A few posts back I wrote about how thrilled I was about landing the role of Algernon in a local production of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. Well, we opened last night to great reviews and I’m still extremely happy to be involved, particularly with such an awesome role. But I have to say, ever since I got back from holidays and plunged head first into production week (with a resounding splat, I might add) I’ve been battling the rather disconcerting feeling that, as much as I’m enjoying being Algernon, Algernon seems, in a strange way, to enjoy being me.
The most enjoyable part of the whole play for me is the chance to poke a bit of (thoroughly deserved) fun at the aristocracy and the upper class culture. Algernon’s persona as we’ve come to develop him over the last few months is glaringly ostentatious, absurdly dandyful (shut up, yes it is) and poncy to the point of being overtly camp.
Put more simply, Algernon is English.
I, on the other hand, am Australian and take pride in the fact. It’s one of the few categorisations or labels that I will allow to be applied to me without any objection. So the startling tendency for Algernon’s ridiculous affectations to hang around on my person long after we’ve taken the final bow is causing me an intermediate amount of cultural distress. I don’t have the broadest of Australian accents to begin with, but I’ve taken great care over the years to cultivate the few Strine diphthongs I do use to the ultimate level of inner ear rupturing nasalisation.
Nowadays, thanks to my spending every waking hour either at work or at Earnest, not only do I sound more pompous than Mark Nicholas interviewing the Duke of Edinburgh, I’ve managed to develop a slight labialisation of my rhotics, despite the fact that not even Algernon has that particular speech impediment anymore. We got rid of it about a week and a half ago because it sounded ridiculous. And now I’m doing it.
Earlier this week at a staff meeting I was inviting my co-workers along to see the play when I got this gem from one of the senior managers:
“I was just saying that you’re perfectly suited to the role (take that sopranos). You just look like you would fit right in in Victorian England”.
What. The. Hell?
For one thing, we wear a uniform at work, and it’s about as far from Victorian as you could get without being downright unprofessional. For another, it is a well established fact that if I were a product of any historical era, it would be the Spanish Civil War. Or possibly the Early Cretaceous Period. I certainly don’t belong in England. I have the documents to prove it. Mind you, this was from the same manager who has described me in my performance review as “shy,” “methodical” and “too compassionate,” none of which remotely apply to me. That last one doesn’t even make sense.
The point is I’m a little disturbed by my inability to shake Algernon off when I’m not being him. I’m not a method actor by any stretch of the imagination and I’ve never had this sort of character invasion before. I didn’t start bossing people around or standing around being ceremonial and useless (well…) while I was playing King Hildebrand. It probably has something to do with the fact that a single, twenty-something year old mischievous cynic has a little more common ground with me than a fifty something year old monarch from a Gilbert and Sullivan Operetta in the first place, but I’d love to be able to convince myself that it has something to do with becoming a better actor.
Either way, there were still no messages from fans, agents or pretty girls’ mothers on my phone this morning. But at least no-one in my family got engaged this time. Make of that what you will.
Gawwy with 2 Ws
Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
08 December 2011
02 May 2011
The Rollercoaster - Part One
As a writer, aspiring journalist and one who takes an interest in current affairs, I do my best to take in my share of news. I generally have a news website open at work (don’t tell my network admin. I don’t want to go back to that month or so where they decided blocking the news would increase productivity) and I occasionally read other opinion sites recreationally.
Unfortunately the dark side of consuming a lot of news is that for every well written, researched and properly considered piece that gets filed, you have to sift through an enormous amount of inconsequential or poorly written or unprofessionally produced garbage to get at it.
And then every so often, a weekend comes around that just sets the whole online media community on fire.
It started out with me being all scandalised and indignant about the ABC being forced to cut the Chaser’s commentary of the royal wedding on account of the Monarchy changing the conditions of the broadcast rights with under a week to go before the wedding to disallow the use of the footage for humour or satire.
I’m still pretty annoyed about that. Not so much for the Chaser, as for the fact that apparently England are allowed to tell Australian media what they can and can’t do with footage of a public event like the wedding. Sure, obviously no-one wants to go around ruining the big day for the couple. But honestly, if England thinks it can’t handle people poking fun of the monarchy, if it really thinks that people having a joke at it’s expense is something that warrants a global ban, then in my opinion there’s really only one word for that:
Coward.
Okay, there are others. I’m not going to print them here because K.Kim gets upset with me when I use mildly offensive language.
