Farewell 2009...

2009 brought more than its fair share of craziness. In one small year my life has changed considerably more than in any other and I'm secretly glad to be saying goodbye to it. 2010 is all about stability and grounding myself... I've decided.


Thinking back to where I was a year ago, my stomach turns over and my heart starts to race with frustration and nervousness. 
I was living with a boyfriend who didn't love me and saw me simply as something that stood in the way of his college friends. I was so filled with the feeling of being trapped and of wasted time that I was having panic attacks daily. I hadn't completed a single story or piece of writing owing to the fact that my creativity had dried up as a result of my near depression. I was working a dead end job and I was gaining weight at an alarming speed. Sweet Jesus it was a mess!!! 
I'm forced to admit that my lovely friend Francesca was right. From very early on she repeatedly told me to "run for the hills" and "get the hell out of there"... I resisted for as long as I could but it was to no avail... FRANCESCA... YOU WERE RIGHT AND I WAS WRONG... There, I've said it!!!


In early May a job came along that would have an undeniable effect on me. "Naked Boy Singing" was an all male, nude review show that quite literally liberated me from my terrible situation. It forced me to reassess my situation and kick things back into gear. I went down to the slimmest I have ever been in preparation for the public nudity. I moved out of the house I shared with my arid boyfriend and moved into a wonderful flat with a dear friend Ellis and his partner. I rekindled my creativity and wrote my first article that was published on the Guardian blog, finished my first children's book and signed to a great literary agent.
Whilst performing in "Naked Boys" I met a brilliant composer who has become a very important part of my life. He is warm and compassionate and all things good and healthy and inspiring. He has made me very happy.
I am clearing my debts, catching up on correspondence with old friends, finishing projects, working hard, reading lots, eating well, being as creative as time allows and working solidly as a performer. 
Needless to say, things are remarkably better than they were a year ago.


I have enjoyed 2009 though, with a heavy heart, I'm awfully glad to wave goodbye to it...


So here goes...  2009, you were very stressful! May 2010 be far more stable and wholesome.
Ta-ta 2009... I'll never forget you
x

A Spirit Of Mischief...

Sir James Matthew Barrie is a bit of a hero of mine. A huge hero in fact.

Though he died forty six years before I was born, my life has been directly affected by his work of absolute genious, "Peter Pan".

The story of Peter Pan inspired me as a child. It filled me with curiosity and hunger for adventure. Though I'm not supposed to, I'll let you in on a secret. For the first decade of my life, my birthday wish whilst blowing out my candles was "I WISH I COULD FLY". I desperately wanted it. It took a further fourteen years to come true however...

My adult life has been equally effected by Mister Barrie's work. There's the same tingle of excitement it always gave me as a child, his beautiful use of the English language and the inspiration he has given me as a writer and then, of course, there's the fact that I've played Peter Pan more than any other role on my resume. 
I love playing the part. I'm currently playing my fifth Pan and it still doesn't get boring. There is a brilliant moment that always comes when you're dangling in your flying harness over the audience. When the lighting is just right, you catch sight of a small child's face in the crowd and you can see by the amazement spread across their face that they truly believe Peter is flying before their eyes. It gives me great pleasure to know that those children are experiencing that same spark of adventure that I did when I was a little boy.

I would have loved to meet James Barrie and ask him a million questions. Though the book is a work of happiness, youth and joy, it is pregnant with a deep sadness. There are so many points from Barrie's own life that made it into the book.
The sad demise of his mother after his brother David's death and her one comfort being that he would remain a child forever.  Barrie's attempt to dress as his brother David and stop growing up so that she could have her favourite son back. The death of five year old Margaret Henley who referred to Barrie as her "Fwendy" and the use of the word as the leading lady's name. Barrie's unusual and possibly unhealthy love for the Llewelyn Davies boys and their "Boy Castaways" adventures that inspired the lost boys, Wendy's brother's John and Michael and possibly even Peter. 
Was Neverland simply a place that Barrie invented to house all the sadness in his life and turn it into something beautiful? I guess we'll never know for sure...
I'm very grateful for Peter Pan and all the way's the 'little boy who would not grow up' has shaped my life. As a young writer at the beginning of my career, I can only hope to one day write something that comes even remotely close to Barrie's piece. As a performer I am very aware that I am slowly getting older and one day will be too old to play the role of Peter... Though I'm wishing for a few more yet.
And finally, as someone that stands for keeping one's inner child alive and healthy, I'm fixing my eyes on the second star to the right and I very much believe in fairies.
x

Autumn...

