Death/God

Firstly, I would like to welcome Emma Patten to the blogosphere, and not to blow my own horn, but it was totally my idea.

This week has been devoted to runs/performances for Death/God, and I'd almost forgotten how much I hate tech/dress runs. It seems I was actually totally spoiled in Melbourne, because the theatres had central heating, not that they really needed it. Bedlam does really need it, desperately, but remains resolute in its chill, and as the saying goes, 'if you can't stand the cold, stay the heck out of Bedlam.'
Death/God, with which I fulfil my dream, admittedly somewhat tenuously, of working with Woody Allen, for it sprung forth from his pen, ended up being slightly more stressful than I had imagined, because an hour before we went up, our lead fell ill, prompting him to be replaced by a complete unknown with no experience and only grit and gumption to keep him going. Then, we didn't have anyone to staff the theatre, so we weren't legally allowed to open and then there was a genuine and rather pressing fear that someone would be choked to death live on stage. Of course, I would expect no less from mother bedlam on the night that I returned to her stage.

After all, the first time I was there, I evaporated.

In second year, I remember having a conversation with Callum wherein he lamented the dearth of intimidating Bedfellows, since this had lead to him playing a thug no less than three times. Poor, innocent Callum, a thug. Well, two years later it was my turn, in Death/God, portraying a mob enforcer with vague Catholic overtones. At the height of my nastiness, I snatched an umbrella off someone. Method.
At the helm of Death/God was Emily, a second year engineer and one of my favourite new additions to the Bedlam roster. If she weren't a second year, I feel I would probably count her among my friends now. But, as my mother constantly reminded me in my infancy, 'animals don't count as friends'.
Death/God had a very sizeable cast and thus included a lot of Freshers. This lead to that thing that most fuels this blog and my very existence: narcissistic introspection. I was forced to consider how other people, especially those who don't know me well and are unaccustomed to my sometimes brash persona, view me: Jonathan, with whom I shared a scene, said I was 'a lovable asshole' and Hona, whom I had briefly spoken to in a pub, said I had 'a heart of stone'. Someone with whom I'm more well-acquainted said that I gave the impression of being 'more violent than I actually am', but that I'm actually OK when you know me. On the other hand, I was also called a cunt twice during the runs. So, swings and roundabouts.

Last night, we had a panto fundraiser in the form of a murder mystery- I played Velma, cos the ladyfolk of Scooby doo are simply more interesting. Afterward, we went to play pool and air hockey and I fucking won, again! Yes, both times in my life that I have won a one-on-one sport, it was that most virile and physically demanding of endeavours: air hockey. I then topped this evening of intense masculinity by performing poetry in an underground bunker. Smell that? It's testosterone. And it's mine.