattoo on my right arm.

Of course, you always have to explain what it means when you get summat done and it ended up sounding a bit lame and pretentious, perhaps it is...who knows...All I know is I've wanted this text on my arm since I was 18, so fuck all you haters!

The idea for me is that humanity, life, existence is all something from nothing. No God, no creator, no before and no after, just the present. Life is about the force of will to make it something from nothing, of being one from none.

It also has a heavy personal resonance in that, my dad's sperm and my mum's eggs and womb aside, I made me. Of course, I inherited DNA and other elements that influence me but I made me and only I have the power to destroy me. The feeling that your life is in your hands and that you can make it or break it and that no excuses should be made, or blamed laid for failures and foibles. The same goes for life's successes, they do not belong to anyone but you, they can be shared but you did them.

It's an important part of my philosophy that only the individual has ownership over their life and if you hand that ownership over, so that others can build you up and make you feel good, you are equally as vulnerable to people knocking you down. That to me is a life lived on quicksand, with no core of love and self-belief, rooted in the self.

Hence, ONE FROM NONE.

Monday, 2 August 2010

On TV Again...


Would you Adam and Eve it but yet another advert (making it's debut tonight, in the UK only I'm afraid) with my fizzog on will be appearing on your tele-boxes. Add this to VW, Kirky and my Yahoo! jaunt and I am verging on saturation point. No bad thing...unless you hate me...and the thing is with commercials, they are ever decreasing circles in that, if you do too many, people won't use you for a bit so I may be due for a crushing lack of work.

Having said that, I just got a part in a new feature film about killing Keith Chewin.


But more on that later...

The Guardian ran a nice little piece on the ad, with my face on, peering out at you from the screen like a Nazi hunter, which is always good for the old self-esteem.

It's for Bulmers of all people and I play the man who launches the frisbees so that people can have fun in the park during Summer. Don't ask. My character is called Steve. It was a fun shoot in Henley-on-Thames, in a massive field but I did get chronic hay fever and had to keep stuffing Vaseline up my nose. Costume was spectacular, a huge leather coat, bespoke top hat and antique racing goggles, topped off with a mustard polo neck that meant I nearly died in the infernal heat.

The upside was I got to meet Jeremy Paxman, who lived next to the field we were filming in. He was a jolly nice chap with his lovely kids and a wheezy old retriever following him dolefully about. He was very interested in our filming and recognised me from my appearances on the BBC as Kirky. This made me incredibly proud and I puffed out my chest somewhat. Compliments from Paxman, one imagines, do not come that often.

Tonight is the premier of the ad but I also shot some bits in character as Steve that will be seen around the place, they may also be posters. Anyway, here it is...