It's 23:33 at the start of this blog. I'm sitting in my bed with half of Brixton stuck to the bottom of my feet, eyes that are so full of grit you can hear The Daily Mail asking where I was when half an inch of snow brought Britain to a standstill last winter, and I was just about to put my head on my ever so inviting pillow when I realised I had not blogged today.
So I'm now trying to do this blog. For no other reason than that I am worried if I don't I will have let myself down... I think I am an idiot. 97% of my body is screaming at me that we prefer sleep to the concept of being successful but that bastard pigging 3% that models itself on Monica from Friends and likes to win has, well, won.
Why so tired? Well, because at 02:30 this morning I was at Picadilly Circus waiting for a night bus to take me home after trekking to Walsall last night for a heavily mediocre gig. Walsall is far away. I was then up at 7am to go to rehearsal for Ink in Brixton.
Today at rehearsal I realised it's quite hard to be an authoritative director when you:
a) are sleepwalking
b) know less of your lines than anyone else in the show.
Tomorrow is our last rehearsal before Edinburgh and an open type performance thingy where folks I admire a lot will have a peek at the show and see whether they think it's good. I feel more sorry for them; tis a heavy burden to watch a show and then have to work out how best to phrase your "constructive criticism". Criticism is never constructive unless what you are constructing is a grudge.
So why am I blogging? I have no idea. No one even reads the damn thing at weekends let alone at 23:40 when I don't even have anything to say. In fact, if you are reading this crock of nonsensical shit I almost think less of you for being in a slightly sadder state than I am this evening. It's Saturday night you loser, put some hotpants on and go and harass someone of the opposite gender. Or start making your plans for what to eat during the Apprentice tomorrow. I've never watched the Apprentice but I hear it's popular and it will mean you might be able to hold a conversation with a mindless fuckwit at work tomorrow.
So I'm going to try and sleep now. The only problems I foresee are staying asleep without pulling my, frankly biohazardous, feet into my white bed set. I fully expect my bed to look like the end of a one night stand with Stig of the Dump by the morning. Yes, I could go and wash them but I'm too tired. Which basically means this ass hole blog and my own bizarre sense of duty to idiot things that I made up myself have beaten my belief in basic hygiene and housekeeping. Well done Laura, what a winner you are. 23:44 Goodnight. xxx