The tour had begun. It would take me to the other side of the world, I would walk down Broadway, see the White House, do Spanish stuff, but before all of that great shit there had to be;
VENUE 1: SWINDON!
I'd never been to Swindon before and if ye yerselves have never been, take some advice from uncle Jamie; don't go. Give it a miss I'm tellin' ya. Gray was the day and the colour of the town as I got out of the train at Swindon station. The picturesque taxi journey to the theatre put no amount of joy in me and we arrived at the theatre which on the outside looked like a red brick warehouse. Nice. On the marquee the posters boldly announced Peter Pan for Christmas with some celebrity that was B-List before colour telly and also told us that the Gruffalo was on its way. I had a feeling Shakespeare wasn't seen very often in Swindon. Time to educate them then. I got there not too late for the tech as they were running late anyway and eventually we lashed into it. This was the scary shit about to kick in. I mean I only had a week and a half to rehearse the show and now it was suddenly very real. This was actually happening and we had a paying audience in the following night. They wanted their money's worth and there was no way I was gonna have them saying 'Well that was good, pity about the Irish guy though.' Techs are always long and boring and this was no exception .... so I wont bore ye. It didn't help that I hadn't been to bed yet, so I grabbed little bits of sleep here and there. It was going well for the most part and the plan for the following day was to finish it and do a dress rehearsal before opening. After a quick pint we happy few that had the same digs headed up to check in. The landlady was grand but would not stop laughing and giggling and when we walked into the living room there was a huge white full size concert grand piano. I kid you not! We stood in amazement looking at it and the landlady asketh us;
'So do any of you play the piano?'
The boys threw a couple of looks at me to which I replied;
'No.'
I had visions of coming back after the show to find the laughing landlady waiting up ready to play piano duets. Methinks not somehow (I wouldn't have been able to anyway. I'm shite at the piano sure). Me room was nice though, a big spacious attic room so all in all not bad digs at all. Cool. The rehearsals went well too and then it was in front of me;
OPENING NIGHT! Wednesday the 7th of September 2005, one of the most harrowing nights of me stage life. Opening nights are bad enough normally; the nerves, not being sure how the audience will take it etc etc. but this was feckin loolah! I was standing side-stage waiting to go on and it hit me that I was about to go on stage with only a week and a half's rehearsals in me and I was still shaky on one of my speeches. This is not normal practice. This is the actor's nightmare, and if I was feeling like that, how the hell we're the other lads feeling, Jesus they had shitloads more lines than I had sure. This could easily be the most disastrous night of me career, where I just utterly fall flat on me face and make an utter bollox of absolutely everything. I didn't. That happened the second night.... But we'll get to that in a minute. To be utterly honest that opening night is all a bit of a blur. The adrenalin was racing and it seemed like I got through the show on pure instinct. All outside distractions disappeared and I just had to let the auld body do it, shit or bust, throw yourself into it. Come the curtain call I couldn't believe I'd gotten through it in one piece. There was even a couple of laughs for the shepherdesses scene (although that might have been more for me belly sticking out of the belly top than any kind of comic timing on my part). But god what a sense of relief! I had done it so now I knew I could do it. Only one thing for it so; Beamish get thee to a pub. Pints flew around the place straight into grateful (and deserving) gobs. And when we were turned out onto the streets of Swindon there was no way I was goin home;
'Come on lads, anyone for another couple?' drunkenly quoth I.
This was greeted with mutters of 'don't think so', 'bit tired' and 'Maybe tomorrow night', until the maestro Ed Hall turned to me and said;
'I'll go for another couple with you Jamie.'