The leaves are changing...
Summer's on the wing and autumn is well and truly on its way. 
It's cold yet sunny and people are out in their jumpers and scarves and coats. I am a child of the winter. I'd be quite content if summer never reared it's sweaty head again and we lived in a permanent cycle of autumn/winter/autumn/winter.
Roll on snow and a million cups of tea...
I think the White Witch had the right idea...
Just a thought.
x

Love Thy Neighbour... Unless They're Different...

Vanessa Feltz...
Whoda thunk it? But... 'Tis true... This blog is inspired by none other than Vanny herself!
I woke in bed, to the alarm-clock radio boomings of Vanessa...
She was arguing the religious right for sikh students to carry a kirpan (a small symbolic knife) to school after a boy of 14 was suspended and expelled from a school in Barnet for trying to enter the building with one on his person.
This threw up a great many religious and moral dilemmas for me...
I'm greatly interested in the ongoing and seemingly never-ending debate of what is acceptable in the name of religion.
The story of the kirpan interested me no end...
It is widely known, that a kirpan is nothing more than a symbol of faith to the Sikh religion. It is no more than 5" long and completely blunt as it purely represents the protection of the weak. It is no more a weapon than a pen or a ruler or a sharp tongue.
I'm stunned by the double standard that is still exercised in England... Especially considering that England is amongst the most liberal countries in the world.
For instance: Why is it okay for a Muslim child to wear a burkha when hoodies are banned from most inner London schools because children should show their faces?
Why are symbolic kirpans a reason for expulsion when the crucifix, a symbol of great violence and suffering, is still accepted?
Why is homosexuality still a taboo subject to teach when the alternative is intolerance, hatred and discrimination from a religion that promotes Jesus' teachings of love and non-judgement?
Why are school assemblies still a predominantly christian/catholic practice in London, when over 50% of London schools are made up of Hindu, Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, Buddhist, Bahai and jain children.
Why are young mother's frowned upon by the same people that insist contraception is a sin?
Why are Christian children taught that god is all loving, yet a small group are forced to stand by the roadside with signs saying "God hates this, that and the other"?
Why is paganism seen as mere folly by religions that can no-more prove their validity over another?
Why does it seem that everything to do with religion is bound in some kind of ignorance or half acceptance or cultural editing? Like nothing is absolutely clear or open or honest???
Recently, a senator in Tennessee, when arguing against foreign languages being taught in English speaking schools, said: "If English was good enough for Jesus, it's good enough for me."
I may sound like a dirty, sinful, heretic non-believer... But why does it seem that the only people able to give themselves wholeheartedly to a religion are the mildly uneducated, behind, backward, socially unsophisticated, ignorant ones? Hmmmmm!?


I'm a firm believer in the unconditional "Love Thy Neighbour!"... That's unconditional... as in un-con-di-tion-al... as in no exceptions... what a futuristic way to think!!
Just a thought
x 

The Old, Yellow Bag...

I have a bag...
An old, yellow bag that I stole from an ex boyfriend of mine. It is just a bag...
It's big and it holds a great deal and it's always heavy and it's very yellow and I love it... I love it a lot...
I realised tonight, whilst traveling home on the train, that my old, yellow bag has witnessed a great deal of my adult life. It has travelled around the country, up and down and overseas with me. It has seen me sad and happy and working and unemployed and single and dating and clubbing and drunk and sober and working my ass off and idling my day away.
It originally belonged to my ex-boyfriend Newley, who wholeheartedly encouraged me to have it and use it. He kept it on top of a cupboard and pushed it onto me so that it would have a purpose once more. 
If I'm totally honest, I didn't like the old, yellow bag when I first saw it. I thought it was obnoxious and bright and over the top. I sneered at it when I was first offered it and made fun of my friend Lee, who desperately wanted it.
BUT...
I gave in and used it out of sheer necessity. Quickly packing it full of scripts and gym kits and bottles of water for my daily routine.
That seems like a very long time ago...
My old, yellow bag has toured around the country on many performing jobs, it has seen my relationship with Newley disintegrate. It travelled with me to France and to Manchester, home to Meopham and my new home in south London and travelled with me, day in- day out, to the west-end show I performed in over the summer. 
It has been with me on first dates, and second and third and fourth. It has watched relationships die and new ones grow. It has viewed many an art gallery at my side and watched many shows from between my feet. It sat by my bed as I finished my first book and stressed and pondered over the editing. It has carried home a great deal of food shopping from the local sainsbury's and strained at the weight of my laptop being hauled from coffee shop to coffee shop.
It came with me to my first literary festival in Cheltenham and was present at my first acting job for the Donmar Warehouse.
Overall, my old, yellow bag has been a dear friend to me...
This is purely a nod in its direction... Oh the stories it could tell...
x

