1, Confidence and an incredible self-belief are the most important things in all aspects of life, I reckon. If I had nurtured these things would have been a lot easier. But, alas, I was too shy or avoidant or frightened to go after what I wanted.

2, Don’t go into something without a huge amount of money to pay for everything, unless you want to suffer insomnia and be filled with dread all day every day. We literally had no money to mount the show. And still don’t. Lord knows how it’s actually happening.

3, Even just 30 minutes a day, concentrated work, will pay off greatly. Don’t let a day go by without acheiving at least one thing. It’ll make life so much easier.

My co-worker, Tony – a great hulk of a man – just came in and suggested a topless women publicity stunt for the play and although we can’t afford topless models, it has got me thinking. How about a hoax a la Orson Welle’s War of the Worlds to get the punters in. What about contacting the newspapers to tell them that the cast has been massacred but we’re still putting the show up. Come on, Tom. Think. Think, man! Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Anyway, enough about LUV. I do feel the actual play is almost perfect – a few more performances and we’ll get there. We just need punters. And everything else? If I survive I will let you know the outcome.
Okay, what else? Well, (back to LUV) what I have learnt from this season of LUV is you have to be savvy with what projects you commit to and what you want out of them. And even though LUV has nearly killed me my mind is now crazy with thoughts of – What project next? What project next? Come on, man! I think it’s my knee-jerk reaction to launch into something new (we are already taking a one-woman show to Edinburgh festival in three weeks) but I must calm down and think things through logically because there is definitely room for refinement and streamlining. So after the monologue I have decided not to mount another play until one of my films is in production or one of my books is written and about to be published. That is the challenge. Hmm.
Okay. I think that’s all from me. One more concern? I got yet another compliment about LOSER, a play I did ages ago, and started wondering: Was that the peak of my career? Is it all downhill from there? Shitness.
Anyway, keep trucking guys! And here’s a monologue in the meantime.

SHONA: Welcome, welcome, welcome! Good to see you. I tell you what, it’s a bit rough out there with the weather, isn’t it? Come on in from the blistering cold. I’ll tell you what, I actually have guests coming over soon, we we’ll have the tour when they arrive. To give you a brief run down there’s two bedrooms the next floor up and then three smaller bedrooms on the top floor. And a shared bathroom. But I’ll show you those later. It’s so good to see you! We love having new guests here at Shona’s B and B. I’m Shona, bu the way. Shona McPherson. I don’t know if you noticed the certificate by the front door? Oh, it was nothing. We were just awarded best B and B in the lower Southland area.
Gosh, you’ve come at a great time of year. Haven’t you? Are you into Trout fishing? Oh, there’s plenty of trout down in the river. You probably were driving along the river on your way from Christchurch. Yes. There’s people fishing in there all the time these days. Flying fishing. Are you into a bit of fly fishing? We’ve also got the power boat that races up and down the river. You’ve seen that surely. The red boat? My best friends son runs that. It’s a little money earner, let me tell you. With tourists and what have you. There’s also countless walks, if you’re into that. Nature. Nature is a bit thing over here.

Listen, why don’t you all get a seat and relax. Take the pressure off your feet. I have to tell you, I still preparing the dinner for the guests. Yes, gosh. You won’t be stuck for things to do around here. You’re too early for the snow. So no snowboarding or skiing just yet. But that’s the good thing about New Zealand, isn’t it? One minute you could be snow boarding down the side of a mountain and three hours later you could be lying on the beach in the sun reading your magazine. Yes, the country has so much to offer. And it really is a cultural hub. Gosh, you name it. We’ve got . . . um . . . that motion picture was filmed here, wasn’t it? And some of it was film right around these parts! Lord of my ring or whatever it’s called. I had some of those actors come and stay in this very house! I kid you not! Well, they would have stayed if the business had been running, let me tell you. But of course I didn’t open it until three years after the fact. But, yeah. New Zealand really is a cultural centre. The world looks to New Zealand for many things. Fashion . . .

Okay, what we’re having for dinner is your traditional Kiwi meal. So roast lamb, with mint sauce, some roast kumera – you know what that is? It’s what you’d call sweet potato. It’s what the Maris love. Because my husband used to be an apt hand at the ol’ hangi. Do ya know – ya know what that is? It’s traditionally Mari where a holes dug in the ground, piping hot rocks are put in the bottom and then ya meats and ya vegetables are placed on top of it. Gives a very smokey flavour which some people are quite fond of. But we won’t be having that tonight. No, I’m cooking up your traditional roast. It’s so quick and easy.

But New Zealand is renowned for it’s cuisine. After the roast we’re going to have a . . . pavlova, that’s right. A traditional kiwi dessert. Of course the bloody Australians have all but stolen it from us, claiming it as their own, haven’t they? But I will maintain that it is a New Zealand dessert. You know what I’m talking about? The big merangue? And we’ll be covering it with whipped cream and kiwis, funnily enough. I mean, with a name like Pavlova, how can you possibly think it’s an Australian delight?

New Zealand’s cuisine is very much meat and dairy based. Which is obvious, really. Isn’t it? That’s what we grow. That’s what we’re good at. What do they say? Primary producers. Yes, you’ll have New Zealand beef and New Zealand cheeses all the way over in Great Britain, let me tell you. Not that I’ve been. What else is there? Fish and chips. Whitebait fritter? That’s a goodie. Fish is big. Lamb, mutton, beef, veal, nice bit of venison. We’ve got chicken, of course. Duck. Wild boars quite nice. A bit of rabbit stew – uncommon but still nice. And then you’ve got your dairy. Most kiwis would have cereal for breakfast, with cows milk. Cheese is a big thing over here. Ice cream. Butter. Oh, butter’s huge, isn’t it? Yes. Custard. Custard squares. Meat pie. Cream doughnuts. Meat and Dairy. Says it all.

Cos you’ve got your pick of tourist destinations. Make sure you get across to the West Coast of the south island. It is rugged, let me tell you. Queenstown’s pretty too. You’ve heard about Queenstown? Oh, it’s a must see. Specially at this time of year, what with all the leaves turning the way they do. Rotorua is where you’ll experience Mari culture first hand, presented to you in a nice non-confrontational way. Which is nice. The haka and what have you. That’s also where they’ve got all that geothermal activity. Mud pools. Health – I tell you what. Kaikoura’s beautiful. That’s where the dolphins and whales are. You can go out on the boat and even swim with them, which is nice. I stayed on the boat, of course. But Mark got right in there with them. We went on a tour of the whole country. Took over a week! We thought we should experience all these things before recommending them to other people. But my highlight was definitely the mud wraps in Rotorua.