Whereupon all the rest of the lads miraculously found their second wind and turned back down the street to join us. Funny that. More beer was beered down in the section of Swindon which has all the pubs and clubs, i.e. the rough part of town, and Swindon is rough to start with. The next day we had a matinee and there was about 60 schoolkids and that was it, it was grand but very much a school's matinee. Which is fine because there wasn't too much pressure so. I also had a small little hangover from the whiskey the night before, so a handy show was just what the day-after-doctor ordered. I was feeling pretty good though, the show wasn't perfect but it was getting better all the time, my lines seemed to be there, and me hands had stopped sweating at the piano and I was starting to get a little bit adventurous with that as well. How bad, I was now starting to enjoy this gig, even if we were in Swindon. I enjoyed it all the way up until about 7.30. That's when I was suddenly struck down with;
SECOND NIGHT BLUES. Thursday the 7th of September 2005, one of the most embarrassing nights of me stage life. Second night blues is a common occurrence in the theatre and shamefully I have to admit a common occurrence with me. What it means is that seeing as the cast of a show has spent all their energy and concentration on getting the first night right, they have feck all left for the following night and so the show is under par. Or another way of saying it is they all got shitfaced at the first night party and are having trouble due to the abundance of hangovers and because of that the show is a bit crap. One of my worst second nights was in Calico in the West End where I was doing a scene with Imelda Staunton (or Academy Award® Nominee Imelda Staunton as she is now known) and I wasn't feeling the best at all at all. I suddenly felt me legs giving out and I sneakily made my way towards the table that was onstage and used it to prop myself up for the rest of the scene. Classy stuff. I should call this diary: 'DIARY OF A DÉISE MAN WITH A HANGOVER IN THE LONDON TRYIN TO DO THE DRAMA.' But I digress. This night in Swindon I had the most vicious case of second night blues ever and the mad thing was it wasn't because I was in bits hungover or anything even like that, I simply forgot absolutely everything. It began with me thundering over other people's lines, then making a haimes of one of the dances (the audience wouldn't have noticed me bollox. Turning to the left when all around you are turning to the right looks feckin stupid, let no one say any different.), my fingers refused to work while playing the guitar, they still refused to work when playing the piano later on (bloody fingers! I'll break ye if ye don't start doin what ye're told..... no wait that wouldn't work!) and as for me lines? Well let's just say that Shakespeare must have been doing quadruple pirouettes wherever his grave is. Not much of the text remained as I blasted through it and it all came to a head with my final line of the night. Shakespeare wrote;
'Every wink of an eye some new grace will be born.'
Beamish said;
'Every grace of an eye some new wink will be born.'
Taxi for Beamish.
Aw no though, it was absolutely horrendous, I thought I was alright and then all of this happened, bit of a knock to the confidence but a lesson in how fear and adrenaline can really make you do anything. So what did I do? Slope off home to instantly devour the script? Not a sign! It was straight down to the urban wasteland of the late night bars of Swindon. Meself and a few of the boys hit a bar and drank vodka shots and marveled at the wildlife of Swindon (but not too much because if you were caught looking it was more than likely you'd get a slap. Actually it was fairly possible you might get a slap even if you weren't looking) but the craic was good and the cast was bonding. Well in fairness I had a good excuse as the clock edged its way to midnight cos the next day was;
ME BIRTHDAY! Friday the 9th of September 2005, I'm 29 and still goin strong (if feeling a bit rough). The first morning of the last year of me twenties was a pleasant one and I just went for a leisurely shop around the Swindon and got a few phonecalls from the usual suspects. I knew it wasn't going to be anything mad cos I had already organised a bit of a get together in the London on the Sunday night and that was going to be the proper bash. We had notes that day with Ed (thankfully he hadn't seen me fiasco the night before) we did a bit of work and just before the show, during the warm up, they gave me a cake and a card and I got all teary and I suddenly felt that I belonged to this special group of people ........ actually that's a load of horseshit but I was pleased with the cake, twas chocolate sure (had to share it though, feck sake!). The show that night went well and once more a few of us (those that weren't commuting to London) headed into town and then swiftly proceeded to head right back out of town. It was carnage in Swindon town centre we went into one pub and you could see the sweat on the walls and the dirty looks looking straight at us. Even the 6ft+ Vinnie (King of Sicilia) Leigh was feeling uneasy. This was not the place for poncey actors methinks, and then one of the stage management ladies came up with the perfect place for poncey actors: A gay club. I'm sorry could you run that past me again? Where was it she was suggesting? Twas a gay club. Nah, still can't hear you. Crank up the volume there Ultan. Alright for feck sake she suggested we went to a GAY club instead! Happy! Feckin mad thing was we went. Now to be honest I have no hassle at all goin to a gay club, I'm well comfortable with me sexuality, and we'd certainly be able to have a few beers there without getting any hassle. The mad thing was the situation, I mean I never in a million birthday's thought I'd spend me 29th a) in Swindon and b) in a gay club. That's showbiz! Twas a good auld night though, we got well lashed and I didn't catch the gay. They really need to get a lock on the toilet door though.
