Like just about all people, my feelings about my body are a mix of emotions. There's few people that remain completely free of the neuroses connected with physical appearance, except for those who are 'in another world' enough not to care; but, outside of pathological self-loathing, it's also true that very few people, I think, don't have some part of themselves that they think is their best feature and want to preserve.

For me, the latter is of course hair and legs.¹

My pins, though, aren't looking at their best at the moment.

This may be because of the previously-discussed theatre workshops, which were held in the dance studio rather than the main stage. I was undertaking a piece of improvisatory delight which involved running across the floor, when I tripped over my slightly-too-long jeans, went arse-over-tit, and slid right into the mirrored wall at the side.

No serious damage was done – except, of course, to my 'rapidly diminishing as the years go by' dignity – and luckily the mirror was of an unbreakable sort, so I'm not condemned to a fate of seven years' touring with Nicholas Parsons; but there's quite a bit of bruising on my knees and legs, and they're still sore and tender.

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A Tufted-Ear Marmoset, As Requested By Sam For His Prize:

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To combat the soreness, I'm devoting this evening to one of my infamous several-hours-long baths – at least, they were infamous in the times I lived in places with shared bathing facilities.

The Proms are having a special "Music from the MGM Musicals" evening, so I shall be singing in a somewhat gay² [and probably also horrendous should you be within earshot] manner whilst I soak.

I have my mother to thank for this particular subsection of my musical preferences, thanks to endless Sunday afternoons during my childhood with nothing else to do but join her on the sofa for the classic movie; thirty years later, the same films – and the same songs – always induce a long-lasting contented nostalgic state in me, in a way that only cricket and early Pink Floyd albums can match.

In those pre-video days, you only got films made post-1970 on special occasions, like Xmas or Easter; and older films were still seen as special property by the studios, to be rationed out on licence rather than sold en masse for four-times-a-day Sky-Movies-Pants rotation. You had to wait six months for Star Wars to come on, rather than just Netflix it within three seconds, and if you didn't like the Sunday Afternoon Movie, there wasn't a heck of a lot of alternative choice…

It wasn't just musicals – there were the old massive epics, like Ben Hur and El Cid; the romantic blockbusters, a la Doctor Zhivago and Casablanca; and, very very occasionally, something a little more left-field along The Day The Earth Stood Still lines. The only thing that got switched off was war movies.

It was a great apprenticeship in the golden age of Hollywood. It was only much later that I got more interested in the dark underbelly of what made the industry tick….

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Today's Big Questions [choose either or both]:

- What bit of your body are you most proud of? Which are you least comfortable with?
- What, stemming from your childhood, acts as a "memory comfort blanket" for you?

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shoenotes:
1 Photo here, if you're interested / pervy.
2 An episode of American Dad – not bad though not seriously funny, but I roffled at this bit – had a Republican convention in which homosexuals were identified by having a security guard say "clang, clang, clang"3; one man who then sings "…went the trolley!" is forcibly ejected, despite screaming "No! I just like musicals!"
3 Oh, and whilst we're talking about it; "We Are Klang"? Yes, you might be, but you should also add "We Are Not Actually Very Funny" to that too.

I braved my little town's Doctors' surgery again this morning, this time for my annual check-up. Nobody was coughing or looked like they were about to fall over, so I think the warnings for flu sufferers to stay away are working.

Ostensibly this is a standard physical, partly funded by my employer, but given my long and, well, let's say "colourful" history, invariably what they're looking for are warning signs of other, less immediately medical, conditions; although I'm no longer under any "treatment", they're still seen as a "risk" factor, and probably will continue be my greatest risk, statistically speaking, for as long as I keep breathing and don't fall under any trains.

[handy hint: you might wish to avoid google-imaging "run over by a train" with SafeSearch off, I've just found.]

For instance: the news that I've gained 7kgish [16lbs] since I last braved their rickety scales last year is, in this context, seen as "a good thing"; it says that I'm eating well, not skipping meals out of stress. I get particularly quizzed on diet and bowels; and my sleep patterns are scrutinized, not just because of the shift work, but also to prove that no underlying difficulties are causing me insomnia. [And that's not been a problem at all with me lately, touch wood.]

Physically I'm fine for my age, although with the usual bollocking about nicotine and caffeine consumption. Heart and BP are in the right place, weight's in the middle of my range, and the only suggestion was a semi-active, not seriously active, regular sport or exercise activity.

[Yes, that would count as a regular semi-active exercise activity, were it available to me here and now. Anybody want to help me get fit?]

And, no, this time I didn't get an, ahem, internal examination.

…

…pity.

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In fact, the only eye-opening surprise I got was when Fred The Postie knocked on my door first thing to hand over a parcel;

…"oh yeah, who's sent me really comfy shoes?"

