I have seen him in the watchfires of 100 circling camps . . . .

Here it comes. Noticing spelling mistakes on all the advertising and failing with applications, here it comes. Both Daniel and I have now found ways to ignore the obvious truth. He, more sensibly, has chosen to sort out his garden, has been to a cheap show or two, and spent time with Karielle. I went and drank for three days, doing things that I will regret for some time. Either way we chose to run, the date arrives and we haven’t a goddamn clue what we are doing. Now fighting for rehearsal space, we have opted for a trade off with the stone soup project (if they accept). A cheap/free venue for some good volunteer work, getting our hands back into the shit of clearing out old buildings, it feels good to be home. Yet if this does not come through, well, fear and all that waits around the blunt and harsh corner of the 30th. My solution, although I have not discussed this with my good friend, is a new scheme of director/producer prostitution. Look, all I’m saying is that we are two young men with the long hair and at least one good pair of lungs between us. I have sunk lower than that before, and if it’s in the name of art, well…

Yet, positive we will stay. Small successes and little failures here and there and we will make our way though the fire. And if the worst arrives, then at least we are currently sitting outside, desperately attempting to cheat free food from our friends, enjoying this cool summer air. There are worse ways to live. As we consider ways to make money, we drank our wine and wondered about all those old buildings, those empty student houses that line the roads of Radford. Maybe, I said, we could break into a different one each day, we wouldn’t be the first illegal travelling theatre company. And although we have come up with some good ideas which do involve a slight snap of the law (of which I will not yet let leak) we finally drew back from our home invasion scheme. Not because of any false sense of legal morality, Or any pompous idea that we are better than those occupy their time in such a fashion (if anything, I think less of directors than I do thieves), but purely because of Daniel’s unique fashion. How many burglars do you think, might be found wearing a cashmere jacket with matching cravat? And it wouldn’t be the first time either. The dam fool…

One More Step Along The Road I Go

In these early stages there appears to be a world against you. And wandering from bar to bar attempting to find a venue, is a strong plate of evidence for this case. After one or two unsuccessful attempts to be taken seriously by staff/owners. Daniel and I decide to sit and slowly lament over a few neat drinks. Although not making us seem more effective, professional or credible for the rest of the afternoon, does mean that staff take our now violent advances brandishing posters and accusations, will a little more immediacy. We are crude, but successful.

After becoming lost in the bleached white walls of the Old Know’s Building, and interrupting a dance/prayer meeting, we come across a place willing to offer us a free audition space. I, have to pause before continuing, ok, deep breath. The Nottingham “fame factory”, a space used to offer thirteen year old girls the chance to dance and lip-sync along to their favourite songs is our salvation. In a city recognisably known for its music, theatre, artistic and creative scene, this is the only place that will take us. I do not know what these means about us, our reputation or the factory itself, but I am aware of what it reveals about the appearance of the Nottingham scene, and the grim and terrible reality. There is of course the possibility that I am wrong, and hold a mouthful of unintentional bias. I may just have my preconceptions altered about the fame factory. Maybe this is what I am scared of the most. If to its namesake of the Warhol studios offers Nottingham’s boundary to artistic freedom, then I might be truly fucked.

But it is done and we must continue. Advertisements are made online, and posters are printed. Sexy, black and sleek, somebody must want this glowing from their C.V. goddam somebody!

A few days later, Daniel and begin to distribute the posters, with limited success. As we stand in a bar whose name I will leave for they were kind enough to allow us to advertise, Daniel shakes his head in dismay, for I pin the poster against the door to the toilet at crotch level.

“So this is where theatre has been left” he says, staring at the already stained door.

“I think rather, it is where we have been” I say, and we leave.

Regardless of who is right, one thing is dangerously clear today. As we stare at a show, with no rehearsal space or venue, and the next daunting practice of convincing actors to work for free (oh mother of god,) we are defiantly, about to be pissed on by the public. So smile with that pretty mouth, and open wide…

And So It Begins . . . .

And so it begins. And with it dawns the horrific realisation of the task ahead. No amount of whisky and cigarettes can hide the terrible truth of what must come. At this 3am, I have nowhere, to run. I must face it, I have signed up to this and that is that, but why? Where did this begin?

So, this being the first, some background information may be useful to plot the course ahead. My name is Alistair, and to this point I have been a simple stupid writer, content with my little room and its windows, but now this brave new world draws in on me. I run a-minus productions along with my good friend Richard Bolton, who, although I met in a youth drama group, I have spent most of my time indulging alongside with any drink or drug we can reach. Now those days are over, if they weren’t already, long ago. About a year ago, after a few short and altogether failed attempts at film making, we shot our first feature film, called 2/1[two], a Dogme films shot in a single take, for one hour, with no script. After the god awful process of editing it and setting up some trailers etc, we began to look for a venue. As a gift we found TAO, or The Art Organisation in Nottingham. In exchange for a few days volunteering work, clearing out a hotel of needles, soiled benches and the like, (a detail which I might add, I ended up doing alone, the sucker) we were allowed to show the film. It went down altogether well, and is in fact up for its second showing as this is written down.

While at the organisation, we befriended possibly the most over dressed volunteer I have ever seen, one Daniel Hallam. For a man who spent most of his time in the activities of painting, pouring drinks and manual labour, he still persisted in the cravat with polished shoes and matching jacket. A strange man, I thought. I was not wrong. Over the course of the next few months our work together increased, and after I drank all his vodka, I had an obligation to repay the debt. Over drinks, he discussed his theatre group, Halden Theatre and his desire to get back into work. We then collaborated on a new script and set some work in motion.

Now on this god given morning, I have to come to the understanding in my booze burnt mind that I have signed up to co-run a production of Huis Clos, by Sartre. The fear is coming on strong, and it will not leave me to sleep this off. We have no money really to speak off. We have no audition space, no rehearsal room in mind, and no venue. Yet madness will drive us on, relentlessly forward, always!

I lean forward and tell him, the world is ruled by those brave enough to run towards the traffic, and I think we can do that. However, after deciding against this moment of method, we agree to just persist with the production plan. With this drink and last drop of fuel, gods speed and all those bad omens, let’s go onward! More soon…