When you get acting gigs, all the control one usually has over the basic bits and bobs of your life is taken away from you. This is normally because of insurance, or rather ensuring – that you – the compliment fat porta-moan – doesn’t fuck it up for the rest of them.
Actors, it seem can’t be trusted; which is why, my co “star” and I were ferried by taxi to a building we could see from our hotel. Not just that – we got a taxi each! Taxis which had to drive in the opposite direction to use a road bridge as the foot bridge was just that.
I do sort of accept why these things happen; at up to £200000 per episode production staff are just limiting risk and anything they can do, they will do. Another point was mentioned to me – some actors like their own taxi –it’s a form of luxury.
Things that are usually touted as luxury are very rarely that. They are usually an exercise in waste; why one would enjoy feeling like a milk soaked toddler is beyond my ken. It has little dignity.
I’m just cross i think because of the pants thing. The “luxury” hotel doesn’t have a laundry service on a weekend (because why would you) and i can’t go to a laundrette in Govan because I, or rather my employer, cannot be sure when, or if i will have time to go and pick it up. So, instead, I retreat to the BBC to sit and wait till I’m called.
On advice, i wandered over to the wardrobe dept and asked if could use their machine. They were less than impressed, and why not, it’s not their job to wash my crackers. They did though, which is great and I’m very thankful.
What fucks me off though, is that woman in that department is left with the impression I’m the sort of blubbery actor arsehole who can’t even wash his pants without help. I have been sitting here in this room for FIVE AND A HALF HOURS. I could have washed my pants, her pants and done things in my pants that would have required me to wash my pants again, and still had time to pant on about pants.
I miss home.