Right, I’d better get this roast into the oven. I’ll be making a gravy too. I’m using the recipe that my mother used to use, and my grandmother used before that. We’d have a traditional roast every Sunday night. The rest of the week would be a big meat component at every meal. I grew up on a farm, see. So we’d have tongue, ox-tail stew, chops . . . big farm. Lots of brothers, see. And they all got into the farming business too. My brother Stanley got into the dairy farming so we were never short of fresh milk, too. Poor Stanley died last year, actually. Heart attack at fifty. His poor family. He just woke up one morning, 4:30am, went to get the cows in, his wife found him dead of the race at 8. The cows hadn’t been milked. They say it would have been quite instantaneous. Which is a blessing.

Yes. Then my older brother, Bruce. Yes, he died last year. Which is quite upsetting. He’d been having heart trouble for a while, stiffened arteries. Again, he would seem to be as fit as a fiddle. Well built young man, Bruce was. Beautiful boy, actually. Had all the girls after him. He was the baby of the family. And then he just up and died. They say that was a bit more painful. He lingered for a while. It was unfortunate because his wife, Sheila, had died of breast cancer four years ago. So at least he’s with her now.

My father died early on as well. He had a triple bypass. My mother had lymphatic cancer. It took her quite late in life, which was a blessing. My sister has just had some precancer cells found on her cervix. But she’s hoping to knock those in the bud. That’s Lorraine.

Then, of course, my husband died. Just last month. It was the big C. Bowel cancer. Oh, it was a trying time, let me tell you. It just lingered, you know? We tried countless treatments. In the end I was just happy to see him out of pain. Poor Mark. Yes, that was a sad time. We even travelled the world a bit, searching for a cure. Because New Zealand has such high rates for bowel cancer. Most cancers, actually. But bowel cancer is particularly bad. As is heart disease. It’s the number one killer over here. The statistics are outrageous. Makes you wonder why . . .

Anyway, what I’m gonna do is go plop this lamb into the oven and I’ll be right back with you. But you just relax and I’ll be down soon to play us a bit of music on the piano to get us in the mood.
Righty ho. See you soon!

Does that make sense?

Hello readership. I do hope you’re surviving the credit crunch.

Well, things are certainly good over here. The trees are lush with fresh green leaves, the daffodils are fading, only to be replaced by fragrant lilacs. All around me are amazing historical monuments. Susan Boyle is charming the world. I just have to remember to appreciate them.

I am currently up to my eyeballs in projects. I have this three week season at The Tristan Bates Theatre in July/August that we are working towards. It’s quite frightening on many accounts. First of all, it’s a difficult time because, apparently, everyone leaves on holiday around this time and all the theatre types are up in Edinburgh, enjoying the festival up there. So that is a huge obstacle to overcome. Basically we need to sell 1260 tickets to sell out the season. And sure, there are a lot of people in this city, but how do we get them along??? The play I’m putting on is LUV which I’ve mounted in Auckland and Wellington. At the moment I am trying to get ‘name’ actors interested in the project. Shoot, I’m so useless at this shit. All I want to do is crawl into bed with some DVDs and never emerge. I have to approach the actors through their agents, which I think should happen, but I may need to organise contracts etc. I guess this is just the next stage of making theatre, but I just don’t know if I have the know-how.

Be bold, Tom. Be bold.

We also have quite a hefty venue hirage to pay. So I’m working on some Arts Council Grants applications and writing a fundraising show. It’s never ending! One must enjoy the process otherwise there is no point.

I’m also getting two shows up and running in New Zealand when I return next month. They’re Little Blonde Hen and Cindy and Eric Go To Hell. More on them later. But there’s a gargantuan list to do for those two as well. 

So I guess the topic I want to discuss with this blog is the battle of producing a lot and creating quality. I’ve often had people spout their opinions at me. And sometimes I wonder if I should just concentrate on one or two shows a year. And make them truly amazing. But in all my experience I have gathered that ‘truly amazing’ is something you have to gage yourself. You can’t make every member of an audience happy. Believe me, I know. I’ve had some shows that people have adored whilst at the same time others have hated them. So one must strive for their own perfection. Also, in terms of having a huge output, I guess the alternative is having a small output. Obviously. And just hope that that small output puts you on the right path. That just seems so powerless. If you can achieve more, why not achieve more? And surely by having more output you’ve got more chances of achieving what you want. This all seems a bit abstract. Maybe I’m trying to justify my existence. I just don’t want to reach the end of my life and wish I’d done more, I guess. And there is so much to achieve in one’s lifetime and time is forever ticking.

Here’s a great quote from George Bernard Shaw which I particularly like. I hope it is inspiring: ‘This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognised by yourself as a mighty one, the being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community, and as long as I live it is my privilege to do for it whatever I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no ‘brief candle’ for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it onto future generations.’

 Isn’t that amazing? So I hope you all read that and strive forward with your endeavours. Being bold, brilliant and beautiful. Right, I’m off to work aka editing my scripts when my boss isn’t looking.

 Take care y’all.

 Well, as usual, a helluva lot has taken place since the last entry. Wowzers! So, in short, my second production has taken place. A Simple Procedure has been and gone and we can all sigh with relief. Not that it was too taxing.

 In my experience there is always one major, huge obstacle that occurs when one produces a play. Sometimes it’s an actor pulls out two days before we open, sometimes we don’t have a venue the day before we open. With A Simple Procedure we had a venue but we weren’t told that we would be running at the same time as a raucous youth show. So, during three performances, we had a glut of hyper 7 to 12 year olds bursting from the main stage, zinging and screaming with youth, and drowning out our little performance in the studio space. It was deafening. I was tempted to run out and scream at them, grabbing the nearest sprat I could find and throttling them as an example to the others, but I couldn’t leave my lighting post. The whole affair threw the actors but only really ruined one performance, which just happened to be a performance that some agents came to. Needless to say we won’t be hearing from them.

 But the other nights went swimmingly. Some of the subject matter was close to the bone. There were some racist remarks from some of the characters and a new mother who flippantly forgets her dead child. But no one walked out. We did hold auditions for one of the parts, mind, and a young actor organised to meet me. He then, an hour before we were to meet, sent me an email detailing why he would not audition. He thought my use of ‘shock tactics’ was cheap and that he was offended by my flippant portrayal of 9/11, knife crime, rape, race, terrorism and dead babies, among others. I’ve kept the email as a trophy of sorts for, although I was bummed and throughout the performances I was desperate for the audience to enjoy themselves, I must remember that art is to provoke and challenge, just as much as it is to entertain. I may not have changed the world but I by using ‘shock tactics’ I have hopefully made a few hundred people rethink our current world.

 The rehearsals for A Simple Procedure were a joy. I had such a good cast though would sometimes get frustrated. And I would get frustrated because I wasn’t communicating properly. The cast were having trouble with ‘the world’ of the play. So, after being a cantankerous old man, I allowed them to discuss it and we all decided the world was very heightened – extreme characterisation, extreme situations - just as all my other plays seem to be. Though, personally, I think they’re a realistic representation of humanity. Oh well. And once we’d decided that the actors were far more at ease and we made huge leaps and bounds with the story. So a lesson I certainly have learnt is talk, talk, talk during rehearsals. Discuss every possibility. I always just want to hurry up and get things done. But taking time sometimes helps.

