tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87647867639794276732024-03-05T02:39:25.848-08:00Abayo!The blog of award-winning juggler and comedian Mat RicardoMat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.comBlogger287125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-20214266193614375152017-03-10T05:25:00.000-08:002017-03-10T05:25:19.602-08:00ACTUAL IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT.Hello!<br />
<br />
I started this blog years and years ago, just as a place to put things - a cluttered kitchen drawer of rants, anecdotes, stories from my travels and news of upcoming fun stuff. I never really thought any decent number of people would read it, and certainly not regularly, but that's what has apparently happened.<br />
<br />
One of the craziest and most heartening things that's been occurring of late is that I'll be at a gig, often in some far flung land, sometimes one that I've never been to before, and someone will come up to me and tell me that they read my blog. Blows my dang mind every time.<br />
<br />
I could not be more grateful.<br />
<br />
The simple encouragement of knowing that people are reading what I write has pushed me to take it more seriously, to try to write as well as I can, and about things that matter to me.<br />
<br />
And I won't stop.<br />
<br />
However, this blog is moving.<br />
<br />
I've just launched a new website, and my blog, from now on, will be a section of that. Neater that way, right?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYD28BW2nj4yvZLrvkIPU1USQVzeJFKHnYcyWTMXtBsiDxvbqyKGnszO1tOEe_ugCQ7oHgXzsClFnPhJKg6UhLZld6UGqvJKf3ph5hBGca2r4S8gOdDpFZp7zZXn6zD0VvX2RkXde3Zkcx/s1600/website-screenshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYD28BW2nj4yvZLrvkIPU1USQVzeJFKHnYcyWTMXtBsiDxvbqyKGnszO1tOEe_ugCQ7oHgXzsClFnPhJKg6UhLZld6UGqvJKf3ph5hBGca2r4S8gOdDpFZp7zZXn6zD0VvX2RkXde3Zkcx/s320/website-screenshot.jpg" width="320" /></a>All the old posts will stay here, the same way they always have, but all new blog posts will be at the new location, <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/">www.MatRicardo.com</a><br />
<br />
So, be a cupcake and bookmark the new site - as per usual, I'll drop a link to all new posts on social media (If you're not following me on <a href="https://twitter.com/MatRicardo">twitter</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thematricardo/">instagram</a>, I'd love you to).<br />
<br />
I never did tell you what "Abayo" means, did I? Maybe that'll be a post to come.<br />
<br />
See you over on <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/">www.MatRicardo.com</a>Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-29614496748692780452017-01-19T03:25:00.000-08:002017-02-10T07:29:16.314-08:00The Castle<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM7BV9FikH65aopvgpgkq9eZ3F15XPR6jNYe3fW9-L0HY0CRt512TPzELzv2pwCEpLQwsA84gH2n6qtyDSao_-sopg8MHhjVL3uW4MIwKJD0LvodaPjsLYCa8canKvEOhqsk1gBleKpgH4/s1600/vlcsnap-2017-01-15-06h36m14s069.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM7BV9FikH65aopvgpgkq9eZ3F15XPR6jNYe3fW9-L0HY0CRt512TPzELzv2pwCEpLQwsA84gH2n6qtyDSao_-sopg8MHhjVL3uW4MIwKJD0LvodaPjsLYCa8canKvEOhqsk1gBleKpgH4/s640/vlcsnap-2017-01-15-06h36m14s069.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>The first 24</b></div>
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<br /></div>
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The last time I was in Los Angeles was
for a couple of hours between flights on the way home from a gig in
New Zealand. I had just enough time to meet my old friend <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jay_Leggett">Jay Leggett</a>
in an LAX coffee shop. We caught up, made each other laugh, hugged
and then I was back through passport control and on my plane home.
The time before that was many years earlier, but also involved Jay.
We stayed at his place for a few days. He showed us the sights,
bought us dinner, took us out, drove us around, and generally really
loved playing the host and showing us his Hollywood. He helped us
make memories I couldn't forget even if I tried.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So, as I sat in my shuttle bus, Eduado
the driver cruising us from the airport to the strip, I remembered
the times I'd been here before, and smiled, and allowed myself a
little cry. If Jay hadn't died, he would have got such a kick out of
me being invited to perform at the Magic Castle. He would have been
psyched, and would have planned things for us to do, he would have
kept me out late, he would have been proud of me. As my week rolled
past, I heard his voice in my ear almost constantly, providing a
running commentary of teasing and enthusiasm. So this week was, at
least partly, for him.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJR7rfeMNwrNd8kQx9cqS1uiSCEFyxQMp9hM-4v1r2E_vhC0zn9UqrAaKkXVZlFCdGbJQN9WP1YJCh7TZSMzndxleCIp6j6k6B072W5ro4diZeHjk8uM0pdKr_y1aCMDUnmbZRcL5GBUjz/s1600/DSCF1171.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJR7rfeMNwrNd8kQx9cqS1uiSCEFyxQMp9hM-4v1r2E_vhC0zn9UqrAaKkXVZlFCdGbJQN9WP1YJCh7TZSMzndxleCIp6j6k6B072W5ro4diZeHjk8uM0pdKr_y1aCMDUnmbZRcL5GBUjz/s320/DSCF1171.jpg" width="320" /></a>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But lets track back for a moment. Yes,
I'd been booked to perform at the Magic Castle in Hollywood. The
premier venue for the magical arts. No, I'm not a magician. But
glossing over that little technicality, it was a hell of a compliment
of a booking, and I was ridiculously excited to go.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I gawped out of the window of the
official Magic Castle airport shuttle bus, I remembering what LA
looks like. All hazy and golden. The grey ribbon of freeway flanked
by signs that once were brightly coloured, but quickly faded in the
sunshine. They jostle for attention in a way that, were they newer,
would be ugly. At least to my jetlagged eyes, their age gave them
some kind of beauty that by rights they shouldn't have had. Thats,
possibly, one of the things places like LA are good at. Seeing the
beauty of an ageing sign seems like the same kind of thinking that
started people appreciating old movies, or unfashionable fashions, or
diners that have seen better days. The unabashed love for the flotsam
and jetsam of fairly recent cultural history. When I was in my
thirties, my dad teased me mercilessly for wanting to revisit my
childhood neighbourhood, telling me that I was “A little young for
nostalgia”. That was, of course, bullshit – loving something from
the past isn't about how far back it happened, it's about why it
means something to you. So, that's Los Angeles, perhaps – Not too
young for nostalgia.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9JE2lUo_eExauFBIavn9motZxw9KOxiMc-L4OoGZhdzz2syFQick6lxenR37dilUlFDkyOfapipUynCbdp6aXTpn6RHZpQEin4HopKI9CuVJs9ZkLU0uaFUBsPuVLOeSgvHg_loY1a4x/s1600/20170114_191808.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9JE2lUo_eExauFBIavn9motZxw9KOxiMc-L4OoGZhdzz2syFQick6lxenR37dilUlFDkyOfapipUynCbdp6aXTpn6RHZpQEin4HopKI9CuVJs9ZkLU0uaFUBsPuVLOeSgvHg_loY1a4x/s320/20170114_191808.jpg" width="320" /></a>Eduado dropped me off at the Castle, I
collected my apartment keys, dumped my stuff, splashed some water on
my face, then headed right back out to do two shows. Endorphins beat
jetlag by knockout, and pretty soon I was sitting in my dressing
room, massive picture of a particularly intense Houdini staring down
at me, with a little sheen of sweat on my face, looking at myself in
the mirror, grinning like an idiot. Listen, I'm sorry to all the
other venues I've ever played, but in nearly thirty years of shouting
tricks at people, the Magic Castle has the best audiences I've ever
worked to. For a start, they're there to see magic, so they don't need any convincing
when a variety act steps on stage. Secondly, the main show at the
castle is a hot ticket. You have to be a member, or know someone
who's a member, and book in advance. All the shows sell out, so
they're super excited to have managed to get a seat. Lastly –
they've had a drink. Now, sometimes, obviously, having an audience a
little booze-enhanced is the last thing you want, but when that
audience is already made up of people who love magic and variety, and
are chuffed to have made it there – well, the drinks just help them
slide a little bit into unbridled childhood glee. They laugh, they
gasp, they clap, and I smile.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbyyiQ0975ahaIdfStHpv5bmNu2mqBVvNItaz-5OJhZeLPzpDYmYHpnXyOLls9sjKSdX9T5K-IE7U3ROHjzlvn64Eg3I_LTdCsSLiur7iCXEcn5Bn1w6kgM-6iyxTXCoiD0YY-kKNNcnpb/s1600/DSCF1012.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbyyiQ0975ahaIdfStHpv5bmNu2mqBVvNItaz-5OJhZeLPzpDYmYHpnXyOLls9sjKSdX9T5K-IE7U3ROHjzlvn64Eg3I_LTdCsSLiur7iCXEcn5Bn1w6kgM-6iyxTXCoiD0YY-kKNNcnpb/s320/DSCF1012.jpg" width="213" /></a>I headed straight to bed after my last
show, and thanks to my timezone-addled soul, got a solid couple of
hours of unconsciousness before the invisible jetlag demon slapped me
wide awake. There was no getting back to sleep, so I threw on my suit
and decided to wander around outside and see if I could find a good
vantage point from which to watch the sunrise. At about five thirty
in the morning I found some hills, which turned out to be Runyon
Canyon Park. It was pitch black, but there was a lady with a dog, and
some young hikers, which inspired feelings of not-danger, so I
followed them. I trekked along a sandy path, up and around and up
some more, while the sky everso slowly got less black, and more inky
blue. Palm tree silhouettes started to become visible overhead, and
occasionally, through the leaves, I'd get a glimpse of the pinpoints
of light from the otherwise unlit downtown, like showgirl glitter on
the floor of a dark dressing room. Up and around and more up. Until
there was no more path, just a bench and a sheer drop. I stood,
feeling safe by making sure the backs of my legs were touching the
bench. The city was spread out in front of me, shiny. The sun
starting to throw some haze through the overcast sky, so I could
finally see my surroundings. I breathed slowly and deep, letting my
head pan across the view, and heard myself say out loud <b><i>“Well.