The following day I'm in smithereens and so to cure me hangover I hop on a train to spend the day in Oxford and visit the top actor Richard Stacey and family. Nice day and a much needed rest led to a decent enough last show that night. One of the boys from Pirates (now there's a blast from the past) was unexpectedly in the audience and he didn't say I was too crap so that was cool. I hopped on the late train to London and said goodbye to Swindon, thank Jesus. Its not a great place to do Shakespeare to be honest, the feckin Gruffalo had more people at it than we did. Instantly putting it all behind me the following night I had me birthday drinks in the London, and oh Jesus what a messy messy night. Fuck I'm even embarrassed thinking about it! It consisted of me getting off of my face really quickly on whiskey. Trying to play pool drunk in Honest Dave's ('Happy birthday master. You're a bit drunk.') passing out in said pub. Waking up and then proceeding to get a taxi to all night club 'The End'. At about 3am realising that there was no sign of me girlfriend Karen, I left the club to ring her only to find that she had gone back to her flat hours ago (Worst. Boyfriend. Ever.), then when I tried to get back in, the bouncers wouldn't let me as I was too drunk. I then spent the next hour trying to get back in cause me coat and bag were in the cloakroom, the bouncers refused point blank and there was no way I was coming back the next day to find that my iPod was gone so I did the single most thick thing I could do and called the cops. Fuck sake Jamie!! I was not in my right mind and they basically laughed at me anyway. In the end the bouncer went and got me flatmate Gary and he dragged me home. The following morning I had died and gone to hell I was in such pain, but I rang 'The End' to sort out getting my bag and coat back.
'Are you the guy that called the cops?'
Shite! I gave a sheepish excuse about there being valuable property in the bag and I was worried about it. They said there was no sign of it but they would keep looking and call me back. I was starting to get worried now. Just for pig iron I gave Honest Dave's a ring.
Me bag and coat were there all along.
Fuck! I rang 'The End' and told them that it was alright one of my friends had picked up the bag for me and hung up before they could give out. Haven't been back there in a while! Jesus though what a crazy week. The next week would be crazy as well but in a different way as we took the high road to;
VENUE 2: GLASGOW!
The day after the end of world hangover I found meself in the early hours sitting on a train for the best part of 6 hours. Needless to say there was a lot of sleeping. I arrived in Glasgow Central to be greeted by Roy Collins' cousin Jeannette who I was staying with. I was worried I wouldn't recognise her as the last time I had seen her I was seven sheets to the wind at a party in Roy's house. I needn't have worried, she had some Collins' head on her. She and her daughter, Elaine, were well sound (although I was having a bit of trouble understanding Elaine's unreal Glasgow accent. I needed subtitles). They gave me a lift up to the theatre and said they'd come and collect me after the show. The Theatre Royal in Glasgow is a stunning theatre, no red brick barn this, and the booking was decent for the week, which was a huge help. The first night in Glasgow was the first time I started to realise how good the show was and could be. The audience loved it, the reaction was so much better than the previous week and because of that we all raised our game, well I remembered me lines at least! After the show the girls were waiting at stage door to take me back. OK no drink for me, that's grand though I needed a break. And then we went on this trip. Roy had said to me that she lives 'Really Close', now I assumed he meant really close to the city centre, not really close to the outskirts of town. Once we hit the motorway I knew I was in trouble and started to ask about ways of getting back at night. The last train was at 11.15. Shite. The last direct bus to the town they lived in was at about 10.15. Double shite. This was not good as it severely hampered hanging around for sauce after the show. What was I gonna do? They informed me that there was a later bus but that it didn't bring me all the way but I could get off at a certain point and they would drive down and pick me up. Now I couldn't be asking them to do that at two or three in the morning could I? No. And I couldn't very well look for other digs as they had been so nice to leave me stay in the first place. I resigned myself to a very unexpectedly sober week in Glasgow.
How wrong can you be?
Nearly the minute we got back to the house Jeannette had a bottle of Bacardi out and I got to bed in the merry old land of rum at about 2am. Whoa, here we go! And so it continued.
