The Company in London before setting off

Right, well I'm still nursing a sore foot, still have a good half-dozen bruises, the remnants of around 50 mosquito bites, and haven't yet shifted my cough. I think it's reasonable to say that the week in Paris was not the health spa that I'd been led to believe. We set off from St Pancras on the Eurostar on Saturday, and many of the crazy young folk drank the bar dry. And this was before "International Rules" drinking was even introduced. I will be obeying IR for the remainder of this diary, so no horrible extra alcohol penalties for me. IR rules, for the uninitiated, are : No first names, no pointing (or saying "pointing"), the last one with their thumb on the table takes some alcohol, the last one with their hands in the air imbibes, anyone supping with their right hand takes a sup. (And no saying "drink", I've just been reminded by Evans, hence the odd use of language to describe said action). The "credit" for introducing this lovely culture to the tour should go to Buckley and Evans, who, perhaps coincidentally, also introduced us to the twin illnesses of "Buckley's Lurgi" (London) and "Evans' Throat" (Paris). I had both of these, and cannot adequately express my gratitude. With some hopeless drunks then, we walked to the Hotel Perfect, and then on to the Marmite Restaurant, about which all comedy puns have already been made.

Dance rehearsal

Sunday morning was spent in the theatre, blocking exits and entrances, and learning the best places to fall over. For anyone who hasn't been, the stage is rich in possibilities for all of these. Water features, trees, steps and tunnels are all fun to play in and around. We had to leave the theatre at 2pm, and set up in the park to do a line-run, a bit of wrestling and a dance practice. The line-run contained more dragon references than perhaps anyone was expecting (an in-joke for the Company, far too abstruse to explain here), but it was done excellently and I'm sure no-one noticed.

The Directors

Moving on ... Monday was either a long hard day of technical set up, construction, chair placement, and being generally helpful, or it wasn't, and it kind of depends who you ask. We finished with a dress rehearsal which climaxed with some sort of policeman taking centre stage after the dance and telling us to leave the park, with only five minutes in which to do so. A booking error meant that we were not expected to be in the theatre that evening. Costumes were thrown off and we ran out of the park. (If Sheila (whoops, take a sup) is reading this, that last sentence should read: Costumes were folded or hung neatly and with great respect, and we ran out of the park).

On Tuesday, we had a school matinee at 12 noon, followed by a Q & A, which left little time to do anything extra, so a number of us sat around dozing in the theatre between shows. Buckley had smacked his knuckle somehow during the wrestling (what's that old gag about me hitting it repeatedly with my face?) and it had swollen up like a balloon. We practiced the wrestling and slightly re-blocked the fight to avoid hitting it, using it, touching it, or even looking at it in a funny way.

Fight practice

Deary me. What were we like, with my sprained foot, inflicted on the last day of the London run, and Buckley's balloon hand? Also-rans, is the answer to that question. No-one ever cared about us again. Because about 30 minutes before curtain-up, some of the cast were having a kickabout with an American Football ball. I only knew this because someone (Mr Clarke?) came in and said he was stopping because it felt too dangerous. "You're right", I said. "I dislocated my little finger playing Volleyball at school, and it hurt like a 00000000". Within seconds, Mr Lee entered the dressing room, cradling his hand, followed by a bunch of others looking concerned. His little finger was clearly dislocated. I chose not to dwell on my uncanny predictive abilities here, and stayed pretty much quiet as arrangements were made to take him to hospital. Thanks here to Mr Dansey and Mr Holyoake, who drove Mr Lee to hospital and translated the complicated administrative stuff. Cometh the hour, etc. Within Moments, Mr Cornford had been press-ganged in as a replacement Silvius. Script in hand, he was shown the entrances and exits and significant blocking for the first half. Other small responsibilities of Mr Lee were shared out or absorbed into other character's tasks.

Rapt audience for the rehearsal!

It all went extremely well : the audience were told that the part would be "read" rather than played, and we got through the first half pretty smoothly. At the interval we returned to the dressing room to discover that Mr Lee had returned, fingers strapped up. A quick swap was choreographed, in which Mr Cornford, script in hand, would deliver a line of Silvius', and be "tapped out" by Mr Lee repeating the line. I was on-stage and watching both them and the audience, and it went very smoothly. Now, it was around this time that someone discovered, in Mr Cornford's bag, a programme, in which certain actors' photographs had been replaced with his own. A mood of paranoia and mistrust set in, as suspicions of Mr Cornford's ambition and lust for glory spread.

Moving away from this tasteless interlude ... I can't quite remember the order of all the extra-curricular activities. This is not because I fell under the spell of the Uber-imbibers Buckley and Evans, it's just that the evenings were all the same, and all took place in hotel rooms, and often the hotel room was mine. Many an evening passed with me sleeping in a dustbin, much like Top Cat, but without the snazzy pyjamas. Luckily, I took these interruptions to my sleep with good grace, and I'm pretty sure I didn't even mention them. Wednesday was a free day, and some of us went to the Latin Quarter & Notre Dame, and Ms Jackson took some lovely photos of us posing and being touristy. All went well in the evening performance, with relatively few serious injuries. Thursday was another schools matinee at 12 noon with a Q and A and then a 3-hour gap before the evening show at 7pm. Again, I tried to catch up on rest, hiding in the park to avoid being offered alcohol, or some kind of party breaking out next to me by accident. Thursday evening I made a break for it! My fiancée Dilys was arriving for 2 nights. We went to another hotel, as a treat and break from the Madness of the Young. And what a treat it was. Nobody threw wine all over my bed, no-one forced me to consume anything, I could use first names in conversation and imbibe with whichever hand I pleased. I could point at things. Life was good. On the Friday we did touristy things, and returned to the theatre on Saturday for the 3.30 matinee.

Paris night life

It was really, really, really hot. I know that in open air theatres you shouldn't complain about this, but after the wrestling I was properly exhausted, and was mindful of the evening show that would go up some minutes after the matinee came down. And there it was, straight after the curtain call was the nominal call time for the evening show. The word knackered is over-used, I believe, but on this occasion most appropriate. Did some kind of horrible room party occur? Probably, but not in my room, I'm delighted to report. No Officer Dibble waking me up by knocking on the bin-lid for me, thank you. (There had been some sort of revelry in my room during my two-night absence, I noticed. "But that's amazing, Holmes! How can you tell?" "By the small matter of the Martin in the night-time, Watson." "But the Martin did nothing in the night-time, Holmes!" "Yes he did, he threw red wine all over the wall next to my bed.")

On Sunday there was a matinee at 3.30, followed by the strike, packing everything up and dismantling everything constructed. Everyone wanted a chance to change out of their grungy clothes and get showered, so it was a pretty quick strike. We had a last meal at Au Zaganin restaurant not far from the hotel. Gifts were given and thank yous made, and then we went our separate ways: the sensible to bed and everyone else to some sort of drinking party. To quote the Knight in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade : I chose poorly. Really must remember my age.

The Boys

Sightseeing

The Girls

Photography by Gina Jean Jackson and Laurence Tuerk