Am officially on the wagon. No idea how long I’ll last. I’m mainly keen to find out what it’s like being entirely sober for weeks on end. It’ll certainly be a new experience.
As I’m mainly a social drinker, staying teetotal at home is no bind whatsoever. It’s avoiding alcohol in bars and at social gatherings that’s the challenge, particularly when I’m feeling a bit anxious and exposed and need a drink for my nerves. So this might help to either banish the anxiety altogether, or convert it to a kind of energised confidence. We shall see.
Another reason is to help improve my diet. Too often have I gone home drunk – or even slightly merry after one drink – and indulged in junk food from a late-night shop. The advice is that you’re not really mean to eat after 8pm at all, let alone stuff yourself with rubbish. If I cut out the drink, hopefully this won’t happen so often.
It’s going to be interesting, being boring. Or rather, being boring in one way in order to be less boring in another.
And just as well I put my foot down about it, because on Saturday I squeeze in three separate social gatherings in the space of a few hours. So I get to deny alcohol three times before the cock crows.
I spend the morning finishing a movie review column for Plan B (covering the September releases Death Proof, Evening, Two In Paris and Tough Enough). Then I gather the latest in a series of bags stuffed with books and take it to a charity shop, of which more in the next entry.
Then to Alexandra Park, for Rhoda B’s 40th birthday picnic, where I hit the apple juice. A good turn-out for her, including Charley Stone, Kirsten, Anna Spivack, Alex Sarll, Ed W, and a lady called Sarah who’s also off the alcohol, so I ask her about that. She’s known for devising fiendishly hard Treasure Hunt games, and Charley suggests I should collaborate with her on some TV pitch. Some kind of quirky cult-ish game programme, like The Adventure Game on BBC TV in the early 80s. The one with dragon-like aliens and ‘The Vortex’ at the end, which is the bit everyone remembers.
I leave Rhoda’s bash at about 4pm, walk up to Muswell Hill where Miss Red waves at me from a passing car, and then take a bus to a party in Highgate, something of a sadder occasion. After years of living in London, Gail O’Hara has been told by the Home Office that she’s not earned enough money to renew her work permit, and back to NYC she must go. So this is her Deportation Party, and she’s selling off various possessions before making the big move. I walk away with a biography of the US poet Frank O’Hara (no relation), and a collection of Adrian Tomine postcards. Gail edited the quality indie fanzine Chickfactor, and the indie stars I say hello to at her party include Harvey Williams, Pam Berry, and Tim Baxendale. I plump for fizzy elderflower water.
Then I negotiate the Tube (with the extra difficulties of the weekend) to Cadogan Hall in Sloane Square in the evening, where Tim Chipping treats me to a Sondheim revue, Good Thing Going, by way of celebrating his birthday on Tuesday. I buy him a whiskey & coke and get a mineral water for myself.
The concert stars Maria Friedman and Daniel Evans, plus the Arts Ed Chorale and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Superb performances, particularly from the Arts Ed students and Daniel Evans, who has such incredible energy that one imagines him punching a hole in a wall whenever he gets off stage. Fantastic stuff, particularly ‘Sunday’ and ‘Move On’ from Sunday In The Park With George, ‘Barcelona’ from Company, and Mary Carewe delivering ‘The Miller’s Son’ from A Little Night Music.
In the theatre foyer, Matt Lucas comes over to say hello. ‘It’s an Orlando reunion!’ he remarks. I’m surprised and pleased that he still knows who I am: last time we chatted he was signing autographs as George Dawes from Shooting Stars.
He’s pulled off that tricky manoeuvre: re-writing what you’re Best Known For in the minds of strangers, and on your own terms. I forget to tell him that I saw the Little Britain stage show last year, as part of the National Youth Theatre Ball. And very wonderful it was too.
Later on, Tim and I repair to the West End, where he shows me Gordon’s Wine Bar, a remarkably preserved Victorian establishment off Charing Cross, with faded newspaper cuttings on the wall, dust-covered books and ancient bottles on the shelves and so forth. But of course, thanks to me, we can’t stop to share a bottle.
Some stranger in the bar takes the mickey out of my appearance as we pass through (‘Hey look, it’s Lord Fossington-Smythe The Third! Oh, he’s going. Cheerio, pip pip!’). It’s karmic: I’m at the mercy of seeing others thinking they’re funny, when they’re just being drunk.
Walking up St Martin’s Lane, we find ourselves surrounded by Orlando fans. Sadly for us, it’s the other Orlando. Mr Bloom is currently in a London play, and it must have just finished because as we walk past the theatre in question, dozens of people are outside waiting to mob him (at least, that’s what we guess is happening). They spill onto the road in such number that the traffic is forced into a makeshift single lane. As we squeeze past to continue on our way, I muse on this rare near-meeting of the two Orlandos in the same space: the failed band and the successful actor.
Anyway, never mind the Orlandos. Sorry you’re leaving, Gail. Happy birthday, Rhoda. Happy birthday for Tuesday, Tim. A non-alcoholic toast to you all.