But then when Friday night Aussie time finally rolled around, I found I was compelled to turn the footage on. Prior to that, I had been planning to boycott, based largely on my antagonism for all things English and my distaste for the sort of frivolous and vacuous nonsense that goes along with the build up to this sort of thing. I was legitimately concerned about the possibility of damaging my TV by getting frustrated and throwing things at it.
Unfortunately there really wasn’t anything else to do, because every other person I knew was either working or watching the wedding. In despair I eventually caved in and switched on the ABC’s coverage, minus the Chaser.
I’m glad I did. I timed it to perfection, and managed to skip all the pre-service nonsense and fashion commentary and arrived just in time to hear the priest say “Dearly beloved”. The service itself was pretty good, and most of the music was really nice. Except of course “Jerusalem”, which by common law has to be sung at every English wedding, and must be sung in a different time signature by every person in attendance.
I really hate that ‘hymn’.
After all the festivity I was faced with brain splitting decision of whether to blog about it or not. I felt like I should add my voice to the other billion or so, but then, I also didn’t feel like I had anything really consequential to add to mountain of other inconsequential bits of royal gunk getting around. Of course that hasn’t inhibited me from writing a page and a half about it so far without any signs of slowing up, but that’s exactly the point. An event like this seems to generate idiotic ramblings like this one by its sheer weight of existence.
And that really pisses me off (Sorry Kim)
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. You know what else pisses me off? Waiting just one day to post and then…
29 August 2009
Good Old Fashioned British Hospitality
Travelling on mainland Europe was great. It’s land full of culture, history and food, but, as I boarded a bus bound for London Town, I have to confess I was looking forward to getting to England. If for nothing else, for the feeling of heading for a place where I might fit in a bit better. A place that spoke my language (more or less). And a place where saying “I’m from Australia” wasn’t accompanied with an inherent feeling of “what the hell are you doing here?”
They call England the mother land, and while I think of Old Blighty as something more like a great-grandmother land these days, it was strangely comforting to know I was heading back to the Commonwealth, where a weary continental traveller could take his ease among friends before the long journey home.
“Ugh. You haven’t even filled out an immigration form, have you?”
This was my first taste of English hospitality, as I greeted the staff at the border security office in Calais, just before the entrance to the channel tunnel.
“Um… Can I have an immigration form please?” was my slightly aback-taken reply.
“Here. You really need to be better prepared than this. Go away and fill this out, then come back and see me.”
It was a fairly rude sort of introduction, but I knew it was just a long day. Once I could show him my passport and reassure him that I was just a passing traveller and not a threat to national security everything would be alright.
“Right, now let’s see here. You’re Australian?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re seeking entry to the UK for a period of 5 days?”
“That’s right.”
“And where are you staying during that time?”
“With my aunt in Oxford.”
“In Oxford?”
I started to notice the officer’s rather annoying habit of repeating everything I told him as a question, just to make sure I was aware of how unreasonable my responses obviously seemed to him. It was at about this point that I started to suspect things might not be going quite according to plan.
“And what is your aunt’s address in Oxford?”
“I don’t actually know. She’s picking me up form the bus stop.”
“Oh she’s picking you up, is she?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re staying with her until the second of September, are you?”
“That’s right.”
“And do you have your tickets for that flight with you now?”
Of course I didn’t. The people of a more sophisticated country might have realised that no-one uses print-outs of their tickets anymore because it’s unnecessary and it wastes paper and the internet is so much more convenient. But here in England, they did things the old fashioned way, apparently.
“So, then, do you have any proof of your departure date, a booking card or something?”
“Not on paper, but if I can have access to the internet, I can show the booking online, if you like.”
I couldn’t have access to the internet. Either it was against protocol, or they don’t have it in England yet.
“So this flight is booked for Tuesday evening, is it?”
“Yes. About 10 o’clock from memory”
“Which airline is it with?”
“Qantas.”
“And you don’t have any proof of this?”
“… No. …”
“How much money do you have with you?”
Now things really went downhill. My pay from the summer camp was pretty much all gone, so I had been getting rid of as many Euros as I could, so I could withdraw money in Pounds when I got to London, rather than pay a stupid commission getting Euros converted. All told my wallet contained…
“Two Euros and seventy five cents”.
“Two Euros Seventy?” The officer stopped looking at me like I was a potential threat and started looking at me like I was a complete idiot.
“Okay. Do you have any luggage on the bus?”
