nigelpilkington.com

If I don’t know the rules of the game, then I don’t want to play. I can tell you which line is “out” in a game of badminton; how much you’ll owe me for landing on Park Lane with 1 hotel. But there’s one game I’ve played that refuses to publish its rule-book.

In the world of the singleton, going on “a blind date” is an event. A bit like going to the birthday party of a friend-of-a-friend: it might be fantastic, but you sense it’ll probably be a let-down; after all, you don’t know who’s going to be there. You may well have conducted your “courtship” online, but, to all intents and purposes, until you meet someone in the flesh (more of which later, you hope), there’s no knowing just how, if at all, you’re going to get along.

I tend to know within the first minute whether I’m going to enjoy the blind date. I either won’t be able to keep my eyes off them, and need regular bottom-lip dribble servicing, or I shall become The Charity Worker, donating hour after lengthy hour of my time to someone whose “personality” is anathema to my every sense, in turn begging the question whether, perhaps, their internet correspondence was ghost-written by Peter Ustinov, or some other witty raconteur (either dead or alive - it is ghost-writing, after all).

But let’s imagine that the blind date delivers in person what was so alluring on email. Bingo! The hours fly by, as do the pints, as do the steaming innuendos, until last-orders signal home-time. But whose home? This bit requires subtle tact and concentration (despite the skinful provided by the freshly-departed hostelry). But then comes paranoia, entering stage-left, like every good baddie. I’m thinking: “I’m liking them greatly, the banter’s been good, but what if they’ve secretly been playing Charity Worker all along? Am I being tolerated? Have I got my hopes up for nothing? Best not suggest ‘The Coffee’. Wouldn’t want an awkward scene. But… that smile. It’s a come-on. Isn’t it? Oh, come on! You’re confusing the ‘come to bed’ smile with the Charity Worker’s ‘end of shift’ smile.”

With no more pavement left to tread, you subvert the will of the Awkward Pause by saying “I’ve had a nice time, we should do this again”. They agree. You part. And you spend the tube-ride home dissecting the intonation of their agreement. Did they mean it? Or was it the final charitable donation? The penny on the collecting plate, the rattling spin of which resounds as soon as you wake up the next morning.

I’m as vexed as the final-year English students at Cambridge University who have, this week, been examined on exactly what they think Amy Winehouse means when she sings “love is a losing game”. Never mind “love”, it’s the access road that needs tackling first. Dating is a means to an enigmatic end, of which the code is hard to crack. Yet, despite the uneven playing field, like any good sport, the heart receives a workout. It’s no wonder they call it having a “flutter” on the gee-gees; the gamble that is the Blind Date gets the heart fluttering. And where there’s movement, there’s energy. Or rather, energy in motion; E=motion, e-motionally speaking.

And there’s the crux. We don’t tend to do emotion on first dates. We’re too cool, we’re too self-protecting; our sense of pride won’t allow it. And that’s where we’re going wrong. We should do emotion. It’s both nothing and everything to be scared of, yet it lets us know where we stand. If only everyone would play by my rules.

Need a new watch battery? A trip to Watches To Go will cheer up your timeless self no end. I only recently found out it was called Watches To Go. Hitherto it’s been known as “the watch man in Piccadilly Circus underground station”. The owner (whose name I don’t know) operates out of a tiny booth built into the commercial crescent underneath Eros. I’ve always gotten my watch battery from him for two reasons: (a) he’s cheaper than anyone else (half the price of Timpsons); and (b) he’s a real character. As you approach, you see him behind the glass, magnifying lens in eye, utterly engrossed in repairing the most expensive-looking timepiece. And he doesn’t acknowledge you. Die-hard Brits will find it hard-going. But hey, if you live in London, you’ve had worse! Wait it out, then he’s all yours. Banter-tastic! I said:

“I always get my battery from you. I came along at 12:20 this lunchtime, and your booth was shut, with a note saying ‘Back at 12.30 - really!’. There was already a queue of three people. They say ‘time waits for no man’, but three men were biding their time. I thought I’d call back later.”

He replied: “I was ‘avin a cappuccino. People come along and offer to go outside and buy me one, but I say ‘no ta’. I look forward to my little walk.”

I said: “I say I always get my battery from you, but I was touring Germany last time it ran out, so I had to get a new one over there”.

He retorted: “Charming! There’s loyalty for yer! So you’re an actor then?”

I said: “I do voiceovers.”

He replied: “I used to get Patrick Allen in here. Lovely man.”

I concurred: “He’s the king of voiceovers. Well…was.”

He shifted: “My daughter wants to go to performing arts college. I’m not so sure.”

I added: “It’s a slippery slope.”

He said: “But what do I know? I work in a cupboard for a living!”

By this time, a queue had built up behind me. Yet, despite it being London, despite it being in the dismal echo that is the underground, the simmering resentment carried in so many of this capital’s residents’ souls seems quelled by this man with the magnified eye. People actually enjoy listening to the human interaction. Perhaps it reminds them of bygone days when proprietor and patron had time for each other. And I don’t blame him taking his time. After all, unless I need a repair, I only see him once every two years for a new battery. These exchanges are to be savoured. Time stands still when you talk to the watch guy; like a chronological gift, and we all know there’s no time like the present.

