By Aislinn De'Ath

By Aislinn De'Ath
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Sunday, 16 January 2011

Dancing in a sombrero with soda bread in my gob

Hello chaps,

Am writing this post from my bed, with a hangover that has loosened a couple of teeth and is making my eyes vibrate in their sockets. Which is surprising really as I didn't actually drink that much last night. Have a sneaky suspicion that the bar man was giving me doubles. Naughty bar man. Bad. Go sit on the naughty step. I realise that this seems unlikely but the drinks WERE really expensive and I did get VERY drunk VERY quickly. Or it could be that it was just a London pub and I'm an epic lightweight. (I really enjoyed the Caps Lock BUTTON use there)

Great party though. It was my Irish uncle Mike's 50th and he's rented out a sort of event room/glam scout hut at the back of one of our locals and filled it with fairy lights. My entire Irish family was there, so it was pretty rocking given their love of a good bash. We had Tom Lynch (plays lots of rock stuff on his handy guitar/harmonica combo and slips in some classics like Galway Girl which had my nan banging on the table with glee), a Spanish band (some might say a surprising choice for what was essentially an Irish party, I disagree, the Spanish and the Irish go together like cheese and sweet chilli sauce. NOM.) and my uncle Tim on the dj decks. A decidedly good time was had by all. I particularly enjoyed drunkenly dancing with my 6 year old cousin, my 8 year old 2nd cousin and my 22 year old college friend whilst wearing sombreros. Then I made a film writer buy me and my friend shots. MWA HA HA, the power!

OH GOD MY HEAD!!!!!!!!!! It's just kicked in. Utter hell.

So where was I? Oh yeah, the party. I think one of my fave bits was the food. My nan had hired this lady from the irish centre to sort out the buffet, and I think it's fair to say that it was....Irish. There was a meat layer, then a potato layer, then a bread layer. I think my three cheese and caramelised onion tart felt a bit out of place. Poor tart. To be fair, the woman had hidden it in with the desserts. I think she was worried it would upstage her potato salad.

I'm off now. Dad's making me a hangover brekkie. Nom. nom. nom.


Saturday, 8 January 2011

Shock shock horror horror


So, ever since I can remember, I've loved horror films. I mean, what's not to love? They make you jump and giggle, give you an excuse to hide in the nearest boy's armpit (Ok, that can sometimes be a negative) and bring the whole family together! The first one I remember watching was Alien, which I guess is borderline sci-fi/horror. Funnily enough though, it's always the ones about kids that scare me most. I suppose there's just something innately creepy about children! Tonight's film was no exception. We watched 'The Unborn' as a family, a film mainly about children being possessed, all starting with a babysitter alone in a house with a really freaky child. Now I actually AM a babysitter (great perks like free chocolate and all the Lego you could ever wish for) and it's true, when the kids are in bed, I CONSTANTLY get freaked out. The girls I look after are adorable, one is three and the other is six and they're the most affectionate, well behaved children in the neighbourhood. But the thought of them coming at me with a knife is scaaary.

Children are utterly terrifying because they hide behind their innocence, and see the world in a very black and white kind of way. Unlike grown ups, kids find it difficult to rationalise a good person doing a bad thing or visa versa, you're either a goodie or a baddie and that's that. So can you imagine if all of a sudden, they decided that you were a baddie? I remember being a kid and setting up boobie traps for monsters. Imagine if you were some lodger that I had decided was a vampire? You might end up setting off one of my trip wires and quite badly injuring yourself! Because children see hurting a baddie as being a good thing, so if they decide you're the baddie...


Like I said, children? Scary.

In other news, haven't dissected that heart yet, will keep you updated on how that one goes! Also, tomorrow is my Uncles's 50th, which means a huge family meal. I come from Irish Catholic stock, which means my family spans 30 people and growing quickly, so when we have a family meal, it usually entails having to practically book he entire eaterie. My long suffering boyfriend comes from a tiny family in comparison, it's taken him months to start getting used to the huge effort that goes into family meet ups. But he's coping admirably and even remembers everyone's names! My family is very important to me, my grandparents helped raise me and have had a huge influence on my upbringing, my aunts and uncles have always been there, we're a dysfunctional lot but there's a lot of love there underneath the arguing and guilt tripping (What can I say, we're catholic!).

And on that cheese drenched note, I'm off to bedfordshire!


Thursday, 6 January 2011

Things I do for art

Hello again!

Today, after returning to rehearsals after a delicious 3 week Christmas break, I was struck by something. No, not a cricket ball (am avoiding the ashes with all my strength). It was the fact that actors do really mental things as part of their job. I myself have done so many ridiculous things in the name of acting that I could be locked up.


I have;