 Okay, I think that’s about it. I think most of the audience was confused about the end of the play so I might have to fix that up. Oh, I do hope the script gets to see the light of day again.

 Now onto the next show. My knee-jerk reaction is always to jump into rehearsals for the next play, but now I have to take some time and do some more organistion. We have a three-week season of LUV screaming towards us. And it is going to be expensive. Oh how I look forward to the day when money is no longer an issue. I guess my interim production will be a fundraiser. But how does one go about that?

 Take care y’all. Until next time. XXX

So anyway. I sincerely hope you are all well. I sure am, having freshly holidayed in Kenya where I was incessantly bombarded with story ideas. There are so many stories out there to tell. Where does one even begin? I’ve written all the ideas in a notebook and hope to visit them again.
So we’re right into rehearsals for my next play, A SIMPLE PROCEDURE, which will be performed at the Pleasance Theatre Studio theatre in four weeks. As with the last play, we’re finding only snatches of time here and there to rehease in living rooms and bedrooms. Running this production are Jess Wood, Lucy Wigmore and Carl Dixon, three brilliant kiwi actor/producers. It’s so good to have a back seat in terms of producing! And they’re so good at what they do. If there’s one lesson I’ve learnt (besides the importance of casting the right person for the role) it’s that life is so much easier when you’re part of a group with a shared goal. Here we all are, struggling the same struggles, yearning for the same success.
The play has a cast of five and I wrote it with four actors in mind. So we have to audition for the final male role. Now, auditioning is something I’ve rarely done before, always choosing to cast my pals, but I am now determined to wrok with at least one new actor with every new production. So, here I am, auditioning people. We put an ad on a casting website with only the scantest of information and we literally had over one hundred applicants within hours. How depressing! All these aspiring actors just wanting a chance to shine. So we went through all the applicants photos and CVs, eliminating until we were left with a shortlist of ten. I know I should just fucking harden up but there’s something a little disappointing in me looking at someone’s photo and making a decision solely on the way they look. How shallow! And anyone foreign? Too much of a risk they won’t have a good grasp on English. Isn’t that terrible!!! So anyway, we got it down to ten and now I’m just waiting for those to read the script and get back to me. Wouldn’t it be funny if no one got back to me having read the script?!

Oh my, casting is just not for me. I just want the perfect Charles/Malcolm/Gareth (the characters they will have to play) to simply land on my doorstep.

Anyway, one of the cast and I were semi-despairing about all the applicants and the sheer volume of talent and competition out there and the conclusion we came up with? You simply have to make your own work. That’s my recommendation to all the actors out there. It’s very liberating and empowering.
So that’s A Simple Procedure. More on it later.

What else is going on? I may be on the cusp of the most ideal of jobs but I don’t want to jinx it. I’m also stressing because it’s almost March already!! And I feel like I haven’t acheived anything all year. I just get caught up in the business of everyday life. I don’t know about yous fullas, but I constantly feel like I’m battling time. I don’t want it to be the end of 2009 and be in exactly the same place. In all my ponderings I’ve decided my only weapon in this battle against time is DILIGENCE. Every single day, doing something towards my career. Don’t just let it all pass you by. So I’ve drawn up a grid and I’m planning to schedule the hell out of my life. Let’s see how long that lasts for . . .
But basically I think I’m about ready for a glut of some frickin’ hard work. I’ve also been dreaming about making a film and have been wondering how the hell one can be made. But, as a buddhist with red glasses told me the other day, the ability to make a film, write a novel, produce a sterling play, is in me right now. So just do it, Sainsbury! Right, I’m off to be productive.
Much love. Oh, and here’s the first scene of a new play that I hope to be doing in NZ later in the year. I was hoping that it would be Mike Leigh-esque.

SCENE ONE
Nicole knocks gently on the front door of Elvira’s apartment. No one answers. She opens the door tentatively.

NICOLE: Hello?

Nothing.

NICOLE: It’s only Nicole.

She looks around the living room. It is decorated brilliantly. Pink and purple abound. After a beat Elvira walks in with a platter of nibbles.

ELVIRA: What the hell are you doing here?

NICOLE: I was so early. Our meeting with the florist -

ELVIRA: Get out!

NICOLE: Are you serious?

ELVIRA: I’m not ready for anyone! Get out! Now!

Nicole runs to the door.

NICOLE: Elvira, it’s -

ELVIRA: Now!

Nicole scurries out of the room. Elvira puts the plate down. There is a tentative knock.

NICOLE: I’m sorry.

ELVIRA: Come in.

Nicole warily enters.

NICOLE: I’m sorry.

ELVIRA: I just wanted everything to be perfect. I didn’t even think you would come early. I wanted everyone to be here when you came in and saw it all. No one else is here. The whole thing is ruined.

NICOLE: It’s not ruined at all, darling.

ELVIRA: It is.

NICOLE: No, it’s not. I love it. I love all the decorations. They’re amazing. Pink. Purple. My favourites.

ELVIRA: I even made aubergine dip.

NICOLE: Babaganoush?

ELVIRA: No.

NICOLE: I can see how much trouble you’ve gone to for this, and I really appreciate it. Can I give you a hug?

ELVIRA: Of course.

They hug tightly. Nicole goes to sit down.

ELVIRA: How was your day? You can’t sit there.

NICOLE: Where can I sit?

ELVIRA: Over in the corner for now. Just until I finish everything. Everyone else better not be early. You’re the bride. You’re meant to be here last.

Nicole sits in the corner.

NICOLE: I know. I was just knocking around, so I thought I’d come over and see if you needed help with anything.

ELVIRA: Well, I don’t. Everything is well under control. How was the florist?

NICOLE: They’re not as good as the old one. But they’re not wankers. And they think they can get it all done in time. Which is great.

ELVIRA: That’s a relief. What’s my bouquet gonna be like?

NICOLE: Still red and white.

ELVIRA: Beautiful. Should go with my skin.

NICOLE: That’s what we were thinking. Oh, Elvira, I’m only telling you this because you’re the only one that I can trust -

ELVIRA: What is it?

NICOLE: I’m more anxious than I thought I was going to be. I thought I was going to be fine. But I’m clearly not. I can’t sleep. I’m getting angry at the smallest of things. It’s horrible. Why don’t they make weddings easy? And James’ mother is such a meddler. I didn’t realise it before. And she and Mum have these fights. It’s so terrible. For goodness sake, Gloria has two daughters. I’m all that Mum’s got. Can’t she just let Mum have a go? And, of course, to avoid even more conflict I just don’t say anything.

