Cinnamon Twigs by Darren Freebury-Jones Page A

us. It became difficult to balance my university lectures with acting, but I worked hard. Michael and I had been in a few plays together, and we always competed over who could land the larger role. One director told him off for refusing to lose to me in a fencing duel, during a production of Hamlet . I’d played the prince himself, while Michael played Laertes, a character justly killed by his own treachery. 
     
    I’m in the pub with the rugby lads,
    swigging cider and still regretting
    that Mars bar I decided to eat
    for a challenge (which didn’t
    go down well with the Guinness ),
    and our captain says,              
    ‘ I hear you do a bit of acting?’
    Nice one, Jonathon , I think to myself.
    Tell these brick-shouldered,
    shower-sharing Spartans that I’m
    a thespian !
    But I ’ve had a drink, the scrum-half
    is curious, so I tell the boys
    about the plays I ’ve done:
    ‘ I once helped to build
    a barricade, then fought beside
    my fellow revolutionaries,
    our muskets poised, as bullets sang
    in our ears. I’ve heard war speeches that would put our talks to shame, and make our pre-match huddles look like
    an Ann Summers party.
    I’ve dressed a Scottish tyrant
    in his armor and informed him
    of his wife ’s death, while he
    just talked about tomorrows.             
    At the moment, I ’m playing a count…’
    ‘ A what?’ a prop asks, trying
    to make a crass pun.
    ‘A count ,’ I repeat, ‘in a comedy
    of manners. There’s nothing
    like standing on a proscenium stage,
    the lights in your eyes
    as the drapes are opened.
    Nothing like the cold touch
    of a prop weapon and the stench
    of the costumes you wear ea ch night,
    as sweat pours down your brow,
    your heart thunders, and you deliver
    your lines to an expectant audience.
    I’ve loved acting since I was a boy
    with a tail poking out of my arse,
    asking Little Red to join
    her grandma in bed. ’
    The lads just nod.
    Some with respect. Others amazed
    their number eight has been prancing around on stage since childhood.
    I take another swig of my pint,
    smile and say:
    ‘ By the way, lads, did I mention that I like to write poetry?’
     
    CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
    The Drama Society
     
    Cardiff University’s drama society is called Act One . It’s been going for donkey’s years now and despite being just that, an amateur university drama society, full of some students who were there for the fun (and the society was incredibly fun) and were well aware they couldn’t act their ways out of paper bags, has produced successful actors, writers and directors. Little acorns. Act One made my university experience. I became obsessed with it. At first, Michael and I didn’t fit in. We were regarded as too laddish, just there to chat up girls, swag and slag around. That was before anyone saw us act. I like to think their reservations disappeared after that. Michael and Daniel became the gruesome twosome of Act One before long, the Hugh and Laurie, the Bert and Ernie who didn’t, fortunately, sleep together.
                  The society put on a number of plays each term. We’d rehearse on Mondays and Thursdays each week. These rehearsals would become more frequent and intense as it got closer to opening night. It could be difficult to balance the intense rehearsal periods with essay writing. Act One was a massive, often dysfunctional family. Michael gave the best description of it I can conjure: ‘Every group of friends has at least one show-off, one person who wants to be the leader, the constant center of attention, the entertainer, regardless of whether he or she is entertaining and talented or not. Act One is essentially a society consisting of at least two hundred of these fuckers.’ He also compared our fixation with amateur drama to heroin addiction, because you had to ‘contend with a great number of pricks to feed your habit.’
                  Our introduction to the society didn’t go too well,