But, no, it turned out to be -

George, plus books thus, thus, thus, thus and thus.

Thank you, Ang and Rem; George the Kiwi will be taking pride of place in Priscilla…

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Tonight I'm at a workshop at [nearbylittletown] theatre – "Work, Rest and Play – Games and Impro".

I'm hoping this will lean towards comic impro – sort of along the lines of one of my great heroes -

- but even if it doesn't, it should be a good night out, and a chance to reconnect with the local acting-type people.

Work, Rest And Play was of course, the advertising slogan for a Mars bar; and we all know the [denied, and just about completely certain to be untrue] story about how two famous late-60s personalities approached "games and improvisation" with one…

…and they didn't even have the Interwebz in those days to spread malicious gossip…

Today's Big Question; What's the worst lie that's been told about you or gossiped about you? How did you correct them, or did you just ignore it?

Cambridge. As, last night, they celebrated 800 years of geeks on bicycles being trained for the rat race in a Proms concert, I travelled to the Saffron Brasserie on Hills Road for a curry with Bug.

It's not a bad place to eat – but nothing special. I went for a prawn rogan, which was adequate without being anything particularly bitchenly amazing, and although the raita was bland – it's supposed to be a little more than just dumping yoghurt in a jar – the whole thing, at £30 for the two of us, did the job fine. I wouldn't rush to go back there but I wouldn't complain if I were taken there either.

Bug's an extremely easy person to talk to and get on with. Subjects discussed included gerbil-sexing, Gog and Magog, Marmite, social isolation, naked parties on sofas, jam, subjectivity vs objectivity, and whether one could make a career out of poking people with toast.

source

Thank you, Bug; see you next month for some weird-Red-Dwarf-person thrills…

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And a bit more to put in my [seemingly now starting to blossom and fill up, thankfully] diary; "comedy and clowning" workshops at the little theatre in [townabituptheroad].

This is run by the same guy who did the workshop last year that gave me the taste for "showing off" onstage, so I know it'll be a hoot.

The only thing I've got to check is exactly what comes under the aegis of "clowning". As a generic term for slapstick/broad-humour comedy, I'm all for it. If, however, we're talking actual clowns, in the circus tradition, then no frogging way.

- *picture deleted to save several people from having nervous breakdowns* -

Coulrophobia, from my admittedly anecdotal evidence, seems to be one of the most common background nervous conditions – perhaps even more than arachnophobia.

All the people I know have it in its "mild" form – they'd choose not to go to places where they know there'd be clowns. It's only in its extreme form – where they would avoid going out at all just on the off-chance a clown would randomly be there – that it becomes pathological and requires treatment.

The sight of one is likely to make me "chunder" like I'd had three bottles of Thunderbird Red; another side-effect is that most sorts of facepaint are for me particularly nauseating, and there's been several times even just on things like Facebook I've had to quickly resort to Adblock [or the kitchen sink] when someone's posted a pic of their kids having been painted up. [Nor, as a side-issue, do I enjoy women who plaster their faces like a bloody air hostess.]

One possible reason for this is how clowns, outside of circuses, are actually most used in a vain attempt to give places like hospitals [and McVomits], which would otherwise be scary to children, a "fun" atmosphere.

Rather like putting up Xmas decorations in an insurance call centre, this window-dressing doesn't work and actually creates the counter-effect of giving people negative associations with the figures. The clown on the wall may be laughy and smiley, but there's a guy with a three-inch long needle waiting to give you your diphtheria shot behind it.

Do this at a very young age – before one can intellectualize the logical reasons you're having a metal spike shoved in your arm – and you're creating associations with mild trauma, to be teased out in deep counselling thirty years later.

That's how it worked for me, as far as I can know, anyway.

Either that or I'm repressing some extremely nasty memory about the time Ronald McDonald teased me round the back of the diner with a couple of chicken nuggets…

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Today's Big Question: What do you avoid or can't look at because of some bad childhood experience?

[Important Note: This question is designed to find out about your mild hangups. If answering it would bring up bad issues for you, then please skip it.]

Yay Day: I've spent today at Colchester Zoo, with Paula and her son. At four years old, he's just the right age for starting to stare with wonder at animals [even if he kept getting distracted and occasionally being more interested in sticks or hand-washing facilities].

Subjects discussed included trolls, Dada, Net meetings, "performance" and how to hit your bogies [the last was the kid's contribution].

Blurry out-of-focus why-is-that-gazelle-four-miles-away photos will probably appear on FaceArse later, if I don't fall asleep before I upload them.

It wasn't too crowded [unlike last time I went, when I was stupid/disorganized enough to take B. and crew on the Sunday of a holiday weekend] but was very hot. You'll find that all the animals pictured will be asleep under trees. Not even shouting at them that Ann Widdecombe was about to enter the cage and that it'd be a good opportunity to commence feeding time seemed to rouse them.