ELVIRA: Poor baby. I think that you just have to remember that weddings aren’t really for you. They’re for everyone else. That’s what my sister said before her third wedding. And it’s so true. As long as you love your husband, that’s all you should worry about.

NICOLE: Yes.

ELVIRA: And as long as you look good in the photos. Has that all been organised?

NICOLE: The Granveux Gardens.

ELVIRA: Beautiful. Among the roses? They’ll go with my skin. How’s the diet?

NICOLE: Beyond terrible.

ELVIRA: What one are you trying?

NICOLE: I did the lemon detox. Didn’t work. I lost a whole lot of water and now it’s all back. So now I’m just doing fit for life.

ELVIRA: Tried that one.

NICOLE: Good results?

ELVIRA: I felt great until I gave up.

There is another knock at the door.

ELVIRA: What the hell? It’s still ages before anyone is expected. What’s with coming early? It just makes no sense.

She answers the door. It’s Giselle.

Many apologies for being so late with this instalment. They shall become more regular, I promise. There has been so much gold that I want to share with you but unfortunately some of it has now slipped my mind. So I must be more regular!

Biggest news first – I have managed to mount my first full London production. Sheesh! To tell you the truth it’s basically no different from mounting a show in NZ. Same egos involved, same pack-in times, same lights, same backstage area. Only differences are it’s a lot harder to get props and set pieces to the theatre because everything is so spread out over here! And also, everything is so well attended. Probably half the audience came just from seeing the flyers and reading the internet postings. Weird, I know. There’s such a culture of attendance here. People go to the theatre. It’s bizarro. And four of our five nights sold out. Which is great! (admittedly only 70 people could sit in the audience). Point of interest here – a professional season is a minimum of three weeks long. If you want reviews it has to run for three weeks. If you want to be considered a professional, it has to be a three week season. So our piddly five-night run probably just didn’t cut it. But it was a good start.

I have to tell you about opening night. Sheesh! So all the audience, mostly brits, came in all quiet and reserved, and sat down. The play began and there was some of the funniest shit going on on stage but it warranted only the occasional titter. I was sitting up in the lighting box, feeling depressed and about ready to end it all with a fork in the light socket, when my English Lighting operator told me it was all going extremely well. Excuse me? She thought the audience were loving it. After the show the two kiwi actors and I gripped each other in agony, holding back the tears fro what we thought was a complete failure. Then our English actor burst into the room all positive like, telling us how much the audience were responding . . . I guess you could say the British really are a reserved breed. Out-loud laughing? Not on their repetoire.

So then, of course, you’ve got the arduous task of talking to people after the show. I have never liked – in fact I loathe – this particular task. Especially when you know they haven’t particularly liked it. Or then there are the ones that love making their opinion heard and give you a list of your shortcomings. Ah well. Part of the job, I guess. I do try and take criticisms and suggestions as best as one can. It’s never easy though, is it? And then it’s always so brilliant to talk to those few who it really touched. There was one Irish nurse who cornered me and told me all about eating disorders (a theme of the play) and how it really got into the addictive side of the disorders. Then rattled off all the people she knew who had issues with food. Then there was the blonde who just smiled with wide eyes, unable to form words, esentially, and finally, telling me she was my new number one fan. Ah, so good to have one’s ego stroked.

Right, I have one other thing to tell you. So anyway, I had to transport all these props and shoeboxes and a small table to the theatre, and no one had access to a car, so I had to take them on the bus by myself. I put all the props into a tramping pack, shoeboxes into rubbish bins, gathered everything around me, waddled to the bus stop and got on. I found a nice little corner and thought – this isn’t going to bad! I could have even potentially brought more with me. Cue the message fromt he bus driver, 15 minutes in, saying there was a traffic delay due to road works. Sheesh. The bus was basically stationary. I decided to stick it out but knew I was meeting the lighting designer (who we were paying for) in an hour so I decided to walk until the road works were over. Gathering all my shit around me I joined the march outside. Throngs of people banging into my pack. The rubbish bags of shoeboxes threatening to erupt. I could sense doom but began to walk. I decided to count the buses I passed because I am obsessed with counting, and I wanted to chart the brevity of the situation. I walked past 78 stationary buses, interspersed with cars, taxis, and lorries. By the time I finally passed them and reached the roadworks I was basically at the theatre, so just continued, my arms dying and the bulging tramping pack crucifying me. Throughout the trek I was continuously asking myself why. And there’s that voice in your head that tells you you will never get there on time, and that you will never get the show up and running. But you always do. Somehow.

After the last night we had to pack out straight away within one hour because the next company wanted to pain the set white. Does the stress ever end? I then had to lug the tramping pack and table all the way home again (thankfully having binned the shoeboxes). I then attended the raging cast party and tried Cocaine for the first time. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.

So. First show done and dusted. And what did I get from it all? Not much. I had an amazing time working with the actors and the script, and there were a few important people in the audience. I’m also meeting with a director who say the play, in a few hours. So we will see what happens.

And now it’s onto the next show. We have another season planned for late March at Pleasance Theatre. I wrote a play about a Hen’s party but I predicted it would be a nightmare trying to get seven women in the same room regularly enough to get it up and running. So I’ve written a new play called – A Simple Procedure. It was inspired by watching the Zeitgeist movie on Youtube, and discussion with two of the actresses. We had a readthrough the other day and afterwards NO ONE SAID ANYTHING. Not one word of praise! So funny. So let’s see how this one goes down, guys.

Right. I better get going. I’m leaving for Kenya tonight and have a momental to-do list.

Hope everyone is well and smiling. Much Love

Sainsbury.

 I will start this blog with a confession and a self-diagnosis. It all began when I was nineteen. I’d kept a journal before but there was something different about the process that went into this one. I found myself obsessed with my journal, it consumed my every thought. Things would happen to me throughout the day and all I would think about was how I could record it in my journal that evening, what adjectives I would use to describe my feelings, my surroundings. I was literally writing my life in my head as it was happening. For example, a dear friend would come around at their all-time low, sobbing away, and wanting nothing but a shoulder to cry on, and I would spend the whole time mentally recording how their nostrils flared, or their mascara ran, all to be written later. Or things would happen to me directly. I’d be dumped. I’d be humiliated. I’d have a joyous time at a party. But I simply wasn’t present in any of these situations. I’d be writing them out in my head as they were happening. This drove me mad. I wasn’t living life at all. I was simply a character in some sick journal. so I abandoned it and returned to some semblance of sanity.

