By Aislinn De'Ath

By Aislinn De'Ath
Click on my face to link to my vlog!

Thursday, 22 March 2012

The wheels on the bus go...

Well Reader, the tour is well and truly underway. This morning I woke up in beautiful Cumbria, where the sun was shining and the birds were twittering in a distinctly northern manner. Cumbria northern? Maybe I should have listened to Mrs. Bidewell in Geography when I was 13 instead of sniffing scented gel pens in the back seat like a rebel. Well, you get the drift anyway. Toto, we're not in North London any more.

Of course, I could have realised that from when we got in yesterday. A Booths instead of an Asda, a micro-brewery full of people seemingly outraged that a bunch of strangers were descending on their quiet night (to be fair, it was a Wednesday and rather late in the day when we turned up demanding pasta and beer) and the view from my window frames a mountain with a replica lighthouse rather than a cement school playground and a railway track. It's all rather nice! If this is touring theatre, it's pretty cushty stuff. The house we're staying in is gorgeous too, big open fireplaces and cosy chairs all over the place. Lucky actors! Only one more night here though, then we're off to perform in the Clonter Opera Theatre, where we'll be put up in a rather fabulous country estate. So far this touring malarkey is pretty good fun, but must make a mental note not to keep stuffing my face with service station grease fests because if I don't, I'll be taking up two seats on the tour bus!

The thing is, service stations remind me of holidays. Going to Devon or Margate and stopping off on the way for something decent  to last us till night time (for decent read chips and beans and possibly dippy doughnuts) so I have this pavlovian response to them. I see a little chef and I start drooling and thinking of onion rings. It's an addiction really. Other people don't seem to share my weird addiction. Someone told me it was unhygienic to eat at service stations the other day. I just stared at them, aghast. THAT'S ALL PART OF THE FUN, SURELY? Along with the moody staff, the groups of elderly tourists going on a Saga trip, resplendent in wrap-around sunglasses and cut off slacks. Marvellous.

I'd carry on talking up the wonders of service station cuisine, but I have to prepare to go to the theatre (please imagine Brian Blessed reading those final two words, it makes it far more fabulous and epic sounding),
Hope you're enjoying yourself as much as I am Reader,

Wednesday, 14 March 2012

Baked in Chelsea

Hey Gang!

So this is a very very late cake vlog, we made it back in January, but we've been so busy since then that it's taken a back seat behind shows etc (my terrible skills at technology may also have had a slight hand in it). Many thanks to camera guy/director/editor and all round brilliant person William Walsh, who lugged camera equipment, fearlessly braved scary waitress wrath and did all sorts of computer wizardry on the video. Apologies for two thing in advance

1) My hair-I was trying to train it into a centre parting for the show, something which I'm not very good at doing, so I look like a weirdo with greasy hair and am a bit self concious,
2) How patronising I sound, I'm not that condescending in real life, cake just turns me into a weirdo, promise!

Other than that, enjoy the cakey cakey goodness!

Ash (and SJ and Billy!)

Tuesday, 13 March 2012

Dreams, dozing and drowse...

Reader, I can't stop sleeping. I think there's probably something wrong with me, like the beginning of a cold or vertigo, since I feel all flushed and dizzy too, but today I had a 4 hour nap. After an 11 hour sleep last night. And a 2 hour nap yesterday, with a similar night's sleep the night before. It's just plain weird frankly. I'm doing what my body is telling me to do (i.e. hugging my pillow and nodding off at 2pm and knocking back vitamins like smarties) but something is definitely amiss. I'm not even that hungry, which, as I'm sure you'll have guessed from my previous blogs, is just freaky.

It might also be because we did the opening weekend of the show last weekend, and my body is finally allowing me to unwind from all the tension and nerves. It has a profound ability to shrug off all illness when I'm busy, only to bring everything crashing down on my head the second I stop. Maybe I'll have some lucozade, curer of all ills! And yes, the opening weekend went well. First night we were all so stricken by nerves it was mainly just a relief to get it over with, but the second night went so well we got that glowy feeling in our tummies akin to good mashed potato and sausages, an act of profound charity or really fabulous sex. In fact, we all stayed hyper till 3am, chattering nonstop over a brilliant dinner whipped up by our resident genius chef Helen and generally being flabbergasted at how the rehearsal process had flown by.

Maybe I have rehearsal withdrawal. Is that even a thing? Will I end up getting really psychotic and making my cat act out scenes with me? I'm not sure he'd approve...

Right, I'm off to eat quorn spaghetti and balls, drink some milk (health food!) and watch Despicable Me. And then I'll probably sleep for 100 more hours. I'm like sleeping beauty! Only instead of being pretty, I look all pale and twitchy. Nice.

