Come the revolution, comrade...

I've been watching, as I guess we all have, the programmes and events surrounding the 90th anniversary of the end of the First World War. It's all been very moving, but I can't help but wonder at the futility of it all, how it's always the little man who suffers. Left to their own devices, the soldiers on the ground managed to arrange a football match. Apparently the Germans won. Again.

This time last year we presented my Henry V - Lion of England at Brighton. When I was adapting Shakespeare's story in 1992, about an invasion of France, I was listening to the news about the war in Bosnia. It never ends, does it. That's why last year, at Brighton, I had Ed, our Henry actor, pin a poppy on his costume, as he gives the final lines. "... think on our tale, look at the world and muse, How little, little mankind has grown, and how much we still all have to lose." There was a palpable gasp from the audience.

And talking of a world fit for heroes, how come I can't find an NHS dentist in West London? I thought we had a Labour government. Come on politicians, this isn't good enough. You can lead a country to war, but can't arrange for me to have a loose crown fixed without it costing me a fortune.A hero - Ed Morris in Henry V - Lion of England. By... er... me.

Bill's Big House

My education into the big wide world of London theater continues apace. I'm still mindful of the fact that when William Shakespeare was my age, he was actually returning to the Midlands at the end of his career. But then Bill never had the M40 or a Renault Megane, did he.

The first two months have been, in our esteemed tutors own words, something of a 'boot-camp'. Head of the course Andrew is a rare breed - an easy academic with a soft Scottish lilt who has, unlike many academics, been there and done at least most of it. He has all the T-shirts (almost literally!) and has done everything and been everywhere. We - the students - are amazed the R.S.C and the National Theatre have escaped Andrew's gentle touch. It can only be a matter of time, if Andrew decides he fancies it.

The other chief boot camp jackbooter is Julius - arguably one of the top six people in British Theatre. He's an interesting mix, is Jules, and I like him very much. He comes in for lectures once a week after he finishes his day job which at the moment is TEN No 1 theatre tours! After lectures one Thursday night he offers fellow producer-in-training Samantha and I a lift home - we're in the same direction - and he pops in to his office to pick up his phone charger. What an office! But if you're Bill Kenwright I suppose it's all tax deductible.



In stark contrast, here's my office...



A desk in our 1 bedroom flat. Although, apart from the phone, it's newer than Bill's office.

IKEA Wimbledon, we salute you.

Posh Innit!

Look! A new Maverick logo! The first one designed by a pro, Dave Walsh Design, of Birmingham.

The original logo was a mix of me, John Slater, Robb Williams and whatever we could get a computer to print for free. Remember the days, computer fans, before the days of WYSIWYG? (Ask if you want to know more. There's a comment section on this blog thang.) x

Playing with the Big Boys

New experiences continue unabated, not least of which is the fact I've been able - had no choice really - to get over the claustrophobia I developed some years ago on the London Underground. And I also find I'm really quite enjoying this University lark. Don't get me wrong, the pay is rubbish. Well non existent. Actually of course you have to pay fees. (I can't BELIEVE there's virtually no financial help for an MA. Age discrimination I think. Or maybe academic discrimination. Most Masters have done a 'normal' degree. Not me mate. I think I'm a special case. Well, special. Maybe just a 'case'. Whatever. Get back to it...!)

It occurs to me that one of the big gripes I had about my beloved Birmingham is that there were no networks. There are maybe four theatre producers in Brum that I can think of. And the chances of us ever getting together socially were virtually impossible. And we all have different agendas and methods of working. Plus most of the original 'Mavericks' have moved on, mainly to London. My main, regular chums in Birmingham have long since been bored by my theatre talk and it is not doing them a disservice when I say most of them have absolutely no ideas about the standard or concept of theatrical production anyway, so nights down the pub tended to fairly uninspiring for me and probably very boring for them.

So its only just occurred to me that three days a week I am not only listened to when I talk about theatre production, but listen to lectures about it and hang out with people who are equally if not more into it than I am. Bliss! I have a new bunch of chums who rave about theatre in different disciplines and I am regularly meeting/talking to theatre obsessives, mainly West End, but not exclusively. It can't last. This is almost fun. Imagine. Me, at my age, admitting that. They won't believe it down me local in Brum...

The Seven Ages Of Hennegan

All bow. My bag on Joan's desk. Her actual, real desk!

We're all going to die, right? I mean, we have no option. All we can hope for is a long easy life and a short easy end. Now I'm 50 years old, I should be thinking about retirement, maybe. A serene dotage. My mate, Fat-Belly Norton certainly is. But then Brian has had a 'proper' job all his life, with a career path and a pension. On one hand, I envy him. On the other hand, I think I'm just the right age to start a new career.

So I'm now a student. I'm going to University!

