RACING FOR MY LIFE

Last Sunday I raced for life. And no, before you ask I was not being chased by an angry rhino or a rabid dog. Worse, in fact. I was being chased by a swarm of sweating, potentially menstruating females. And it was one of the best afternoons of my life.

In a sea of pink blancmange and breasts, seven of my dearly beloved girlfriends and I ran 5km for Cancer Research. We did it in 35 minutes... 35 MINUTES I TELL YOU!!! Now for a girl who can ordinarily barely walk up the stairs without forming a mild sweat in her pits/cleave/nether regions, I would say that this is pretty impressive. The fact that I could barely stand at the end of it and that my face was the colour of someone's insides is besides the point.

We raised just over a grand to help beat this shit of a disease and it was totally worth it. And then some. The reason I ran the Race For Life was not to improve my severely lacking fitness or to burn off the burger that I definitely did not have for lunch, but for my Auntie. My wonderful, beautiful, funny Auntie.

My Auntie Valerie has very recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and has just started her chemo. I ran it for her and for all the women in the world who don't think that this disease will touch them and then it does. My Auntie went for her scheduled mammogram when she turned 50 and they found something, so for anyone who is thinking about procrastinating or rescheduling - DON'T. It is not worth it. Life is worth it.

We named our team Vally's Runner Boobs. And run those boobs we did. I bought eight 40GG bras in a horrific shade of pink from Primani and then topped them off with vomit inducing neon leg warmers. Sexy does not even cover it. We were positively OOZING oestrogen.

The atmosphere was incredible. The Spice Girls would have been uber proud of the Girl Power emanating over Hyde Park that Sunday morning and I would be lying if I said I didn't crack out a few lyrics here and there... Ok, so maybe more than a few... Maybe like five... There were supporters everywhere and little did I know that some of my bezzies (Adam, Peter and Gaz of FerryEgg fame) surprised me at the finish line! Luckily I did not trip. For once.

So we did it. Completed the race. Ran for Life. Today's blog is dedicated to my Auntie and all the girls that ran with me: SUZE, ALICE, EMMA, NIKKI, ROSE, BISH AND MARTHA.

WE BLOODY DID IT!!!!!!!! I love you girls and all who sail in you.

LE CORPSE

GOOD MORNING LONDON! And welcome to a day where the rain may corrode your face and the wind may flash your knickers. On a morning such as this, where yes I am still in my pyjamas and no I have not scrubbed my teeth yet (SCREW YOU DENTIST!), I have decided to write about corpsing.

Delicious, wonderful, wee-inducing corpsing. Now for those of you who do not practice Fancy Dress for a living, i.e. acting, you may be wondering what indeed corpsing is. And no before you ask it is not a pre-show ritual we actors partake in with various dead bodies… although sometimes it has come close, it is in fact merely hi-jinks.

Corpsing; to corpse:  a British theatrical slang term used to describe when an actor unintentionally breaks character during a scene by laughing or by causing another cast member to laugh.

Thank you Wikipedia; it is in simpler terms: pissing about on stage.

This is not to detract from the seriousness of conveying the playwright’s words accurately or their intentions truthfully; it is just a fact that after a six month stint doing the same show every night, an actor needs an outlet for his/her cheeky side that isn’t either the pub or another actor. (Not to confirm or deny the stereotype but let’s face it we are an incestuous bunch).

Now I have been known to be a bit of a corpser, both in the attack and in the defence; the sight of another actor trying to keep their facial muscles under control is almost as delectable as trying to suppress your own unstoppable mirth when you are on the receiving end. I have known actresses actually wee themselves on stage from corpsing (they shall remain nameless for fear for my life, although they could probably make good money from Tena Lady Sponsorship) and on occasion I have been the cause.

A few things that may or may not be true (If you are a director reading this then they are definitely NOT true): 

1. I may or may not have pulled down my trousers and stood with a traffic cone on my head in the wings.

2. I may or may not have blacked out all my teeth during an end of show jig.

3. I may or may not have done a whole scene with a bar of soap stuffed down my corset.

4. I may or may not have done a curtain call with a toy dinosaur called David held behind my back.

5. I may or may not have tried to fit in as many Lion King references as possible throughout a performance of Romeo and Juliet.

6. I may or may not have drawn a detailed phallic diagram on a letter to be given to another actor.

7. And finally, I may or may not have deliberately sidled up to another actress and broken wind.

So be warned.

DAZZA’S EPIC FAIL NO.2:

Never impart to your parental figures your actual opinion of a play that you are in.

A while ago I was in a beautiful play, which again shall remain nameless; however, for reasons down to simple, personal opinion I thought it could do with a slight cut and edit to make it a bit shorter. This opinion I expressed to my father. There was my first fail. A few weeks into the run Dad naturally came to support me, sat and watched the play and came to meet me in the bar afterwards. Unbeknownst to me the writer was also in the bar, and after a period of mingling our paths crossed. There was my second fail. Dad enjoying the theatrical banter and atmosphere decided it was time to voice his own opinion. Third fail coming right atcha. “Laura said the play was way too long but I thought it whipped by!” Silence. Cue ground swallowing moment. More silence. “Daaaaaaaad! DAD JOKES!”, I cried, “Look at my Dad making a JOKE!” Even more silence. Someone else changes the subject. 

