"The fog on the Tyne is all mine, all mine!"

Yeh right, in my dreams!

Cheryl Cole and I finally have something in common; it’s not our long dark hair, nor the fact that I hail from Guildford where she allegedly clobbered a nightclub clerk and, no, HEAT magazine, she hasn’t suddenly ballooned to size 8, but I have been a Geordie lass for the last week.  Sadly, that is where the similarities between Cheryl and I end.  I could have chosen Jimmy Nail or Ant and Dec for that analogy but don’t judge a girl for wanting to be likened to Cheryl for a mere moment!

Avenue Q hit Newcastle-upon-Tyne last week and we all fell in love with the place.  Obviously the heat-wave may have helped brighten our mood and it can be argued that we would fall in love with any city in the 25 degree sunshine.  But the sun shone in Wolverhampton...............I rest my case!

I can be judgemental sometimes, a quality I am not proud of and knowing that Newcastle was known for the nightlife and partying, that was all I expected to find.  But lucky Granny Dani was greeted with grand Georgian architecture, castle keeps, cow-grazing on a Moor and beaches to visit!  I had a lot to do in 5 days in-between a horrific schedule of performances, (I keep forgetting the reason I get to visit all these places is the job, damn those pesky shows!)

That’s not to say that there wasn’t a stag-do in sight; I witnessed my fair share of fancy-dress characters roaming the streets and it was rumoured a score of man-sized, nappy clad babies rolled into The Holiday Inn in the early hours of Saturday morning!  A more youthful pack of lads were great ambassadors for their city when they spied our Aussie Eve from the cast sunbathing at the glorious beach in Tynemouth (yes we had a tiring week!)  Their shouts of approval echoed around the bay, bouncing off of the cliff faces, to inform us she must be highly skilled in certain sexual acts because her bum looked so nice - lovely!

I ordered a taxi home and the text I received went thus – your vehicle, a white ford transit, is waiting outside, your driver’s name is shaun.  I peered out of the window to see Shaun sat in a huge white van, I wasn’t sure if I was being taken on a stag-do or illegally smuggled across the North Sea!

But back to the wonderful city I discovered, amid the great restaurants and St James’ Park are remnants of Hadrian’s Wall and the “new” castle built by the son of William the Conqueror.  The history geek inside me was doing somersaults!  I even surpassed myself reaching new levels of Nerd-Dom as I stood with my back to the drunken stags on the Quayside and admired the mechanics of the Millennium Bridge.  Spanning the River Tyne along from the iconic Tyne Bridge, the Millennium Bridge tilts to allow boats to pass and at the risk of sounding stupid, it was so cool!!  The pedestrian and cycle paths curve upwards like some kind of ride at Alton Towers and lower again as if nothing has happened.   I’ll be sat with my sandwiches alongside a canal, applauding the rise and fall of locks, next!

Despite doing so many performances at The Theatre Royal that left our voices cracking more than the paint in our dressing rooms, I had one of my favourite weeks on tour to date.  Sign me up to The Toon Army and pour me a Newcastle Brown Ale!  The moral of the tale is “don’t judge a book by its cover” or a city at least, you never know what gems you may find beyond the Walkabout Bars and Pound Lands.

So, next time you get offered a gig in Basingstoke, give it a go; you may discover a Roman fort or at least a large branch of Primark.  It is always fun to explore!

"Papa was a rolling stone, Wherever he lay his hat was his home"

I predict that in 13 hours and 15 minutes hours I will be crying.  This is not a pessimistic prophecy on a “glass-half-empty day” but a realistic expectation judging from my recent behaviour.  You see (and this is an embarrassing revelation) at the start of each week, on the day I have to leave for a new venue on the tour, I burst into tears as I re-pack my suitcase.

It is pathetic that a grown woman is wailing like a 5 year old clinging to her mother’s skirt as I type a new and unknown postcode into my sat-nav, especially as I am only leaving to do a job I love.  But weep and wail I do, despite only having ten weeks left “on the road.”  I find it increasingly hard to leave my flat, my family and my fella.