There are a couple of things this brings up. Firstly, they accepted me on this MA. Something of a miracle as I've not troubled the education sector much since I failed my 11 plus. You're supposed to have a good degree or experience. Guess which I had. Then another fact I overlooked - I am the first person in my family to attend Uni. It didn't really occur to me until I told Dad what I was going to do.
"University, eh, son.? They'll send you back with a bag of brains then. Make up for me." (By the way, everyone loves my old man, including me. The story of how he survived A Bridge Too Far in WW2 is frightening in its randomness. Maybe next month I'll tell you about that.")

So I'm off to University. To be honest it's an MA in Creative Producing so its more a validation of what I've been doing for the last 15 years, interspersed with radio, than a new career. But it's a strange feeling. We've had a flat in London since my ill-fated gig at the Globe last year, so accommodation was not a problem. Down sizing from my 3 bed house to a 1 bed flat is a problem, but I'm dealing with it. Looking after Maverick should not present too much of a challenge with our cyber-options and the excellent Debs as administrator. Being a commuter on the tube in London is more odd. So too is meeting my corum. Not class, corum. Or Chorum. Sommat Latin. I ent sussed it yet. But on our first day we are all due to meet outside the Uni in Bloomsbury. I approach a young looking group of people who turn out to be American tourists. I explain I'm a Birmingham tourist looking for my corum. They look at me strangely and walk away.

When I find out where I'm supposed to be, I finally find my corum. My 6 other potential Masters. Only two of us are blokes and we're both called Nick. I hope its a good omen. We are a disparate but interesting group and I can see almost straight away what Andrew, the course director, is trying to achieve. We will infest, if that's the right word, a broad range of performance disciplines when we leave and hopefully we will all have the right tools to make a difference. Although I already have many of the tools. In fact I wonder if I'm too 'tooled up' to be here, but Andrew's first address hits the spot.
"There may be some repetition in the early part of this degree. You are all experienced in different areas, so you may find you repeat areas of knowledge. You, Nick, for instance, will have little problem with the academic work, given you already have an MA, 2 BA's and you've taken time off your PhD. " Eh? I'm about to remonstrate when I realise it's the other Nick he's addressing. I think Nick is my age, but he's 27. Wishful thinking on my part. So young and yet so qualified. He's a nice bloke too, on first impressions, and I can't help but feel this degree will give Nick and many others on the course the necessary Producer smarts to allow them to change the world. I'll be long dead by then. Or will I? I am the eldest, but not by THAT much...

Some of my Chorum... chora... corum...

Later we meet the Directors. Some of our work is with the Theatre Directing MFA's. They are all about 12, passionate and intelligent. I find them captivating. They have solid, firm ideas, formed by philosophical debate. Even Director Andy, who tells me he is 37, went to RADA to train as an actor and is originally from Harbourne in Birmingham, is really only 15 and unnervingly handsome. Later in the second week I have a debate about the play 'Festen' with a beautiful director who in spite of her tender years is frighteningly focused.

Beautiful Directors, hangin' outside the Theatre Royal, just being brilliant.

I'm saved by Joan Littlewood and the fact that for the last 15 - 20 years I have worked in glorious isolation. Now Joan is sadly long dead, but amongst other things, (oh what a lovely war) she bought a new, mainly socialist agenda to the Theatre Royal Stratford East. A venue I have heard much about, but never visited till now. Much of our course will be based there. (It's a long way from our flat in West London, but being a Brummy, I can't reconcile distance with the Underground. Not natural and I'm still not comfortable with being in a tube under the earth. Give me the 50 bus any day.)

At the Theatre Royal, I hear their lovely head of outreach and education describe a theatrical philosophy I thought had only existed in my head and at the Billesley Pub in Birmingham when we were there. It's a real shock. I am not alone! A notion I thought I had invented had been created previously. It's a shame Joan is now dead, although I am sure there are more protagonists. I then realise that I am sitting at Joan Littlewood's desk and her library is in the same room. For a theatre anorak, it's a dream. I take a photo of her desk. And although it takes a few days to sink in, I realise that for someone who has worked on his own for so long and generally been responsible for everything, its great to be part of a group.

Mind you, it's only been a couple of weeks...

The End of Innocence...!

Ah well.  It finally had to happen.  My little lovely niece grew up last week and became a legal adult.  18 years ago (and nine months as it happens) my sister broke the news that she was about to bring another life into the world.  My brother and other sister had previously done the baby thang, but Fi was my contemporary, whereas the others were a decade above us.  So it felt a bit more special.  I still have a grainy VHS recording of Fiona telling our (now departed) Uncle Mike the news.  "I don't care what it is, as long as it's healthy."  Well it - she -  was healthy and I felt a heavy dose of family bonhomie when she came into the world! A lovely sweet girl who I probably had more to do with than my other lovely, sweet nephews and nieces.