 A few years later I picked up the pen again. And since then I haven’t stopped writing in a journal. This time the obsession is worse and has developed into a monster. On top of this I also started writing fiction – a dangerous situation where I was no longer the central character and wasn’t always on the receiving end of my actions. So not only am I writing events as they happen, I am engineering the events for the sake of my journal or stories. I am manipulating the characters in my life to see how they react. I am pre-writing scenes or scene plans and seeing how they play out. I am finding myself in intimate relationships all for the sake of research. When there is family tragedy I am recording how grief is expressed whilst experiencing nothing (except maybe glee that a new story is a’forming). I am mining people for their stories than sadly moving on when they become boring characters. I am finding myself in sometimes criminally and life-threateningly dangerous, sometimes sexually degrading, sometimes publicly humiliating, sometimes outwardly cruel, sometimes self-reproachingly hideous scenarios – all for the sake of writing about them later.

 I’m not at all proud of this fact. It’s an obsession that is difficult to control, all the more frightening for the fact that the only other person I’ve heard of this happening with is the fictional character, Catherine Tramell, the ice-pick-weilding sociopath in Basic Instinct (surprisingly a film I could really relate to, though I can assure you I am not a sociopath, and my stories are usually highly sympathetic looks at the humble outsiders in our world – though I have written about a plethora of rapes, murders, massacres and suicides. Oh dear)

 The reason I have shared all this is three-fold. Firstly I’m putting it out there to see if anyone else suffers from this affliction. Secondly, in my naive ramblings, I hope to lay claim to this unusual disorder and forever name it the Sainsbury Disorder (SD). Thirdly, this affliction means I will limit the amount of my blogs. Not only am I constantly writing a journal and various other stories in my head, I’m also writing a blog 24/7 and it’s driving me mental.

 Okay. Now onto more important things. Life in London. Tis a struggle but I have not been disheartened yet. Unfortunately I have only been to see one live show in the last three weeks, and no movies, but that is for the simple fact that I am rehearsing non-stop. Every single evening I have a rehearsal either for The Christmas Monologues or . . . and then you die.  I love rehearsals, though, so it is no burden. The monologues are being performed this Thursday night – my first British performance – woohoo! – at a cafe called Sacred. It has sold out already (it can only hold 40 people, so this isn’t all that impressive) and it is all ticking along nicely. But I’m just not sure about the monologue format. It’s all a bit of an experiment (I’ve attached another one at the bottom of this entry) – will let you know how it goes. The main obstacle has been people’s timetables and finding spaces to rehearse. If you want to put on a no-budget show in London give yourself two extra weeks of rehearsal and make sure you have a big living room to rehearse in and have sympathetic flatmates.

 . . . and then you die has sadly taken a back seat, though we nearly have the play up and running. I’m having a wee bit of trouble with unity for the production, but I know we will get there in the end. In this particular tale I am a relentless, invincible Trojan and everything will work out exactly how I plan under my iron grip.

 Right, now onto the most important of matters. Mr R. E. I’ve decided not to write too much about him because I just know it’s going to be like Geri Halliwell’s nude photos and Paris Hilton’s homemade porno and that it will come back and bite me in the ass when I least expect it (but unlike these beauties, it will be detrimental to my career). So all I will say is I’ve met with him again. It was an intimate house party (no, not an orgy). I was terribly underdressed (humiliatingly so) and developed this weird bobbing/curtsey/handshake whenever I met someone new. He’s very nice, though he looks permanently disgusted. I’m not sure what to make of it all. Maybe I’m just a colonial plaything. I’ve given him LUV to read, though every englishman who has read it so far has commented on my homophobic portrayal of the character of Jacques. So – gulp! So in regards to Mr R. E. I will let you know if anything truly exciting happens. At this stage all that has happened is I’ve humiliated myself and quite possibly offended his lifestyle.

 Okay, must dash, will let y’all know how the monologues get on. In the meantime I want to remind you all that our time on this earth is short (another of my myriad of anxieties) and that you are the protaganist of your own stories so make them fucking exciting please – if for no other reason than my own entertainment when you regale me with them.

 Much love. And here is another one of the monologues. Sick, I guess. Macabre, most likely. Dark, definitely. One day I will mellow and deal with the beautiful in life, I promise.

 CHRISSY: Chrissy leans down onto her elbows with a groan. She touches her not-the-same-shade-blonde hair piece.
 
Chrissy’s Christmas Crackers. Just ya standard gun powder cracker filled with treats and ya standard paper hat. That’s what you’ve come to hear about. So basically I started my business after my partner, Les, died of testicular cancer. He was into Christmas big time. He was a real giver. Started up the business with his life insurance. Didn’t foresee it sky rocketing quite like it has, mind. Cos of course locally made products are a bit of fresh air, aren’t they? We’re marketing as a boutique business. Small number of staff work out in the back here. In the garage.
 
Chrissy prepares a cracker.
 
It’s all about giving, isn’t it? Sometimes people forget that come Christmas. They’re all running around wildly. Aren’t they? Not me. Like to take my time, cos of course we have our orders to fill but my workers are prepared to work sometimes twelve – thirteen – fourteen – even fifteen hours to get the orders filled. I provide them with accommodation. Comes with the job. I like to give back.
 
So as I said I’m working with the standard Christmas cracker. You’ve got your traditional gun powder strip. Then you’ve got ya paper hat. And you’ve got your one or two trinkets. And then you’ve got ya joke.
 
I know how kids love the ol’ cracker. Jesus, I can just see their faces light up. Bang! And then the trinkets. You’ve just got your plastic necklace addition. Or you’ve got your – geez, there’s all sorts. You’ve got your compass. That’s for the boys. You’ve got your balancing eagle. You’ve got ya little puzzle. Isn’t it great? And the folks just love it. They love the fact that they’re buying British made and the money’s going back into the community. Sure, we charge up to twice what you pay for your other crackers, your inferior crackers. But you’re paying for quality.
 
I can’t stress how important it is to buy British-made.
 
Cos of course come Christmas there aren’t any crackers left, not that they’d be much use to me. Since Les died I’ve been living alone. We didn’t have kids. I couldn’t on account of my inhospitable uterus. Would have loved a little girl to dress up. I could still adopt. A nice little Chinese girl. It’s just the bloody immigration laws. But they just leave them to die! I’ve seen it. A couple of baby girls. Just left on the side of the road. 
 
She reads one of the jokes. She laughs.
 
Listen to this. God, these crack me up. What’s green and sits in the corner of the room? The incredible sulk. Ha! Aren’t they clever?
 
Cos of course every January and the July I head over to China to buy up on the trinkets and what have you. Geez they’re nice to you over there. How do you do? Can I help you with anything? They treat you like bloody royalty. And I go to these factories. And I order two tonnes of paper hats, or what have you. In green colour, thank you Chao Chang, or whatever your name is. And it only comes to a few quid. I kid you not. Some of those conditions I’ve seen those Chinkies working in – let me tell you – it gave me ideas as a businesswoman.
 
She puts on the paper hat. She can’t fit it around her hair piece. She gives up.
 