The nomadic lifestyle of an actor is challenging.  You need to find somewhere to sleep, familiarise yourself with new theatres and cities and re-pack your clothes every 6 days.  I will always remember when I first learnt about nomads when studying the Native American Indians for GCSE History, I think it began my love of discovering new words.  You know when you secretly feel slightly more intelligent when you learn a big word and its meaning, resulting in you dropping it into random sentences for weeks on end?  No? Just me?  Well, you won’t find me using “word of the day” loo roll but that is one of my quirks.

The definition of a nomadic way of life is “communities of people who move from one place to another, rather than settling permanently in one location.”  There are approximately 30-40 million nomads in the world and perhaps our touring company of Avenue Q is included in that.  We could particularly be likened to the Peripatetic Nomads who travel about offering skills or crafts in return for food.  I have yet to be given a cheeseburger in return for a rousing chorus of “The Internet is Porn” but you get my drift!

Many cultures are traditionally nomadic so couldn’t it be argued that somewhere in the recesses of my DNA I am programmed to be a nomad?  Who am I kidding?  I can’t sleep a full night in a tent without freaking out about hedgehogs breaking in and think that Yurts are purely a “glamping” trend.  I have been fully modernised!

But it has got me thinking about the similarities between this long-established way of life and our tour around the UK.  The Native Americans just needed nature to survive; it provided them with weapons, food and shelter.  So what do my fellow cast members need?  The dominant answer was technology; we depend on iPads, iPhones and laptops to communicate with the outside world.  How did people survive before wifi and WhatsApp?  Imagine Big Chief Rain Man from Utah courting Little Dancing Queen from Missouri without Skype?

But delving beyond our technological needs revealed more about us.  For example my tour bag always has a jar of peanut butter, gravy granules and a Diptyque candle; peanut butter is my ultimate comfort food, gravy to create a roast dinner and the candle to make any room can smell like home.  My wonderful dressing room buddy's suitcase contains a wok, ketchup and a back massager, her clothes get fewer but her DVD collection increases!  Another resourceful lady has an emergency bottle of wine in her suitcase; it seems the only way to soften the blow of being stranded at Crewe Station awaiting your delayed connection!  The boys are more pragmatic; Kayi insists on Tupperware, Berocca and his own set of cutlery, Luke needs his young person’s railcard and mouthwash!  The boys also tour a football, a ukulele and a poker kit, whilst the girls depend on thick socks, teddies and a diary to record their thoughts.  It is whatever keeps you sane!

But the overwhelming response related to food.  Our basic human needs aren’t so dissimilar to indigenous cultures; they had buffalo and we have Matt’s homemade chicken seasoning!  Being able to comfort yourself with familiar food is at the top of our tour survival list until we can get back to Mum for some home-cooked goodness.

So despite loving The Rolling Stones as a band I cannot claim to be a rolling stone myself.  I am more than happy to grow moss and settle down, a word derived from the people who went to America to “settle” the Indians and their land. 

I may have ten more Mondays of tears but at least I get to share the weeks with some gorgeous, funny people that are as eccentric as I am!

"Do we participate in a politics of cynicism or a politics of hope?" Barack Obama

The month of May is all about politics, there are elections locally and all around the world.  We have seen a new French President this week, voted Boris back in as London Mayor and had local elections which I think has put the wind up David Cameron.

Even from my touring bubble, we recognise that the real world is at odds with itself.  When the public are concerned or unhappy with “the man” we tend to vote for change, any kind of change, just think of the words sung by the girls in Sweet Charity “There’s gotta be something better than this!”  Then there is the old adage that ‘a change is as good as a rest’ but I can’t help but be reminded of a disgruntled Germany in the midst of the Depression following World War One who voted for change and what was that result?  Heil Hitler.

Politics affects everybody.  All of our working lives are plagued with politics, even our happy touring bubble of Avenue Q with its smiley puppets.  Despite doing your favourite hobby as a job, which I know is a gift, politics and grumbles creep in because we’re all human.  It is not quite “Dave from Accounts keeps stealing my favourite mug” or “Barbara only got that promotion because she displays her DDs so eloquently in the boardroom,” which can concern a more average working environment.  Well, to be fair, an element of Barbara can creep in, anyone heard of the fabled casting couch?  But our “office” is the antithesis of average; most of our luvvie “Hi babe,” bum slapping, “you %&*!!” behaviour would raise a few eyebrows in a local branch of HSBC and no doubt result in a law suit if we happened to work in mid-West America.

