Tag Archive: drama

TOFFPOX: Prudence! What kind of person drinks rum?
PRUDENCE: …A person who wants to get drunk?
TOFFPOX: No! Yes! I mean – what sort of rogue is usually associated with rum?
PRUDENCE: …Johnny Depp?
PRUDENCE: Johnny Depp, the local barman.
(disdainfully) “Johnny Depp, the local barman”?
PRUDENCE: Yes – well, if you told me to say the first thing that comes into my head when you say “rum”, I would say “Johnny Depp”, because he’s the local barman, and serves alcohol, including rum, so, yes, he’s the sort of rogue that I would associate with –
TOFFPOX: No, no, Prudence, you’re missing my point –
PRUDENCE: Which is?
TOFFPOX: Pirates! Pirates drink rum!
TOFFPOX: We could dress up as pirates and run away to sea!

First night of Fairytale Shorts – ten minute fairytale adaptations/devised pieces performed by the uni’s drama society – went well. My short, “Scurvy Curs: A Delightful Tale of Whimsy”, about two ladies who seek adventure as a badly-disguised male pirate and a parrot named Nobstradamus, went down well. I am extremely pleased with the audience’s reaction to the whole thing. Pirates having an orgy to the tunes of “Love Shack”, a maid with a feather duster wound into a coathanger and worn as a headdress and the crew dancing around the stage to “Why Is The Rum Gone?” seem to go down well with people my age and older, which excites me. I’m glad I wasn’t just writing stuff that I thought was hysterically funny and alienated everybody else. AND they laughed a lot at my character, which I suspect is because of the highly nasal voice and the glasses perched on the end of my nose. I love Bluster. She’s insane.

COCKSWAIN: Do ye swear by the sword that ye really be a scurvy cur and yer true callin’ be to run through bluejackets and lobsters?
BLUSTER: Are you averse to killing naval officers of any sort?
COCKSWAIN: And be ye true to the sweet trade until ye find yeself in Davy Jones’s locker?
BLUSTER: Will you be a pirate until you cop it?
TOFFPOX: …I suppose so.

Second and final night of the performance tonight. I had a nightmare that I was forced to rewrite the entire thing and everything fell apart on the night, and I’m glad that’s not the case. (I guess now that I’ve written that, half my cast is going to fall ill or break body parts. I hope not.)

In other, more academically-focused news, I got the same mark in both my first essays for this year: THREE MARKS short of a first. I started out on a trip of self-loathing once more, until my seminar tutor told me that actually, it’s really good at this stage, and next time I can work towards a first. I am very happy indeed. I got a couple of firsts last year, which don’t count towards my degree mark, but I hope to repeat the performance again. It’s very odd. I’m used to A*s in all my English pieces of work, so not getting a first kind of equated to getting a B. You won’t really appreciate this until you know that, consistently throughout my school life, I have been achieving among the highest marks in the year in everything to do with English. It was that one subject that I never ever really tried hard at but enjoyed and got high marks in anyway. Science and Maths? Bollocks to them.

I leave you with this most important moral message from my play:
BLUSTER: And disregarding the danger of STDs, they all lived happily ever after. Remember girls, you CAN do anything, but you WILL end up as a sexual object anyway!


So that was the stupidest thing I have EVER said in a university dramatic society audition. What fun.

Luckily, I was allowed to say stupid things – well, make up a stupid story – and it’s not untrue, either. My dad has black fillings in all of his back teeth. He looks like a pirate because of this.

I also had to break out my rusty, awful American accent for the same audition. Bear in mind that I learned the accent from Hehrry Pahhtter pahhdcahhhsts, and so it’s a weird robotic drawl, an American radio voice of sorts. But I think it was acceptable. Just.

My second audition involved the discovery of a character who is CLEARLY related to June Buckridge from Frank Marcus’s The Killing of Sister George, whom I adore and have played. Drunken, loudmouthed, boorish females for the win!

I hope I get a part this term. If not, it’s more time to concentrate on my writing and finding a job. If I get a job, I have promised myself private voice and piano lessons. Yes really. They’re things I’ve wanted to learn for a long time and I’ve never yet have the opportunity to seek tuition. With any luck, I’ll soon get a job.

Money is always a good thing.

Back…to the Twenties!

Ambitious little creature that I am, I am going to attempt to stage and direct Love’s Labour’s Lost in the spring term.

It will be set in the Roaring Twenties – because, let’s face it, things set in the Roaring Twenties are AWESOME.

I intend to play Moth myself, unless I find someone totally incredible who has “Moth” inscribed in their little thespian veins.

There will be NO Holo-fucking-fernes because he is a deadly dull BORE of a man.


As a result of my mad brain-racking, I have been trawling through samples of classic ’20s jazz hits looking for suitable musical accompaniment.

Also, today I signed up for both pole- and swing-dancing lessons at the uni. I am thoroughly excited, if a little unco-ordinated and, well, stocky. I blame my genes and my awful metabolism: since returning here, I’ve gained FIVE POUNDS. This isn’t at all fair, as I haven’t been snacking between meals or drinking anything more vicious than diet cappuchino sachets and occasional glasses of lemonade. The only things that can have contributed to this disgusting weight gain are:
– Two slices of birthday cake; no, I did not wolf them down in quick succesion;
– Three fun-size bags of Maltesers – again, not eaten one after another;
– A glass of wine.


Of course, I’m doing a lot of curling-up-and-reading for my course, but that doesn’t really account for anything – it’s not as if I’m normally leaping around lifting weights and doing cardio. Bah humbug.
…Or just the bah, the humbug contains empty calories.

“Nothing brings more pain than too much pleasure; nothing more bondage than too much liberty,” according to Benjamin Franklin, and DAMN he was right. I. Am. FESTERING. With boredom, I truly am, three months, no job, nothing to do except lounge and study, except we all know that studying never happens when you have the time to devote to it.

To all the unemployed chavs out there, HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELVES? Your brains must be rotting away in your skulls. Is this why you breed so much? Nothing else to do? Really? Because I can believe that, I really can, I’d have sex constantly if I was locked in a house with nothing to do except watch Jeremy Kyle. I mean, really!

Exercising, writing, reading and moody wandering have been my primary activities. It was fine at first. Then one month developed into two, then three. Everyone seems to be raving about their marvellous summers, but I am on the verge of doing something stupid.

I am a person who NEEDS to be kept busy. This was why I was happy at school (when I wasn’t a target for the cowardly underclasses) – I had a solid, day-filling routine. Nowadays, you can only clean and vacuum and dust and sweep and organise alphabetically so many times before you rise up and cry, “That’s IT! I have had ENOUGH!” Believe me, my inner voice has been screaming this for the past five weeks. It’s tedious.

I cannot WAIT to get back into uni. I will plan reading and writing and extra-curricular activities around my classes so that I am never just “being”. I want to learn to sing. I want to participate more in the drama side of things. I want to STIMULATE MYSELF SO I DON’T GO BARMY.

Two good things have so far resulted from today’s activity of being awake – one, I received an email from one of my college drama teachers, who informed me that she misses my giggle and that my version of George in Frank Marcus’s The Killing of Sister George has put Beryl Reid’s version out of her head…for now. I was greatly moved and excited.

The second was that I was able to open up my vacation ‘reading’ list for my European Film and Literature course – and the teacher had grouped The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari in with the films “dir. Fritz Lang”. Silly teacher. All self-respecting German Expressionist geeks know that Caligari was dir. Robert Wiene.

“Hello, I’m Robert Wiene.”