Damn.”</i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaPz7a2-ry7XTJpVZUutx47-64VuyeqIHzk4n3UxknrqRBLVZIFaODDYPhbT39GD4ASNSvs2MrnjlKKSaaKQhAbpcd6cD0Bgz0GaNkJ4BojykPhNjMkTyyFvxVIOClmT5yTUOV3f2MgRLt/s1600/DSCF1077_stitch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaPz7a2-ry7XTJpVZUutx47-64VuyeqIHzk4n3UxknrqRBLVZIFaODDYPhbT39GD4ASNSvs2MrnjlKKSaaKQhAbpcd6cD0Bgz0GaNkJ4BojykPhNjMkTyyFvxVIOClmT5yTUOV3f2MgRLt/s640/DSCF1077_stitch.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then I went and got some breakfast.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On the way down I passed a homeless
woman. All her belongings piled high in a shopping cart. On first
impressions, she looked big – fat, even – but as I got closer to
her I realised that she was actually painfully slight, but she was
wearing all of her clothes. Hat over hat, jacket over jacket over
jacket. In her hand she had a rectangular pocket pack of tissues,
which she held to her ear like a phone, or a radio. Her head was
tilted back, staring at the sky, unaware of anything else. As I
passed her, I heard what she was saying into the pack of tissues. Her
eyes darting around the sky above, she implored <i><b>“I'm here. I'm
waitin' Ready to go. Right here. Ready for you”</b></i>. As if waiting for
a flying saucer? Or a rapture? The poetic heartbreak of her mental
illness killed me.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Suits and hats</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The only thing I planned to definitely
do while in LA was to go to, what I had been reliably informed, was
an amazing hat shop. I like a hat. So I strolled down to Melrose, to
find Hollywood Hatters. On the way, I passed a grizzled looking guy
in a hoodie, who, when he saw me, grinned broadly and said – almost
sung - <i><b>“WELL LOOK AT YOU ALL IN A SUIT LIKE A MAN IN A PLACE! WELL
ALRIIIIGHT!”</b></i>. Seriously thinking about making that my new promotion
slogan. “Mat Ricardo: All in a suit, like a man, in a place.
Alright.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9IQe8nT1J4eNqDWkaDYBgR7jDAuTg6UIVOQwZmL36I4P7UVpCNyQaFm9ERVSzy8NCQw_Omk7-vy7HZOq9Y5dOq_kAJUpHysV5C3BOiHwDzatNiV0rOE5utbRpqxSh0MVkR4buXIq5tKca/s1600/DSCF1148.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9IQe8nT1J4eNqDWkaDYBgR7jDAuTg6UIVOQwZmL36I4P7UVpCNyQaFm9ERVSzy8NCQw_Omk7-vy7HZOq9Y5dOq_kAJUpHysV5C3BOiHwDzatNiV0rOE5utbRpqxSh0MVkR4buXIq5tKca/s320/DSCF1148.jpg" width="320" /></a>The internet had told me the hat shop
opened at 11, but when I was there at noon it still wasn't open. So
Sal, the owner, who had been delayed, arrived to find his first
customer in the process of sending him a grumpy email about opening
hours. I'm good at making first impressions.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Hat shopping is hard. You have to try
on ALL THE HATS. SEVERAL TIMES. Sal was very understanding of that,
and after a decent amount of hat sampling, and with his expert
guidance, I bought some beautiful hats. One of the styles I bought,
Sal told me, was a favourite of Leonard Cohen, who used to live in
the neighbourhood, and would get his hats there. Nice.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Close your eyes only when you have
to</b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The rest of my week was a blur of work
and looking at stuff. The audiences were faultlessly delightful,
attentive and appreciative, but even with that said, three shows a
night, arriving at seven and not leaving until past midnight is hard
work. Fun work, but hard work. I made sure to plan to go do something
every day, as well. It'd be a waste of a city to just sit around in
your apartment waiting for the evening to begin, so I started to tick
off my list of diners, architecture, shopping and views.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One morning I woke up feeling a little
black dog-ish, so I decided I'd spend the day looking at beautiful
things. I got the metro downtown, and checked out the beautiful Union
station – a spectacular art deco masterpiece that, if it was in
Britain, would almost certainly have been gutted and modernised by
now, or sold off to a hotel developer. But no, here it was, exactly
as it had been since 1939, all polished marble floors, angled wooden
beamed ceiling, class and style out the wazoo. And it was quiet.
Busy, but not loud. Maybe however late for work you are, it's just
impossible to be angry and stressed when your commute takes you
thought such a cathederal.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6XIQKnIU_wvdxHqnLNpI6Yx15n5Z-wJ106tGqTBXwmVGHE4jM0lvXeE7oWDq7JyvleUlwRpiqaDBsAlwHkzSxT4XIGQ2QS9WRGxD2JhuiugMH1FaKK0YRgyHr7rxwEAiiTuN2tBPybFF/s1600/20170112_105413.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk6XIQKnIU_wvdxHqnLNpI6Yx15n5Z-wJ106tGqTBXwmVGHE4jM0lvXeE7oWDq7JyvleUlwRpiqaDBsAlwHkzSxT4XIGQ2QS9WRGxD2JhuiugMH1FaKK0YRgyHr7rxwEAiiTuN2tBPybFF/s320/20170112_105413.jpg" width="240" /></a>While I wondered through the downtown
area, hunger reminded me to tick off another diner from my list, and
this one was a doozy – <a href="http://nickeldiner.com/">The Nickel Diner</a>. As <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6V5DXk6TbA">sung about by TomWaits</a>. Made famous by its bacon maple glazed donut. On this grey day
it glowed warm and welcoming, fairy lights in the steamed up window,
the shapes of happy, chattering, eating people inside. A mix of local
office drones, hipster scum like me, and crusty old geezers. The
happiest of happy places. I walked in, sat at the back so I could
watch the room, ordered breakfast from the uber-friendly staff, and
felt my belly and my soul refill. One day I'll write that book about
my favourite greasy spoons all over the world, right? This'll be in
it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The black dog was whimpering and
retreating, and a visit to The Last Bookstore, and then the Bradbury
Building, finished it off, and put it back in its basket, asleep and
beaten.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Most of the rest of my daytimes were
spent going out on expeditions with my camera. I like to walk, always
have done, and even in LA, it's mostly possible, at least between
taxi and metro journeys. Bought some sunglasses at a lovely vintage
store in beautiful downtown Burbank (and if you don't know why I said
it like that, then <a href="http://wesclark.com/burbank/bdb.html">shame on you</a>), just around the corner from the
actual water tower where the Animaniacs live. Not sure if they were
there, they may have been elsewhere, engaged in hijinks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Milt</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kP95A-VfVKQTMOS2-Kj0QryVMxLN0XBL87A9k3ksAYzikXGt9uOM3DEptz9NHWCEd9_F9AiZaurpHP03hGEeWPL9lwFPGAF6Pu1fWHGQ4hdoMuwZSVy67SVa812WpknlNMzTZGs21mds/s1600/MiltLarsen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9kP95A-VfVKQTMOS2-Kj0QryVMxLN0XBL87A9k3ksAYzikXGt9uOM3DEptz9NHWCEd9_F9AiZaurpHP03hGEeWPL9lwFPGAF6Pu1fWHGQ4hdoMuwZSVy67SVa812WpknlNMzTZGs21mds/s320/MiltLarsen.jpg" width="258" /></a>One night, between shows, a dapper,
older man made his way back stage. I knew who he was immediately.
Every big time magician who has seen my act has told me - <i><b>“You
gotta meet Milt Larsen”</b></i>. In 1963, he and his brother Bill founded
the Magic Castle. It's his house. He's a genuine bona-fide Hollywood
film, TV and stage legend. But there's something else. Before I was
the tablecloth guy, He was the tablecloth guy. Every American movie or TV show
you've seen it done in, chances are it was his hands doing it. The
reason you know the tablecloth trick – the reason why, when I bend
down and take hold of the edge of the cloth, everyone knows what's
coming? That's down, in a major way, to Milt. He pushed that one
little bit of business into mainstream culture, over a career that
stretched through all of his adult life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He grabbed my hand in a handshake. Held
on tight. Stared into my eyes. Told me how funny I was, how perfect
my timing was. Told me I had the perfect act. Already I'm shaking a
little, the voice in my head saying <i><b>“You can go cry in the
dressing room in a minute”</b></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He told me all the times he pulled
tablecloths – in cabaret shows, in movies, wherever, gave me a few
tips (<i><b>“But you don't need my ideas – you're bulletproof – but
i'm 85 – what do I need them for?”</b></i>), <i><b>"Your act?"</b></i>, he said, shaking his
head and grinning, <i><b>“putting it back? Never seen anything like it”</b></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uPtlBIj7ESOU6Pj8dnAURdjlySQBN6K8krwGHlbmfETiF6BSPgf4uIakvTZ982d_qRGfqznidC3qZ3wamG7Nv2z4LANsc_iK9hB47OAmbnd7mG4RpDtE8d4N7HXWmDUBCRueLdsP87Ba/s1600/20170113_152720.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_uPtlBIj7ESOU6Pj8dnAURdjlySQBN6K8krwGHlbmfETiF6BSPgf4uIakvTZ982d_qRGfqznidC3qZ3wamG7Nv2z4LANsc_iK9hB47OAmbnd7mG4RpDtE8d4N7HXWmDUBCRueLdsP87Ba/s320/20170113_152720.jpg" width="320" /></a>This is why I do this. I mean, one of
the reasons, but one of the big ones. I saw in him, and I think he
saw in me, that we were similar. Schtickmeisters. Trading in the
currency of gags, lines, bits of business. Both part of a lineage. In
my critically-acclaimed, and publicly-ignored, one man show
<i><b>“Vaudeville Schmuck”</b></i> I talked about how lonely it can be being a
solo act, but how, if you do the kind of things that I do, you're
never really alone on stage – you're accompanied by the ghosts of
all the people who helped your artform develop over the decades
before you. A family tree that you've never met.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
But this one I met. No ghost. Real and
giggling. He shook my hand at least six times in the course of an
eight minute chat, and I didn't want to let go any of the times.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He told me that he hoped I liked it
here. I told him I certainly did. He told me that he knew London is a
long way away, but that he hoped I'd come back many times. I told him
I hoped so too. I felt that my check-in luggage might be heavier now,
the weight of one passed baton.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Last 24</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On Sunday morning I strolled up to the
weekly Melrose Trading Post – a fantastic and huge outdoor market
in the grounds of Fairfax high school. $3 to get in, which goes to
help fund school projects, and then you're in among hundreds of stalls
selling vintage stuff, handcrafted stuff, beautiful things, and
low-class crapola. It's great. Had a felafel sandwich that was the
size of two and a half city blocks. Bought some badges from an
English guy who'd moved there thirty years ago. <i><b>“What got you
here?”</b></i>, I asked. <i><b>“Would you believe, a woman?”</b></i>, he replied,
resigned to the cliché. He asked what I was doing there, and I
explained that I was doing a comedy act at the Castle.<i><b> “You look
like a comedian”</b></i>, he said. I asked if that was a good thing or a
bad thing. <i><b>“Well”</b></i>, he said, <i><b>“It's a good thing if you're a
comedian. Not if you're not...”</b></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
One more lap of the stalls, a chance to
overhear a customer tell a stallholder that he could <i><b>“Sell the gum
off the bottom of a shoe”</b></i>, and I was on my way back to my apartment
and then across the street to do my last night of shows. And that's
where was when I wrote this, sat in my dressing room sucking on a polystyrene cup of diet coke, in my costume, headset mic digging into
my ear. One show in, on a three show night.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And then I closed my laptop,
straightened my tie, and went up into the wings for the second
show of my last night. The compere, the lovely Kerry Pollock, gave me
his usual killer intro, and onto the stage I swaggered, my eyes
immediately falling on the unmistakable form of comedy genius Larry
David, sitting a couple of rows back, dead centre, grinning up at me.