The following night I stayed for a couple of beers with the boys after the show and got the later bus back, i.e. the one that only goes three quarters of the way there. I was shitting meself that I'd get off at the wrong spot cause the driver hadn't a notion, but a sound gentleman told me where to jump out and I found myself on a country road in Themiddleofnowhere, Glasgow and Elaine (who had told me to let her know when I got off the bus and she'd drive and collect me) had her phone off. Right so, time for some orienteering skills, actually no, time for some geek skills. I walked down to the next road that had a name and used my mobile to go on t'internet and get me directions. It only feckin worked! And although it was a bit of a walk down an unlit country road I got there in the end. Well pleased with me ingenuity I walked into the house to find that Elaine had taken off in the car to look for me. Shite, I must have missed her. Not to worry though as the bottle of Bacardi was out again. Well we had to prepare ourselves as the next night we all went clubbing, and I do mean all. A cast of 12 men and Elaine and Jeanette! They had gone to see the show that night and were looking at me a bit funny. It may have had something to do with the belly top, dress and simulated blowjob. Possible. But then they didn't go to the theatre very often. We all went to this mad place called Frankenstein's and in fairness the two girls were the hit of the night, all the lads got a great buzz off them (especially Elaine and the fact that she had her name tattooed veeery low down her back. I'll stop right there officer). Twas also the first time we'd all been out as a group and I could see then and there that this was gonna be a messy tour. Bring it on boy! The night ended with Vinnie on his knees at the window of the car begging to be brought back to the house where there was more booze only for elaine to take off at speed, and Al 'Go Cleomenes' Craig jumping on the bonnet of the car at the traffic lights only to be shunted off onto the ground with skillful drunk-dodging driving. We got back to the house and the bottle of Bacardi seemed to walk into the room of its own accord. The next day Vinnie had a gash on his left temple which he didn't remember getting and Al's knee was in bits. You should never take on Glasgow girls!
Now it wasn't just constant boozing in Glasgow. When on tour its always nice to check out the culture that's on offer where you are and in fairness I did a bit. I love the architecture in Glasgow and always make a point of heading over to the Rennie Mackintosh museum in The Lighthouse. Right enough of that boring shite, more beer anyone? Well actually the end of the week in Glasgow wasn't as mad at all. I was getting good at sorting out the bus journeys home and being picked up at the right spot. Although on the Saturday night the bus was packed out and there was a load of fellas sitting down the back singing IRA songs. I just shut me mouth and kept an eye out for me escape route. Bacardi certainly became me friend that week and best of all the show went really well. The reaction was excellent and the houses were pretty good for such a big theatre and there was no big mad stories of cock ups Beamish style that week. I was starting to settle into it bit by bit by bit and starting to enjoy it more and more. The end of the week came and I bought the girls some chocolates and a bottle of Bacardi for leaving me stay. It was the least I could do sure, we'd gotten through about three as it was. I got me final lift off Elaine to the airport and we winged our way back to London. I was going to miss Glasgow a bit to be honest as the show had gone so well and the craic was good. That wasn't going to be the case in;
VENUE 3: PORTSMOUTH!
I had spent me day off packing. Not just to go to Portsmouth but to leave the flat in Kilburn. When I was offered the tour I tried to find someone to sublet my room but that turned out to be near impossible and so I said to Gary that I was going to move out altogether, he was cool with that and as luck would have it a friend of his from Dublin took the room straight away. Grand. It meant that I wouldn't have to be paying rent while I was jumping around the world and on me day off if I was in London I could stay with Karen or one of the lads. It would be huge help. So it was me last week of living there and of course I wasn't even gonna be there. I was in the lovely seaside town of Portsmouth. Seaside? Yes. Lovely? Nah! We couldn't believe our eyes when we got to the theatre. A few years previous the whole back of the theatre had burned down. they had saved the auditorium but everything from the prosc. arch back was gone. So some fella came in built a new back wall across the prosc, erected a tiny stage in the stalls and put 2 portacabins out the back for dressing rooms. Mad. So there was seriously no room backstage as there was no backstage full stop! Me digs were alright though. Twas your typical seaside B&B but she gave me a double room instead of the single I had booked and for the same money, so that was cool. Although breakfast was only served until 8.30 so that was well shite.
The first night went great. Loads in and there was a real buzz in the crowd. It may have been a small space but its intimacy kind of helped the show. We ended up in some club called Bliss, where there was a pole but it wasn't a pole dancing club so any random lack (or fella) could get up and give it a turn. The talent on the pole varied wildly but the first night there was one girl who looked like she was a professional on it. It was well dodgy but we went back every night. Apart from that it was a pretty quiet week drink wise. There's feck all to do in Portsmouth so I used my days to sort out my tax receipts early (GOOD call) and unfortunately the first night buzz was an absolute fluke as we averaged about 60 people in the audience a night (in which there was, one night, a rather large lady with a beard!). Although it was quiet enough drink wise, there were still occurrences of an interesting nature. Second night in I came out of the theatre and was approached by a girl who congratulated me on the show. It turned out she worked front of house but had just finished drama school in the London and was asking me all sorts of questions about the business i.e. where did I train, do I have an agent, does Ed Hall only do all male productions, do I find it difficult to get work? Now I have no bother being asked such things and I was that curious meself when I came out of drama school but she kept me talking for ages and I was hangin for a pint. So after a bit I said me goodbyes and wished her the best of luck, and she reached into her bag and said;
'Actually before you go I just wonder if you wouldn't mind passing this on to Ed Hall the next time you see him.'