“Yes. I have a suitcase and a rucksack.”
“A suitcase and a backpack? Alright. They’ll have to come off the bus, I’ll need to detain you for questioning.”
So that’s what we did, and now my day really started to get fun. I’d never been detained by the police before. We went out to the bus and got my stuff off. The bus then left without me, so things were really looking up.
The first thing that happened was that my luggage was all locked away in a big cage, while I was searched for firearms on my person. They didn’t find any, so after asking me to leave my belt with them so I couldn’t hang myself with it, they escorted me to a glass-walled room and locked me in.
I should point out at this point that the staff who looked after the holding cell were much nicer than the officer who sent me there. They made sure I had food and a hot drink, and I was made comfortable. Well… comfortable apart from the fact that I was locked in a glass-walled room somewhere outside Calais.
After a short wait the officer returned and escorted me to an interview room, where he proceeded to ask me all the same questions he had asked me out the front, only this time he wrote my answers down instead of repeating them back to me. After all this, apparently he still didn’t believe me, so he agreed to call my aunt to confirm. I had to leave the room while he spoke to her, presumably so I couldn’t tell her the answers to the officer’s questions before he had a chance to ask them. It was good to know that there was at least a little bit of sanity to be found in the facility; it would all be cleared up soon.
After my aunt confirmed my travel plans, I was taken back to the main office to collect my bags. I was looking forward to getting out of that damn office and getting on with my journey on the next available bus.
But it wasn’t to be. Actually I was collecting my luggage ready for a full bag search. My luggage and I were taken into another small office and locked in, and I was made to take every last thing out of all my baggage and tell the officer what it was and where I got it. I don’t know what they were looking for, but they didn’t find it, so I packed it all back into the bags while the officer stood by and shook his head in annoyance at how long it was taking. Then the luggage went back in the cage, and I went back into the glass room.
Half an hour or so later the officer returned and took me down the hall to another room to be fingerprinted. Yep, fingerprinted. I’m not sure why, but I suppose if I ever try to do something mischievous like ‘catch a bus to London’ again (not bloody likely, I’m here to say), Interpol will be on the case.
So after all the hoops had been jumped through, all the necessary confirmation made and all the ink washed off my fingertips, the officer finally returned with the final paperwork and informed me:
“As I am not satisfied you have the financial means to return to Australia, and as you have not provided sufficient proof of your intention to return to Australia within the required time frame, I am denying you permission to enter the United Kingdom.”
“You’re denying me permission to enter?” I asked disbelievingly, more to give the stuffy clipboard monkey a taste of his own medicine than to request clarification.
And that was that. After incarcerating me for two hours, searching me and my bags and fingerprinting me on suspicion of ‘trying to go to England’, the British Border Patrol rang up their friends at the French Border Patrol who came and collected me in a big white van and then dropped me off at a bus stop just outside Calais at half past five in the evening. I had no accommodation, no real idea where anything was, and no idea how to speak French.
And that was my experience of all that England has to offer. Nothing but a complete load of bollocks.
Far from home (far from home?)
Garry with 2 Rs
They call England the mother land, and while I think of Old Blighty as something more like a great-grandmother land these days, it was strangely comforting to know I was heading back to the Commonwealth, where a weary continental traveller could take his ease among friends before the long journey home.
“Ugh. You haven’t even filled out an immigration form, have you?”
This was my first taste of English hospitality, as I greeted the staff at the border security office in Calais, just before the entrance to the channel tunnel.
“Um… Can I have an immigration form please?” was my slightly aback-taken reply.
“Here. You really need to be better prepared than this. Go away and fill this out, then come back and see me.”
It was a fairly rude sort of introduction, but I knew it was just a long day. Once I could show him my passport and reassure him that I was just a passing traveller and not a threat to national security everything would be alright.
“Right, now let’s see here. You’re Australian?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re seeking entry to the UK for a period of 5 days?”
“That’s right.”
“And where are you staying during that time?”
“With my aunt in Oxford.”
“In Oxford?”
I started to notice the officer’s rather annoying habit of repeating everything I told him as a question, just to make sure I was aware of how unreasonable my responses obviously seemed to him. It was at about this point that I started to suspect things might not be going quite according to plan.
“And what is your aunt’s address in Oxford?”
“I don’t actually know. She’s picking me up form the bus stop.”
“Oh she’s picking you up, is she?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re staying with her until the second of September, are you?”
