I Can't Get Into My Office

I have inexplicably forgotten the code to the my office’s entrance door.

The outer lock of the staff entrance to my building is one of those old fashioned ‘push the buttons together but in the right order’ deelies, but it may as well be the Rubix cube from hell these days. I'll be working from home from now on, someone inform my boss.

I USED to know it. Oh yes, I pride myself in being really rather good at remembering sequential actions. I was told the code once on the first day, and remembered it instantly. In hindsight, I probably should have written it down.

Because it’s not like I ask can ask anyone I work with what the code is, is it? I’ve worked there for more than a year. I’m technically a manager in that I am an actual manager. Managers are supposed to KNOW this stuff. I can’t just waltz in one morning, high five everyone, and say ‘hey pals, can anyone tell me what the code is to enter this building because I’m either that stupid OR I’ve had a mild stroke?’ They’d take away my biscuits again.

And also, I can’t ask my team because I can’t get into my frigging office!!!

Every morning for days – DAYS – I have sauntered up to the back door, happy and chirpy, wondering what that strange imposing sense of dread is until I reach out for the door handle, and it all comes flooding back. Yes, it’s true – I even forget that I’ve forgotten something.

The scene either plays out in one of two ways - and bare in mind that while my office entrance is not on a busy high street, it is visible to some passers-by.

The first sees me frantically punching in random combinations of code and hammering the handle with gritted teeth. There’s only so many times you can do this, before you have to pretend that you didn’t actually want to go into the building because of a very very important text message that needs addressing straight away. And lo, there you stand, pretending to text until someone else arrives for work and lets you in. Every time I act like nothing is wrong. It’s just a web of lies, day in, day out.

Scenario two is much more pathetic. In this situation, I stand for literally minutes outside the door, hand hovering in the air, staring wide-eyed at the combination pad, willing myself to remember or for the door to stop being such a bastard and just open by itself. Surely I’m due one free magical door opening by now. 

But wait. It gets more tragic.

The other day, I went out for lunch alone and returned a short while later, deeeply immersed in the music I was listening to on my phone.  I suddenly looked up, and found myself inside the building, the offending door swinging closed behind me; I had punched in the right code without even thinking about it and walked in without a second glance.  

‘Christ, I did it!’ I cried, and then cracked my knuckles and hurtled back outside of my own free will, and let the door slam shut. Nothing to fear, I smirked. The same luck would surely repeat itself and I would punch in the code again without thinking and this time, I would memorise it.

Did I bollocks.

Learning Lines Like A Boss

I’m learning lines again.

Autumn season is upon us and that means another splendid production by The Canterbury Players is around the corner. Which means I get to force people to pay money to pay attention to me. Yay! Having appeared in a smasher of a show at The Marlowe Studio in the summer, I was offered the role off Hannah in Tom Stoppard’s masterpiece, Arcadia, which will play at The Gulbenkian from 4^th to 7^th November and is directed by lovely Becky aka Miscriant.

Ahhhh Stoppard. Stoppard.

Oh Christ, I’ve just realised something…….he’s good, isn’t he?

I mean, like, really good. Like, Shakespeare good. Like all his words actually mean something. The kind of words that help the people in the audience on tenuous dates to have sex with each other because the script composition is so witty and so brilliant that you feel like nothing in your life that will ever be as beautiful or as beguiling so you may as well just have sex because you sort of know you’re good at that and why not just attempt to be okay at something for 15mins?

Yes, that level of good.

This is Ben's script because I left mine in a car.
And I wrote a phone number on it when I couldn't find a pad.
I think it's the number for Port Lympne Reserve. Visit it, it's nice

Arcadia is indeed a masterpiece, intertwining literature, sex, thermo-dynamics, gardening, academia with his usual biting humour and yes, blah blah blah the words the words are wonderful, well I HAVE TO LEARN THEM OKAY?!

But it's okay, I've developed a fool proof system of notes. Some of you dear readers may be amateur thesps yourselves, or perhaps you harbour a secret desire to tread the boards.

Well to help you on your way, I’ve decided to share some of my private script notes – my method, if you will – so you might learn from my experience.

 

 Acting is about knowing when to act. It's important to remind yourself of this.

You will need to be on stage almost every time that your character is on stage. It's best to hover by the wings, making sure that you don't go on without you.