But wages, working hours and colleague clashes affect even responsibility-free actors because although it is your hobby, it becomes a job.  A strange thing to comprehend when you’ve dreamt about it, auditioned alongside hundreds of people and others think you’re living the life of Reilly.  But everything is relative; Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” becomes our 6pm-11pm instead. 

We feel let down politically (at least the Daily Mail does) when people and promises we’ve believed in don’t come to fruition.  We put our faith in our vote and await the changes to children’s schools, pensions (don’t get my Grandad started,) bloomin’ TFL and care for the elderly and you start to question what effect we really can have.  The politicians’ manifestos and policies are like dreams for a nation that we all invest in; the fact that Martin Luther King started his infamous political speech with the words “I have a dream..” says it all.

There is that same faith and anticipation when you start a new job; expecting the challenge, respect and support of the management.  I’ll never forget how the little 8 year old girl inside me who had dreamt about being in Les Miserables died a little when it became my working reality.  Maybe it is when dreams become accessible that they lose their sheen or is that just growing up?   

But as we can’t put an X in a box and have a say in our working life then you need to find a way to dodge the politics and try to sail on throughout the day until you can get home and go to Zumba or down a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.  I think it is all about keeping that element of the dream going inside of you, remembering why you are there without getting dragged into the mire of discontentment.  I am not saying get all new-age and meditate yourself above the rabble.  There is no need to grow dreadlocks or wear a flowing skirt; you can appreciate your lot and still aspire for better without surrounding your work station with healing crystals and incense sticks.  But politically speaking, surely little changes can result in a big one?

I guess the only real change you can make is to yourself and hope the world follows suit!

Rainy days and Sundays always get me down.....

Well, the Sunday part of that quote isn’t quite true; it is my one day off from work and the tour so I actually live for each Sunday and the promise of seeing loved ones but rainy days do get me down.  At the risk of being quintessentially English and at a loss for things to say (a great trait in a writer I hear you scoff!) I am mentioning the weather.  Everybody else is; droughts, hose pipe bans, torrential rain for weeks and a tornado north of Oxford!  I saw that one on the news on Monday, there must be a very confused girl in gingham with pigtails having landed in Sunderland lamenting “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Banbury anymore!”

We all thought Spring had sprung but it has sprung a leak and I have to admit it has made me lose my touring mojo.  A fellow cast member and I reflected on this as we went for a run yesterday (in the rain) realising we hadn’t been sightseeing in the last few weeks or made the most of the cities we’ve visited.  I dripped my way through Oxford quite glad at the respite of spending nearly every day rehearsing inside work and Leicester went past in a grey haze.  Instead of exploring the Oxford Spires or the potentially pretty Victoria Park surrounding DeMontfort Hall I have rediscovered my love for DVD boxsets and crawling back into bed as the clouds continue to batter Britain.  This is not normal me behaviour since I past 25 years old and is quite frankly concerning me.

I don’t think I suffer from that SAD syndrome where people suffer depression during the winter months but I certainly feel brighter and have a zest for life when the sun is out.  Don’t we all?  I tried to fake it with a visit to a sunbed centre which only resulted in a sweatier show than normal and a seriously bad burnt bum-cheeks situation. 

Maybe I am just hibernating and conserving energy for work or maybe I need to google anti-rain dance rituals.  If you see a girl banging sticks and wailing at the sky outside The Salford Lowry Theatre you may want to stay away as I will have finally lost the plot or join in, you never know we could coax out the sun with a group onslaught!  We’re heading to Glasgow next week so we need all the help we can get!

University Challenge

I have always harboured a secret desire to be an Oxbridge university student.

If my A-Level English tutor is reading this I expect him to scoff and wonder why I fought so vigorously against his advice in 1999 and headed straight to drama school instead.  Well I was blinded by dance routines and showstopping ballads Mr Long!  But I now see, with the luxury of hindsight, that you were right as I find it increasingly hard to apply for Journalism jobs without those precious qualifications.