Cos of course I got my garage out the back. There’s six of them out there. Chinese. My “nieces”. They’ve got a toilet and what have you. And an area for food preparation. That didn’t turn out exactly how I was expecting. I thought the bloody Chinese were born cooks. Turns out they’re not. Well, say a delivery arrives. I hide the girls in – well, not hide – the girls go into the kitchen area while the boys unload the delivery truck. And when they’ve gone I set the girls to work. Like I said, I’ve got them up to twelve, thirteen – you know, even seventeen hour days. They don’t complain. Sometimes I even let them listen to the radio. Mostly pop music. They’re so good, aren’t they? Those Chinese. Such hard workers. And so cheap too!
 
Well, technically, by British standards, it’s slave labour. Using quotation marks. “Technically”. But I don’t think that really applies to my lot. Cos of course by their standards back in China, this would be easy living! Well, the same kind of living. I treat them no different to how they’re treated back in their home country. And now they’re in Britain. So . . . you be the judge. I don’t know about you but I’d much prefer to be living over here with Chrissy then over in Chinky land.
 
I have the only key. Wear it around my neck at all times for security sake. I try to keep the times that I visit irregular – don’t get me wrong, they’re good, hardworking girls, most of the time. But they have been known to slack. I try and burst in and catch them at it. I sneak up to the door, slide the key in real quiet like, then burst in. Occasionally I catch them out. I’d never beat them. I just give them a good telling off and restrict their food.
 
One cracker should take one minute and eleven seconds to assemble. And you know when they haven’t been achieving that. Cos of course some of the girls are so young. Some people would say too young. But I rescued some of them from certain death. So . . . you be the judge. Ooh, would I rather be dead or would I rather work for Chrissy? Hmm. I know what I would choose.
 
Cos of course there’s always one in a group, isn’t there? And this one was called Baio Xiao. Her mother was pleading with me to take her. Didn’t like the look of her. Had that glint in her eye, even then. Should’ve known. When I went around doing my usual yelling session, which I plan for about once a week, just to keep them on their toes, and while most of them would cower, Baio Xiao would be staring at me. All defiant like. So I slapped her and she just stared at me. Cos of course next thing I know she’s gone. The door was locked and all the windows were bolted. But there was a small window in the bathroom. Lord knows how she managed to squeeze out of there. But she was gone like a rabbit on fire. Out of there. Cos of course it wasn’t until morning that I found this out. By which time my driving around the neighbourhood and knocking on neighbours doors, asking for my “niece” was fruitless. Then I catch wind that she’s been taken to the Chinese Embassy and that they were driving around trying to see if she could recognise my place. This Baio Xiao wasn’t gonna ruin my potential earnings. So I tied up one of the little ones in the front room – they’re easier to manipulate, the little ones. And when she saw a police car pull up outside she pushed a button and an alarm went off. Shit, you should’ve seen me. Three minutes is all it took. Everything was hidden. All the hats, the trinkets, and what have you. All were stacked up the back of the garage. I then drugged each of the girls in turn, using some horse tranquiliser and a needle I got from the local vets. Got little Britney (she was the one with the alarm) and then hid all the girls in the boxes with the last of the paper hats. I then ran to the door all breathless like. Maybe five minutes, tops.
 
Cos of course they didn’t find anything. They checked everything out. I was very accommodating. Made them tea and what have you. Biscuits even. They were very nice. Nice gentleman. They asked to be taken to the garage and I acted all surprised and enquired what was this all about, gentlemen? Next thing I know they’re rifling through the garage, checking it out, looking at each other. Not saying much. One of the little girls let out a groan but I disguised it with a mention of the old piping system that hadn’t been changed since whenever. They bought it. They opened a coupla boxes, thankfully without the girls in them, and I explained about my little boutique business. I also gave them a box of crackers to take home. And they were very appreciative. Lovely Gentlemen.
 
Cos of course Baio wasn’t with them. Lord knows where she is now. I just hope she’s taken back to bloody China where she belongs. Better off without her. And now there’s no bad apple in the bunch. Little Britney, unfortunately, didn’t make it. I think I got the horse tranquiliser wrong and she didn’t come too. Gave her a proper decent burial in my back yard. So we’re down to four, but come my next visit to China, I’ll bring back another “niece”.
 
So, yeah. That’s Chrissy’s Christmas crackers. Help yourself to a box I will be at the door, taking money for them.
 
Ta ra.
 
Chrissy salutes the audience and heaves away.
 
THE END

 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       

 My second blog and I’m already plunged into disaster. Well, not disaster. But a lot of disappointment and cause for concern. Oh, welcome to my life.

 First off, I didn’t get the director job for that amateur dramatics company that I was talking about previously. I can’t help but laugh. I went to the interview and was grilled about my choice of plays by two theatrical types who knew the plays inside out (I hadn’t even read one of them) and then asked about my vision for the productions – which I hadn’t even formulated. I had walked into the whole affair thinking I could wing it, thinking these guys would be lucky to have my services! How cocky is that?! So I had to eat humble pie when I was rejected. What I’m most disappointed about, however, is the fact I was going to use the company’s database to spam everyone with advertising for my January show. I don’t know how the hell else I’m going to get people along, now. Oh dear.

 Now, even though it was a small fry rejection, it was still a rejection. And rejection is hard in any form. Especially if you’re an inherent people pleaser. This is just one more to add to a list a mile long. I also found out my friend and I weren’t successful with our short film script getting into the PODs in New Zealand. In fact, now that I think about it, I’ve only ever been rejected. I’ve won Playmarket’s Young playwright competition a couple of times (trust me, anyone can do it if they have half a brain) and then every single thing else I’ve missed out on. If I kept all the rejection letters, all the rejection emails, charted all the no thanks phone calls, all the times publishers have rejected my manuscripts, all the times the film commission has never gotten back to me, I would seriously consider topping myself. In fact the only positive reinforcement I get is from an audience when I put a show up. I know it’s only people’s opinion whether you’re good enough, or not, but when no one of import or influence thinks you’re doing all right, you do start to wonder. What’s more depressing is when I realise I’ve only ever had one of my plays directed by someone else because of the fact that no one else is interested. My agent keeps sending them out to no avail!

 Oh, it really is funny when you think about it. Hilarious.

 I don’t know if I have any advice or musings on rejection. I’ve had so much of it, you’d think I would. All I can say is it doesn’t get easier, unfortunately, but I have managed to get the depression down to one day afterwards, and then forget about it. But I also just think that no one really gives a shit about your wonderful creative experience except you and your mum. So don’t wait around for someone to give you the green light. Just do it yourself (could be difficult when you want to publish books and make films). But fuck everyone else. Fuck the film funders, fuck those agents who rejected you, fuck the competition judges. It’s their loss! And if you cultivate that feeling it really is much easier to cope.