My brain immediately split into two parts. The main part slid right
into doing my act, getting laughs, being sarcastic, threatening to do
tricks, my usual kind of schtick. The other, smaller neurological
lump just provided me with a n inner monologue of <i><b>“*Is* is him?
Yeah, it totally fucking is. It's Larry David. Watching you. Right
now. It's happening right now. Don't fuck up. Calm down. Stop
thinking about Larry David. Who is in the audience looking at you.
Right now.”</b></i> etc..</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't fuck up. Afterwards he stuck
around, shook my hand, told me how funny I was. I got another laugh
out of him by telling him how offputting it was seeing him from the
stage, and how dare he. He shook my hand again. I told him what an
honour it was to meet him. He told me how great my act was. I went
back to the dressing room and got dizzy. Actually dizzy. Like all the
blood had flowed out of my brain and whatever part of your physiology
deals with having a really really good day. I had to check with Kerry
that all of that had actually happened. It had. Bloody Los Angeles
being such a cliché. Such a fan-fucking-tastic cliché.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And then I was done. Prop case packed.
Suit folded. One last double scotch with magicians at the bar with
the ghost that plays the piano (Long story), and now I'm sitting on a
plane on my way home. All in a suit like a man in a place. Alright.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Jay would have got such a kick out of
all of this. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZgAQKDakYXAsXP5jH9iB5oFE6ETGUx2KaT9lHTHKQnfjT7rsdIy0muay3pY2HkqiyQy0K1BsPFMiP0MnCJQVi25IJRUhTVf92QsJT2hhkULT_3gK_nLulFE53gtFvjs-dPi3_FYpkJrY/s1600/20170109_181921-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZgAQKDakYXAsXP5jH9iB5oFE6ETGUx2KaT9lHTHKQnfjT7rsdIy0muay3pY2HkqiyQy0K1BsPFMiP0MnCJQVi25IJRUhTVf92QsJT2hhkULT_3gK_nLulFE53gtFvjs-dPi3_FYpkJrY/s640/20170109_181921-01.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
If you're not following me on <a href="https://twitter.com/MatRicardo">Twitter</a> and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/thematricardo/">Instagram</a>, please do!</div>
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Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-16348060463042383692016-12-31T06:54:00.001-08:002016-12-31T07:09:21.543-08:00The Queen, and ZarduluHello again.<br />
<br />
I was half awake, still in bed, on Christmas day. Groggily scrolling through the news in bed, I saw a picture of the Queen and immediately thought it looked like she was wearing an old school starfleet uniform. Her brooch even looked like the insignia. I giggled to myself, screenshotted it, and tweeted my stupid little joke. Then I got up and had breakfast.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufmWrppt2fJT7NYJnIgS8iVgXRwDQXRZ8AcSL1XuxgJYnMHkA_2UbsiYyRYX3TKgjfS1DoqT2f6j-Ma_GXJ_VCfOuNLaLqI61SLFPedC06nF_pKnxtUUxnHaz0Wg0zHrQX91TxGLpOgjX/s1600/Screenshot_20161231-130121.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufmWrppt2fJT7NYJnIgS8iVgXRwDQXRZ8AcSL1XuxgJYnMHkA_2UbsiYyRYX3TKgjfS1DoqT2f6j-Ma_GXJ_VCfOuNLaLqI61SLFPedC06nF_pKnxtUUxnHaz0Wg0zHrQX91TxGLpOgjX/s400/Screenshot_20161231-130121.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
By the time I checked my phone again, my tweet had - and I believe this is the correct young persons vernacular - blown up. It was an odd and fun thing to watch the retweets and likes flow down my phone's screen over the next couple of days, often faster than I could read them.<br />
<br />
This happened..<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglxFnMDxd7RxDekmc7HUxDGVvFaRKV3BxuRLOQkgEMusSWuZvN8Y9XYrKGvALQXDY04dpONrJXVSWiWpRsWtOgbARu-8kMLV3HW3B4lnJih3tvpyWoRI1UY3D5v_Mjpo_axAcYVcRTudI/s1600/Screenshot_20161225-164253-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="90" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhglxFnMDxd7RxDekmc7HUxDGVvFaRKV3BxuRLOQkgEMusSWuZvN8Y9XYrKGvALQXDY04dpONrJXVSWiWpRsWtOgbARu-8kMLV3HW3B4lnJih3tvpyWoRI1UY3D5v_Mjpo_axAcYVcRTudI/s400/Screenshot_20161225-164253-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
And then, for some reason, this..<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dXKIWldWfE8F9TtE4slJ9aakggwSjWR67RbA4bzbNN9Exi6IapkbW5SAJvRD0oulATo2n6xEt0U2FYjobJFUTXi9yvBQom_DyMHSmWcVm-OkKJ7kJaZ9Kz9EKLuFS3zB-3qI9sCoco4w/s1600/Screenshot_20161225-205155-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dXKIWldWfE8F9TtE4slJ9aakggwSjWR67RbA4bzbNN9Exi6IapkbW5SAJvRD0oulATo2n6xEt0U2FYjobJFUTXi9yvBQom_DyMHSmWcVm-OkKJ7kJaZ9Kz9EKLuFS3zB-3qI9sCoco4w/s400/Screenshot_20161225-205155-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #0000ee;"><span style="color: black;">It was strange, and a bit scary, as I realised that something was happening that I didn't have much control over.</span> </span>What was particularly joyful, though, was that since it was a bit of a nerdy joke, I was getting retweets from some top class beautiful geeks... people who work for NASA, yer actual rocket scientists, astronomers, professors and such. Nice.<br />
<br />
But the internet is the internet, like the force is the force, there is a light side and the dark side. Or at least in this case, a cool, nerdy, fun side, and a confused, missing-the-joke, trolling side...<br />
<br />
<br />
Some people were funny..<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8678ziHsGyw5NwEppnzShdO-3zpj66_PRdGqiKmcCB39J7LJLgvzVRDTMK8JAQSmvFeVfs1JS0-lVYpJKTamc1u-ctKE9mOAH02l5CDoxTKiO5AZiEm3ZC81i1NCshfun9ZJwFEV0lhRn/s1600/Screenshot_20161227-161542-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8678ziHsGyw5NwEppnzShdO-3zpj66_PRdGqiKmcCB39J7LJLgvzVRDTMK8JAQSmvFeVfs1JS0-lVYpJKTamc1u-ctKE9mOAH02l5CDoxTKiO5AZiEm3ZC81i1NCshfun9ZJwFEV0lhRn/s400/Screenshot_20161227-161542-01.jpeg" width="400" /> </a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Some just saw it as an opportunity to tell the world how much they liked the queen..</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77pt_fKCo3JM0q5O__7byK07bnIFCTdoV2u6Cz_bINMyTMyVYNgahRRPV993_O4PtRI-gIGI1e4L99njJF-sg2M8KifFAEI_beSxZKFQXhkHfvRj7hGBFl-w5ZeSccO0sNe2jWT_1HeqW/s1600/Screenshot_20161227-155522-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg77pt_fKCo3JM0q5O__7byK07bnIFCTdoV2u6Cz_bINMyTMyVYNgahRRPV993_O4PtRI-gIGI1e4L99njJF-sg2M8KifFAEI_beSxZKFQXhkHfvRj7hGBFl-w5ZeSccO0sNe2jWT_1HeqW/s400/Screenshot_20161227-155522-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
Some took it as an opportunity to tell the world how much they didn't like the Queen...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0WXP4aVCXsmaEFL6g32cnirj7uXeqxPgUzbQxfbkE15YhKGyWNa56PrjuGByhO3PARVG5oGoEi1fMxLEzcMUOPimW7VTtmXpdXhE29ZYEurM-35jAeEsbSVb1aMUhidD9VoPNZl26P3c/s1600/Screenshot_20161227-155522-02.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF0WXP4aVCXsmaEFL6g32cnirj7uXeqxPgUzbQxfbkE15YhKGyWNa56PrjuGByhO3PARVG5oGoEi1fMxLEzcMUOPimW7VTtmXpdXhE29ZYEurM-35jAeEsbSVb1aMUhidD9VoPNZl26P3c/s400/Screenshot_20161227-155522-02.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLQYU4KUH35JsS3n9Swh1vHPr0hyphenhyphenw5k2isjPv7InWe4T9nXa51Ua1ujLh4e7vR8NoxYHmZxZjSNjYDth0jCz8UwcUZO6V8jDWkAxZ5kB_hCTtPHrJCtOqBC81hBdZaHVhM6c7XcVQ72WI/s1600/Screenshot_20161227-155818-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLQYU4KUH35JsS3n9Swh1vHPr0hyphenhyphenw5k2isjPv7InWe4T9nXa51Ua1ujLh4e7vR8NoxYHmZxZjSNjYDth0jCz8UwcUZO6V8jDWkAxZ5kB_hCTtPHrJCtOqBC81hBdZaHVhM6c7XcVQ72WI/s400/Screenshot_20161227-155818-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
Some took it, perhaps, a little too seriously... (I got literally dozens like this)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMMekt37qwwjSRUcf0Am4Isi91hoCMCzWhg3aUr8UEpivoYreRMF5A67QovteEMmWnuNtmsDcZPTGQhPWfX89mzxb9HsHwD0aTeyFX7gvPDGbPSAxf_UlFHIMY-4tyQw2d-BwsFVzYVsns/s1600/Screenshot_20161227-155858-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMMekt37qwwjSRUcf0Am4Isi91hoCMCzWhg3aUr8UEpivoYreRMF5A67QovteEMmWnuNtmsDcZPTGQhPWfX89mzxb9HsHwD0aTeyFX7gvPDGbPSAxf_UlFHIMY-4tyQw2d-BwsFVzYVsns/s400/Screenshot_20161227-155858-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Some made astute and delightful observations...<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge0z60LK8Z_Vdw_Pby4oFWoSotqov7OHKgvTM9WpcWR5ugF9fr0f9UvFU9uzKoqtw8tZ0vAaB_1zXzXZw_Zra7UjbuXywgHAYsYMjLpM53P2etU0biJEsEXpxirMRjj5MHCsw3mqC0MIUk/s1600/Screenshot_20161227-155844-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge0z60LK8Z_Vdw_Pby4oFWoSotqov7OHKgvTM9WpcWR5ugF9fr0f9UvFU9uzKoqtw8tZ0vAaB_1zXzXZw_Zra7UjbuXywgHAYsYMjLpM53P2etU0biJEsEXpxirMRjj5MHCsw3mqC0MIUk/s400/Screenshot_20161227-155844-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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And some..honestly, I have no idea...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_zqTPhcVXkWk6uMiGWrhaWW79R79Y3cQ6D5Tnx-1iXsA6A_vUCHVNMrSdHSb36mBFMnFM_qlg1afOxdOe9LInr76Xhw6UzLPL15S-DT4ZzTBYIt1rkYiglmWIMg1k1N4_KLKdR4YWqaB/s1600/Screenshot_20161227-155922-01.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_zqTPhcVXkWk6uMiGWrhaWW79R79Y3cQ6D5Tnx-1iXsA6A_vUCHVNMrSdHSb36mBFMnFM_qlg1afOxdOe9LInr76Xhw6UzLPL15S-DT4ZzTBYIt1rkYiglmWIMg1k1N4_KLKdR4YWqaB/s400/Screenshot_20161227-155922-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And then there was this guy, who states in his user name what a huge supporter of the next US president he is..<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj335DUzTOgMEHkc4aPt-p7U4l_dwTp7Bvl1SXGInKu3jQIuOotz3Qmj0bAYR_F8rVTCAA76Fm4_QD2YG2xBP8kTyZd2GorM3mMz6s7EKAVyjD3nYldazA_qtBbL1A3isStN3AedNTi-04g/s1600/Screenshot_20161227-155610-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj335DUzTOgMEHkc4aPt-p7U4l_dwTp7Bvl1SXGInKu3jQIuOotz3Qmj0bAYR_F8rVTCAA76Fm4_QD2YG2xBP8kTyZd2GorM3mMz6s7EKAVyjD3nYldazA_qtBbL1A3isStN3AedNTi-04g/s400/Screenshot_20161227-155610-01.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I know, don't feed the trolls, but it was Christmas, so..<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61SOLHKkGcSMzwnuEOwLLCed1nNUywbPqO3QGTw54WcPjGDNuJ9FaXmchBQnO8Oc2UTN5Cxi9hiBC-1COD47TBiKk5wmPWz3LI0zENFaKF_lXVaVVDoWK1ral3k-1sIeu57jmKrVrLIWA/s1600/Screenshot_20161231-141253.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh61SOLHKkGcSMzwnuEOwLLCed1nNUywbPqO3QGTw54WcPjGDNuJ9FaXmchBQnO8Oc2UTN5Cxi9hiBC-1COD47TBiKk5wmPWz3LI0zENFaKF_lXVaVVDoWK1ral3k-1sIeu57jmKrVrLIWA/s400/Screenshot_20161231-141253.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Which sent him scuttling away to try to cause some damage to me elsewhere on twitter, resulting in this enjoyable little exchange..</div>