As a die-hard Windows PC user, stepping into the Apple Store on Regent Street felt like checking into a hotel, just for the hour, with mistress in tow. Dirty. But only metaphorically. The Apple Store is shiny, clean, and full of smiling, knowing staff (or “Geniuses”, as I think they’re known, judging by the help desks, or rather “Genius Bars”). Apple Mac users don’t do dessert, certainly not humble pie. They’re out and proud. Unlike PC users. And I stood out like a sore loser. Every product looked superior to the PC, and the place was jam-packed with people having “user experiences”.

As I want to do more of my own video and sound editing, I thought it at least polite to entertain the idea of buying a Mac. So I reserved a place at one of the free workshops which happen in a little lecture theatre at the back of the store. For an hour, I sat, magistrate-like, hearing the evidence as to why I was a loser for not being a member of the Mac community. And mighty compelling it was too. But rather than plot out technical machinations in an attempt to soothe my feelings of treachery, this blog revisits a favourite theme: people-watching.

The workshop attracted nothing but individuals, and when individuals are on display in public, their behaviour changes. Without the security of the pack, we’re left to fend for our socially-awkward selves. Within minutes of the lecture starting, enter “Spanish Lady On ‘Phone”, chatting with gusto at a steady fortissimo dynamic. Under any other circumstances, I’d be spinning round in my seat a la Exorcist, brows at lip-level, devil in my eyes. But I was out of my depth here. After all, I wouldn’t wish to be seen by anyone I knew, especially not with my metaphorical mistress.

After blanking out Spanish Lady, I became aware, stage-right, of “Mad Old Dear, Surely Too Old To Have A Computer”. I’d assumed she’d wandered in to find a toilet, or just shelter from the rain. But it seemed that she was there for the same reason as I. Her way of dealing with the situation was to share, quite vocally, titbits from her mind:

Genius: So, if you click here, you’ll see that the sister application opens automatically.
Mad Old Dear: I see! There is it! Bobbing up and down! Like a yo-yo. Isn’t it marvellous? Bouncy, bouncy….

Genius: …I’m afraid that’s all we have time for in this session. But coming up next is an introduction to the iMovie and iDVD applications.
Mad Old Dear: I see. Well, should I stay for those? I’m not sure. I have enjoyed it, but I’m not sure if I should stay. I’ve really got to get back. Oh go on then. I’ll stay.

Most of the other participants sat with Mac laptops on, well, their laps. Why on earth should they be attending a “PC to Mac” workshop? Perhaps it’s a Mac secret (or “iSecret” or “iShhh!”? I stayed for the second workshop too, despite a very full bladder and lack of iToilet. And a further 60 minutes later, I GAVE IN! I want one, and I want one now.

The Apple Store website promises shipping within 24 hours. I persuaded my credit card to come out of hiding, and I did the deed. (By the way, the 24 hours promise is a big fib - shipping is promised 6 days later in my case, then a further half-a-week or more for delivery.) But I’m indoctrinated now; Mac can do no wrong. I look forward to receiving my new toy, taking a deep breath, and swallowing a whole bundle of smug. And later, when stuck for character ideas for a new play, I shall go and attend an Apple workshop, and people-watch: an eye for an i.

I’m no stranger to auditioning for parts. With all the voiceover work I do, I can sight-read like a trooper, so scripts are a piece of cake. Whether it be reading for a play, telly or commercial, I’m more flowing than Boney M’s raft on the rivers of Babylon. But musical theatre auditions? They’re a different kettle. They’re no familiar Russell Hobbs. They’re scary. If you forget the lyrics to a song, as I frequently do, there’s no improvising your way out of it, or slipping in a dramatic pause (to buy remembrance time), as you can with a spoken monologue. That audition-pianist has started, so he will finish. He keeps banging away on those ivories, as your blood pressure turns the corner onto the street marked “I’ve got a stress-rash on my neck”.
So it was that I put fingertip to keyboard and wrote a begging-letter to the casting director of Jersey Boys, the award-winning Broadway musical charting the success of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, due to open in London early next year. They were after an alternate actor to play Frankie for two performances a week. Lead musical theatre roles don’t come along that often for me, as I’m only 5′7. But, in this case, the lead HAD to be short. Because Frankie is short. A dream come true for us frustrated, wannabe leading-men. But most important of all, Frankie sings falsetto. Really high falsetto. Sherry Baby, Oh What a Night, Big Girls Don’t Cry. His voice was unmistakable.