Romance...

Romance…

If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that ‘romance’ can be one hell of a dangerous thing at times.

Once again, I find myself thrust against the gates of romance and asking myself what it is I want, expect or need from that niggling but brilliant, seven letter word.

I’m an old fashioned kind of guy I guess. In a time when “love at first sight” is a foolish notion that has no place outside of a Disney movie, I can’t help but wish it might be true. Don’t get me wrong… I can be a cynical git at times and roll my eyes as far as they will roll at people’s tales of instant love and romance and belonging. But wouldn’t it be nice?!!! I think so… Cue three fairies to argue over whether my dress should be pink or blue...

I am a fiercely independent person. I enjoy my own company. I trust no-one more than me… But, despite certain cases of cheating and lying and general no-good-nik-ness from past lovers, I’d love to be romanced. Maybe even be the romancer. I guess, for the first time in a very long time, I'd love to be the proud half of a damn good pair...

After a long, long romance free time in my life… I feel it might just be time to jump back on that unpredictable, old mule, grab it by the mane and see where it takes me…

Just a thought…

That’s all

x

Writing Under The Influence...

Why is it that when you're drunk, you get all philosophical and broody towards the end of the evening? Or is that just me? 

The last blog, "A Great Load Of Greatness..." I wrote whilst very squiffish after a night out with friends. I had completely forgotten that I had written it and found it in my draft folder yesterday. It's a little meandering but all in all not too bad for a guy who could barely focus on the keys. I guess you could say its a blog sponsored by Kronenbourg. 

I suppose I should count myself lucky that oddly, my initial drunk thoughts are to write... It certainly beats drink driving or calling the ex-boyfriends. *sigh of relief*

That's all

x

A Great Load of Greatness...

What makes a person great?

Is it what they do, what they say, how they're viewed? 

There are the obvious examples of human greatness: "Oscar Wilde, Kurt Cobain, Shakespeare, Madonna, Mother Theresa, Brangelina, Charlie Chaplin, Michael Jackson, Gandhi, John Lennon... The Spice Girls!?!?" Each completely different from the next and yet all have been hailed as 'great'... 

***Humans that shine***

I can't help thinking that we may have lost our way in the labeling of greatness in modern times. There's no denying that Shakespeare or Wilde or Woolf were amazing individuals, but it seems far easier to make the list nowadays. Most names that feature on any modern "Humans of Greatness" list, are or were celebrities of their day. I'm left wondering if they were celebrities because they were great or were they great because they were celebrities? Could it be that in modern times we confuse the word "great" with "Loud" or "Extravert" or "Extreme Press Coverage" or simply "Remembered"? Do you have to be great to be remembered?

I've always had a preoccupation with leaving a mark in life. I'm afraid of the oblivion of mediocrity and being forgotten in the pages of 'normal'. Ultimately, I want to be remembered after I'm gone... Don't panic, I'm not planning on going anywhere, anytime soon. But it is still something I think about.

I'm reminded of the Chinese tradition of longevity and leaving your name and image in physical form on every wall and surface you can squeeze it onto, in order that you are not forgotten. Short of scrawling all over my walls, what is a person to do to be remembered?

In considering this, I have found myself at a loss. It seems to all boil down to media coverage. The artists, playwrights, medical specialists, rulers, presidents, popstars and concert organisers are freely admired, and for very good reason. They do, after all, provide a great service to the community. However, the teachers that strive to ground and educate or the parents that struggle to make money but still make time for their children or the carers that devote their time to the well being of another are somewhat left by the wayside. Greatness and column space hold a very close relationship, I have learned.