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(a free variety show, you say? Where can I watch it? <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbWC3HcUyBA&list=PL4HGlamvpDx6tt9BJwD8tBmYi7SEBdSkP" target="_blank">Right here</a> - and you can subscribe to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/MatRicardo">my channel here</a> - thanks for bringing it up)<br />
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You might think that was the extent of the craziness, and you'd be right, oh..unless you count someone trying to convince me that THE QUEEN IS IN FACT LUCILLE BALL AND THE SIMILARITY OF THEIR EARS IS PROOF..<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlbPPUs0i_VlPEeeOZ8w9AnI7J8RDmbNYtRZ0U0t1j7b6GuankgTdbjH1iMmDerLTeD__TY0IOLMvEp72TV_uLMzoZQUr-qYFGKPFGdeKwRizKs7y9w_plZm2fGmIQs6Etr9aTnTqm3FJI/s1600/Screenshot_20161231-130206.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlbPPUs0i_VlPEeeOZ8w9AnI7J8RDmbNYtRZ0U0t1j7b6GuankgTdbjH1iMmDerLTeD__TY0IOLMvEp72TV_uLMzoZQUr-qYFGKPFGdeKwRizKs7y9w_plZm2fGmIQs6Etr9aTnTqm3FJI/s640/Screenshot_20161231-130206.png" width="481" /> </a></div>
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Yep. That was just the start of that fascinating little trip into weirdville. She was serious. And angry. And blocked.</div>
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Oddly, my favourite response to it was from Curtis Stigers. Yes, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VS2Hp9Ck9mQ" target="_blank">that Curtis Stigers. </a>Who proved himself as witty as he is saxaphoney.. </div>
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So that was all very strange and kinda fun. It's settling down now, and I'm sort of glad. </div>
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As I write this, it's new years eve, and I just came back from an early morning walk along the beach to watch the sun rise, and clear my head of clutter. Out of this, completely unplanned, came some new years resolutions, so I'm going to write them down here so that in a years time the internet can taunt me for having failed to keep them. That's how it works, right? So:</div>
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(1) - Try to let the weight of the sad and depressing things of the world squish me down less. This not to say ignore the news, or disengage with the world, but I'm fragile and oftentimes the feeling of powerlessness to do much to affect horrific things happening far away, triggers all sorts of crappy stuff in my head and makes me unable to do much at all. I have to work on this. Partly by actually, y'know, finding ways to do things to help, and partly by remembering my role as an artist and maker in the world. And you know what helped me with this? <b>Zardulu.</b></div>
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Zardulu is the subject of my favourite podcast episode of the year. <a href="https://gimletmedia.com/episode/zardulu/" target="_blank">You can listen to it here</a>, and I really recommend you do. There's also a follow up, complete with actual interview, <a href="https://gimletmedia.com/episode/84-past-present-future-2/">here.</a></div>
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I want to be more like Zardulu. Or at least let the knowledge that there is a Zardulu help me believe that the world is a little more mysterious, magical, and fantastical than most of us are lead to believe. There's a lot to be said for the power of enigmatic oddness to change the lens through which one sees things. Bad things still happen, but so do fun, inexplicable things. Childhood was full of those feelings, maybe there's space for them in adulthood too, just a smidge, for balance.</div>
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(2) - I'm going to try - <b><i>god I'm going to try</i></b> - not to engage with idiots posting stupid shit on twitter and facebook. I don't think anyone in the history of the universe has actually ever debated anyone well enough to change their opinions on a social media platform. What, in my experience, happens, is that you start out polite, and then pretty soon it's all Hitler this and Obama that and terrorist whatever, and then I spend the rest of the day needing more Zardulu type stuff to cheer me up. So, from now on, I'm going to avoid confrontation online. If I don't like what someone is putting in front of me, there are myriad ways to click a thing and quieten someone down. All the energy I might spend on arguing, I'm instead going to spend on making cool stuff. That way my mental health ain't so shonky.</div>
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(3) - I'm going to be the opposite of my dad. Long story. Cliche. I know.</div>
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Happy new year, and stuff, innit.</div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-34947322655925421502016-12-26T10:31:00.000-08:002016-12-26T10:31:46.104-08:002016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We're nearing the end of what I think has been universally acknowledged to be a horribly sad and scary year. One that we'll look back on with the same level of fondness as a one night stand with Jeremy Clarkson. It was foul, depressing, painful and fills you with dread about how much worse things might get if unchecked.<br />
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Which means - hooray - it's time for a little end of year wrap up. Let's see if I can, if not put a smile on your face, at least unclench your fists for a few fleeting moments. <b>Let the link-fest begin.</b><br />
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I'd like to revisit a few of the things I've written or made in the past 12 months, if that's ok with you. And it seems fitting, during the time of year when, for a lot of people, mental health becomes a tougher fight than it usually is, to start with that. I wrote about my own depression <a href="http://matricardo.blogspot.co.uk/2016/04/woof.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and about one of the ways that I manage it <a href="http://www.chortle.co.uk/correspondents/2016/07/05/25222/creativity_is_kryptonite_for_depression" target="_blank">here</a>. If you're someone for whom these posts directly apply, then all I can say is that it's ok to prioritise self-care without feeling guilty about doing whatever you need to do to keep things together. The Samaritans can be found <a href="http://www.samaritans.org/how-we-can-help-you/contact-us" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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Keeping with the cheerful tone, 2016 was the year when, basically, everyone you've ever heard of who made anything great, died. There are too many to talk about individually, but only one who I was friends with. I wrote about him <a href="http://www.chortle.co.uk/features/2016/03/17/24395/everybody_who_was_anybody_wanted_to_be_on_the_paul_daniels_show" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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More and more, I started using <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4t-2_lfbjZw" target="_blank">this song</a> as a bit of a mantra. It takes its title from a line spoken in one of my favourite films, and I would find myself saying it to myself in times of stress, sadness and desperation. So, when I was in Toronto in Summer, I had the words tattooed on me. That way, the sentiment is always with me. Brilliantly, when the director of the festival I was at heard about this, she immediately wrote it up on a big sign that hung over her desk - as you can see from the picture of it at the top of the page. Hearts in eyeballs emoji, right there. <br />
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Professionally, I had a really enjoyable and exciting year. I <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9sgGivmZjE" target="_blank">visited some</a> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9sgGivmZjE" target="_blank">amazing places</a>, got to play to some <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BMYtS05DBlH/" target="_blank">fantastic audiences</a>, made some new friends, and even got to hang out with a genuine <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BJsWwgEDgqJ/" target="_blank">comedy hero</a>. Oh, and one of the amazing trips I went on ended with me commandeering a car to flee the country and literally escape probable incarceration. If you haven't already read my piece about how a gig in Beijing went massively sideways, <a href="http://matricardo.blogspot.co.uk/2016/01/and-world-record-for-worst-gig-ever.html" target="_blank">then enjoy</a>. I've never been happier to get on a plane than I was when I managed to slip out of that trap.<br />
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As a response to happily-frequent audience question that I get at the bar, post show - <b><i>"Why aren't you doing a variety show on TV?"</i></b> - the answer to which is as depressing as it is dull, I started putting more and more stuff up on my YouTube channel (<a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC7GozvAsW0KPlSEh6SCouQQ" target="_blank">Which I encourage you to subscribe to</a>), and then I got carried away and put together entire variety show playlists from stuff I'd found buried deep. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbWC3HcUyBA&list=PL4HGlamvpDx6tt9BJwD8tBmYi7SEBdSkP" target="_blank">Here's the most recent one</a> - it's 35 minutes long, and stupid fun.<br />
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Also this year I started writing to a deadline for Chortle. The original brief was that I was going to talk about the current cabaret and variety circuit, but pretty quickly that fell by the wayside, and it became a slightly more freeform series of articles on the nature of being a maker, how to stay sane, and what fun variety and circus are. Chortle seem either fine with that direction, or they just don't read what I file - either way, I'm happy with the outlet for my words. Here's are a couple more of my columns from the past year:<br />
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<a href="http://www.chortle.co.uk/correspondents/2016/12/06/26394/fail%21" target="_blank">On failing. A lot. And learning. A little.</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.chortle.co.uk/correspondents/2016/11/04/26148/running_away_from_something_is_a_powerful_motivator" target="_blank">On the power of running away from something.</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.chortle.co.uk/correspondents/2016/10/03/25916/if_you_only_learn_one_thing..." target="_blank">On having one thing thats yours.</a><br />