But back to my University aspirations; I have to admit that they are not purely intellectual.  I am a romantic at heart, seduced by sunshine and such idylls (it drives my “down to earth” boyfriend nuts!) so it is the lifestyle surrounding the Oxford and Cambridge universities for which I yearn.  Not 2-4-1 vodka redbulls in a local Wetherspoons or rallies about world peace but I dream of cycling around a beautiful city on a bike with a basket full of intelligent literature wearing a blazer and brogues!  Just like an extra in the Inspector Morse TV series!

And this week a small part of my dream came true as Avenue Q descended on The Arts Theatre in Cambridge.  The first thing I did was hire a bicycle; pedalling between my digs (a gorgeous family home with homemade bread and granola – oh yes!) and the theatre and using it to explore the stunning city.  My fellow company members nicknamed me “Granny Danny” as they watched me wobble off after the show but did anyone else discover Granchester Meadows where Lord Byron once roamed before diving into what is now known as Byron’s Pool across the fields?  No, I think not!  But this is coming from a lady who asked for National Trust membership for my 30^th and is happily old before my time!

My hire bike was fairly basic so I did suffer from a bruised backside for a week but it was worth it to indulge my lost dreams.

As for work; the theatre was lovely but teeny tiny.  All our dressing rooms were underground and opened into a green room communal area; it was like being in the Big Brother house.  With a lack of oxygen and natural light we microwaved our dinners and slowly went delirious in our own company.  As the wing-space backstage was so tight our crew ended up taping huge pieces of foam onto the walls because we had a habit of exiting the stage and running straight into them in our haste– a step closer to proving my point that a touring lifestyle is akin to an asylum.  Padded walls, no natural light and the same 20 people day in and day out (I have even had electric shocks via my acupuncture from the physio, remember? See my blog “where did those balls fall.”) - all we are missing are strait-jackets. Talk about a university town challenge.

But I am not one to bite the hand that feeds me, without this tour I wouldn’t be experiencing all these parts of the UK and getting to pretend I am a Cambridge undergraduate!  We’re in Oxford in two weeks and I’m taking my own bike complete with basket– a Masters Degree here I come!

Actress meets Journalist - who's side am I on?

When you attempt two careers it is often to compliment differing sides of your personality and you may expect, as Kipling said, “east is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet.”  This could be true if you are an aspiring fashion designer and plumber but being an actress and journalist, well these twains certainly do met, just ask any witness at the ongoing Leveson Inquiries! 

But back down to my level of celebrity, (e.g., recognised in my local pub because I always order the exact same dish from the takeaway....oh the shame!) as I am currently being actress during the week, I have encountered many journalists interviewing me just as I have grilled actors in the past with my journalistic hat on.

I have decided it is much harder to be on the actress side.  Yes, a journalist has to research their interviewee, find an angle, create questions and be engaging as you attempt to keep your subject away from Draw Something on their iPhones but you do get the excitement of writing the article.  As the subject, it is often your fifth interview of the day promoting the same product and you find yourself saying the same stock phrases and wondering when someone will bring you a glass of water before you keel over.

You also have to navigate a minefield of questions whilst keeping your professional face on.  I am still fairly new at this and often fall foul of myself as I become relaxed and chat away (or maybe that’s a sign of a good journalist who has allured me into this state of relaxation in order for me to slip up? I should take note!)

As an actress in my early 20s I made some rookie mistakes; I stupidly let slip the address of the radio DJ interviewing me because I’d seen him in my street, whoops!  And I brazenly cited my negative views on reality TV stars and “Find a Maria” programmes during an early morning phone interview but I am ashamed to say I may have still been drunk from the night before.  Ah well, the call never came from Lord Lloyd Webber demanding I retract that statement if I ever want to work in the West End again so it can’t have been that bad!

I need to learn from my man who is fantastic with the press; you see his professional face and smile come on but he doesn’t appear fake or uninterested.  His easy-going chat punctuates what I’ve come to realise are his stock phrases and stories, disguising the fact that he’s said it all before.  It is a real art and I admire him for it because it is exhausting!

On the Avenue Q tour we are currently doing press calls for each new venue.  TV, radio and newspapers; all with puppets and whilst doing 8 shows in 5 days, no wonder we all look shattered and need to be surgically detached from Trekkie Monster and Lucy The Slut.  But we need to sell tickets because performing to 6 nuns and a Yorkshire terrier on a Wednesday matinee is soul destroying!  So “Hi Ho Hi Ho it’s off to press calls we go.......”