Could it be that greatness is something you claim with your final breath? You hear of great last words, such as: "My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us has to go (Oscar Wilde)" or "The taste of death is upon my lips... I feel something that is not of this earth (Mozart)" or "I should never have switched from scotch to martinis (Hunphrey Bogart)". They are poignant, wonderful words that smack of luck and wit and good timing. But what about the people that said " D'you want a cup of tea?" or "I'm off to the shop" or simply farted before they died? Are they any less great for having a not-so-poetic final moment?

Ultimately I realise, greatness is something that lies in the heart of the beholder, not the possessor. We can strive all our lives for recognition and still slip effortlessly into the shadows without so much as a second thought or glance from anyone. I believe the key to greatness is as simple as making a difference to just one person. If, on the day we die, we can say "I made a change in someone's life"or "I earned respect" or "I tried my best", I believe we have achieved greatness.  

I conclude that you do not have to be great to be remembered, you simply have to be remembered to be great.

x

The Simple Pleasures...

Food... I can't help noticing that nothing makes me happier (and I'm a pretty happy person) than good food. I simply love it. It effects me emotionally in a brilliantly positive way. 

Don't get me wrong... I'm a gay man performing in a nude review show... I watch what I eat. I have to. But, secretly, I don't want to.

I experienced it today. 

I had been dancing in an audition and was tired and sweaty and a little miserable at the thought of having to do a show afterwards. On the way to the theatre, I picked up some sushi for dinner. Just regular old sushi. Some tuna rolls, shrimp nigiri, salmon sashimi, yellow snapper and a cup of miso soup... Nothing remarkable there.

I clumped into my dressing room, also armed with a starbucks peppermint tea and a bottle of diet coke (i couldn't decide what drink I wanted) and set myself down to feast. Needless to say, fifteen wasabi and pickled ginger enhanced minutes later, I was content, relaxed, full and rearing to go for tonight's show. It's amazing.

Though I may not speak for everyone on this matter, food to me is one of life's greatest gifts and a pleasure I enjoy whole heartedly. I adore flavour, texture and smell. I'm fascinated by the intricacies of sweet and sour and hot and sharp and mellow and smoky and salty and bitter and the different feelings and emotions they create. 

I'm not a religious person, but if I had to put my faith in something, I'd raise my glass to Dionysus- God of wine and feasting. He seems like my kind of guy.

Though I work out and do my best to keep trim in an age of gym membership and muscle addiction I'm pretty sure that inside, the inner me is a short, tubby and very smiley child sitting before an ethereal table spread with wonderful things to eat. 

Cheers everybody... Eat, drink and be merry x

Time Spent Alone...

I spent the weekend alone. 

Not much of a feat, right? My flatmates were away and I had the pleasurable time of a flat all to myself... Or so I thought. By the time the fourth day had passed however, I was bored enough to start talking to walls and was genuinely disappointed when I received no reply.

Four days on my own drove me nearly stark raving bonkers. I realised how important company is to me...

I'm fascinated by the effects of loneliness. Being a bit of a literary fiend, I'm somewhat in love with character's suffering from great solitude such as Miss Havisham, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, George Milton and Lennie Small, Piscine "PI" Molitor Patel and Holden Caulfield. I'm curious as to when a brain becomes lonely enough that fantasy outwrestles reality and invention settles in.

I was recently introduced to the splendid weirdness of "Grey Gardens". For those of you unfortunate (and I mean truly unfortunate) enough not to have seen it, it is a 1975 documentary about the lives of Edith Bouvier Beale Snr and Edith Bouvier Beale Jnr, the aunt and first cousin to Jackie Onassis. They lived for decades together in the Hamptons mansion "Grey Gardens" in near perfect squaller. The house was flea-infested, inhabited by innumerable cats and raccoons, lacked running water, and was full of garbage and decay. 

When a camera crew went in to film the documentary of the two women's lives, they discovered the pair lived in a bizarre fantasy world of pretend socialite grandeur. 