 Now, whilst talking about all this rejection I must move onto the subject of doing the rejecting and making the harsh calls. I don’t know what’s worse (though I do hope all my rejectees say: fuck you, Tom. I’ll show you!) Recently I was given an amazing season at an amazing theatre in New Zealand. Anyway, the actors in a previous production caught wind of this and before I knew it we were remounting that production. All because I didn’t say no early on and things got out of hand. To cut a long story short the play wasn’t right for the season. I then had to tell the cast via email.  The venue operators were then dragged into the resulting meelee. And the whole affair has become very convoluted. And I’m sure the cast has all reacted very negatively. And rightly so. To me especially. This comes after a long line of burnt bridges where I’ve pissed people off for whatever reason. In fact there are people across New Zealand (and now beginning in the UK) who roll their eyes and grumble whenever my name is mentioned. And no doubt I’ve got a lifetime more of it. And it’s worse in this kind of industry because reputation and nepotism are so important, as is friendship. I’m destined for a lifetime of not casting my friends in parts they are desperate for, firing people for whatever reason, making hard, cold business decisions. Tis very hard. I hate letting people down. I know I should harden up, but every time I let people down it tarnishes things.

 What should one do? Hmm. Harden up and be a bitch and just hope that further along the line people will respect you for your decisions. And just hope your darling friends will forgive you. After all my stressing on the subject I really think this is the best decision. You simply can’t make everyone happy. I’m sure there were hundreds of people that Shakespeare pissed off.

 In other news – not much going on in furthering my career at the moment. I’m rehearsing the play for mid January in my basement bedroom tonight where there is no space to move and my rowdy flatmates can be heard very clearly through the floorboards. At this stage there is a huge list of things to be worried about in terms of the production. How to pay for the venue and how to get people along at the top of the list. The cast is doing very well, though. God they’re amazing.

 Anyways, will finish there. Hope everyone who reads this is well and trucking along. After all my musings my only piece of advice is you can only truly rely on yourself for anything. But once you realise that it’s very liberating – and you can get on with doing what you do. Believe in yourself and others are bound to follow suit.

 Much love.

When I arrived in London five weeks ago, bulging backpack practically crucifying me and threatening to explode, desperate to avoid the mass of bodies, hurrying wherever they were hurrying, and frenzied for a public toilet that just doesn’t exist in this city, I decided to sit down and collect my thoughts. Spying an empty space in the distance I charged ahead to what turned out to be the steps of a huge theatre showing Wicked (a musical about how the Wicked Witch of the West became so darned wicked). I collapsed onto said stairs and gave my aching back and legs a rest. Summoning the last of my energy together I flicked through my dog-eared London A to Z to find where Willesden was. F-ing miles away! I’d have to get back onto the tube! Despairing this I suddenly heard ‘Oi!’ behind me. I ignored it. ‘Oi!’ they repeated. ‘Oi you!’ I turned to see a 30-something box office manager, who clearly hadn’t been laid in a long time (not that I can talk), scowling at me. ‘Go! You’re not allowed to sit here.’ I was too tired to resist. Grabbing my about-to-explode backpack to me and willing myself to vomit over her precious steps, but unable to do it, I hurried back into the crowds.

And there it was. My Welcome to London.

More importantly, my welcome to London theatre.

Right. Time for introductions.

My name is Thomas Sainsbury. You don’t need to know much about me except for the fact that I will be the narrator of this regular blog (at which point I must thank the enchanting Michelle, the beautiful Morgana, and the enigmatic Charlie for the auspicious task) and that I have moved to London to essentially pursue my dream. That dream is very wanky. That dream is to encapsulate the entire human experience (in an entertaining, thought-provoking, socio-political way to huge audiences) in theatre, film and prose. I’m desperate to be bigger and better than my three heroes Shakespeare, Hitchcock and Steinbeck. I don’t necessarily want this to be my dream. I know I’ve much blood, sweat and tears ahead of me. Along with crippling disappointments, fear-induced insomnia, premature stressed-induced aging, and a heart attack at 35. But this is what I’m lumped with. And I know that not going after your dream is the worst thing a human can do (besides killing a puppy perhaps).

Anyway, that’s me. I’m also writing this blog in the hope that people will be entertained and informed from my tales. Hopefully someone wanting to make a similar life decision can learn from my mistakes. And I’m predicting there’s gonna be a lot.

Okay. Let’s begin. Week one (after my depressing start). Walking around and stressing about the whittling away of my abysmal savings. Stressing about my lack of accommodation and job. The gnawing voice at the back of my head saying ‘what the hell were you thinking? You were doing so well in New Zealand!’ Another gnawing voice in the back of my head saying ‘you’re wasting time, brother. You’ve got one life. Hurry up and achieve something mother fucker.’

Week Two. Found the best flat possible. Can’t move in for a month. Holy hell. What am I going to do? Sleep on people’s couches, seduce strangers and sleep in their beds, walk around the city until sunrise then sleep in a park. I also watched some live theatre and visited some famous theatres.

Side note: My impressions of London Theatre. Either completely amazing or completely unamazing. The first theatre I visited was The Bush. http://www.bushtheatre.co.uk/. The Bush does a lot of new writing, so you writers out there must send in your scripts. My friend directed one of the three shows showing the night I went. All three were earth-shatteringly good. The theatre is also my ideal type of theatre. Everything was stripped out. The floor was a mishmash of plywood, wooden planks and black fibreglass. There was no lighting rig. One of the plays was in total darkness. Just people talking. So inspiring!

The next play I went to was at the Royal Court. http://www.royalcourttheatre.com/ Amazing! The whole play took place in an apartment (within the theatre) that included everything (including a flushing toilet and working taps) except a ceiling. So the audience was up around the top of the walls watching the harrowing action play out. All you writers out there must send your scripts to the Royal Court. They’re very good at sending feedback and you may even get a play put on. Woohoo!

I also went to the Old Vic in that second week. I watched a play called Drama Queens. It followed five remote controlled sculptures voiced by Kevin Spacey, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes, who were all seated to the side. Funny concept to begin with. Then there wasn’t much room for the story or concept to move. The theatre was also my least favourite kind of theatre. It was cavernous and the stage was miles away. You couldn’t see the performers’ faces (or sculptures’ faces as the case may be) clearly, therefore couldn’t be carried along with their journey. At least I can say I’ve seen an Oscar-winner in the flesh, however. And ol’ Kev is exactly as you would imagine him.

I also went to see a play at the Arcola Theatre. A good space. Went to see it with the delightful Lucy Wigmore. The play was about a group of Asian (as in Indian/Afghanistani/Pakistani etc. as opposed to Korean/Chinese etc) immigrants who have to deal with the difficulties of living in a new country. One Muslim girl even cut herself with anguish. Yawn. Nothing new or challenging about the story. Then afterwards Lucy and I walked outside to find it was snowing. How romantic! Tis a pity she’s married. And twas a pity it was only October and it was snowing already. A bad omen, perhaps? Maybe we’re in for a very chilling winter.