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My favourite moment of the year wasn't a professional one though. Me and my wife had gone to Paris to hang out with some old friends for a few days. The night we arrived, one of those friends said that a few of her musician pals were doing a little thing at a bar, and maybe we should go. We did. It was a literal backstreet bar, down an alleyway just around the corner from the Bataclan theatre, where, a few months earlier, there had been stupid, stupid tragedy. The place was packed, and cheerful, and loud, and beautiful. We squeezed into some seats by the window, and filled our table with large plates of cheese, and larger glasses of wine. A couple of days earlier, Prince had died, and when the haphazard group of musicians shuffled onto the tiny corner stage to start the show, they opened with one of his songs. I was done. Immediately, and totally. They played all night - defiantly cool and sexy and virtuosic, the lineup of the band constantly changing as people left for a break and others joined, or people switched instruments. There were enough factors in play that people would be forgiven for being sad, and dour and quiet and shy, but the power of community - a heaving bar packed with artists, drinkers, people here for expert level revelry - created a night I'll never, ever forget. Seared into my soul by love and music, and sealed there by friends and wine. The best musicians I have ever seen, at the best music venue I have ever been to, with some of the best people I know. I can't allow myself to think about that night too much, because when I do, I get sad that I'm not there now, experiencing it all again, but for the first time.<br />
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So. Music and art and friends and wine and food and small places full of people and late nights and beating hate and fear with love and new friends. Those things.<br />
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Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-31292707174002287362016-10-27T01:52:00.000-07:002016-10-27T01:52:56.131-07:00That time Hugh Laurie helped me steal something<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the early 90's when I was a
fresh-faced whippersnapper of a juggler, mainly making my rent from
street performing, I got my first proper agent. He was a lovely chap,
with an office just around the corner from my street pitch in Covent
Garden, which was festooned with 8x10s of bodybuilders, martial
artists, mimes, and associated people who specialised in physical
skills. As a young bouncy circus monkey, he saw some potential in me,
started putting me up for castings, and indeed, landed me some fun
jobs.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes. Me. Shut up.</td></tr>
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Mostly, I ended up in late 80's/early
90's pop videos. Which means that if you scour YouTube for a couple
of early Shakespear's Sister songs, and one particularly dirgey ditty
by Sarah Brighman, there, more often than not under some fucking
clown make-up, I am. The Shakespear's Sister ladies were delightful,
and I remember playing with Siobhan's young daughter at the time, who
made it into one of the video's dressed as a bumble bee. What most of
these clips had in common were that they were directed by the
brilliant Sophie Muller, and when she was prepping to direct the
video for Annie Lennox's next single, I got another call.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1aoiXjwrtB32rMuV6Y4sDeZwoiWDNQMz2OniWVXbQf7Fqf5ybyrtOwgxLh1jWyuRsD-fcwCFNRJaz1H5fvD4tZhGx19PxOlFqOrfQbv_8Mf2UA3fiYf2Ijk7zIts8JFXc81wQdbYJuAVC/s1600/414_walkingonbrokenglass10a.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1aoiXjwrtB32rMuV6Y4sDeZwoiWDNQMz2OniWVXbQf7Fqf5ybyrtOwgxLh1jWyuRsD-fcwCFNRJaz1H5fvD4tZhGx19PxOlFqOrfQbv_8Mf2UA3fiYf2Ijk7zIts8JFXc81wQdbYJuAVC/s320/414_walkingonbrokenglass10a.jpg" width="320" /></a>The shoot for “Walking on Broken
Glass” took place on location over a long weekend in London, but
the cast all got called in the day before. It was, I guess, a homage
to things like “Dangerous Liaisons”, so we all got plopped in
front of a line of mirrors for complicated costume and powdered wig
fittings. By the middle of day 2, those wigs felt heavy and painful,
dragging on the pins that held them in place and giving everyone
matching headaches.
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<br />
The vibe was a party – cool and
beautiful people, and staff serving drinks, and – hey – a juggler
entertaining them! But as opulent and beautiful as the location and
costumes were, all eyes were on the stars of the show. John
Malkovich, kinda sorta reprising his role from “Liaisons..”, and
Hugh Laurie, sorta kinda reprising his role from Blackadder.
Malkovich took it all quite seriously, struggling a little, I think,
to be able to have the kind of fun that Laurie was able to have. And
my god, Hugh Laurie was amazing. And then there was Lennox. Draped in
spectacular red velvet, gliding around serenely, and treated by
everyone – correctly – like the queen. She radiated serene focus,
and, at least for me, that became the feel of the shoot. And after
the first take, when they'd hit playback and all the actors had heard
the song for the first time, we all tried to make sure she saw us
grinning at how good it was.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAtcCwtUhIgv3dek4iF8TvwyoNM1yF5dDnC_qrli0OwE4xPrWv1LQunc1FlcyYcqihAMurmP6k4l3nO_O-umU4FMSB6GwvB-GvbLWE9lvw1pBiuRt-WPFEPvEwlx6zPfCyIpj04hbgW0St/s1600/hugh-laurie.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAtcCwtUhIgv3dek4iF8TvwyoNM1yF5dDnC_qrli0OwE4xPrWv1LQunc1FlcyYcqihAMurmP6k4l3nO_O-umU4FMSB6GwvB-GvbLWE9lvw1pBiuRt-WPFEPvEwlx6zPfCyIpj04hbgW0St/s320/hugh-laurie.jpg" width="320" /></a>For me though, it was all about Hugh
Laurie. I was already a fan, and a totally star struck at working in
the same room as him (more so than Malkovich, I'm afraid). As part of
the set dressing a harpsichord stood in the corner of the set, and
between shots, the talented son of a gun just sat down and played it.
There was a key scene where Lennox's character gets drunk and angry –
in the final cut the camera cuts a few times to Laurie's face as he
desperately tries to calm her down. I remember vividly when that was
shot. They just put the camera on him, and let him go. For minutes
upon minutes he improvised various different ways of trying to defuse
the situation – firm, embarrassed, ignoring it, laughing it off,
getting angry, being patronising... he just kept going and going, to
a silent, rapt room of actors. When Sophie finally told him they had
more than enough, everyone clapped.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Something else that the angry drunk
Annie Lennox did in the video, and lets face it, the thing that
really spoiled the party for everyone, was barge past the juggler. We
shot it a couple of times with me just being pushed to one side and
dropping my balls, and then I was asked if I would be ok actually
falling down. I've always been very ok with falling down. It's one of
my key skills. So, on the next take, she pushes past me, and I take a
good old fashioned back bump to the floor. They finish the shot, cut
is yelled, and everyone seems happy. Except for Annie, who hurries
over to me, asking if I'm ok, totally concerned that she had
accidentally, in the heat of the moment, actually thrown me to the
floor. I tell her, yeah, I'm fine, it was a pratfall, they told me to
go a little bigger, and then she's helping me up and telling me “oh,
very nice, very good”. And although it only lasts half a second,
and you can't really see it, that's the take they used.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mXMnuc6TP7YMn_mBBH3hB3RK8pRBBhkWwdseN5LdcFeoS-xBa60IoebhBp_2oLzWFFu-eAbNd8pkWE45JP_hHEM63TZGINVRQMm8GKvy-dH-J6YlMnakFkZZmUTKwzm0EUy1XQ5gsFwy/s1600/vlcsnap-2016-10-27-09h33m46s43.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mXMnuc6TP7YMn_mBBH3hB3RK8pRBBhkWwdseN5LdcFeoS-xBa60IoebhBp_2oLzWFFu-eAbNd8pkWE45JP_hHEM63TZGINVRQMm8GKvy-dH-J6YlMnakFkZZmUTKwzm0EUy1XQ5gsFwy/s200/vlcsnap-2016-10-27-09h33m46s43.jpg" width="200" /></a>On the second day, while they were
shooting something downstairs, myself and a few of the other actors
were sitting around on set, killing time, chatting about anything and
nothing in particular. I mentioned that it was my girlfriend's
birthday soon (she's now my wife), and I hadn't found a good main
present. As we're talking, Hugh Laurie wonders in and sits nearby. We
started joking that I should steal something from the set. Then we
started joking a little more specifically, that I should steal the
gorgeous crystal, gold-rimmed goblet that Annie Lennox uses in the
video. Then we slowly realised that she'd finished shooting all her
scenes with it. And then, Hugh Laurie is standing up, sidling over to
the table, taking the goblet, walking back, and giving it to me, with
a conspiratorial grin.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I stole it, gave it to Lesley for her
birthday, told her the story, and to this day, whenever that video
turns up there is giggling and pointing and yelling “Look! It's
your glass!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sorry Annie Lennox. Sorry Sophie
Muller. Blame Hugh Laurie.</div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-7554574795824050422016-10-06T02:24:00.000-07:002016-10-06T02:30:43.750-07:00Power Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVucE1pRmL-QUZhgkeyvr_ya9QzEem-YRzW0H5EJDlvqc2XaNVV5E_saamOli4w9crSL7kL7yoJeZG2s18SeqDaVaiUrrwyr4xdOh6tMBUuBS-GPUL2yrAZfzbaFSBbaNxufEu0t62yKtx/s1600/Luke-Cage-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVucE1pRmL-QUZhgkeyvr_ya9QzEem-YRzW0H5EJDlvqc2XaNVV5E_saamOli4w9crSL7kL7yoJeZG2s18SeqDaVaiUrrwyr4xdOh6tMBUuBS-GPUL2yrAZfzbaFSBbaNxufEu0t62yKtx/s640/Luke-Cage-1.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Here's how it would go:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'd come out of my grandma's house,
turn left, go to the end of the street, past the corner shop run by
the Indian family, where the aroma of food on the stove out back
melted into the smells of the sweets sitting out front to create a
gorgeous heady mix that still, when I smell anything like it today,
sends me right back to my childhood. I'd cross the street onto the
main road and go to the newsagent that I didn't usually go to. My
parents didn't ever send me there. It was small, fairly crappy, and
staffed by a couple I was a little scared of, who sometimes shouted
at each other. But. On a little plastic-covered wire rack on the
dirty lino floor, they had American comics. Marvel comics. Remember –
this was the mid 70's, way before the characters and stories
contained in those rough, cheap pages had become mainstream
pop-culture icons and cash-generating brand ambassadors –
especially in the UK. Back then they were still seen as crass, cheap,
sensational, primary coloured bad influences. I loved them. I love
them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I didn't love them equally though.