Edie Snr would force Edie Jnr to change clothes (what she called her costumes) up to ten times a day in a bizarre act of first ladyhood. The pair had created a world for themselves in which they were the centre of glamour and gossip instead of their world famous relative. The ravages of loneliness are more than apparent on the young Edie's face and the documentary stands (in my opinion) as one of the best examples of how solitude can effect the human brain in a negative way.

I highly recommend watching the documentary as it really is an incredible piece of real life drama. There is much to be learned here I feel.

Never will friends feel as important as just after watching the plight of Big Edie and Little Edie. It seems remarkable how easy it is to lose oneself to the ravages of too much time spent alone... The imagination, it seems, is wonderful but deadly.

x 

Do The Show...

Tonight, I was onstage in front of one of those audiences all performers pray for. They laughed at every joke, sighed at every poignant moment and clapped with never ending enthusiasm. It was one of those "I remember why I started all of this" evenings. It got me thinking about our role as the "performer" and the relationship we have with our audience.

The film "Alegria", directed by Franco dragone, has an amazing speech about the performer's role in society. The speech takes place in a sad scene when the Ringmaster of a dying and failing circus rouses his performers for one final show. He Says:

'We do the show. We do the show for the people in the dark... They need us. You know life is very tough, life is very hard and it's very cruel. When you step over the line into the light, you have a certain responsibility to the people in the dark. You've got to be strong. You've got to take all your pain and you have to bury it inside your costume. For 22 hours you can be just like them... You can moan and worry and cry and sleep and eat and drink and make love and suffer and grow old and die, just like everybody else. But, for two hours of every night, you're not allowed to let life in. So what are you going to do now?... Do the show! Do the show for the people sitting in the dark. The show is for them... Not for you...'

With only four performances left before our West End transfer, I am filled with great anticipation and excitement. My agent saw the show this evening and I was genuinely worried about what he might think. To my delight he told me he thought the show was "liberating and inspiring."

I'm very thankful for the chance to be one of the people in the light, baring all for the people sitting in the dark.

x

Leon Joseph Florentin Bonnat 1833-1922

I had a strange experience which I've been meaning to write about for a while now. It is nothing grand or overwhelming but certainly something that jarred with me and caused me a moment's wobble, so to speak. 

A good friend of mine was reading Gustave Flaubert's 'A Sentimental Education', and the image chosen for the front cover was 'A Self Portrait by Leon Bonnat'. I was sat opposite her at the time and could have quite literally ripped the book from her hands because of the strange effect the picture had on me.

Have you ever seen someone in the street, and though you know nothing about them or what they may be like, wanted them? Have you ever wanted to kiss someone upon the moment of seeing them for the first time or craved to know everything about them without any real reason for wanting to do so? That's what I did... 

But what do you do when it's a painting?

The slight young man with sad brown eyes, glancing curiously over his shoulder made my heart skip a beat. Every detail of the painting made me instantly sorry that I do not and will never know this person. I wanted to ask him why he was sad, what the tiny gold ring on his little finger symbolises or who he was staring at behind him. I wanted to touch his tousled hair, feel the roughness of his beard, hold his narrow artists hands. 

It became quite the joke that I had fallen for a dead guy in a painting, and quite rightly so... It is, after all, ridiculous. But, my god, I have never been so instantly hit by something as simple as an image. I couldn't stop looking at it. I felt like a bit of a secret psycho everytime I googled the image or looked up the book in a nearby waterstones just to see the front cover. He quite simply took my breath away... I think the hardest thing is being captivated by something that no longer exists. I guess it's how paleontologists must feel, having studied prehistoric life, seen the fossils or exposed the past, all the time knowing they will never actually see a living, breathing dinosaur.

Leon Bonnat is my dinosaur... May we meet in another life so I may pour all my questions into your ear and ease my frustration at never having known you. I wonder where you are now?

x

Miranda...

It's incredible how quickly something can take hold and become a global phenomenon. If you had asked me two months ago about "Miranda sings" I would have had no clue what you were talking about. Now, she is internationally famous through something as simple as Youtube and word of mouth and I (and everyone else it seems) can't stop watching her. I love the guerilla style of it all. Well done lady! 

Colleen (Miranda) is in London and performing with us this evening in a Naked Boys/Miranda double bill and I could not be more excited. She is the loveliest person and completely beautiful. 

