Down and Out and Struggling in London – Part 3

As night closes in at 3:30pm, and the rain starts to drizzle, I step over a minute beggar with outstretched hands, hold my head up high and listen to Dizzee Rascal loudly on my ipod, planning the mother of all binges as soon as I get home, and foresee my mother calling me to discuss my dire financial sitution, and I wonder: What led me to this point? What sacrifices have I made to arrive at this point? All to be ‘living the dream.’

 Well, well, well. It would turn out I have a readership. I didn’t realise people read blogs! How wrong I was. And what a furore I caused on several fronts! I have indeed learnt a very, very big lesson. To censor myself greatly and be very, very careful with what I put online. You can rest assured that the previous blog was not a cry for help and that I am not suicidal. Unfortunately I find depressing situations and hardships very entertaining. It was supposed to be an empowering piece of writing. How far off the mark could I possibly get! Deary, deary me.

But, no, no more instalments like that. And all I will say on the nightmare that was last week was that when Tom crashes he seems to enjoy taking everything down with him. It seems to be a hidden trait of mine that I am going to, one day, endeavour to combat. Hey, something’s going wrong in my life, why not make everything wrong in my life.

Anyway, anyway, anyway. On a more positive note things are ticking along for my first London production . . . and then you die. The cast is amazing and I want to take a wee bit of time out to write an ode to actors. I’m not entirely sure what an ode specifically entails but I will give it a go.

AND ODE TO ACTORS (AND BY THIS I MEAN MALE AND FEMALE ACTORS) – by Thomas Sainsbury

I love actors. I adore actors. I would be happy to be surrounded by actors for the rest of my life. They are my favouritist kind of person. I know that lots of people roll their eyes whenever an “actor” is around but my heart bounds with glee. Sure, they’re emotional, they’re need their ego stroked, they’re prone to depression, for them everything is heightened, they can be histrionic. But that’s half the fun. Most of my dearest friends are actors. All my love affairs have been with actors (you were the lead in all the school plays. Face it, you’re an actor and you’re in denial.) (Sure, you write now, but you trained as an actor).

Why do I like them so much? There are lots of reasons. Firstly they do what I tell them. Which is always a good thing. They entertain me too. At a party, driving in the car, going to the supermarket, they’re always playing a character, telling a story, being enchantingly entertaining. They enact my fantasies. They can be anything or anyone, so are never boring. They are fellow observers of humanity. And they’re sensitive wee things that need me on occasion. Was that all right, Tom? You did fantastically my pet.

END OF ODE

Why am I so loved up on actors? Well, I’m always loved up on actors. But I am also currently working with Luanne Gordon on the play and she is absolutely hilarious during rehearsals. Shit, that girl makes me laugh.

Anyway, anyway, anyway. In terms of my struggle for success here in the UK, nothing much more has changed. Haven’t met up with anyone of import (excepting one particular person) and I haven’t achieved anything. I have been writing, though. A series of Christmas monologues that will be performed at a New Zealand cafe in central London in December. I will attach one at the bottom of the blog. Hope you like it. I have also been working on a play that is about heaven and hell. Basically the characters die and go their separate ways. And, although I don’t think much of these fantasy places, I have been doing a bit of research and I’m terrified. Some people’s near death experiences include horrendous demons carrying them away. How frightening!

And finally, I met with someone called Rupert Everett when I was dropping my script off at the Old Vic. And I think he may have been cracking onto me. And it’s not the last time I’m going to see him. More on that next blog.

Much love. And here’s one of the monologues. XXX

THE TURKEY REARER

Robbie: Yeah, g’day. Robbie’s me name. Turkey rearer by trade. I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking – Christmas rush. Huh? You’re thinking Christmas Rush and what the hell are you doing gassing on to us whilst you should be making enough money to see you through to the next Christmas season. Well. What can I say. I like a good bit of conversation. And I’ve killed all the birds now anyway.
 
 Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking how the hell did a good-looking bastard like you get into Turkey rearing. Two words. Money and interest. Money – cos there’s a shitload of money to be made in this enterprise. And interest as in childhood interest. Have had turkeys since I was a spratt.
 