 Physical acting can be challenging and confusing.

I should have learned the dates earlier because I sure as hell haven't been saying these ones. I swear, I think at some point I said '1732 to 1485' in rehearsal. 

 Yep, lots more of that.

Oh Jesus, that's a lot of words. Ohhhhhhh I should really look these people up.

And also look inquisitive. Look and speak inquisitively when asking questions. And yell. Always yell questions. 

In all seriousness, here are some actual am dram tips. (If you’re a pro, go way you’re getting paid get back to your script and your roasted swan)

TAKE AWAY THE SAFETY NET
Try putting your script down sooner than you’d like, and lose the prompt (if you have one) for a couple of rehearsals close to curtain up. It feels uncomfortable, but it’s supposed to. If your lines are not in your head and others are waiting for their cues, it’s painful. But one thing that's sure to make me learn my lines is the fear of looking unprofessional in front of others

TAKE STOCK
Reread everything YES THAT INCLUDES THE BITS YOU AREN’T IN. All too often we focus solely on our own roles. You can't let that shit fly. Every character, every scene, informs on the next, and you better know it inside out. That's why it's a play.

TAKE A LESSON FROM HOPKINS

You can never know your lines enough. It's an old acting cliche that you have to know who your character is, inside and out, but the reason it's hammered home so often if that it's not an easy job.

Anthony Hopkins reportedly examined his lines up to 200 times until he didn’t even have to think about ‘saying a line’ any more. He just knew his character completely.
Are you better than Anthony Hopkins? ARE YOU?

AND FINALLY…

NEVER, EVER FORGET YOUR LINES. Not for one second. Every horrifying feeling you have about the world collapsing if you forget a line is true: if you drop a line you’re AWFUL and the world will burn and people will laugh at you. What kind of person can’t even learn a words without having to hold an itty bitty piece of paper to help them?!! LEARN YOUR DAMN LINES.

.......Oh I kid, I kid! You’ll be fine, tiny darlings. Acting is not that scary really.

Want to SEE me act? Come and see Arcadia in Canterbury this November - we promise it will have all the acting you could imagine. 
Book here please

Back Once Again

I know.
I KNOW.
Yes yes yes, I know. 

I know it’s been an age, tiny darlings. I should have left a note, should have explained my unforgivable absence. I should have written something on a mirror, in lipstick. Or put a Post-It on a goose.

Ideally, the reasons for my many weeks’ absence would be shocking, sexy and a little upsetting. Such as being kidnapped by pirates who forced me to play backgammon for hours on end with my clothes on, despite my protestations.

In truth, I needed a hiatus to focus on work, and the play I was in, and the travelling I was doing, and the sitting I needed, and the gin sampling that let’s face it has become rather sad now.

But have no fear, I will be back shortly with many posts to come that are sure to tickle you. Such as…

• My current gin recommendations (so good you’ll rub yourself in juniper)
• Why I can’t get into my office
• A magical drinking pillow
• My search for the perfect espresso martini
• Tales from The Duck and Bastard
• Uhh….Belfast? Yeah, Belfast, I haven’t done Belfast yet
• I don’t know, something about cats

All of this will be with you in good time. In the meantime, here is a picture of Django looking shocked.

That bitch be blogging about what?!

And here is a picture of me with fabulous hair, annoyed that Ben is reading the paper and not commenting on the fabulous hair.

And here is picture of a cream tea I had in Devon which apparently started a war

And here’s a picture of the world’s greatest folk session in Edinburgh’s The Royal Oak, taken at 3am during the festival.

And here’s a picture of a table I painted for no good reason.

Freshly painted garden table, for I will not suffer boring furniture. Now, to add a G&T #anniesloan

A photo posted by The Demon Gin (@thedemongin) on Jun 7, 2015 at 6:53am PDT

And here’s a picture of Ireland. I went to Ireland ages ago. Probably should have told you about that.

Dat pretty

And here’s me ACTING.

And here is a pizza. It was a good pizza. I sometimes weep for the loss of it.

And here’s some tigers snuggling.

And here’s a gin and tonic cake I made while bored. It looks like it’s smiling. Sort of like The Joker. So that’s something.

And a lemur taking a selfie.

#lemur #selfie ......#lemurselfie Yep.