Rehearsals were so strange. She'd stand there looking lovely and then switch into Miranda mode and her whole face would change... I felt completely girly giggly that she was there with us.

This is going to be a day to remember I feel!

Thank You Elsie and Frances...

One of my fondest childhood memories is spending hours at a time, hanging around the bushes at the bottom of the garden, waiting to see fairies. 

I know... "How did this boy not grow up to be a heterosexual?" I hear you say. But that is beside the point. I was six, possibly seven, and had become utterly seduced by a book my mother bought on the subject of "strange and unexplained phenomena." 

In it was a detailed account of the "Cottingley Fairy" case, in which two girl cousins (Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths) hoaxed a series of five Fairy photographs using paper illustrations copied meticulously from a children's picture book. The "hoax" part of the chapter had little to no effect on me. I was far too young to even attempt reading the journalistic piece. All I knew, there in plain black and white print, was photographic evidence that fairies existed and it thrilled me down to the bone. It was my first taste of addiction.

I must have spent hours searching for the tiny, winged things that leaped about the pictures, willing them to appear.

I would sneak to the very end of the garden, scale the compost heap, climb though a broken panel in the garden fence and wander around the neighbouring woodland. Eyes alert for signs of magic.

On one occasion, I found a tiny scrap of pink fabric caught on the branch of a low growing thicket. I kept it for months under my bed, believing it to be a fairy garment of some kind.

As an adult, I understand that this may seem like a pointless subject to write about. But those fairy photographs left as big an impression on me as, years later, a tattooist would leave on my skin. They were what fueled my creativity and love of storytelling and suspended disbelief. They distracted me from the fact that I most certainly did not fit in at school. I was always the slightly odd child that others puzzled at. They provided me with endless intrigue and delight and carved out my love of the "left of life."

In my older years, the fact that the Cottingley photographs have long been proven fake, makes absolutely no difference to me. They are real in the sense that two little girls were gifted with a secret that no-one else knew about. The pictures were nothing more than paper cut-outs taken on a shaky camera but they fooled an entire nation. They even fooled the likes of Harry Houdini and great thinkers including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle into becoming avid followers of fairies and folklore.

Before she died, Frances admitted the hoax to a magazine reporter, BUT, she only admitted to faking four of the five pictures. The fifth picture, known as 'the sun bath' and the only photograph to feature neither Elsie or her ten year old cousin, she swore was genuine. I guess we'll never know.

This blog is simply a nod in the direction of Elsie and Frances... The delightful tricksters... Thank you ladies, for putting a tiny bit of magic back into the world x

The Granny...

Let it be known, I'm having a blog affair...

It's sordid and has left me scarred but I can't help it. It feels so wrong and yet so right.

I used to keep another blog. It was intense and it was fun, but you know how it is. After years of love we just stopped talking and my eyes wandered to bigger, better blogs.

I have copied this piece from my ex-blog. It's something I'm fond of and thought I'd give a little place in my bright and shiny new blog. It's a little strange but I swear that each and every word of it is true...

Thursday August 17th 2006

"I experienced something truly remarkable this evening.

One of those tiny, human moments when all bridges are fleetingly crossed and strangers can connect without the daily bonds of language, creed, social status or origin.

I had finished work for the evening at the Lyceum Theatre, selling ice creams to glassy eyed tourists wearing "Lion King" t-shirts. Tired and wanting to get home and out of my work clothes, I slumped my way to Embankment subway station and onto a train. Westbound Circle line to be precise! Notting Hill and home, here I come.

It was quiet! There were probably about twenty people scattered sparingly along the train carriage in which I sat. I sat silently and a little grumpily opposite a middle aged woman, buried in her 'Hello' magazine, and a little, Italian Granny.

The old woman (we are talking as stereotypical an Italian granny as you can picture) was reading a book. I truly have no idea what she was reading but quite unexpectedly and very loudly she burst out laughing. Her laughter was amazing.

She boomed with such a deep, hearty, from the belly style guffaw that everyone in the train carriage turned to watch. The funny thing is, she didn't stop. She was in absolute hysterics.

Noticing that the middle aged woman next to her was giving her a slightly odd look, the old lady started trying to explain to her (in Italian and between loud, unstoppable cackles) why she was laughing.