 First real friend was a turkey. Janine was her name. Beautiful bird. Glossy. Streamlined . . . She came when I called. People say Turkeys are stupid. They’re not. No way. And I will challenge anyone to an arm wrestle if they say otherwise. Janine could read my emotions. She knew how I was feeling and would behave accordingly. If I was angry she knew to make herself scarce. If I was happy she knew some extra grain was on the cards. Came to a grisley end, though. Had a nest in the long grass, little knowing it was a hay paddock. Grinded to a pulp come cutting day. Sad day, that. Old Janine . . .
 
 Now, of course, there’s no chance to make close relationships with the fowl. Too bloody many. And they’re in, then our, within a couple of months. There’s been a couple, but . . .
 
 So. Money and interest. That’s why I got into the business. Did you know there’s seven breeds of turkey. You’ve got your white, black and bronze. They’re pretty standard. Then you’ve got your Bourbon, Slate, Royal Palm and Narragansett. Beautiful birds the ol’ Narrangansett. Fine. Royal. Regal, one could say. A sensuous bird. An Elysian bird. A bird of the Gods. I could go on. My birds are whites. I’m not racist. It’s a finer tasting bird. Whereas ya black and ya bourbon have quite a gamey taste, ya white is better suited to the commercial market.
 
 I pretty much live off turkey, as you can imagine. I live and breathe turkeys, you could say. You can probably smell them. They’re down the hill. A helluva stink. I’m immune to it now. Don’t even notice. The doctors say my sense of smell has been completely destroyed. All the smell-sensing nodules, or whatever they are, have been completely dissolved by the ammonia coming of the turkey fecal matter. Comes with the territory, I say.
 
 I keep all my birds in the three sheds down the bottom of the hill. Had me neighbours kick up a helluva fuss about the smell. They came over and I had to pull out my shotgun and threaten tresspassing. They’ve got the authorities involved but the “authorities” know its my business, and the business that I generate, that keeps the economy going.
 
 Anyway, as you can imagine, I had my work cut out for me these last couple of weeks with the Christmas rush. Kill all the birds myself. With my own hands. Otherwise I feel completely detached from the whole process. I like the – I’m a hands on kinda fella. Most of them are dead already, though. Suffocation. Disease. You name it. If they’re a bit crook it makes the whole thing a bit easier. They’re also easier to pluck that way.
  I like the break the head right off. So you grab a bird – some of them are fighters – believe me – got the scars to prove it. So you grab the bird – keeping in mind it’s only two/three months old. That’s all ya need these days. With overbreeding and hormones and such. Then you grab the head and swing it around, just holding the head, effectively breaking the neck. If the head doesn’t break off I like to bite it off and spit it into the offal bucket. You then drain all the blood into the bucket too. Holding up the carcass while the blood is still pumping. Mind you – you still have to hold the bird firmly because the nerves have it going berserk. You let it go and it’s off – and good luck to you trying to catch it. Oooeeee. So, you’ve drained the blood and you’ll feed all that to the pigs out the back. I’ve got four. Ya traditional black and white saddlebacks. Sausages, pork chop, Bacon and Lisa. They live off the turkeys. All the eggs and sick chicks and carcasses and shit go to the pigs.
 
 Then, of course, the bird goes onto the pile for Raymond and Beryl to process. Raymond and his mum, Beryl, come from down the road and help out with the Christmas rush. They take the recently decapitated bird and scold it in hot water. This loosens the feathers and makes it easier to pluck. They also gut the bird and the innards go to the pigs. They also lance any of the boils or abcesses. I won’t lie to you. Most of the birds have at least one growth. Comes with the territory. Cannibalism’s also a big thing. One in three birds is pecked to death and eaten by the others. Don’t get me wrong. They’re beautiful, placid birds when they’re outside. I just reckon it’s the flourescent lights do something to them. Anyway, the abcesses are lanced and the feet, which are all infected and swollen and cankerous, are lobbed off and fed to the pigs. With the feathers gone most of the mites and lice can be washed off. Those stubborn little buggers that burrow into the flesh are killed during the freezing process. And birds that have died, for whatever reason, over the last couple of days are thrown into the mix too. The maggots are scraped off and the bird is as good as new. Cos of course those that are badly disfigured for whatever reason are used in parts, or their meat is ground up into a turkey luncheon sausage, or they’re fed to the pigs.
 