Never had much interest in the Fantastic Four, the Hulk didn't hook
me, neither did Thor. As I got older, I developed serious fandoms for
Daredevil, Spidey, Green Arrow and others, but back then, when I
was..what..7 years old? It was all about Luke Cage. Power Man. The
hero for hire. He was my guy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKbVWCkPHA0-jv_GTXcQOZX7gjwZ5z7mRlV9pFM3j_alITYQOylS9wqf_d8v480eQTtcIiTxHlQPho_RMYCQHCcPQ9lZMVlzMnAg5cRuShcuaEf8tS9YIQfImeLf7r9L6xDsSJJEKsrsu/s1600/nnkz1f.0.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGKbVWCkPHA0-jv_GTXcQOZX7gjwZ5z7mRlV9pFM3j_alITYQOylS9wqf_d8v480eQTtcIiTxHlQPho_RMYCQHCcPQ9lZMVlzMnAg5cRuShcuaEf8tS9YIQfImeLf7r9L6xDsSJJEKsrsu/s320/nnkz1f.0.jpg" width="320" /></a>The black guy with the impenetrable
skin, whose comics wove Marvels trademark outrageous characters and
action, into stories of the inner city African American experience.
Superhero blaxploitation. A leading character fresh out of jail for a
crime he didn't do, who commits to his new powers by going into
business as hired muscle, simply because, just like everyone else in
his neighborhood, money was tight. Six or seven years before I
discovered hip-hop, the Luke Cage comics taught me about an America
that TV didn't often show, and alongside that, it showed me a New
York that I dreamed of seeing for myself one day. I wonder if the
people making these comics realised the bang-up job they were doing
as an unofficial tourist board, because I can't have been the only
kid entranced by visions of the USA thrown at me in low-quality ink.
And it wasn't just the stories, the rest of the comic too – I
poured over the adverts for mysterious things – <a href="http://www.tomheroes.com/images4/COMICAD_slim_jims_vampire.jpg" target="_blank">Slim Jims!</a> <a href="http://mentalfloss.com/sites/default/legacy/blogs/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/seamonkeys.jpg" target="_blank">SeaMonkeys!</a> I only know who Dr.J is because of his <a href="https://blogintomystery.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/spalding.jpg" target="_blank">adverts for Spalding basketballs</a> on the back page (Imagine my glee when his name cropped
up in Run DMC's “You Be Illin” a few years later, and I KNEW WHO
HE WAS).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
These comic books were little culture
bombs of exciting, edgy, loud, vivid, modern, counter-culture
Americana. I was their target market. They hit me with deadshot
accuracy, and I never fully recovered.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Flash forward to me as a grown-up, and
Netflix announce that they're going to make four TV series, of four
Marvel characters, and that those characters were Daredevil, Jessica
Jones, Iron Fist and Luke Cage. What's the word for a combination of
excitement, nervousness and dread? That. But then they release
Daredevil, and it was good. As was Jessica Jones. And they just
dropped Luke Cage. And it's kinda great.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Thematically it feels like a pretty
good update of the source material. A reluctant hero driven into
action when local gangland violence and political corruption start to
take away his safe places, and hurt those he cares for. It's clearly
on a modest budget, but its shot beautifully, with warm colours and a
bold visual style giving the excellent cast the frame they need to do
really nice work. And essentially, there's plenty of room for
discussions of race, power, and, in one key early scene, the N-word.
It's not perfect by any means, but sweet Christmas, Mike Colter is
Luke Cage.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooH6OV36uiU0j4sH-CsVEfW1TYW04mwMdWqIrp7_rsMI0IgwAPntGtbz1XxC7H080l4hKos8o0wM9WKOK_BD51kyvsw4OFv9DRIs4jFsnC0C2xnIrguaX3cVq8a97Mi6pv1-gR5yDpP6K/s1600/luke-cage.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooH6OV36uiU0j4sH-CsVEfW1TYW04mwMdWqIrp7_rsMI0IgwAPntGtbz1XxC7H080l4hKos8o0wM9WKOK_BD51kyvsw4OFv9DRIs4jFsnC0C2xnIrguaX3cVq8a97Mi6pv1-gR5yDpP6K/s640/luke-cage.png" width="640" /></a> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And good god is it timely. The
deafeningly loud symbolism of having a hero who's central power is
that his black skin is bulletproof is painfully ironic in a country
where an increasingly militarized and unaccountable police force
seems to be killing unarmed black men with shocking regularity. That
a comic character who was created during the black power movement of
the 70's, now has a resurgence in the black lives matter era is
perfect, and powerful. Colter himself has said that the show is
consciously taking that movement into consideration, and that “It's
a nod to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trayvon_Martin" target="_blank">Trayvon</a>, no question”.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The other thing that's been said about
it is that it's the hip-hop Marvel show, which isn't quite true. The
whole thing is immaculately soundtracked, to be sure, but not just
with hip-hop, but also old school R&B and jazz, alongside some
featured live performances, which all contribute to an underlining of
the importance of music in the world in which our heroes and villains
live.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As a sidenote, I also watched the BBC4
documentary “The Hip Hop World News”, which, at the time of
writing, you can <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b07vxmxt/the-hip-hop-world-news" target="_blank">catch up with on iPlayer</a>. A bold idea, to look at
politics and society through the lens of hip-hop creators, and one
that, for my money, didn't quite work. There were some important
mis-steps – discussion about the use of the N-word was clearly
biased in favour of the presenters viewpoint, while ignoring the key
reasons for its re-appropriation, and including obvious fallacies
presented as facts. The deeply problematic representation of women
was touched on, and this slim and shallow segment was the only time
in the whole show that a woman was allowed to talk, and only then
because she was an old friend of the presenter. That stank. These are
big subjects that, when given the serious insight they deserve,
explode and expand some of the cultural underpinnings of the artform,
and can only help its understanding. They happened for reasons, and
that's where the discussion is, but there was no discussion, instead,
only dismissals and opinions in place of explanations.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Having said all that, the presenter in
question, veteran British MC Rodney P, was passionate and genuine,
and when he shed tears before meeting the great Chuck D, I was right
there with him. Although flawed, this was, in general, a very
enjoyable show, and one that I hope serves as a starting point for
Rodney to bring his beloved world to the screen, rather than a
one-off.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And after that show we changed the
channel, and there was Jeremy bloody Paxman talking about fucking
Victorians. An Oxbridge educated rich white guy basically doing
cosplay of one of his old teachers, in a sea of similar looking faces
doing similar looking things, and it became apparent how rare and
valuable on screen talent - either fictional like Luke Cage, or real,
like Rodney P, are.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Excelsior, true believers! 'Nuff said.</div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-46897559865222352872016-07-14T03:15:00.002-07:002016-07-14T03:32:39.912-07:00A solo performer in a cast and an only child in a family.<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuGWeS-pTXEJWjOQ5kGekgSx_WQTxXIUlB9RhFql3AlRS8rX713U6yARnS2XPOkwHVyfsZZ0WHEyozCPZG1vdrZH7VzcxpU06VQ7Uhc3x6gsFLelhx-Tnzy1bS93ltUu6P8lr9vHQL8ov/s1600/ft3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCuGWeS-pTXEJWjOQ5kGekgSx_WQTxXIUlB9RhFql3AlRS8rX713U6yARnS2XPOkwHVyfsZZ0WHEyozCPZG1vdrZH7VzcxpU06VQ7Uhc3x6gsFLelhx-Tnzy1bS93ltUu6P8lr9vHQL8ov/s640/ft3.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I first met <a href="http://www.rosesurquhart.net/" target="_blank">Roses</a> when she – and I'm
using her own words here – stalked me for months, took me for
coffee, told me that she wrote, directed and starred in some theatre
shows, thrust a script into my hands, and told me she wanted to work
with me. It was equal parts flattering and scary, like many of life's
best moments.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33fzhcKFSsW6XE43_9pQLRzRspe00OT6nfFv72b9xZI4X-zW8roUSueSoCB3FJNvdoHDN8CGPVtKipXNEI51q-6P6wfmo2X8Lc0uvHGWc4UmmK5LTMRS78nOVNdfnUtwayUlZM1xwsNAv/s1600/familytree2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh33fzhcKFSsW6XE43_9pQLRzRspe00OT6nfFv72b9xZI4X-zW8roUSueSoCB3FJNvdoHDN8CGPVtKipXNEI51q-6P6wfmo2X8Lc0uvHGWc4UmmK5LTMRS78nOVNdfnUtwayUlZM1xwsNAv/s320/familytree2.jpg" width="320" /></a>I was doing a bunch of cruise ships
shows at the time, and as they have a habit of sapping ones soul
slightly, I was looking for something different to get stuck into.
Something nourishing, challenging, fun, maybe. I took her script onto
a plane to Miami, and by the time we'd reached cruising altitude I
knew I wanted in.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That was seven years and two
installments of her show ago, and last month I was happily roped into
another episode of Roses' ongoing theatrical crazyness.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The Night Kitchen Cabaret isn't a
cabaret show. Ok, well it sort of is. It's a play masquerading as a
cabaret show masquerading as a play about a cabaret show that is
really a play. Or something. I'll start again. It's a play about a
woman called Ruby Kitchen. She runs a show from her East London home,
which may or may not also be some kind of trans-dimensional tardis.