After watching these four plays, my overall impression of London Theatre? The whole thing is not too much of a leap from New Zealand. It’s all done exactly the same. And the results are just as variable. Only difference? They say ‘tan’ instead of ‘ten’ and ‘fish’ instead of ‘fush.’

Week Three: Networking!

The unfortunate fact is, if you want to short cut your way to career success you have to meet the right people. When I arrived in London I had a list as long as my arm of people I had to contact and ‘do coffee’ with. Here are some highlights. I met with so many characters, but I just don’t have time to go through them all.

First meeting. Blake, a dishevelled, delicate-faced, late 20s aspiring filmmaker shuffled towards me as I waited outside Waterloo tube station. Thinking he might be a homeless man, and clutching my A to Z in case a weapon was of import, I was relieved to find him a very mischievous imp of a man. We went for a pint (I was drunk after a quarter of a glass, close to vomiting after half) and he regaled me with tales of trying to get short films made in England. It is much harder to make films here, as opposed to NZ, for one reason. Attitude. There just isn’t the ‘get in there and do it’ attitude amongst the Brits. So he keeps his crew small. I tried to enchant and impress him with my film biz know-how. I didn’t think he was impressed. The next day, however, after a particularly pleading email from me, he read one of my play scripts. He then asked me to work with him on a short film script about Polish immigrants. Woohoo! He’s only interested in gritty drama whereas I, let’s face it, am fucking uproarious without even trying. But I’m working on him. Just the other day we were in hysterics over a youtube clip of an old man falling down on an escalator. http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=yHBwi_CGQ-k

Next meeting: Emma, a minute South African director. After several emails back and forth she invited me to a pitching night where ten minutes plays are presented to a room full of directors. She was amazing. A ball of energy. And was about one year into a struggle I am only just beginning. She told me where to go and who to sleep with in order to get ahead in this godforsaken town. Desperate to find directors to work with (so that I don’t have to keep directing my own shows) I sent her some of my scripts. She isn’t so interested in my style of writing, I don’t think, but we are working on a project together. A retelling of Medea using physical theatre. Yawn! But who knows where it can lead.

Finally I met up with the committee of KDC. http://www.kdctheatre.com/ KDC is essentially a London based theatre group who aspire to great productions (yeah, we’ll see, guys). I was put in touch with them by a darling New Zealand friend of mine who had done shows with them. I went to a playreading they had organised. The play was terrible and I was asked to read a French character called Pierre. My performance was appalling and the writer rolled his eyes whenever I opened my mouth to speak. I talked to the ‘literary manager’ of the company and he asked to see some of my plays. Sure enough, the following week my play LUV was read by a group of English “actors”. They couldn’t comprehend the nastiness of the piece but they all did a very good job (though some was lost in translation). Then afterwards a “director” approached me. She had bloodshot eyes and was a smoker. She apparently loved the play but would demand changes if she were to direct. And she wanted to propose it for the KDC one-act new writing season. I never hold my breathe for anything these days, but it was good she liked it. And she seemed to have a bit of nounce.

A few weeks later I saw KDC were wanting proposals from directors for classic plays. Leaving it until an hour before it was due I worked on a proposal for Tis Pity She’s a Whore, Revenger’s Tragedy and Winter’s Tale. All a director has to do is direct the piece. KDC does everything else. And apparently their shows sell out. My thoughts of KDC and amateur dramatics in general? I think one has the opportunity to make something great, especially when they give you such creative control. And you may just impress someone along the way. And you also have access to a huge database of active theatre goers. And how often do you get the chance to direct an amazing Jacobean play? But in terms of career? I think it’s a great start. Do a couple of shows, start developing a loyal audience, and loyal actors. And you’re away. You can’t approach dream-achieving wanting everything at once. A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, remember.

Week Four: Getting your own show up!

Not one to sit around and wait for opportunities I decided to go out and make my own. My ex and I have decided to put on our first London show together. Our impatience inner voices wanted to get it done before the end of the year but we decided it wise to leave it until late January. We also decided to make sure the venue was locked in before we started rehearsals (a mistake I have made so many times before and caused so much heart ache!). We decided to approach the Tristan Bates theatre in Covent Garden. WEBSITE. It’s a black box of a theatre and is ideal. It wasn’t too hard to get a season. The universe was on our side and there was only one week going, and it was the week we wanted. Now we just have to work our arses off to pay for the place and get people along. At this stage in the game I can foresee four people coming. And they would probably all demand comps. So the next big problem is – finding an audience. No doubt a subject for further blogs.

We will be producing my play . . . and then you die. It has had a season in Auckland and San Diego and is about to be unleashed in London. Jesus I hope it works out and that people come and enjoy it. We’ve cast a British fellow in the male role and two Kiwis in the female roles. And we’re going to set it in Britain. Eek. Watch this space. No doubt I will be stressing over it a lot over the coming weeks.

Week Five: Earning a crust so that you can live in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

So I signed up with a temping agency because you need to work a lot to live here. Sigh. I got a job straight away, working at a costumiers, selling cheap costumes. I was hired for the Halloween rush and, because of my New Zealand work ethic, I was asked to stay on until Christmas. It’s a god awful job, let’s face it. I’ve resorted to counting down the hours until the job is over and done with. But it’s regular money. Sometimes I’m headed to work in the morning and I’m tempted to throw myself in front of the tube just to avoid it. Isn’t that ridiculous? I know I should try and get another job, and that is the plan. But I just need some kazash right now. And then I will forge my way into a ideal money-making parttime job. Well, that’s what I say. No doubt in ten years I will still be working there. Will be obese, bald, suffering gout, and be one telling off by the boss away from hanging myself with a China-made Jedi belt.

Week Six: Reflections.

Okay. That’s the end. Geez I went on! Hope it was insightful. Sorry there was so much to get through. Things will calm down now as I will be ‘blogging’ (not sure about the usage of that word) more regularly.

My latest insights on London? There is so, so, so, so, so much to get done here. No time to breathe. London really is done at a sprint. But there are so many dazzling possibilities! And it’s all so inspiring. I’ve had literally a hundred story ideas since I’ve been here. It’s just impossible to find the time to write them. Which reminds me, I have five pages of a new play to finish. It was due several weeks ago (will I ever be punctual?). A play about consumerism in the extreme (shameless self-promotion alert) It will feature in next year’s Auckland Fringe Festival.

As well as this I have a list (god I love lists) a mile long of things to do. Get a London writing agent, seduce the Royal Court literary manager, get a film made before I’m thirty, write a booker-prize winning novel, sign up for a yogalates class, cure AIDs . . .

And finally, a great website for all you writers out there. http://www.oldvictheatre.com/pdf/writing.pdf

Much love.

Tom