“That’s right.”
“And do you have your tickets for that flight with you now?”
Of course I didn’t. The people of a more sophisticated country might have realised that no-one uses print-outs of their tickets anymore because it’s unnecessary and it wastes paper and the internet is so much more convenient. But here in England, they did things the old fashioned way, apparently.
“So, then, do you have any proof of your departure date, a booking card or something?”
“Not on paper, but if I can have access to the internet, I can show the booking online, if you like.”
I couldn’t have access to the internet. Either it was against protocol, or they don’t have it in England yet.
“So this flight is booked for Tuesday evening, is it?”
“Yes. About 10 o’clock from memory”
“Which airline is it with?”
“Qantas.”
“And you don’t have any proof of this?”
“… No. …”
“How much money do you have with you?”
Now things really went downhill. My pay from the summer camp was pretty much all gone, so I had been getting rid of as many Euros as I could, so I could withdraw money in Pounds when I got to London, rather than pay a stupid commission getting Euros converted. All told my wallet contained…
“Two Euros and seventy five cents”.
“Two Euros Seventy?” The officer stopped looking at me like I was a potential threat and started looking at me like I was a complete idiot.
“Okay. Do you have any luggage on the bus?”
“Yes. I have a suitcase and a rucksack.”
“A suitcase and a backpack? Alright. They’ll have to come off the bus, I’ll need to detain you for questioning.”
So that’s what we did, and now my day really started to get fun. I’d never been detained by the police before. We went out to the bus and got my stuff off. The bus then left without me, so things were really looking up.
The first thing that happened was that my luggage was all locked away in a big cage, while I was searched for firearms on my person. They didn’t find any, so after asking me to leave my belt with them so I couldn’t hang myself with it, they escorted me to a glass-walled room and locked me in.
I should point out at this point that the staff who looked after the holding cell were much nicer than the officer who sent me there. They made sure I had food and a hot drink, and I was made comfortable. Well… comfortable apart from the fact that I was locked in a glass-walled room somewhere outside Calais.
After a short wait the officer returned and escorted me to an interview room, where he proceeded to ask me all the same questions he had asked me out the front, only this time he wrote my answers down instead of repeating them back to me. After all this, apparently he still didn’t believe me, so he agreed to call my aunt to confirm. I had to leave the room while he spoke to her, presumably so I couldn’t tell her the answers to the officer’s questions before he had a chance to ask them. It was good to know that there was at least a little bit of sanity to be found in the facility; it would all be cleared up soon.
After my aunt confirmed my travel plans, I was taken back to the main office to collect my bags. I was looking forward to getting out of that damn office and getting on with my journey on the next available bus.
But it wasn’t to be. Actually I was collecting my luggage ready for a full bag search. My luggage and I were taken into another small office and locked in, and I was made to take every last thing out of all my baggage and tell the officer what it was and where I got it. I don’t know what they were looking for, but they didn’t find it, so I packed it all back into the bags while the officer stood by and shook his head in annoyance at how long it was taking. Then the luggage went back in the cage, and I went back into the glass room.
Half an hour or so later the officer returned and took me down the hall to another room to be fingerprinted. Yep, fingerprinted. I’m not sure why, but I suppose if I ever try to do something mischievous like ‘catch a bus to London’ again (not bloody likely, I’m here to say), Interpol will be on the case.
So after all the hoops had been jumped through, all the necessary confirmation made and all the ink washed off my fingertips, the officer finally returned with the final paperwork and informed me:
“As I am not satisfied you have the financial means to return to Australia, and as you have not provided sufficient proof of your intention to return to Australia within the required time frame, I am denying you permission to enter the United Kingdom.”
“You’re denying me permission to enter?” I asked disbelievingly, more to give the stuffy clipboard monkey a taste of his own medicine than to request clarification.
And that was that. After incarcerating me for two hours, searching me and my bags and fingerprinting me on suspicion of ‘trying to go to England’, the British Border Patrol rang up their friends at the French Border Patrol who came and collected me in a big white van and then dropped me off at a bus stop just outside Calais at half past five in the evening. I had no accommodation, no real idea where anything was, and no idea how to speak French.
And that was my experience of all that England has to offer. Nothing but a complete load of bollocks.
Far from home (far from home?)