Long story. She's surrounded by her family, friends and visitors from
far away. Oh, and there's dance and circus and magic and puppetry and
mime and music and monsters and and and...</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
What it mainly is, is virtually
impossible to describe with any degree of clarity or accuracy. A
multi-disciplinary tour-de-force that is exactly as concerned with
slapstick and spectacle as it is with using delicate theatre to delve
into some of the gentle, dark places that good art can be so good as
illuminating.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm lucky. I had a couple of decades of
living as a busker, hand to mouth, but these days I do alright. I get
to bounce around the world doing my thing in interesting places. But
I don't like to keep it too easy. I always want to be doing something
new – doesn't matter if its a new gag, routine, venue, show – I
always want to be concious, always want to be stretching myself a
little, always developing and learning, because otherwise, what's the
point? I'm also a solo turn. I function well on my own. Always have
done. So spending a month in a rehearsal room (At RADA of all places)
being a member of a cast full of way more talented people (or at
least that's how my insecurities will always frame it, although holy crap, this cast was amazing), learning
everything from heartfelt dialogue, to physical theatre choreography,
to full scale Appalachian flatfoot dance numbers – well, that took
me to a place where you couldn't see my comfort zone with
military-grade binoculars.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieP0OIs0YKjT0-Hf4wrJKCNuVQvNZYNwcaOX704PfKvYq0eEsEhhQdmsI0MtxDMefAT3iNArZaO2D2xPOM_5JONYu9qomzFQ1tDaYOpItdfSz1kt0ec4HL6lCd43S-tbcsFJoJV_a4R2VM/s1600/familytree1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieP0OIs0YKjT0-Hf4wrJKCNuVQvNZYNwcaOX704PfKvYq0eEsEhhQdmsI0MtxDMefAT3iNArZaO2D2xPOM_5JONYu9qomzFQ1tDaYOpItdfSz1kt0ec4HL6lCd43S-tbcsFJoJV_a4R2VM/s640/familytree1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I struggle to function as part of a
cast. Habit, my inherent shyness, and probably a little fear-fuelled
ego all combine to make me occasionally want to curl up a hide under
a table. But over the course of rehearsals, we fuse together.
Strangers become colleagues become friends, and finally melt into a
single cast. Like an army unit – a collection of specialists who,
together, make one thing happen. By the time we finally got to walk
out onto our beautiful set, we had become the family we were
portraying.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzuChlzWHK2_mJUzCenS0JV60I5gnJQ9o3_b9xXjuwgq1NGFPzAZWo3V4a68iOxvxlhK66D-2Md94FPkggK1leOIBtau-5uh5mcSnkFKDhpjeGwfxblUfhY3Xh40UYDSIDb0IVNO9Z7JX/s1600/tf4.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzuChlzWHK2_mJUzCenS0JV60I5gnJQ9o3_b9xXjuwgq1NGFPzAZWo3V4a68iOxvxlhK66D-2Md94FPkggK1leOIBtau-5uh5mcSnkFKDhpjeGwfxblUfhY3Xh40UYDSIDb0IVNO9Z7JX/s320/tf4.jpg" width="320" /></a>I always tell people that one of the
things I love about my job is that with my skillset and experience, I
can work pretty much anywhere. And sure, on the surface, that sounds
like the kind of thing you tell an agent who isn't sure if you're
right for a gig, and indeed it is, but it's also really true. My
background in street performing instilled in me the ability/obsession
to approach any space as a potential venue, and know how to make it
work best as one. Still, if I'm in a new town and happen to wonder
down the high street, I'll be unable to fight the voices in my head
saying “Ok, you'd pitch up there, facing this way, so you're not
blocking any shop doorways. Nice flow of people, but the street is
wide enough that you're not going to cause an obstruction and get
stopped by the police. Also you could stand on that wall to grab
attention, and put your suitcase on top of that rubbish bin...”,
this is a curse that I'm pretty sure every street performer has. When
I recently talked to Eddie Izzard, who, decades ago, I used to share
a street pitch with, he said much the same thing. He told me that
he'd just played the Hollywood Bowl, and wouldn't have known how to
approach that gig, were it not for his days as a busker. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikKPiyqZuFGqZA_QXUKTyO37sRX9usOwW7Iwubm-X2wdABelIm2vd3FE9myc0cYzy1VXGFFkjz2VJ2IwwuHwTVieGqW9v8GfUhB7ivOqVsvPBHtG9PqriWUmKFnyRGDLxDMXQoKxZRCjR2/s1600/ft1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikKPiyqZuFGqZA_QXUKTyO37sRX9usOwW7Iwubm-X2wdABelIm2vd3FE9myc0cYzy1VXGFFkjz2VJ2IwwuHwTVieGqW9v8GfUhB7ivOqVsvPBHtG9PqriWUmKFnyRGDLxDMXQoKxZRCjR2/s320/ft1.jpg" width="228" /></a>But this applies to the nature of the
gig, as much as it does the venue. I think I'm pretty good at being
able to slightly tweak what I do, and more importantly, how I do it,
to suit the style of show I'm in. Punchy and improvy for street
shows, slick and witty for cabaret, stylish and clean for classic
variete. The Night Kitchen Cabaret though, was at the far end of this
range. I wasn't even playing myself, I was Great Uncle Alfie. I'd
played him twice before, and I love him. He's a juggler, sure, and a
butcher. He's also – small detail – been dead for two hundred
years. But when the family needs him, he always finds a way to visit.
He's east end. Where I feel awkward and shy in a pub, he'd be right
at home there, leading a singalong and buying everyone a round. When
I was a kid, my grandmother used to take me down to Edmonton Green
market. She knew everyone, so on the journey there and back, we'd
bump into window cleaners, fruit and veg sellers, and all manner of
central casting 1970's London types. I remember loving it, and when
I'm Alfie, I play him like all of those people. The rough grinning
chancers that would chuck me an apple and ask me what football team I
supported, then take it back unless I said Tottenham.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm sure there will be more
installments of the Night Kitchen to come, full of impossible to
describe but beautiful things, so keep an eye out. Regardless of my
involvement, they're something special, as is Roses, the creative
genius behind it all. And I use that word very consciously indeed.
Watch out for her name in the future. You'd be fools not to.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbvyh2KBsMWqOBMpPr6OIgkVwjg2fX8trQgjWL0sfngwvRgIJbRRI12v2nBAwHo_qzNJfIeNGX_hkqrV_KKKN_4r7pc5yz5zbTgAFBn0ucC50h7YELE25vfICIYDmh28sdZY9Q4ZBLNK-X/s1600/familytree1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
(All the beautiful photos on this post, courtesy of the brilliant Lol Johnson. <a href="http://www.loljohnson.com/" target="_blank">Go check out her work</a>)<br />
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Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-56284586608783183092016-04-07T01:40:00.000-07:002016-04-07T01:41:55.711-07:00Woof<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIXjSGxT7qFZR3ianoftRycGUvSP2Vchj11QESNNw1j_SfOwaGJ0aus16vM_4nCvmjQdn3T0DBpzaVzf2OODEYvKhMLB6yGY5QUoPvLbySe7Qn2m3E2p9p08hrLU4dxUeBbIAcONYML_Q/s1600/sestri-silhouette-for-web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIXjSGxT7qFZR3ianoftRycGUvSP2Vchj11QESNNw1j_SfOwaGJ0aus16vM_4nCvmjQdn3T0DBpzaVzf2OODEYvKhMLB6yGY5QUoPvLbySe7Qn2m3E2p9p08hrLU4dxUeBbIAcONYML_Q/s640/sestri-silhouette-for-web.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<br />
This week I've been mostly feeling
empty. All my energy bars depleted. Desperately in need of a powerup.
Veering wildly between panicky and desperate, and “oh, what's the
point of any of it”-type resignation. There's been a decent amount
of numb staring into space, a respectable number of whinges, and
fairly regular confused crying.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sometimes, when depression descends, it
comes out of nowhere. You'll wake up, and in those first few seconds,
you'll feel it and you'll know – nope – this ain’t going to be
an easy day. Other times, there might be a trigger, something that
pokes at your existing emotional wound and reminds you of it. This
week, for me, there were a few things – some real-world triggers,
exhaustion, and a cracked rib didn't help. All these things made me
an easy target for the illness. And it came in strong this week.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Depression tricks me into measuring my
success and happiness by all the wrong metrics. Judging myself by the
standards set by those who I don't respect. But they shout their
expectations so loudly sometimes, at least in my head, that they are
hard to ignore. Of course, by all the valuations that count, I'm
doing just fine. I get to go on stage and show-off, to act out the
silly ideas I think up, and enough people seem to like it that I'm
able to have a roof over my head, a wide selection of hats and ties,
and get Wimpy whenever I like. This job has given me a life I share
with so many awesome humans. One, particularly awesome.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And usually that's enough to keep me
happy, and my keel even. But when my mood is low, when the black
fucking dog is standing by the front door snarling and drooling at me
whenever I try to leave the house, my perception changes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I must be a failure. A loser. I'm not
doing as well as whoever. I'm not selling as many tickets as I could
be selling. I'm not in demand by the right people. I'm not in the
cool gang. If only I hadn't buried Britain’s Got Talent so publicly
and so often, maybe I could turn off my soul, bite the bullet and
tilt at the windmill of a million instant extra twitter followers.
But no. I made my bed, it's just that right now I'm finding it hard
to get out of it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I know, I know. There's always someone
better, and there always will be. Prince didn't stop being Prince
when he realised he'd never be James Brown. He concentrated on being
Prince. There's always someone more popular, richer, younger or
thinner.. It's just that when you're too busy with the dog to think
straight, it seems like that someone is everyone, and it always will
be, and you might as well give it all up because really, come on,
what were you thinking? And when that dog is straining at the leash,
I find myself with no answer to that question. Suddenly, in my mind
and heart, I'm back to being the teenager with the different name who
dreamt of being something like Mat Ricardo, but was too often told
that it should remain a fantasy, or at best, a hobby. I find myself
wondering if those people were right.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
They weren't, of course. And here I am,
at a coffee shop in Marylebone station in London, hunched over my
notebook like a jazz pianist, scribbling this all down in the hope
that the reasons that these people were wrong will spill out of me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
So.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If I hadn't, on a Wednesday morning in
the late 80's, swallowed my nerves and taken some tentative steps out onto the scarily large
space of Covent Garden's West Piazza, I'd have none of this. I
wouldn't have met the cool Welsh girl who's smart as a whip and packs
a killer right cross, who became my wife. I wouldn't have a family of
crazy beautiful people spread across the globe, who can do amazing
things with their minds, bodies and hearts. And that'd be a shame.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I alluded to this earlier – my real
name isn't Mat Ricardo. Except that isn’t quite true.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's not the name I was born with. But
that kid was shy, a timid loner who didn't have many friends and
would always rather not do something, than do it. Becoming Mat
Ricardo was my way of starting again. Being a different person. One I
was more happy being. And I've been him since my late teens, so, that
other kid, he's not me any more, and hasn't been for quite some time.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Except when the dog is here. He brings
that timid kid along and taunts me with him. Tells me that however
much I've moved on from him, he's never truly all the way gone. And I
weaken. I start believing what idiots tell me. I stop listening to
those I love and those that love me. I start being bitter. Mean. Sad.