And I seem to have scarred the kid for life [or at least condemned him to social pariah status next year when he starts school] by teaching him the ancient Basil Brush catchphrase "Dirty Gertie from Number Thirty".

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Meh Day: Luckily, being out all day means I've missed the news output of television, radio and Interwebz. Including all the "OMG!!!" FaceArse updates, Twitters, etc.What? There's a whale in the Thames called John Peel already? Was it driving a Mercedes in Paris?

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Nae Day: A phone call at 10:30 from director J…., telling me the disappointing news that Henry Vee will be held over until 2010, citing pressure of time [five weeks between now and curtain up]; though another phone call from friend and fellow thespian M… later blamed the postponement on [districtcouncil]'s mess-up in double-booking the ruined castle that was to serve as our theatre.

Whichever, this of course means that the denizens of Suffolk [and further abroad] will miss the opportunity to see me in kilt and full Scots dress, reciting unintelligible semi-medieval prose in a bad Hamish and Dougal voice.

I [and the kilt] am, however, still available for weddings, funerals and Bar Mitzvahs…

[yes, this appears to be real.]

Kilt Warning. Rehearsals for Henry Vee start on Friday, and provisionally I've been offered several minor roles. The most prominent of these is of Captain Jamy, Henry's Scottish ally in Act 3. Looks like my cod Billy Connolly accent will come into use after all [minus the swearing].

It does mean though that I may well be required to don traditional Scottish medieval dress for the occasion. Local residents are warned that…

I don't actually own a kilt, whether in the Scots sense or the Britney sense; and I've not worn one since school. The tartan I should wear is MacLean, but I doubt the props department will stretch to getting the intricacies of my clan allegiance exactly right.

Whether or not I wear one in "the traditional Scots manner" will entirely depend on how raised the stage is from the audience. I don't want to be that much of a scene-stealer…

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Other forthcoming highlights in my life include a London trip next month, and in August a showing of a documentary on the making of one of my fave films, "An American Werewolf In London".

The fact that Jenny Agutter will be at this screening, apparently, has absolutely no bearing on my decision here. Honest.

Although she's probably changed in the past twenty-eight years.

I know I have.

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Films and things are very much on my mind, since the cricket's finished for the minute – much more excitingly than I expected, even though my favourite team lost the final – and tennis has taken over TV and radio for the next fortnight; so I'll need other things to put my mind to.

Tennis is one of those sports which suffers from a class divide in this country; I remember as a kid in the park nearest my house when, one day, the two tennis courts therein were suddenly "privatized" and the hire charges raked up to a point only the rich families could afford. The rest of us just kept on playing football.

Similarly, tennis disappeared as a school sport except for the two [rich] local schools with their own courts onsite: most schools' recreation areas were being sold off for suburban middle-class housing.

Add to that my irritation at the tournament's annual outbreak of British nationalism – formerly Tim-mania, now Murray-mania [that's funny, he was "Scottish" when he wasn't winning anything but now "British" apparently] – such open partiality, whilst fairly common in football, is completely out of the character of the English middle-to-upper class; their one saving grace is their sense of "fair play", rooting too hard for the home side would be "just not cricket" – and a deep abiding revulsion for Cliff Richard, and you've got my version of Sports Hell.

Which would only be made even worse if Satan then popped up and said "ah, not a tennis fan? No worries. Just pop over there where we're about to start a round of golf."

[And they'd probably all have banjos.]

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Today's Big Question: What would be the mandatory sport, hobby and/or recreational activity in your personal Hell?

Remember that drama workshop I went to last year? When I thought it was the start of my acting career then nothing really happened?

I just got an email from M. – Henry V comes to [nearbytownwithcastle] for six nights end of July / start of August, and would I like to be a couple of minor Lords?

Subject to work clearance, I've said yes, of course.

I thought they'd changed their play for this year to the Shrew, but it turns out the women in the company are doing an all-female version of that [with women playing the male roles, not as an updated lesbian set-in-Wentworth-Prison version as I suggested] whilst the boys get to do some serious history instead.

My post at the time expressing doubts about the English nationalism of the Henry V play seems to have disappeared [I think I had a small database crash about that time last summer] – after all, this is the play whose most famous line in Act III is "Cry God for England, Harry and Saint George!" – but I'm sure if I do my lines in a Billy Connolly accent it'd balance it out…

[Geez. Who'd want to be my director?]

Details may be given out to people who really want to come see, nearer the time. After all, I know there's quite a few of you who won't want to miss out on seeing Fish's codpiece…

The piece of cod which passeth all understanding.

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Today's Big Question: What was your greatest starring role, or most notable stage achievement? [Yes, we're counting school plays and stuff, so just about everybody's got one somewhere in their history.]