A photo posted by The Demon Gin (@thedemongin) on Mar 19, 2015 at 7:53am PDT

Until next time. (Drops mic)

The Ten Commandments of Gin

It is World Gin Day, tiny darlings. Everybody get naked!

We shouldn’t need to be reminded of gin’s loveliness, of why our beloved spirit is a holy elixir of truth and beauty, but who am I to shun an entire day of gin talk/drinking/bathing?

The Fable of The Brew Dog - A Beer Tasting Tale

Come closer, tiny darlings, for it is story time. A story of one dog and his fight for the purest of beers.....

.....Okay, it isn’t story time yet, I’ll get to that at the end. First, let me tell you about my delightful evening spent with The Brew Dog.

Dear Prudence - In The Heart of Sipsmith Distillery

The beau and I are getting into our drinks tours of late – breweries, micropubs, distilleries, we’ll visit anything and drink it dry. I know I know it’s sickeningly hipster of us, and also a terrible shame that drinking cheap wine in the aisles of Netto while sobbing is no longer good enough for us. But it’s a tipple-fuelled tide we could not swim against.

Silo, Brighton - A Zero Wasteland

Every day, we’re told to stop producing so much waste.

Weekly, we roll out our landfill wheelie bins under cover of darkness so no one will know just how full they really are. Daily, people in offices snatch rubbish from your hands and force it in to the recycling bin while cursing your existence. Hourly, a polar bear commits suicide because you keep buying plastic wrapped leeks instead of the PERFECTLY ADEQUATE LOOSE ONES.

Most of us grown ups grew up in a time of excessive, repeated and unjustified waste. It was pre-recession and we didn’t really care about stuffing plastic bags down a dolphin’s throat because we could just demand that the Government buy more dolphins. But times have changed and the world, thankfully, is more willing to embrace a ‘less is more’ and ‘ignorance isn’t bliss’ attitude when it comes to waste.

Which leads me to the centre of the shrubbery maze that is this blog’s introduction…

Blogging in Brighton - Oki-Nami & The Black Lion

A mini-break, you say? To Brighton, you say? A chance to have some girly fun with fellow blogger Miscriant and try some new places, you say?

IN-teresting!

Lessons in Libations at Le Mouton Rouge

Me: Darling, there’s a beer tasting at Le Mouton Rouge this Saturday.

Beau: Beer?

Me: Yes. Shall we go?

Beau: Beer. I mean, yes

…..The conversation sounded longer in my head.

Happy birthday to the blog, everyone look at me

(The world scampers to The DG’s office door, and raps upon it excitedly)

World: Come out! Come out! You must come out, it’s your birthday!

(Sound of empty bottles clattering to the floor)

Me: Hmm, what what? I’m awake, I’m awake, I was writing, I swear to God I was writing! (Sound of the Invictus advert playing on loop) Oh Christ, close down, close down! Where the hell is the mouse?!

World: But Demon Gin, you must come out, you’re one year old and there is fun to be had!

Me: (Rubbing bridge of nose) Ok could everyone just SHHHHHHH for FIVE seconds?! Okay…..okay…okay…(sound of bottle being opened)….okay, what’s going on?

Grim Visages - Face Painting for Grown-Ups

Some people let their inner child out at Christmas. I let mine out at Halloween.

And also when I’m drinking gin and eating chicken at 1am and I find out Psycho is on TV.

My delightful friend Al (follow her on Twitter @algriffs) took a jaunt to the British Library at the end of October for a special evening party celebrating their sensational exhibition Terror & Wonder: The Gothic Imagination.

Terror and Wonder: The Gothic Imagination (Pic from The British Library)

A Very British Safari

Get your Christmas lists out, and throw them away. I have a new idea for you.

Sometimes, you’re just sitting there on a Friday afternoon thinking, “hmmm…I wish I could go on safari. In England.”

No, tiny darlings, I haven’t lost my mind. For such a feat is possible. In the heart of Kent, no less.

Recently, I was fortunate enough to do some work through my day job with the screamingly lovely people at Port Lympne Reserve in Lympne, Kent, and they kindly invited me along to a press night showcasing their safari accommodation.* It was the end of the season but once you’ve read this, you will have the edge on booking up the entirety of the 2015 season in advance.