These press calls differ from normal interviews because the press mainly want to meet the puppet characters, therefore we are required to do voices and manipulate the puppets.  Journalists often don’t know who to look at and have put microphones under the puppets mouths only to later wonder why the sound quality isn’t great!  One journalist couldn’t have been less interested; he prefaced the interview with the request to be funny and witty to match his usual content and then asked us to list the songs in the show.  Bearing in mind we were on a breakfast show before the watershed, the songs we could list in Avenue Q were limited so it was a rather dull answer!

Maybe working on both sides of the net should make me more mutually empathetic.  I should aim to create more exciting questions as a writer for tiresome actors and try to appreciate the journalists struggle instead of raising my eyes at the thirteenth same question of the day!  Although, as I sit 30 minutes into an interview with stabbing pains in my shoulder and a burning thumb joint trying to make witty puppet banter, I have to be honest and admit I am currently on the side of my actress self!

See the link below for examples of my learning curve in the interviewee business.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WjQ9V4TYZCc&feature=related

Is this for Rhyl?

There is something unsettling and downright spooky about an out-of-season seaside town.  The beach is deserted and the wind slams signs against empty shops waiting for the tourists to return.  It is a sad scene; and no more so than for a travelling actor, for I have just spent a week in Rhyl, North Wales. 

My boyfriend tells me that it was a holiday destination for Mancunian and Brummy families and he spent time there as a child, so I was expecting a Northern version of Margate or Bognor.  Rhyl was an empty resort with a derelict fairground and few people under the age of 50.  But there I was; my Cafe Nero hadn’t been stamped in days and I was hanging out of my dressing room window in a desperate attempt to get signal on my mobile.

To be fair, as I dangled vicariously out of the window, the view was beautiful.  A deserted beach can also be breathtaking and soothing.  Walking and running along the windy coastline was the perfect antidote to the bargain stores and scary looking locals.

And then there was the wildlife.  One of the cast made an announcement after warm-up before a midweek show.  “Just to warn you guys I was attacked this morning.”  Cue gasps of shock and support for poor Jonny, we had just got used to the leisure centre theatre and the lack of eateries and now we had to worry about crime too?  “It happened outside of McDonalds,” (cue more gasps at his blatant admission of eating saturated fat ridden meat patties, wasn’t this boy a dancer?!!)

It transpired that after a buying a small hamburger Jonny had unwrapped it, took a bite and headed towards The Promenade.  But before he could consume a second bite a seagull swooped down and swiped it; smashing Jonny’s face with its wing and biting his finger for good measure before zooming off with its swag.

Poor Jonny – bereft, hungry and violated.

An actor’s touring allowance doesn’t go very far so returning for seconds wasn’t an option.  Only then did Jonny see a sign on the McDonalds door stating “Do Not Unwrap Food Outside.  Beware Of The Seagulls.”  In London we are used to signs about pick pockets or unattended baggage not scavenging sea creatures.  Although traumatised, Jonny did find the courage to re-enact the event with gusto which brightened up an otherwise dull day at work!

Our lasting memories of Rhyl were slightly stressful.  It was the venue before a week-long holiday so, like the run up to Christmas, the days seemed longer than normal.  By the Saturday evening show we were all packed up and in holiday mode, only 2 hours stood between us and spring break!

Five minutes into Act 1 we heard a muffled boom and the stage went dark.  The bubble machine went crazy and suddenly we had been transported from Avenue Q to a 1990s disco.  A show stop ensued and the poor punters in Rhyl sat looking at the emergency safety curtain.  Almost an hour later, it was confirmed that we had tripped the whole system and only had front of house power.  My arrival home, after the 4 and a half hour drive, was edging into the dawn hours as we sat in the wings waiting to hear our fate.  But in true “show must go on” fashion our company planned to continue the performance with the two spotlights.  I felt like I was in a school show as we navigated each scene in various forms of darkness and we trudged to the finale before the midnight bell tolled!  Talk about prolonging a holiday! But we got there in the end and I was in the car and heading for the motorway.

Stoke on Trent beckons!