She handed me a copy of her CV.
'I'm sorry I wouldn't be prepared to do that.' I told her through a dropped jaw.
This is so not the done thing. I'm not sure what she was thinking, but to imagine that a complete stranger would be willing to pass on her CV to their director she was obviously fuckin high. Or desperate. Her face fell when I said no, I tried to be nice and suggested that the best way to get the CV to Ed was by sending him a letter care of the Watermill Theatre. I felt sorry for her, this business can make you do mad things out of desperation. Best of luck to her sure, its never feckin easy, I just hope she's stopped trying to give her CV to strange men. The following morning after another night of watching crap amateur pole dancing I was bleary eyed at breakfast (I'd paid for it so I was going to have it!) and I was looking at the family photos that are a prerequisite for every B&B dining room and lo and behold who do I see in one of them only the only decent pole dancer in Portsmouth. The chick from the club on the first night must've been me landlady's granddaughter. Ha ha. Jesus I doubt she knows what her little angel is getting up to!!
The phone went twice that week and both times it was the dear agent. Hurrah! Or not. First call;
'You're not going to get a recall for Avenue Q.'
Shite! Damn my all night sessions! Damn them to hell.
'They said there's nothing in it for you,'
Oh I must disagree.
'But they are putting you on file for Les Mis and will see you when they're recasting.'
Ha haaaa! What a crock of shit! When I first came out of drama school I was praying for a Les Mis audition and now when I want another show they fob me off with it. Jesus. The second call was better.
'You have an audition for Assassins in Sheffield.'
Holy shit one of me favourite shows ever! Result! Hold on though, when is it?
'Its on next Thursday in the Old Vic.'
Ah yes that'll be the Old Vic in LONDON which was just perfect because I was going to be in IRELAND! We were opening in Dublin the following Friday and all the company were flying over on Thursday but I was heading back early for a few days in the Déise on the Sunday so this was a real pain in the hole. Waitaminute though..... I was booked on a flight with the rest of the company from London on the Thursday afternoon so If I got an early flight to london that morning I could head over, do the audition and head back with everyone else. Its mad Jim, but it might just work! So I booked an 8.30am flight from Cork. Now all I needed was a lift to Cork. Assassins though. Janey I'd love a bit of Sondheim for the new year! Sure we'll see.
So the Irish leg of the tour was looming and in preparation for that I decided to make a little change in me performance. Mopsa the slutty shepherdess was now no longer going to be from the west country of blighty but from the wesht of Ireland. Basically I said fuck it, it wasn't half as funny as it should be and that had a lot to do with me being a bit shite at the accent. Normally I'm pretty good at them but I think with the rush to get the show on I learned it wrong. Plan B so. Paddy time! The gas thing was, the day I decided to first give it a go (on the friday school's matinee. Audience: 40) Simon, who was playing the other shepherdess, decided he'd try an Irish accent too. Now however bad my west country accent was it couldn't compare with his Irish. Lets just say it corpsed the Young Shepherd in the middle of the scene and didn't make it to the next show much less Dublin. Irish Mopsa, however, was here to stay. It worked a treat. So our time in Portsmouth ended with a whimper, the last night audience was about 74, wow, and I got a lift back to the London that night to do me last bit of packing and say goodbye to Co. Kilburn. It was a bit sad to be honest, I had probably lived there longer than any other place in London and I liked it a lot, but 550 sterling a month when I'm not even there smothers any sentimentality. The next morning I was on an Aer Arann special direct to me viking home. I was excited and nervous all at the same time. This was going to be my first time on stage professionally in Ireland, and not only that but in me national theatre as well. Feck. And would the Dublin Festival be as mad as the Waterford Festival? As luck would have it I was going to get the chance to compare and contrast.
They were both on at the same time.
Two festivals?
I may not come out of this alive!
