up the hill, you had the pub Jack Straw’s Castle, and then the magical Heath spread out before you. Hamp-stead Heath’s reputation has been sullied a bit of late. When you mention the wonderful walks and impressive scenery,people look at you suspiciously; but there is something mystical about that heath, especially at one o’ clock in the morning when you’re looking for your bearded collie in the undergrowth.
It does sound poncey, but after doing two hours of stretching and vocal warming, meandering across the Heath with a copy of Ibsen (unopened) under your arm, you couldn’t help feeling like an artiste, even if you didn’t have the range to back it up.
As it turned out, the two hours of breathing exercises on the Monday and the two hours of designing theatre sets on the Thursday were the entire course for the first few months. A few students left, stating that it wasn’t intense enough, but I loved it. After the intensity of A-levels and the weariness of life in Northampton, I felt reborn. We lived like tourists. We had an amazing amount of free time to see the sights, and we visited all the museums, shopped at Camden Market, pottered around Portobello Road, and went to all the cool clubs, after a few hiccups in the first week. We naively believed the hype about these neon super-clubs in Leicester Square like Equinox and the Hippodrome. But we took one look at the Japanese tourists doing the conga to Ace of Base and turned on our heels. We were young and in London – we only did the really cool clubs. We only went in the week, mind, when it was a pound a drink. We never even ventured there at the weekends, when the drinks could cost as much as £ 3.00. £ 3.00 !! Oh, the outrage.
At the weekend we went over to Food Giant and bought this lovely champagne with a plastic cork, Château Belnor,for 98p. It was always welcome at Cricklewood Halls. The Drama students would crank up the stereo and dance the night away, while the Business students complained about the noise and asked us to turn it down as they couldn’t concentrate on their French dictionaries. I don’t know what was in Château Belnor, but it would bring out the worst in us. I don’t know if it was the bubbles or the slight whiff of poppers that emanated from the cork-hole. I remember Matt, who was always so sensitive and gentle, banging violently on Thannos’s door and threatening to deck him when Greece gave us ‘nul points’ in the Eurovision Song Contest.
I remember thinking what a loser everyone else was, and that I was so lucky to be a creative type and not one of those boring Business students who don’t know how to have a good time. Of course, all those Business students had the last laugh when the Theatre students graduated. We’d all be waiting for the Pertemps minibus to pick us up in a layby to take us to some godforsaken industrial estate, while they’d be driving past in their sports cars making deals and having power lunches. Obviously, they’d be on Brut and Laurent Perrier at these power lunches, and I’d have a Château Belnor poking out of my Tupperware box. But that was the future. That was a whole three years away; c’mon, let your hair down!
In a way, I was helping to seal my own fate. I was getting incredibly lazy. I didn’t go to London’s Glittering West End at all to watch the hot new plays by the hottest new playwrights. That would mean giving up a night of drinking. I didn’t even put on plays in my spare time to get myself an Equity card. I was blasé about life in London, and anyway, I wanted to be atthe front of the stage, not behind it, which is shameful. Even though we only worked a four-hour week, to our shame we never read the plays we were supposed to. We’d turn up oblivious to who was in it, what happened and why. Instead, we would sit down with a packet of Hob Nobs and watch daytime telly. Besides, when we weren’t focusing on stage sets, sound and directing, the acting modules of the course
It does sound poncey, but after doing two hours of stretching and vocal warming, meandering across the Heath with a copy of Ibsen (unopened) under your arm, you couldn’t help feeling like an artiste, even if you didn’t have the range to back it up.
As it turned out, the two hours of breathing exercises on the Monday and the two hours of designing theatre sets on the Thursday were the entire course for the first few months. A few students left, stating that it wasn’t intense enough, but I loved it. After the intensity of A-levels and the weariness of life in Northampton, I felt reborn. We lived like tourists. We had an amazing amount of free time to see the sights, and we visited all the museums, shopped at Camden Market, pottered around Portobello Road, and went to all the cool clubs, after a few hiccups in the first week. We naively believed the hype about these neon super-clubs in Leicester Square like Equinox and the Hippodrome. But we took one look at the Japanese tourists doing the conga to Ace of Base and turned on our heels. We were young and in London – we only did the really cool clubs. We only went in the week, mind, when it was a pound a drink. We never even ventured there at the weekends, when the drinks could cost as much as £ 3.00. £ 3.00 !! Oh, the outrage.
At the weekend we went over to Food Giant and bought this lovely champagne with a plastic cork, Château Belnor,for 98p. It was always welcome at Cricklewood Halls. The Drama students would crank up the stereo and dance the night away, while the Business students complained about the noise and asked us to turn it down as they couldn’t concentrate on their French dictionaries. I don’t know what was in Château Belnor, but it would bring out the worst in us. I don’t know if it was the bubbles or the slight whiff of poppers that emanated from the cork-hole. I remember Matt, who was always so sensitive and gentle, banging violently on Thannos’s door and threatening to deck him when Greece gave us ‘nul points’ in the Eurovision Song Contest.
I remember thinking what a loser everyone else was, and that I was so lucky to be a creative type and not one of those boring Business students who don’t know how to have a good time. Of course, all those Business students had the last laugh when the Theatre students graduated. We’d all be waiting for the Pertemps minibus to pick us up in a layby to take us to some godforsaken industrial estate, while they’d be driving past in their sports cars making deals and having power lunches. Obviously, they’d be on Brut and Laurent Perrier at these power lunches, and I’d have a Château Belnor poking out of my Tupperware box. But that was the future. That was a whole three years away; c’mon, let your hair down!
In a way, I was helping to seal my own fate. I was getting incredibly lazy. I didn’t go to London’s Glittering West End at all to watch the hot new plays by the hottest new playwrights. That would mean giving up a night of drinking. I didn’t even put on plays in my spare time to get myself an Equity card. I was blasé about life in London, and anyway, I wanted to be atthe front of the stage, not behind it, which is shameful. Even though we only worked a four-hour week, to our shame we never read the plays we were supposed to. We’d turn up oblivious to who was in it, what happened and why. Instead, we would sit down with a packet of Hob Nobs and watch daytime telly. Besides, when we weren’t focusing on stage sets, sound and directing, the acting modules of the course
Similar Books
