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?

A Moments Silence Please

It is with deep regret, ladies and gentlemen, that I have to announce a death in the Hennegan Birmingham household. Yes, after many years, dear people, a beloved pet has passed over. I am now a house without any fish. None. Not a single one. Apart from the fish fingers in the freezer, but it would be as tasteless as they are to mention them at this point.

Yes, dear friends. A great shock.

What can I say about Flappy the GoldFish.? Well, for a start, his name was not really Flappy. No. Many years ago, when the sun seemed brighter, the days longer and the grass greener, I skipped gaily into King Heath and purchased two fish and a bowl for a fiver. Neil and Buzz as they were known to one obsessed with the moon landing, cost 50p each. The folly of a child, naming fish after two of the most famous humans on the planet. Or it would have been had I not been 42 years old. But no matter. It was obvious who was who. Neil was a mustard coloured fish that seemed contemplative and solid. He'd gently fin his was round the bowl. Buzz, on the other hand, was bordering on manic. He'd shoot round the bowl like a thing possessed and was rarely still. Not an inch of the bowl was unexplored by Buzz. Although it was a small bowl. And their fishy personalities matched their famous humans. Neil Armstrong, arguably the most famous man ever, since that eventful day in 1969 has rarely given interviews, shuns publicity and lives quietly. Buzz Aldrin, on the other hand, got back from the moon and shot around like a mad thing, glorying in everything and picking up the odd addiction along the way.

There is one big difference with my Neil and Buzz, mind. Neil only lasted a week or so. He probably bored himself to death. Buzz, on the other hand just kept manically swimming everywhere and growing and growing. And when my lovely lady Rebs saw him, knowing more about animals than I do (if not an actor, she would have liked to have been a vet. She deals with me quite well...) she instantly commented on the size of his fins and the fact he flapped around a lot. Hence the nick-name Flappy. I think she thought Buzz was a stupid name..

John Slater saw Flappy about a month ago.

"Woah! Big goldfish", he said. And he was right.

The end, when it came, was quick. He'd been a bit off colour for a week or so. No, not off Gold colour. We fish owners just know. I played with his aeration for a bit, but it was to no avail. He did his belly up thang and although I left him for a day or so ( he did it once before and recovered. An attention-seeking ruse, I think) and I tried some medicine, it was to no avail and he passed away officially last night. He is now at rest with the other Hennegan pets - Andropov the Mexican Red Kneed Tarantula - in the Hennegan Pet Plot. Up the garden. Not buried, ju st chucked up the garden and left for nature.

I couldn't flush Flappy down the loo - he'd have blocked a main sewer, the size of him. Obviously I am distraught and yet my pain is eased by the fact that the sodding thing cost me a fortune in fish tanks, filter, pumps and other tackle. His last set up cost about five hundred quid in total! EBay, here I come!

A-hem. Please feel free to attach any tributes/comments to this post. He didn't get out much, but Flappy had a good innings, as they say. Amen.

Flappy/Buzz in happier times. He was a good fish. We shall not see his gigantic likes again. (Unless I nip down the fish shop of course.)

As I was Saying

I've done almost everything this month, and jolly good fun it has been too. After my one appearance as John Slater's driver/stand in Lighting bloke a few weeks ago, he called again last Sunday as he'd been let down. This time it was a less glamorous job - Van Driver And Bloke Who Dropped Off Set/Cloths/Lights At Various Places In London. Now when I say less glamorous, I mean the title was, but scooting round the Opera House, Royal Ballet and various other central London locations was actually, to a theatre anorak such as myself, quiet exotic. And John lead in his posh van. And it was great to do a job where I had no responsibility. Plus, as someone who occasionally lives in London and therefore never drives in town, it was a real novelty! And if, like me, you never drive in central London, let me tell you the congestion charge has worked a miracle! You can almost get into second gear in the centre now. Of course, the Euston Road and other routes just outside the zone are another matter...

So that's that. In addition I had an interview for a Masters Degree at a University in London. This is pretty cool, considering education and society generally had written me off as a child when I failed my 11 plus. (I think I might be dyslexic with figures - I would often get letters the wrong way round. But now we have calculators it doesn't matter. )

Then, I finally got my remortgage through which, although it was less than I needed at least allows me to put £10k into Maverick Theatre and give it a chance of life. There are 2 or 3 dear people that Maverick still owes money to. I won't name them, but they were involved with the creation of the Henry V - Lion of England tour and the relaunch of the company and although they will probably never work for me again, they will also probably never know how grateful I am that they understood our particular problems and when they could have got very shitty indeed, they decided to give me the benefit of the doubt and just be patient. It's not what typical commercial businesses are supposed to do and it is so brilliant that they decided not to be typical. Be assured, I have a list in me head of people who have been kind to me and Maverick and if we ever do make any real dosh, they will get first choice of everything.

We may have an established venue prepared to co-produce Hancock's Finest Hour. That too is very good.

I had a phone call from a former colleague and now a chum and I am going to be doing some inserts into the breakfast show of Smooth-fm in the West Midlands for three weeks soon. I also have a couple of standing tickets for David Tennant (Dr Who) and Patrick Stewart (Star Trek) at the RSC I can't use. They are apparently like Rocking Horse Dung, so I might head for EBay.

And I still get the odd mail about BRMB, and having gone to a doo last week maybe I should do a bit about it. But it's too late now. Although when I first met John Slater....

Phew! What a month. Or how to Do All Things.

I've been a van driver this month. Slater must have been desperate because he phoned me up. "What are you doing for the next three days?" He needed someone to drive a van and help get in for a dance tour he is managing. But I'm known for not being the most technically adept! Although I started in theatre as an amateur lighting person.

And I'm writing this instead of finishing my film treatment. There's a deadline. So here's a picture of my P.O.V (good film term, eh!) in van situ. I shall get on with my treatment and finish this tomorrow. Probably.

FADE TO BLACK.Can't find the pic I wanted. So here's me doing another job. Not for Slater. For Chrysalis.

Fade again.

Bad Blogger Sells-Out!

I've been a bad lad - I wanted to keep this blog up at least monthly, but now there's the Maverick website this seemed a little surplus to requirements. After all, I only really started this to get the Maverick Theatre message on-line. Then a cheque for fifty quid arrived from Google! Suddenly I thought I should keep on here. You're not supposed to mention that if anyone clicks on most of the links on this blog, I get nought point nothing of nunkpence, which after decades amounts to the price of a pint. But there are obviously more people reading this than I thought. I don't have the figures - I think I can do something about that - but thanks very much, you! 50 quid in a year and a bit. Not a good rate of pay, granted, but better than the proverbial poke in the eye.

I shall eat curry and drink beer tonight, gentle reader, and it will all be down to you!

In fact here's one I had earlier, in Stratford-Upon-Avon...

I shall now post this, and begin another piece that talks about the interesting, but financially challenged month I have had. It is a tale of theatre, films, writing, missed parties and being credit crunched. And, I think vastly overdue, a tribute to John Slater. Dour Scotsman with a heart of gold and a middle England accent; once a much beloved broadcaster of this parish at BRMB in Birmingham and former Maverick cohort who is now much in demand as a Production Manager on the national and, nay, international, stage.

Ah... the 'dotes, dear loves, the 'dotes.