Corrupt, Absent Or Not Writable

A little while ago my computer was thought beyond repair. When you switched it on it would helpfully inform you that:

STOP: c0000218 (registry file failure) The registry cannot the load the hive (file):\systemroot\system32\config\software or its log or alternative. It is corrupt, absent or not writable. Beginning dump of physical memory. Physical memory dump complete. Contact your system administrator or technical support group for further assistance.

And then nothing. Some friends informed me what a corrupt registry meant and that I should probably resign myself to losing all the scripts I'd written and photographs I'd taken and learn a valuable lesson about not backing things up.

Go and back your stuff up now. Go on. I'll wait. You'll thank me later.

Nice to have you back. Not having decent access to a computer in this day and age is more frustrating than I expected. People sent me scripts I couldn't read, people wanted me to send them scripts that may no longer have existed and you can't watch Doctor Who on the iPlayer if you miss it. Astonishingly this blog has somehow managed to carry on regardless while I have been without a computer. Maybe it doesn't need me anymore. Maybe it will see me as an inconvenience and decide it is better off without me. Maybe it will try and kill its creator like Frankenstein's monster.


Then again maybe not. Maybe it will run out of pre-prepared blogs just before I manage to pick up my now-fixed laptop and force me to write some filler material in a crowded and noisy library because the computers here won't allow me to embed another Pulp video. When I was a kid the only sounds you'd hear in a library were the datestamp, the crackle of stickyback plastic on a book as it opened and a bit of shushing. This library is more like a forum for open debate with a large spoonful of gossip thrown in.

The good thing about this development is that I can take this opportunity to thank Kev, Abigail, Dave, Nathan, Z & Cage for their IT advice and Neil, Sarah & Tom who have actually fixed the laptop. Thank you very much, you really went above and beyond the call on that one.

P.S. I know you didn't really go and back up your stuff, but one day you'll wish you had.

Spa

Spa was a semi-professional site-specific promenade performance and when it came to getting paid, we were the semi.

The site specified was Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Hospital near Euston tube station. Formerly the New Hospital For Women it was the first hospital solely concerned with the health of women. Founded in the 1870s, it was run by women for women and thus enabled both poor women to seek treatment and female health professionals to provide it, an uncommon thing in that period.

The hospital is named after the first woman to gain a medical qualification in Britain and consequently the first female member of the British Medical Association. She remained the only female member for 19 years because the BMA promptly voted against the admission of further women after she joined. They sound welcoming.



As a site it was a real mix of derelict and state of the art. As the audience walked through the Spa that the hospital had now supposedly become, they walked through the history of the hospital. From its Victorian construction to the modern day via World War I. The Spa idea seemed a little forced to me. With a backdrop as realistic as a deserted hospital why not use it, as much as possible, as a hospital?

I played a Ghost in Georgian costume. That's Georgian as in George VI, rather than Stalin's birthplace. I was required to interrupt treatments and massages, pour myself a glass of apparently healing water and exit. I sip very well. We were one of the first little surprises the audience had, albeit a very gentle surprise. This meant we were finished a little earlier than most and were always the first in the pub.

My friend Irwin was also involved and found himself allocated a place in the more modern day bar and was therefore nearer the end of the audience's route. He discovered that as much as he was acting, he was mostly providing them with some free bar staff.

Piccadilly Pigeon

Just as Teeth proved I have a lot to learn about animation. This video shows I leave a lot to be desired as a cameraman too. I filmed this on the Piccadilly line. I didn't do a very good job, but you get the idea.

Practitioners Unplugged

Back in 2000, I took part in a workshop with the educational arm of English Touring Theatre. A little while later, this leaflet arrived:


There we are miming goodness knows what, listening intently and laughing like fools.


Did English Touring Theatre ask our permission before plastering us all over their promotional material?

I doubt it.

Blister Vista

With the tale of the running of the marathon covered, the aftermath is perhaps also worthy of a bit of attention.

As soon as we crossed the finish line and stopped running I had somehow forgotten how to walk. My knees no longer wanted to bend. The short walk from the finish to Trafalgar Square took me a ridiculously long time. Continents move faster. Mark wasn't feeling well and Brogan was trying not to thump a very vocal nearby idiot, so we trudged on at a snail's pace. It was great to meet up with our families and friends and have a sit down at the fountain's edge. I removed my trainers to give my punished feet an illicit dip and this is the sight that greeted me:


Isn't that a beauty?

The next day my knees were both still in a fixed position, but I could walk. Getting from a seated position to standing however took a lot more effort and faith than I could ever have imagined. The cupboards were bare and I had to head out to the cornershop for something to eat. On an ordinary day it would take me less than five minutes to get there and back again. The day after the marathon the round trip took at least an hour. It must have been like watching a contender for the world's shortest stiltwalker take those first few tentative steps into a future that is both pointless and terrifying.

Over the next few days movement returned to my knees and I began to walk less and less like I was evacuating my bowels with each step. I quickly discovered that stairs were the enemy and that heading down was much worse than climbing them. In the midst of all this the down escalator at my nearest tube station broke, appropriately down, and I faced either a long walk to another station or a perilous and agonising descent to platform level. I'm still taking ibuprofen to help with the inflamation but it's getting easier all the time and I haven't had to place frozen peas of knees since last Monday.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, you can still sponsor us and if you still need a reason you can take another look at my blister:


Total sponsorship to date = £1,963.14

Carruthers Camera #2

Another set of photos I took for the Carruthers blog:

Turbulence is another trainspotting sketch photo.

I've always loved Comic Relief and so I took Nosed as an acknowledgement of Red Nose Day, but it looks like I was on the receiving end of a headbutt from Mickey Mouse.

It occurred to me that the opticians angle of * would compliment Andy's glasses sketch.

Keep Off The Tracks was taken in London's Paddington station and I don't understand how it got there.

When I worked as a hospital porter I took a fair few photos of my workplace. One day while I was doing just that, a gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and said: "May I ask what you're doing?". Feeling cheeky I just said "Yes, you may" and carried on. It turned out that this was not a good move. He pressed me for an answer and when I sheepishly said I was just taking photos he informed me that I needed permission and threatened me with confiscation of my camera. I presume that he thought I was a journalist, rather than an idiot who likes taking photos of signs. If I had been a journalist I would have been a journalist thinking he had something to hide. The Department of Sexual Health was always abbreviated in conversation to DOSH. Enter is a cheap gag.

The Tables Turned

I'm taking part in a rehearsed reading tomorrow of a play by William Morris.


He is, of course, the William Morris more famous for this:


The semi-staged reading by the New Factory of the Eccentric Actor is of his only play, the brilliantly named The Tables Turned or Nupkins Awakened, described as 'A Socialist Interlude' and to my knowledge it hasn't been performed in decades. I'm playing Lord Tennyson.

The performance begins at 7pm here.

P.S. There seems to be a difference of opinion as to whether or not we are featured but the BBC coverage of the London Marathon is about to disappear from the iPlayer Marathon Part 1, Part 2 and the Highlights. I haven't been in a position to watch it so I suppose I'll never know.