Imagine my shock then, when as we sit having a birthday lunch at the Bluebell Cider House in Earlswood - her ex-school chums work there - that she wants a pub crawl to celebrate her 18th!  I'm horrified.  We'd had a bottle of champagne, as you might to celebrate such an occasion. So in horror, I ordered another one.  Niecy said we should move to her boyfiends local.  Good grief.  To minimise the shock of that, I ordered yet another bottle of bubbly.  My neice seemed to be drinking mainly orange juice in spite of the occasion, so in horror I ordered another couple of pints.  Then a chum of my niece turned up, to ferry us to the boyfriends pub.  Can you imagine!  Drive.  In a car.  I know her friend had not had a drink and in fact did not all night, but I still found myself reaching for another pint, just to get me through the shock.  Eventually we arrived at the boyfri

ends pub in Solihull.  I started taking pictures for this blog, although they were not very good, so boyfriend said we needed a couple of shots to help.  Then I found a bench in the pub garden had been dedicated to a local who had died tragically young, so to get us through that, me and boyfriend had another shot.  

My sister seemed concerned about something.  It might have been the fact I'm moving to London yet running Maveric

k in Birmingham.  I'm not quite sure.  So I had a few drinks while I thought about it.  It was a jolly night, but then, for some strange reason I became concerned that my niece had been over drinking. I'm sure I'd seen her have one or two drinks although she seemed remarkably sober.  I think.  But she obviously was not sober, because suddenly there were two of her.  And they were both swaying.  Such a shame.  Her 18th and all. At some point she was hanging on to me while I told her how much I loved her and how proud I was of her and then a bit later my niece and my sister almost fell over me and making my legs go rubbery having called me a taxi and trying to get in it with me I think although I can't be too sure and anyway where had they all gone and what time is it now ooooo look at the lovely coloured lights and remember l

ovely niece and sister and boyfriend and your lovely friends drink responsibly co uk www or wwwhatever time i got home i have no idea oooo i could murder a bag of chips but no chance where do i live? oh yes here.  hear.  no here.  i love my family i do. wheres my girlfriend?  oh yes london.  i'll phone her.  what does a phone look like nowadays.

The next day I felt quite ill.  It must have been something I ate.  My niece was fine, apparently. But tsk, tsk, I despair at the folly of youth and their binge drinking, as reported regularly in the Daily Mail, for instance.  Have you any stories to share about the irresponsibility of youth?  Please comment below.  I really really need to hear your sad and sorry tales too.

Above: Raging, drunken young people looking at me with some concern.

Time for a Murder

Or at least, a film about a murder.  Or at least, a visit from a film crew who are filming some stuff for their internet site which is about the film they want to make about a murder if they get the funding.  And we all know, applying successfully for funding is murder.

So well done to some very smart Birmingham film people.  George Fleming, a man born to make documentaries for TV, although TV may not realise it yet.  Pip and his company, Blue Hippo Media, based in Digbeth... sorry, the East Side, as it is now called, has some great ideas and helped me with my desire to turn Maverick into more of a business.  Check out his website.  And Billy Bannister, another man born to record film and TV sound, although he always seems busy, so perhaps TV is perhaps more aware of him than George.  Their joint efforts to find funding for their film 'Killicurum' must surely be successful if there is any justice in the world, particularly as they are using my current Henry V actor, Ed Morris, to help with direction.

Of course there is no justice in the world, so they might not get their money.  But I loaned them my garage and part of the Henry set to make their on-line trailer and later today I heard about Michael Grade bemoaning the fact that ITV's profits were down substantially and they would obviously have to drop their Public Service remit.  

Of course, the poor ITV dears are being murdered by the multi channel environment and the internet.  The only way they can hang on for dear life is if they drop all those terribly expensive and therefore, not very profitable things.  Things like local news.  Documentaries. Local productions. Working in the regions. 

There's bugger all TV left in the West Midlands anyway.  I never thought I'd cheer the BBC, but I certainly do.  Although there is even talk of them cutting production in Birmingham.  And isn't it spooky that I heard from a friend in ITV that they were planning massive job cuts many months before the current bleating?

I suppose you can't blame a commercial company for doing what it must do, look after its shareholders.  I dont have much affinity with the fat cats, but you can't blame them for wanting to be richer.  But the airwaves are a limited resource.  And the media should be more than just about profit.  ITV are going to shaft us on behalf of their shareholders.  We should scream murder, but we won't.

Back to more relevant matters.  Aren't prosthetics wonderful!  I'm sure you saw my performance in the film I Bought A Vampire Motorcycle - surely everyone did, didn't they? - where I got my legs blown off. Here's Pip's son with a severed hand. One of many in a tupperware container in the crew car.

You've got to hand it to him.  

And here's the star that made it.

More Blood on your dagger, dear?