Finnigan's Elbow: Actor Moaning About His Age....

7am Ely residence.

Well Jon has asked me to write my first blog for this show and I have not a thought in my head, except for the usual autumnal teaser: 'is it too early to switch on the central heating?'.  It's been very mild so far, hasn't it?Nevertheless I've been playing the Viking hero, impervious to cold, saying solicitously to my delicate orchid of a partner, 'Well, look, if you're cold we'll have it on for a bit' and meanwhile thinking, 'Please say yes, by Odin's thermals, it's bloomin' brass monkey weather in here'. She, seeing my cunning game, will say, 'Well, only if you want it on as well.'  Neither wants to be the first to break: pride I guess.  You see, we need someone to blame when the exorbitant bill hits the doormat in Feb. 'You had it up to 75 degrees in October! Missing Hawaii are we?'  Domestic bliss!  This draws me on to the question of age.

We all know that the average age of the UK theatre-goer is now 97.  Although theatres persist in employing young folk they occasionally, probably due to some Arts Council scheme or other, subsidise the employment of at least one 'oldie' per show (ie someone over 33): this is largely to reassure the elderly audiences that they are not alone, and there are others who can still recall and possibly hum the theme tune to Dick Barton, Special Agent and who can still stagger about in a vaguely productive way. This year that oldie is me.  Note to casting department: Should have gone to Specsavers!  

I didn't really pay much attention at the time, last year, when I was ferried across the Mini-Styx, that grim rill, that foreshadowing streamlet that divides your forties from your fifties.  I didn't notice because my job at the time largely consisted of recording books: that is, me sitting on a chair, reading stuff into a microphone and occasionally lumbering downstairs for a bacon sarnie.  Now however, due to this Arts Council scheme, 'Reassure them with a Wrinkly', I'm required to appear in 3-D and shimmy about the stage with the grace of Margot Fonteyn.  That just ain't happening.

It's the joints, it's lethargy, it's failure to have any sort of fitness regime and an uncontrolled calorie intake.  Maybe they've chosen the wrong wrinkly?  Our venerable director, one of them, I can't remember which, asked me to do some minor piece of acting from under the stage.  This would involve me bending slightly from the middle, possibly getting on my hands and knees for a moment or two.  He/she refocussed on me briefly, noted the look of horror in my eyes, saw the sheer impossibility of the task allotted me and, diplomatically it must be said, appointed 'one of the lithe' to the task. Is there a word for being mightily offended but mightily relieved? Yes, probably but in German.

Pills and potions, then, are the only things which will keep me from snapping or going under between now and the end of January.  So not only do I try to remember to have one of those little aspirins, but I'll treat myself to a poor man's Berocca from Aldi.  You but on a 'reasonably crap' day!  Maybe an Omega 3 thing for my pianists fingers.  Of course, keep hydrated.  Yes, hydration.  I went to an audition in London in week one of rehearsals, and left my rather nice stainless steel water bottle on the floor of the audition room.  The director there will have snaffled it.  So, consequently, I've been drinking a lot of caffeine.  I always say to myself, don't indulge in alcohol, you'll never learn your lines, but there was a particularly good deal on those mini kegs of Adnams in Morrisons, and the flesh is weak.  I've been trying to book an appointment with an Ipswich chiropodist, and that ain't easy.  I tell you, I'm falling apart.  All I need now is my flu shot from Asda and I'm golden.  (I'm heavily into supermarkets, if you hadn't noticed!)

Truly, I feel the shadow of the Grim Reaper and his curved scythe falling across me, as I jerk awake from this unhealthy reverie.  Phew!  It's alright, it's only the grizzled form of Ivan Cutting passing by, clutching a long and somewhat limp baguette from the corner bakery.  He has a spring in his step.  Doh!

(And now for the contractually obligated comment on the actual show-Ed) The cast are all lovely and I'm having a wonderful time.