I'm still catching up on sleep after the weekend's shenanigans, tiredness and delirium chasing me around the office yesterday. I was looking forward to -nay, living for- a good night's sleep last night, but it wasn't to be. I don't know if it was just too much rich food and too little sleep or if the delicious dinner I'd eaten with my family had Ebola in the sauce (I won't name the restaurant, as I really don't think it was their fault) but within an hour of hitting the hay, I was sick as two small hospitals.
I was in the horrors all night, and for a good part of the morning. Manuel knows what I'm talking about, he appears to have picked up a strain of it himself recently. Thankfully it had eased off by lunchtime, but I was still bolloxed tired and I looked more than a little peaky. Ideal for my screen debut. In the spirit of self-handicapping (a concept I'm deliciously familiar with and a firm advocate of, having taken an introduction to psychology in UCD eleventy billion years ago) I decided to do it today anyway. I put on as much make-up as I could without it flaking off again (I'm no dollybird, these things don't come naturally to me) and googled "dressing for TV" (no black, no white, no stripes, no checks, no shiny jewellery, no lip gloss, aaaaargh! what the fuck can I wear?). Eventually I settled on my polka dot dress and alice band combo, and heaved myself out the door.
I hadn't been to the production company's offices before, and had to call from the street just to check that I'd got the address right. The place looked derelict from the outside, and a sight fucking worse once you got in the door. Turns out I'd chosen a good day for it, there was nobody there but the assistant producer, and the fewer witnesses you have when you go to make a dick of yourself on screen, the better. He gave me the script, set up the shot, made sure I was comfortable. "Right, just say your name and mobile phone number before you start". "Eh, okay... 'Cause that's not creepy and sleazy at all". Suddenly the absurdity of the situation dawned on us; the seedy and decidedly unglamorous "studio", him holding the camera and me terrified of it. We broke our shite laughing and had to take a few minutes to refocus the camera and regain our composures. The first take was atrocious, the second a little better in that I managed not to read everything off the sheet. We decided to do a bit of ad libbing instead, and I finally got into my stride. Turns out I can talk bollocks to beat the band, and the thoughts of an audience only encourages me. I deliberately didn't look at the tape once we were done, as the sight of me sweating out my Ebola and jabbering witlessly would have proven too much for me in my fragile state. The damage, as they say, is done, so I've just to wait and see if they call.
Or if the tape turns up on YouFuckingTube.
I was in the horrors all night, and for a good part of the morning. Manuel knows what I'm talking about, he appears to have picked up a strain of it himself recently. Thankfully it had eased off by lunchtime, but I was still bolloxed tired and I looked more than a little peaky. Ideal for my screen debut. In the spirit of self-handicapping (a concept I'm deliciously familiar with and a firm advocate of, having taken an introduction to psychology in UCD eleventy billion years ago) I decided to do it today anyway. I put on as much make-up as I could without it flaking off again (I'm no dollybird, these things don't come naturally to me) and googled "dressing for TV" (no black, no white, no stripes, no checks, no shiny jewellery, no lip gloss, aaaaargh! what the fuck can I wear?). Eventually I settled on my polka dot dress and alice band combo, and heaved myself out the door.
I hadn't been to the production company's offices before, and had to call from the street just to check that I'd got the address right. The place looked derelict from the outside, and a sight fucking worse once you got in the door. Turns out I'd chosen a good day for it, there was nobody there but the assistant producer, and the fewer witnesses you have when you go to make a dick of yourself on screen, the better. He gave me the script, set up the shot, made sure I was comfortable. "Right, just say your name and mobile phone number before you start". "Eh, okay... 'Cause that's not creepy and sleazy at all". Suddenly the absurdity of the situation dawned on us; the seedy and decidedly unglamorous "studio", him holding the camera and me terrified of it. We broke our shite laughing and had to take a few minutes to refocus the camera and regain our composures. The first take was atrocious, the second a little better in that I managed not to read everything off the sheet. We decided to do a bit of ad libbing instead, and I finally got into my stride. Turns out I can talk bollocks to beat the band, and the thoughts of an audience only encourages me. I deliberately didn't look at the tape once we were done, as the sight of me sweating out my Ebola and jabbering witlessly would have proven too much for me in my fragile state. The damage, as they say, is done, so I've just to wait and see if they call.
Or if the tape turns up on YouFuckingTube.