Hence my reference to the Christmas gift. See? See? It all ties together.

I Once Was a Vegas Virgin But I'm Not Now

I have returned, tiny darlings.

Forgive my absence, do. I love this blog more than I love a hot gin on a cold Christmas morning, or the pleasure I get from hurling said gin at my staff while screaming ‘gin is supposed to be cold, you horror stories!!!” Being away from you has been difficult.

The reason for my absence has been that I had been blessed with a new job in tourism PR, a delightful one closer to home and resplendent with lovely people and lots of rewarding hard work. Hence I’ve been focused on my various new tasks and ensuring no one discovers my penchant for almonds. Imagine the shame…

The Fringe Files Part II: Here comes the band

When last I left you it was Sunday night at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and the beau and I were enjoying a last hours of privacy before four days of frenzied music making began.

Such gaiety we had, tiny darlings, exploring the sights like a normal couple instead of two people who practice wrestling finishing moves on each other and sometimes forget how to kiss.

But as the weekend drew to a close, a faint rumbling could be heard across the fair city. Crows cried from the rooftops, dogs howled, mandolins began to play by themselves.

The band was coming…

Edinburgh: The Fringe Files Part I

This month marked my first trip to the famous, frantic, fevered Edinburgh Fringe Festival. And my renewed love affair with alliteration, apparently.

The Fringe has been on my 'must do' list for many years, along with the West Country and various cast members of the film 300. But every August, fate has conspired against me and I've never been able to make the trip. Until this year, when I was presented with a tantalising opportunity...

No, I wasn't acting in anything. Nor was I singing, dancing, miming or semaphoring. I was, instead, given the chance to travel up with my beau’s folk band as they played various gigs across the fair city. Basically, I'd be a groupie*.

Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium

“It’s not cat porn.”

No, tiny darlings, this wasn't my response when the beau's grandmother asked what I did for a living. These words came from the founder of the dementedly delightful Lady Dinah’s Cat Emporium, London's first ever cat café.

A place I visited twice. With a camera.

What happens when you direct a play (for the first time)

This post was written on the opening night of my directorial debut with The Canterbury Players in June 2014.

A while ago, I wrote about hay fever. But now I am going to write about Hay Fever. No, not the ailment that's killing me slowly via the nose. I mean the thing that's probably going to kill me by way of a bunch of people kicking me to death while shouting "is it stage left or right, you silly bint?!!"

Yes, tiny darlings. I am directing a play. Namely, Hay Fever by the one and only Noel Coward, and it starts tonight (Thurs 26th June) at The Gulbenkian Theatre, Canterbury.

Excuse me a moment while I vomit profusely from gut wrenching nerves.

The Demon Gin Goes to Junipalooza

It's happened. It's finally happened. Those maniacs...

I've been to tasting events for nearly every liquor under the sun, including some that weren't strictly alcohol....one was a type of comb cleaner, I think....but what has been missing from my life - from the The Demon Gin herself - was a gin tasting.  

If only there was some sort of massive gin tasting extravaganza, I mused, that I could lend my blogging skills to. Ha, wouldn't it be grand to have some sort of event in a warehouse where various distillers hand out tasters of juniper goodness? Oh wouldn’t it be spiffing to wile away the hours, discussing the finer points of all manner okay you can see where I’m going with this.

And lo, God created Junipalooza. 

Babies + Offices = Kirsty

I sit in my office. I hear a strange sound in the distance, like a murder of crows crossed with stampeding elephants. I look up from my desk. 

A woman I barely know is standing there, disheveled but looking oddly pleased about it. I’m not sure if she works here…maybe she's from legal or….Oh Christ. 

In her hand, I see it. A baby carrier. And it’s full.

Allergic To My Own Face

Some of you may be aware that I am directing a show this June. It is Noel Coward’s Hay Fever. Well, this post is nothing to do with that.

No, tiny darlings, I merely bring this up because (ahem, chuckle) it’s rather apt that all my attention is focused on Hay Fever because actual hay fever (ho ho!) is literally killing me it’s killing me I’m going to die from it in the next eight minutes this is not a joke or a witty little anecdote or pun SEND HELP.

A new strain of super pollen has taken over the clouds and rains bloody murder upon me every day.

 

BASTARDS