April 27, 2010

I have decided to start blogging. I have a show to write and figure writing a little something regularly will help conjure some discipline and a blog seems a good focus, rather than my bedroom wall.

It is Tuesday and I am at the top of Leeds Central library which is, to my eyes, the brownest place on earth. The floors, walls and pillars are great swathes of brown in tile, mosaic and marble. It gives the unfortunate impression that you’re walking around a museum of dirty protests. The IT suite smells like the unwashed operator of a waltzer ride and old men are playing giant chess outside. I have been in Leeds now for a month playing the Count of Monte Cristo. I get to do lots of sword fighting in the play which to a man-boy like me is manna from Heaven. I have, however, ruined my arse in the process. Constant pressure on my back has caused my right leg to start rejecting my body and it is trying to escape at the hinge. I hobble and groan like an 85 year old former jockey who has refused his doctor’s advice to kill himself.

The West Yorkshire Playhouse have very kindly been sending me to a physiotherapist who has a bedside manner that appears borderline sociopathic. I have never come across physio before in any way and don’t know whether it is normal for them to be so brusque but this one is. It is becoming a real habit of mine to get medically treated by people with the social skills of a duff motorbike. My GP is a man who types with one finger and whose wig moves entirely independently of his body, I swear his wig actually prescribed me painkillers once. I once went in with one of those embarrassing medical problems that mean you walk in the room with a face the colour of fresh blood before the finger is even up your arse. He laughed his tits off.

This physio has a routine of firstly roundly chastising me about my posture, habits, demeanour and appearance, generally making me feel about four years old, then secondly vigorously and deeply massaging the offending buttock and finally attaching me to a machine that sends low levels of electricity through my derriere. It makes me feel like I am being sexually abused by a stern Victorian schoolma’am who is dabbling in medical experiments. My glute does feel marginally better but I do wonder as I lie there with my pants round my knees, electrical pads directly applied to my rear, listening to the physio make fun of my trousers as a single tear rolls down my cheek and radio 2’s Jeremy Vine humours carping dog owners in the background: “Is it worth it?”