Sunday, 4 March 2012

Growing pains...

Reader, today is my birthday. I have been spoilt within an inch of my life, fed more cheese than the average French person sees in a lifetime and surrounded by glorious pressies. Tonight, I will be feasting on Dominos pizza, whilst watching 30 Rock and going through my facebook messages in what can only be described as an act of delicious vanity. Life is rather marvellous right now.

I was struck the other night  (whilst packing Baklava into my cheeks like a sweet toothed hamster) that the way I celebrate my birthday has changed rather a lot since I was in my late teens. I can only assume I've grown up somehow (meaning the man in the market lied and these magic beans don't hold back the years like he said they would...), a scary thought indeed. So, here is my list of what's changed and what hasn't between how I partied then and how I party now...

1. I no longer find it entirely necessary to compete with sports society boys in alcohol intake. In fact, I'm quite happy with one glass of amaretto on my birthday, because at least then I know I won't a) do anything hideously cringe like vomit over the bouncers or proposition the cardboard cut out of Zac Effron in the Blockbusters window or b) have an utterly catastrophic hangover the next day, which (as my tolerance for booze has got so crap) would have me comatose, able only to reach as far as a bag of Doritos.

2. I am more likely to get vouchers for posh clothes and pampering places rather than WHSmiths. Hurrah!

3. Food has become more important, as I am more likely to be eating healthily the rest of the time.

4. I can afford nicer food! Like fresh pasta instead of supernoodles. And baklava instead of slightly stale asda cookies.

5. Birthdays have become more like New Year's Eve, in that I evaluate how the year's gone and how I want the next year to go. This year I am quite disgustingly smug.

6. I am a bit fatter now than I was then. But thinner than I was when I was twenty. Which is nice.

7. I can no longer stay up all night without needing a serious afternoon nap (or two) the next day. Although I did stay up till 4am on Friday, mainly to watch an utterly atrocious Jude Law film, that was also rather brilliant (mainly because it was so bad, but also because Jude Law is a dreamboat).

8. I have a boyfriend now (take that younger me!)

9. A vast number of my pressies involve kitchenware. I can only take this as a hint to make more cake.

10. My wishlist is more expensive, and more ignored.

11. My little brother gets me far better pressies now. (He got me 4 utterly brilliant DVDs this year, and a proper card! Not just 'happy birthday' written on a post it!)

12. I am less likely to want to go out for my birthday. I will only really go out to our local Italian, where they deep fry Brie and are therefore worthy of my birthday presence. I would go out if it was an exciting surprise or something, but defo not clubbing in London. Anything but. I get too pissed off with the prices, the music and the grimy men trying to grind on me. 'Can I buy you a drink?' 'That depends, will you try to sleep with me after?' '' 'Are you sure?' 'Uhm...' 'That girl over there looks single. Go try her. She has a see through top.'

13. House parties seem like hell. Avoid at all costs.

14. No one is free to party on a weekday any more. Everyone has jobs, and husbands (eek!)

15. I no longer have an overdraft (YESSSSS!!!)

So, quite good changes I'd say. Even though to my 18 year old self, I'd probably seem boring, I don't really care! I love my birthdays, lazy and food obsessed though they may be!
Hope you're having a weekend as lovely as I am Reader,

Thursday, 1 March 2012

Your sex is on fiiiiirrreeeeee (you should probably get that checked out)...

Reader, if you are prudish you should probably close this window down now and wait for my next entry. Why? Because this blog is about SEXING! Specifically sexing in films and things. Not me sexing. Because that's a private thing between me, Christopher Walken and an awful lot of bacon supernoodles. Best not to ask.