 I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking how are you not sick from working with all that disease, Robbie. Let’s just say I’m immune to it. Got a bit crook the other day, let me tell you. I’d just polished off a Sunday roast – turkey. And I found myself spewing out of both ends. I was sweating a shitload and lost a helluva lot of weight and was suffering acute dizziness. So managed to call my brother the next town over. He came the following month. Hadn’t improved. Was still green. Hadn’t left bed for some reason. Even for the john. So he took me to the doctors and the doctor – surprise, surprise – said it was the turkey I’d eaten. I was adamant. No way, buddy. I was saying. No way. And it’s not. I know it’s not. I cooked it like I always cook it. It had also been a fresh kill. I just know for a fact the doctor’s brother was one of the neighbours kicking up a fuss about my sheds. Anyway, he said I had food poisoning. And I’d just have to sit it out and drink a lot of fluid. Then went home and found the culprit. It was a can of baked beans I’d had in my fridge for a couple of weeks. Threw the can out just before I passed out. Came too the next day on the kitchen floor with a three inch gash on my head from where I’d connected with the dog dish. Some would go and get stitches. Not me.
 

 Next thing you know I’ve got a health and safety knocking on my door. Apparently doing annual checks or some palava. I try to stall them, or whatever, not cos I have anything to hide. I just don’t like other people poking around my affairs. You know what I mean? But I couldn’t very well stop them when they’re threatening closure. So they go through all the turkeys with their tests and their whatsits and look at the worst of the mites and the worst of the abcesses and give me the all clear. I knew they would. And then they walk out the back of the sheds and see the pigs have broken out of the pen and they don’t like what they see anyway. They start kicking up a stink about how close the pig pen is to the turkeys. Next thing I know they’re threatening closure again. And I was like ‘way, way, way. You’re not closing me down, buddy. Especially this close to the Christmas rush. No way. No bloody way. This income will see me through the next year, buddy. No way. This is my bread and butter.’ And they were umming and ahhing so I slipped them a tenner. They said they couldn’t accept bribes. And while all this was going on, of course, I was this close to spewing my guts out cos of those damned beans. I slipped them another tenner and reminded him of our familial connections. Ya see, most of us are related around these parts. We also tend to stick together out here. After much umming and ahhing, all the while I was seeing stars and am about ready to kark it. In the end they decided to overlook it, as long as I move the pigs by the time the new year come round. I said, of course I will buddy. And I waved him off. As I watched his little toyota driving off the stars took over and next think you know I wake up, cold as hell, in the driveway with my dog trying to eat the gash on my head.
 
 I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking core hell. How did you manage to kill all those birds youserlf time Christmas came round, in your condition mate. Took a helluva lot of willpower. Let me tell you that right off the bat. Got through all the birds, biting their heads off where need be. The refrigerated truck then came along down the driveway and picked up the thousand odd birds I’d killed over the last couple of days. Next thing you know I wake up in a huge pile of steaming turkey guano. Don’t know how long I was out for, but the pigs had broken free. They were hungry. So I think I was out for a couple of days. Managed to crawl into the house with the pigs and dog nipping at my feet. They ran away from my shouting, but they were getting bolder, let me tell you. And that’s where I am now. Got a call just now. Apparently my beautiful turkeys are infected with some resistant strain of botulism. No way, I said, no way. Not my birds. Before I lost the strength to hold the receiver to my ear. They were all sold, though. Of course. So anyway, I’m trying to drink water to compensate for all the liquid I’m vomiting. Not too sure what I’m going to do now. The four pigs are ramming at the door to be let in. They’ve got the taste for diseased flesh.
 
I hope it’s not too painful.
 
Robbie falls silent. His eyes cross slowly. He seizes non-violently and collapses onto the ground.
 
Silence.
 
THE END