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…