Wednesday, 25 March, 2009

Total fucking dopehedron paleocrapist nightmare in rehearsals today. Kerry Katona mumbled her way through Act I & missed virtually every cue & I remonstrated with her in front of the company: “We could have had Frances Barber, you know!” She stormed offstage & locked herself in her dressing room. It is an outrage. I knocked on her door & she stood there sobbing. “I know you think I’m a thicko…I know bloody well that I’ve only been put in this show to get punters in…but I can act…and I have to pay off my taxes…I am intelligent, you know!” I comforted her with apposite words from Nietzsche & that seemed to soothe her over to lands of crimson. Secretly I was taping the sobs ‘cos they’ll go well with the aquatic banjos at the Whitechapel Gallery. Then at 5:17 PM Kenwright stormed into my dressing room. “I’m sorry but I have totally had it with you,” he snorted. “You have done nothing but complain ever since you’ve been in this show…you complain about the delivery of the other cast members, you complain about there being no 100 Rehearsals sign outside the Gents’, you complain about the decrepitude of the alto bullroarers and I am sick of it.” I was startled since I have never done anything to offend anyone else & always mean to please but managed to placate him with Eric Morecambe’s sonnet about Nell from Camberwell. Every time the stupidity of others undermines & detonates my enviable competencies and I end up having to apologise to the idiots for THEIR idiocy! If you want to do anything in this world properly you have to do it yourself. To bed with anxious traditional. Barber poles & Francis Bacon in an Angus McBean Guinness head with confluent pliers.