The middle aged woman clearly spoke absolutely no Italian. She shrugged at the granny but was noticeably affected by the infectiousness of what was happening. In a matter of seconds, the middle aged woman was also in hysterics and she had no idea why!

Next the two women turned to me. The granny started trying to explain to me why she was laughing but I have no idea what she said. I could feel myself starting to lose it! The middle aged woman was almost crying by now and I soon joined her.

The old woman's laughter was so loud and contagious that, once set off, I couldn't stop either. It was then that I looked up the train car and saw every single person had started laughing, one by one!!

I laughed all the way home and still have absolutely no idea what I was laughing at.

It was such an amazing experience. I feel so uplifted that in this time of war and heartbreak, something like that random subway ride can happen!! It brightened the rest of my week!"

 

That's all... Just a little story! x

The 'N' Word

Nudity...

Talk about a good way to begin a new chapter of self discovery. I have just opened in a nude review show in London, so I thought I'd spare a few words on the subject of baring one's body to a scrutinising audience.

The most notable of occurrences on the night we first stood naked before a crowd was the "What will the audience think?" wall that hit you in the face right before you undressed. It's an inevitable part of the human psyche I guess, to be concerned about the judgement of others.

There were the obvious worries. ie. "Am I too fat, am i too thin, am I ugly, is my manhood the right size/shape/colour?"

But, something brilliant happens right in the split second before all comes off and you are left with nothing to hide behind. It's not so much that you scale the "What will the audience think?" wall, it's that you abandon all hope of ever getting over it. It's way too high and there's barbed wire across the top... So I'm told. 

Instead, you settle at the foot of that great, big wall and cast yourself adrift on the notion of "There's nothing in the world that I can do about it... So I don't care!"

It's the most liberating feeling. Down the line, I've come to massively enjoy the nudity in the show. I actually look forward to it. The audience, through some strange osmosis, seems to absorb our discomfort. Instead of us, it's them worrying "Am I looking too closely, what if they catch me sneaking a peek Southwards, am I enjoying this a little too much?"

I was always a bit of a secret nudist, opting to spend much of my alone time at home in my birthday suit, but I thoroughly recommend it. Public nudity has made me feel more at ease with myself than I have ever felt. It allows you to see your own strengths and weaknesses and deal with them through accepting the universal truth that you can't stop people judging or disliking or opposing, you can only accept that they do and let them continue. With or without their consent, we are quite simply... us!

That's enough from me! x

The Difference Between The Sprout and The Bean...

Sprout... 

 That's me... 

In the grand, old beanstalk of life I am currently ticking the "sprout" box. It's not something I'm necessarily very good at... being a sprout! I haven't quite found my place to grow fully and enjoy sproutliness to its full potential. (stay with me, it make sense in my head!)

I was great at being a bean. Some would say I was even blessed with a beanliness that few could have hoped for. I was a dreaming bean. A bean completely seduced with the adventure of putting out feelers and roots and the wonderful potential that feeling provided. Ticking the "bean" box felt like I had ownership over an embryo of endless possibilities that I guarded like a protective parent. In fact, the odd thing is, when I was a bean I couldn't wait for the day I would open my eyes and discover I had become a sprout.

Now I'm here. 26 years of well cultivated growth. I've loved, lost, loved again, worked, worked harder, worked harder still, cried, fought, laughed, played... slept?!

All was going smoothly... I was sprouting and it was exciting! 

I have suddenly found myself however, at a bit of a "blank canvas" stage in my life. I'm suddenly single for the first real time in almost six years, I've just moved house, I've recently lost weight, work is looking up and I'm feeling good. Could this be the gift of a renewal?

'Here I am. Hello! Nice to meet you!'

I'm taking it upon myself to go back and rediscover the things I possessed when I was a bean. I guess, though I didn't know at the time, I was very a lucky bean indeed. experience and excitement were things that, thankfully, stuck to my adult youth like old friends. Had I known what I now know, I would have cultivated and coaxed them to remain closer to my side over the past few years. They have grown somewhat distant and I suddenly realise how much I missed their presence.

Second Chance... Coaxing commencing!

This blog marks the beginning of discovering "The Difference Between The Sprout and The Bean." 

Here goes x