Your next stop on the embarrassment train is Mortification Station.

Till next time!

THE AFTERMATH

It seems quite odd to begin a blog with an ending, yet I am never one to shy away from subversion. I suppose this is sort of a quaint, literal subversion rather than a royal subversion like my killing a swan. Although believe me the temptation is there.

One month ago I finished a job working as an ensemble member of the RSC’s Winter Season, this involved playing small roles such as a servant, wench or nun and understudying about nine other roles throughout the season. During my time at Stratford upon Avon I was asked to write a blog… hence the cheeky link on the right… and found I bloody loved it. When I was younger I had this theory that if I told everyone everything about myself then no one could have any secrets on me; James Bond really could have learned a few things from my 10 year old, pigeon chested self… Anyway, I suppose blogging turned out to be a more grown up version of that theory.

I expect you may be wondering, or you may not but I’m going to tell you anyway, what FERRY EGG signifies. It’s very (or should I say Ferry) simple. When I was at Stratford I was staying in accommodation called the Ferry House; this is a wonderful building right by the river which houses about four or five “creatives” and is often known as the party house. ANYWAY, while I was there I thought it would be HILARIOUS to new mint as many Ferry puns into my vocabulary as possible. Hysterical phrases such as “FERRY CHRISTMAS” and “HAPPY NEW YEAR EFERRYONE” were deployed without warning and with as high a frequency as possible. I know, I hate me too.

On finishing my job and returning to London, I went round to my fellow ex RSC member, Peter’s house to be met by Gaz and Adam, two other ex-Ferry Housians. I was a bundle of emotion, anger and worry for the future; everything crappy that a recently unemployed actor should be. Peter, Gaz and Adam sensed this and demanded that I closed my eyes, which I did. When I was finally directed to reopen my eyes, I saw that they had assembled what can only be described as a household assault course. There was a sheet on the floor, all the surfaces were covered and on top of the sheet was a washing up bowl.

It was then Peter handed me the eggs. He took one look at me and in the manner of the Incredible Hulk said, “SMASH.” So I did. And it felt INCREDIBLE. Soon all four of us were smashing eggs left, right and centre and with every splash of yolk and every flicker of shell we felt all our troubles melt away. At the end of this Bacchanalian ritual, all that was left was to say one thing: FERRY EGG.
And so it began.

I have a theory in this business, that it is all about failing and that in failing that is actually where you succeed. Crashing and burning. Boldly going where no one in their right minds has gone before. Therefore, in each post I will endeavour to leave you with one of my epic fails. That’s right; I’m a sucker for self-deprecation. Now these epic fails may not be to do with acting, or drama, they may just be about life. Big, bad and probably slightly hairy depending on whether I’ve bothered to shave or not, life. So that’s it. Enjoy.

DAZZA'S EPIC FAIL NO. 1: When walking home from the bus stop aged fourteen, with a boy whom I found to be particularly dreamy at the time and with curtains of such a fantastic equilibrium that they were not worlds apart from Nick Carter, circa 1997, potentially in the ‘I want it That(a) Way’ video… (I digress)… On reaching the front door of my house, drunk on a HILARIOUS joke that he was telling and laughing, probably in a forced “HAHAHA KISS ME NOW HAHAHA”, kind of way, I pulled out my key to open the lock.

Now ordinarily this would be fine. Put key in lock. Turn key. Open door. Kiss boy with devastating curtains. Dazza wins. However, on this occasion on entering my key into the lock (this is not a euphemism Mom) I discovered that not only did it not turn, but that the key was in fact a tampon. I had been so entranced by his flowing locks (no pun intended) and the overwhelming smell of lynx that I had grabbed the first thing that came to hand in my school bag and utilised it as a door opening tool.

In the ever so British way, Nick Carter turned to me and said, “Um Laura? I beg your pardon but that’s not a key.” To which I replied, “I KNOW THAT YOU STUPID PRICK! IT IS A COTTON WOOL DEVICE AIMED AT SOAKING UP MY MENSTRUAL FLOW! AND YES I HAVE TRIED TO USE IT AS A KEY! I DID IT ON PURPOSE!”

That was a lie. I did not say that at all. I wish I had. However, what actually happened was that I laughed, in a manner not too dissimilar to a prepubescent boy’s voice breaking, got out my key, let him in, went out with him for two days and then dumped him as curtains had gone out of fashion.

And on that note, that was my first blog post.

*Takes a bow*
*Curtain falls*
*Silence and a dull thud as Dazza trips backstage on exiting*
*Dazza ends this ridiculous theatrical metaphor*
*Till next time…