Why is this (vaguely sordid) subject on my mind? Well, today a few of my cast members (HAH...members...I made a funny...ahem) and I went to see A Dangerous Method. In case you've missed all the posters, (SPOILER ALERT) it's the one where Jung and Freud fall out because Jung getting jiggy (shut up, I grew up in the early nineties) with Keira Knightly (who plays a bit of a mental). There is more to the story than that, but it's pretty much the main idea behind it. Now, as you can imagine, there's quite a bit of talk about sex in the film. You can't have a film with Freud (and Vincent Cassel...swoon...) without lots and lots of sexing talk. And some of it is really interesting stuff. About mental freedom being linked to sexual freedom, sexual liberation being a reliever of numerous disorders, the id and the ego, the subconscious masking the truthful wants of the individual. But there are also a number of bits that made me giggle rather a lot. And get confused. And think 'well, if I was the cinematographer...' . Firstly, there's a bit where Miss. Knightly is getting her rocks off and you can see her boobs. I don't want to give it away completely, but as well as getting rather...erm....jolly....she's also in quite a bit of pain. But her nipples are...well....bored by what's going on. Anyone who knows anything about female anatomy would know that in pain, cold or arousal (or sometimes confusion), nips stand to attention. They are chestical erections. Sort of. And there's NO WAY hers would have stayed all disinterested looking if she was actually....erm...involved. Also, there's a bit where she's sitting, looking perfectly lovely apart from one nip popping out over her corset to say hello (oh, so NOW you're listening mr. nip? No. Now is NOT THE TIME FOR INTRODUCTIONS.). Now, I've done a bit of research on this one. Not one girl I know could happily sit with one boob unnaturally hoisted above a bra/corset. It's a weird situation. It's not comfortable. It's not about modesty so much as symmetry. It was like the director went 'ah yeah, this will be really sexy and carefree and bohemian' but I bet all she could think about in that scene was 'why even bother hiding the other one?' Or maybe it was a costume issue and she wasn't aware. Poor girl. Then there was another bit where Mr. Cassel was having it orf with a lady in a rather vigorous way and her facial expression didn't change, just stayed vaguely bored. Throughout the whole thing. It was amazing to watch. I mean, even if it's not good, you'd make some kind of expression right? Slight surprise? Annoyance? ANYTHING?! Poor Cassel. And he'd been painted as a right old womaniser in the film, so it was a bit of an affront to his manhood really.

I have to say, I do find sex in films slightly ridiculous. Like the orgasms. When Harry Met Sally is one of my favourite films, don't get me wrong, but has anyone actually ever really been that loud? What about the neighbours? And even if everyone on both sides of the street was out, if I were the bloke, I'd just stop and stare in utter astonishment. 'Are you all right love? Because that's just a bit....erm...loud. And painful sounding.' The police would probably think someone was being murdered! Maybe it's just Americans. Maybe America is full of loudly orgasming women. Because men don't make a noise in films. Ever. Well, not like that anyway. Nope, just the women having the time of their lives. They must all have really thick, soundproof walls. And deaf partners.

And they all get it on fully dressed! In Sex and The City, Carrie always keeps her bra on. Which always make s me feel a bit sorry for her boyfriends, because men like boobs quite a lot, don't they? And isn't that a bit uncomfortable anyway? Most girls I know are skilled at the whipping the bra off through the sleeve trick, not for sexing purposes, but because bras are torture devices. They're made of wire and bone and netting and elastic. They're not made for comfort, they're made to give our chins something to rest on, or a handy place to hide your phone if you're out of pockets (for a short while at uni, I stored change in mine. A very short while, no one needs pound coin imprints on their bosom, nor pennies inexplicably falling from your top in a club as you try and do that wicked dance you learnt to Pink's 'Keep your drink and give me the money' or whatever that song's called) We actually hate hate hate wearing them. No sane woman would keep them on during sex, unless it was completely spur of the moment, possibly in a laundromat or a field. Which brings me to my next point;

Why don't people seem to like having sex in beds in films? Ok, we get it, the front room table is an exciting prospect for a place to get your rocks off. But surely a bed would be a lot comfier? And have less half drunk cans of beer, and copies of Hello on it? And fields and woodlands have wriggly bugs. And sharp sticks and stones. And poo from cows. And dog walkers peering over hedges. I once even saw a film where they had sex against a fridge. A fridge! I mean that CAN'T be fun. Freezing metal, the handle getting stuck in your back, risk of breaking it and having to spend hundreds of pounds, not to mention explaining how it broke to the repair man?

And no one ever seems to use protection! I mean, surely it's a bit presumptuous to assume the girl's on the pill, or has an implant or injections or something? What if she's a baby stealer? And girls, what if he has a series of terrible, smelly diseases? This is no way to teach youngsters! At least have a close up of a pill packet or something. Or an empty durex wrapper. Or have the chap say 'actually, you know what, even though I'm well up for this, it would be silly to risk diseases and pregnancy when you're married/a princess/my teacher/a spy/an ogre/dying of some kind of wasting illness'. Or have the girl say 'No. I'm not that sort of girl to just jump on in there without looking after my own interests. After all, we've just met, and you're a tinker/tailor/soldier/spy/athlete with a drug problem/rock star/dragon, you might have secret willy warts!'

I mean, it's not really very realistic at all is it?
Well, having ruined the romance of sex on screen for you, I'll leave you with this thought-in sex scenes, some poor make up artist will probably have to trim someone's pubes. And maybe even apply a merkin.
On that delightful note Reader, tarrah!