Garry with 2 Rs
01 May 2009
Away in La Manga
I spent last weekend in a resort town in South East Spain called La Manga. It’s a little village close to the south east coast. The closest notable cities are Cartagena and Murcia (the regional capital). It was a bit of a hike from Madrid; I had to take a five hour train ride to Cartagena and then a twenty minute taxi ride, but it was a great place to kick back for a few days once I got there.
I was a bit out of place though. La Manga has the look of one of those southern Spanish villas that’s actually just a retirement village for British billionaires. It’s technically still under Spanish sovereignty, but as far as local culture goes, it belongs to England. And possibly also to the 20th century. Everyone speaks English and all the restaurants sell beef burgers and fish and chips and … whatever other stuff people eat in England. And all the prices are adjusted to suit the local clientele, so it’s not the sort of place a normal person could stay for more than a weekend or so, and not the sort of place you would normally find me at all.
So what the hell was I doing there?
Madrid Cricket Club was hosting a twenty-twenty tournament with a bunch of teams from Europe getting together for a weekend of good old-fashioned British culture, which seems to be what sleepy towns in south-east Spain are all about. And I was there in my freshly purchased MCC whites, ready to represent Madrid along with all the other ex-pats.
There were two other teams from Spain, three teams from England and two teams from the Netherlands. The English teams weren’t such a big deal (as is usually the case with English cricket teams), and actually the teams to watch were the Dutch boys. Amsterdam and The Hague were the strongest teams, since both teams had members who played for the Netherlands, and were fitting the weekend in between preparations for the world cup qualifiers. The English teams, like the Spanish teams, were mainly amateurs looking for a fun weekend in the sunshine.
I ended up playing most of the weekend as 12th man for La Manga CC, who hadn’t quite managed to bring a full team (despite the competition being held in their town) and needed to borrow some Madrid players. I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that even the team that couldn’t field a full side didn’t want me in their first eleven, so in the end I decided not to make anything of it, and just ran around at deep mid-wicket for a while.
As you might expect my batting was nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing to write a blog entry about, so I won’t.
I did manage to sneak in a couple of overs for Madrid with the ball when we played against La Manga, and took figures of two overs, no maidens, one for six which wasn’t too bad. Especially since the wicket was a Dutch national player from The Hague who had been called in to take my spot (make of that what you will).
Over all Madrid finished fifth, behind the Dutch teams and two of the English teams, but ahead of the other Spaniards and one particularly unfortunate English side.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
I was a bit out of place though. La Manga has the look of one of those southern Spanish villas that’s actually just a retirement village for British billionaires. It’s technically still under Spanish sovereignty, but as far as local culture goes, it belongs to England. And possibly also to the 20th century. Everyone speaks English and all the restaurants sell beef burgers and fish and chips and … whatever other stuff people eat in England. And all the prices are adjusted to suit the local clientele, so it’s not the sort of place a normal person could stay for more than a weekend or so, and not the sort of place you would normally find me at all.
So what the hell was I doing there?
Madrid Cricket Club was hosting a twenty-twenty tournament with a bunch of teams from Europe getting together for a weekend of good old-fashioned British culture, which seems to be what sleepy towns in south-east Spain are all about. And I was there in my freshly purchased MCC whites, ready to represent Madrid along with all the other ex-pats.
There were two other teams from Spain, three teams from England and two teams from the Netherlands. The English teams weren’t such a big deal (as is usually the case with English cricket teams), and actually the teams to watch were the Dutch boys. Amsterdam and The Hague were the strongest teams, since both teams had members who played for the Netherlands, and were fitting the weekend in between preparations for the world cup qualifiers. The English teams, like the Spanish teams, were mainly amateurs looking for a fun weekend in the sunshine.
I ended up playing most of the weekend as 12th man for La Manga CC, who hadn’t quite managed to bring a full team (despite the competition being held in their town) and needed to borrow some Madrid players. I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that even the team that couldn’t field a full side didn’t want me in their first eleven, so in the end I decided not to make anything of it, and just ran around at deep mid-wicket for a while.
As you might expect my batting was nothing to write home about, and certainly nothing to write a blog entry about, so I won’t.
I did manage to sneak in a couple of overs for Madrid with the ball when we played against La Manga, and took figures of two overs, no maidens, one for six which wasn’t too bad. Especially since the wicket was a Dutch national player from The Hague who had been called in to take my spot (make of that what you will).
Over all Madrid finished fifth, behind the Dutch teams and two of the English teams, but ahead of the other Spaniards and one particularly unfortunate English side.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)