And so was mine. Unmistakably awful. On the whole, I sing well, as a tenor. But I’ve never punted into the murky swamp of falsetto. I’ve never needed to, having had no desire to play transvestite Mary Sunshine in Chicago. But how hard can it be? I lined up a singing lesson with a classical counter-tenor. I lined up a lesson with singing-coach suprema, Maureen Scott. All went well. I’d cracked it. Just. Trouble is, I literally cracked during the audition. I insisted on singing Walk Like a Man, even though it’s from the show itself (so breaking an unwritten musical theatre audition rule). It starts with 16 bars of OOH, all in falsetto, and not dissimilar to the Star Trek theme tune. I could sing it fine before the audition, as well as after the audition. But during? Oh the shame! A dreadful noise filled the audition chamber. Terrible, and all the worse for it was coming from me. Strained, cracked, weaselly chirrups. The kind of noise that the RSPB would synch to footage of a dying sparrow, in order to secure your two pounds a week.

The two casting directors were a picture of professionalism. They didn’t shout at me, they didn’t stop me (although I was begging them with my eyes to do so). One even bounced her head along in time with the music, some sort of charitable encouragement, or was it a request for divine, musical intervention; to have been filled with the spirit of Frankie Valli would have been spot on, if only he were dead.

I felt depressed for a whole day. And, like a show-off, I had told many work colleagues about the impending audition, so have spent weeks shaking off enquiries as to “how it went”. So what’s the moral? It’s a tricky one, because I would say that if you don’t give things a try, you’ll never know whether you can be successful at them. But there again, humiliating yourself in front of West End and Broadway casting directors isn’t the kind of career-move they teach you at the Drama School of Life.

Good acting practice, though - walking out of that room Like A Man, not like a sobbing, big girl because, as we all know, they don’t cry.

Nigel’s song montage can be experienced here.

I recorded the Penguin audio-book of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World this week. Written in the 1930s, its grotesque, fantastic prophesies ring unsettlingly true. It’s left me wondering about “the old days”. I was once loitering in the foyer of the Palladium Theatre, and saw a black and white photo of a huge crowd awaiting, outside the theatre, the arrival of Frank Sinatra. Somehow, the crowd looked “civilised”. Perhaps it was because the fashion, at that time, was for men and women to wear hats, not hoodies. There was nothing mob-like about the crowd. No sense that a fight might break out at any minute. So were human-beings more polite way-back-when?

“I’m always surprised by the kindness of strangers” are words I’ve never used in relation to living in London. But where does the aggression come from? Are there laylines of negativity streaming our capital, ripe for our tapping? On the way to the recording, I spent all of 60 seconds observing incoming commuters on the platform at Cannon Street station. Statistically, how many smiling faces would you expect me to have seen in that minute? Indeed, scrub the smile, how many non-scowling faces? There was none. Every single person looked miserable. But isn’t it more energy-consuming to adopt the state of pissed-off-ness? I write as no saint. If someone bangs into me on the underground, my default is to deliver the most withering look of contempt. My default is to find fault. I’ve tried doing the opposite, and the rewards are worth it. The exchange of a smile with a stranger has some unquantifiable effect on a person. The smile hangs around in your mind for a while. A silent, shared moment.

So what? What’s the point of this particular musing? Am I out to change the world? Make it a better place? No; that’s not my job spec. But I think it’s worth pointing out that my (our?) default behaviour when dealing with strangers should, from time to time, be revisited, revised, poked, and prodded. It’s hard work keeping open that tap of negativity. Take a break, take a chance. I think, deep down, no-one wants conflict. The Capital doles out its Punishment, and we lap it up. If you’ve ever taken a bus or train in a village or town out of London, it’s actually quite nice. People chat and laugh about tiny things. Things that tickle. Instead of elbowing irksome strangers aside, our funny bones could be used to better, braver effect.

Transport for London has made it much easier for us to claim compensation from them for rubbish service.

A rare trip on the Piccadilly line left me climbing the (rounded) walls somewhere between South Ealing and Acton Town. Not a word of explanation from the driver as to why we’d sat on the track for 20 minutes, stationary. Of course, were it the DLR, I wouldn’t mind, because there is no driver. But the Piccy line’s customers are, well, pickier than that. Hold our hands, Driver; tell us it’s going to be alright in the end!

Ever keen to mine for silver (lining), I used the time to observe the behaviour of fellow passengers. The British stereotype of making do, not wanting to cause a fuss, obviously never travels by tube itself. There was outrage. Maybe it’s a Zone 3 West thing, but until-then-silent solitary passengers felt moved to air their grievances to the rest of us. Just not in any constructive fashion. “Come ON!” belted into the germ-ridden air of the carriage, followed, upon noticing that everyone else’s heads were overly sunk into their newspapers (even the Metro received attention), by ambiguously enunciated expletives. This is British Rage (never mind British Rail).

In pre-broadband days, if you could be bothered, you could go and queue for an hour or two at the counter of any underground station for a compensation form, to be rigorously filled in, signed, receipts attached, and posted. But these days, broadband-enabled, I just went to the TFL website, clicked on “Refunds”, filled in a form online, and await my voucher to the tune of one single tube journey, all because the train delayed me by more than 15 minutes. It’s no hassle, and, in an odd way, the cashing of the voucher feels mildly rewarding. Complaint achieved, satisfaction guaranteed. And not an expletive in sight.

By the way, that was my very first blog!