  • Pretended to be a monkey for hours.
  • Pretended to be a lion, then got assaulted in a positively indecent manner by someone else pretending to be a lion.
  • Gone to a pub in character as someone with a speech impediment, huge glasses and a fascination with sun cream and actually had a conversation with the staff.
  • Gone into the same pub as a south London burlesque dancer just weeks later and got very funny looks from the same staff.
  • Gone to pineapple studios as above to do a salsa class (n.b. burlesque dancers are overflowing with elegance and grace, I am most definitely not).
  • Had someone pretend to shave me with whipped cream, as I shouted through a megaphone whilst on a ladder.
  • Dressed as a clown and chewed on an audience members knees (reduced him to tears, and no, he wasn't a child, he was in his mid twenties)
  • Pretended to do a poo on stage with the aid of a pipette, nutella, toothpaste and wood shavings (don't ask)
  • etc..
My most recent craziness is for my final film for my MA in Acting for Screen, which will be a thriller about organ donation. I play a surgeon who collects organs from murder victims and then ends up sacrificing herself for a potential victim's freedom. Which is pretty juicy as roles go! However, it does involve two things. A) Taking up running and B) Cutting up an actual heart. Now, as far as A) is concerned, I can no longer use a smoking habit for my utter crap fitness levels. But I do run like a goose that's been fed a litre of Morgan's Spiced and is attempting the mashed potato dance. And B) I am a vegetarian. Not for moral reasons, but because I have this tendency to puke around raw meat (discovered in a spanish supermarket years ago. Mum still does impressions of me trying to run and keep vomit in at the same time. It's a family favourite.) The thing is, I'm actually really excited to be able to do something gory and messy, I like being messy and I'm obsessed with horror! I suppose only time will tell. However, Mum has banned me from doing it in her house. Because of the whole vomit thing. Wonder how boyfriend's parents would react if I turned up with a heart in a box? They might take it as some weird expression of my love for their son, which would probably go down quite badly when I got out an anatomy book and a bloody big knife and started hacking at it and vomiting like the girl from The Exorcist. Maybe it's an experiment to do at school.... 

It does make me wonder where it all ends. How far will I go to fully 'feel' the character? If I have to kill someone in a film will I take up hunting? (In my head this entails me wearing a really cute red coat and having a few beagle dogs around but I have a nasty suspicion it might be a bit messier than that.) Oh well. The fact of the matter is I love love love method acting, even though it makes me do ridiculous things. Mainly because it makes me do ridiculous things actually. Where else would a veggie get to have a go at being a butcher?!

Bye for now blog readers!

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

First One...

Hello readers!

Well, of course I don't actually have any readers. Because I've just started this fiasco. Am suddenly very aware that I am basically having a conversation with myself. Must check out blogger schizophrenia rates...

Anyway. No idea if I'll be any good at this malarkey. I've got an English degree so I'd hope so, although to be honest, god knows how, I did bollocks all work at university, too busy poncing around on a stage and getting drunk on Asda own brand Baileys (Irish Knights, well cheap, well lush) to bother putting actual time into essays. Essays? HAH! I laugh in the face of them! Which is probably why so many of them are completely incoherent. Ahem. Actually, that's a bit of a fib. I was quite good at essays. I actually look back now and go 'cor, that's a bit smart isn't it?' because the thing no one tells you is *looks round over shoulders like secret squirrel* Drama School makes you really thick. Now, I'm pretty sure most of my peers would argue with me, but it's true. The first thing they tell you is 'Don't intellectualise' and 'Don't think, feel' which is all well and good when it comes to acting but it seeps into your life and you begin having such a lack of intellect that your brain fluid begins to seep into your on-the-equipment-list-but-not-required leotard bottoms. Which isn't really ideal. Especially since the essay writing standards at Drama School are low low low. In my first term I wrote an essay where the conclusion amounted to 'Film is fun and nice and shiny, YAY' then a smiley face drawn in my own excrement and the teacher wrote 'excellent!' 

I didn't agree but I really liked her for that. It was one of those situations when you know you did a god-awful job, but praise is just so nice that you allow yourself to believe that actually it was a work of genius hidden in 3 pages of Times New Roman on film noir practice. By the end of the week I had it almost framed and pinned inside my (very high school musical style) locker. Then, in a slightly more sober moment I re-read it. It was gibberish that only Jeremy Kyle guests are usually capable of producing.

Right. Have just realised I've spoken quite a bit about school. Now, school is likely to be quite a current theme in this blog (if I can be arsed to continue it, I've got to be honest, I'm not convinced yet) so I'll give you a break from my waffling about that and waffle about some thing else.

Waffle, waffle, pancake! (Sorry, had to)
Am a bit obsessed with food at the moment actually. Well, I always am. I'm one of those really annoying women who does 'diets'. I didn't used to. At uni, I sneered at the very word, I would eat my way through more pizza than any rugby lad and still feel fabulous in a tiny wee skirt. When friends said they were dieting I'd look at them like they were disturbed and offer them some of my cheesy chips with bbq sauce (so damn good). It was the best of times, it was the yummiest of times. Then I got back, and suddenly, without rhyme or reason, diets were EVERYWHERE. I was slimmer than any of the three years at uni thanks to movement classes and long walks in central London, but it seemed everyone I knew was dieting! So first came the slim-fast diet. Gross. Pure ick. I can't bring myself to trust a diet that recommends you drink chalky pastel coloured milkshakes instead of meals. And it didn't really work. It just made me hungrier and my tongue went all furry and pink (surely not a good sign). Then came Weight Watchers. Which was actually really good. I got really skinny. I even got given a special gold membership for reaching my goal weight. Then I had a great deal of fun putting all of the weight back on and am now far too guilty to go back to my meetings, which is full of motherly types who are all really caring and supportive. They'd be so disappointed and frankly, I'm a lapsed Catholic, I have more than enough guilt in my life.
Now it's the Carol Vordamon [sic?] detox for a month. Which is where you cut out wheat, dairy, booze, sugar, salt, caffeine, processed food and fun. Of course, technically I've only done it for 3 days, because 2 days of it I was really ill and puking quite a lot. I know I should be ashamed of this reader, but I was actually a little smug. It was like losing the pounds with less effort. Bad, bad me. Saying that, it was the one saving grace of the illness, the rest was like playing a game of 'spot the mange tout' as 2 days worth of food went gushing into the sick bucket! 

Yeah, I'm pleasant like that.

Well, on that sexy little note, I'll let you go. I'm bored and I'm sure you are too! 
Tarrah loves!