Jealous. Jealous – goddammit – of people who go on talent shows.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Well, fuck that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I became Mat Ricardo for a reason.
Because I wanted to be more confident. To not waste my short time
here with insecurities. To not just leave the house, but to keep on
walking. To have adventures. I wanted to make friends in bars,
restaurants, street corners, dressing rooms and audiences. I wanted
these people to help me find myself. I wanted to be inspired by the
love and artistry of indie creators – people for whom <i><b>making it</b></i>
isn't anywhere near as important as <i><b>making something</b></i>. And I got all I
wanted. And I'm greedy for more.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><i>“Don't forget what happened to the
man who got everything he wanted”</i></b>, says Willy Wonka, <b><i>“What
happened?”</i></b>, asks Charlie, <i><b>“He lived happily ever after”</b></i>, says
Wonka.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Well, sometimes it's not the getting
what you want part that is the challenge, it's the living happily
ever after. But that’s ok. It is what it is. One just has to
remember, as they say in the fight game, to keep your hands up and
your face pretty. And hit first.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'll dress better than I need to, and
work harder that I used to, and take the black dog with me on my
adventures, and show it the fun I'll have.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
That'll confuse the fucker.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-XCxKXbmW40" width="420"></iframe>
</div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-47391071796248046322016-04-02T05:59:00.000-07:002016-04-02T06:24:30.680-07:00Tell Bells and Broken Wands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWsOK1YGrfgseRsvPCe7aJWp6AcKE8InK5PQglHRCePBVRZwfqlEbE-cxKlf4w6Ow7IK-eukpsfrSHtkq1_yHSDlspDQ3n0WwdVOoQ90VpA-KzVfOFBqXP_3Uqg-SeINeg_KU77ixeE4qS/s1600/pheader.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWsOK1YGrfgseRsvPCe7aJWp6AcKE8InK5PQglHRCePBVRZwfqlEbE-cxKlf4w6Ow7IK-eukpsfrSHtkq1_yHSDlspDQ3n0WwdVOoQ90VpA-KzVfOFBqXP_3Uqg-SeINeg_KU77ixeE4qS/s640/pheader.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It's been a bit of hard couple of weeks
for fans of comedy, variety and pro-wrestling like me. We lost a lot
of good ones. Paul Daniels sadly passed away (Something <a href="http://www.chortle.co.uk/features/2016/03/17/24395/everybody_who_was_anybody_wanted_to_be_on_the_paul_daniels_show" target="_blank">I wrote about for Chortle</a>), as did the great Ronnie Corbett. British wrestler <a href="http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/british-wrestler-kris-travis-dies-aged-32-from-stomach-cancer-a6962176.html" target="_blank">Kris Travis</a> also left us, and all three were celebrated greatly by those
who loved their work, and mourned by the same people who would have
liked to have seen more of it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And then, last night, as I checked my
phone after coming off stage, I was told that Michael Pearse had
joined them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEDMqa76mtJlAjeuO_N4ECbGuWc5nqo5XlVpRv_BDTcR7S2zPZmOya9kmuuqZHN3watK72VOq2CVcCezh3_MZMdgPs_IOBtcMpUV_AkYmtC7-bE5i6CR1nIe5NZrwBuFZuUvo9SyztAbVY/s1600/1001837_10151735344312835_1016415149_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEDMqa76mtJlAjeuO_N4ECbGuWc5nqo5XlVpRv_BDTcR7S2zPZmOya9kmuuqZHN3watK72VOq2CVcCezh3_MZMdgPs_IOBtcMpUV_AkYmtC7-bE5i6CR1nIe5NZrwBuFZuUvo9SyztAbVY/s320/1001837_10151735344312835_1016415149_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
When I was in my teens, before I
started performing professionally, I used to go to the Columbo Street
sports centre in South London every Sunday afternoon. For a few hours
every week, for years, there was a juggling workshop held there. The
sports hall was crammed with pros, hobbyists and the curious, all
trading tricks, stealing tricks, and eating crisps. When you're young
and lonely, as I was, and have a crazy idea for a job, as I did,
places like this are important. They show that there are others with
the same crazy idea, and a few that are actually living that dream.
They fill you with inspiration, ideas, fantasies and the knowledge of
how good you'll have to be to compete in the industry you're dreaming
of being a part of.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The people I met there became my peers,
my influences, and in a couple of cases, some of my best friends, and
none were more influential than the late Michael Pearse.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WDi6eROTF-jr4nyMqLh0aIuPAsNuFXK7f7iEPg6giTZ7kM3jRx99h4ZunFE3gaNdb957o71itI8p-irZYrRyZcH8T3pzK9wORaKJ3jnpLI-_nVXX23e5YkL5KY4CowVGWTIzFT1Gsgvs/s1600/1005409_10151735344467835_947675577_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3WDi6eROTF-jr4nyMqLh0aIuPAsNuFXK7f7iEPg6giTZ7kM3jRx99h4ZunFE3gaNdb957o71itI8p-irZYrRyZcH8T3pzK9wORaKJ3jnpLI-_nVXX23e5YkL5KY4CowVGWTIzFT1Gsgvs/s320/1005409_10151735344467835_947675577_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>I was in the corner of one of the halls
mucking around with my dirty yellow diablo when he bounded up to me,
clutching his. <b><i>“Show me yer tricks, will yer?”</i></b>, he panted, as he
untangled his strings, <b><i>“Then we'll both know more tricks!”</i></b>, and
he grinned wildly. Can't fault that logic. For months, years
afterwards, he'd always ask me to show him a new trick, and he'd
always show me some of his in return, and in a hall full of
sportswear-clad young men trying to see how many whatevers they could
keep in the air, Pearse was different. His tricks were more creative,
more interesting. He used household objects, sports equipment, props
he'd made himself. I'd look around the hall and see pretty much the same trick
being done over and over, and then I'd look at Pearse, and see a
crazy, dapper old Irishman with a glint in his eye, showing me
something I'd never seen before.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I immediately knew what kind of
performer I wanted to be. I wanted to be Pearse.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
(Oh, and you'll notice I'm calling him
by his last name. That's how I knew him first. His name was Michael
Pearse, but I knew him as Pearse Halfpenny, so that's how I'll always
think of him)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEM1epwJ6Hp7IMU34jXTpLKCL9s2Zz959BK7poehzMmYoSWGYixh6R5NiAj72L4hrRE1WqX5xGRfj5q-BgoDDNDxFRPqVag09UpxgjC1rYRkFb194y7UDkvqXASq671PMcdRZfSOOeexQI/s1600/969188_10151735344442835_1655144618_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEM1epwJ6Hp7IMU34jXTpLKCL9s2Zz959BK7poehzMmYoSWGYixh6R5NiAj72L4hrRE1WqX5xGRfj5q-BgoDDNDxFRPqVag09UpxgjC1rYRkFb194y7UDkvqXASq671PMcdRZfSOOeexQI/s320/969188_10151735344442835_1655144618_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>I had the pleasure of booking him for
one of my <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/#london-varieties" target="_blank">London Varieties</a> shows, and of course, he brought the house
down. I also took the opportunity to chat a little to him about his
life. He caught the bug when he was 12, when, back in his native
Ireland, he saw a juggler in a circus. All his skills were
self-taught, and he worked off and on throughout his life. By the
80's he was working as a building site foreman in London, and in his
lunchbreaks he'd go around the corner, to Covent Garden piazza, where
he saw lots of young jugglers doing street shows. Pretty soon he was
bringing in some of his props and showing the youngsters a thing or
two under the church portico.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Seemingly he worked more and more as he
got older, indeed, when Pearse was 65, Ken Dodd presented him with an
award for <b><i>“Best comedy newcomer”</i></b>, which is as perfect as it is
ridiculous.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He was working right to the end, and
had dates in his diary for the future, too. Which is a fact that will
make every performer reading this nod their head contentedly. That's
how you want to do it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
He was fiercely original, always
well-dressed, charming, witty, immensely skilled, and with a streak
of beautiful craziness running through him that made anyone who met
him never forget the event. I will miss him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
You can watch his act, as part of my
<a href="https://vimeo.com/101820525" target="_blank">London Varieties show, here.</a> His bit starts at about 34 minutes. </div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-23866865253051228572016-02-10T01:48:00.001-08:002016-02-10T01:53:28.765-08:00Hong Kong II: Hong Konger<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRpX3aZPV_swmyhmI9_XXol2irQkB2NlmStmZkL7SE7gBlLIDLx25f9A232k5w3Ac0kgB60hwtrO5iim0_qrplYwfl3yaIMeJJqC9YCx1jrSkLHr-ARlHxhBIVUeNhhGFHDrb-rLvIIbJ/s1600/Udderbelly_HK_skyline_900_604_60_s_c1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGRpX3aZPV_swmyhmI9_XXol2irQkB2NlmStmZkL7SE7gBlLIDLx25f9A232k5w3Ac0kgB60hwtrO5iim0_qrplYwfl3yaIMeJJqC9YCx1jrSkLHr-ARlHxhBIVUeNhhGFHDrb-rLvIIbJ/s640/Udderbelly_HK_skyline_900_604_60_s_c1.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-P4I9C6DHnL3iziN7rrft-7KjJg7FaU4v28uxG6eTLB8eiKSXS5n4P7CLEuYSUPYtMEa51SyCGC2uWJnLDlq2EBT1e4b8hASwJx2vvNfzEaz4TQoFR7tWL009UjVZSPVctZH8w2Y5ciz/s1600/DSCF8085.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK-P4I9C6DHnL3iziN7rrft-7KjJg7FaU4v28uxG6eTLB8eiKSXS5n4P7CLEuYSUPYtMEa51SyCGC2uWJnLDlq2EBT1e4b8hASwJx2vvNfzEaz4TQoFR7tWL009UjVZSPVctZH8w2Y5ciz/s640/DSCF8085.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMPnVHIZhV39iH_k68YeTi7YAsWnwLgh0yXerPCoS3dTaXd4gY0_0NNdnfBFL6IkiHcPPU9tdxanCXM4XYQ53ts_0evd-NqBpogVDw6pzXAY7Lur-9SJ1WnQ7p98gfID4exejb1lpMT7O/s1600/DSCF7053.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrMPnVHIZhV39iH_k68YeTi7YAsWnwLgh0yXerPCoS3dTaXd4gY0_0NNdnfBFL6IkiHcPPU9tdxanCXM4XYQ53ts_0evd-NqBpogVDw6pzXAY7Lur-9SJ1WnQ7p98gfID4exejb1lpMT7O/s320/DSCF7053.jpg" width="160" /></a>Would I like to come and perform at the Udderbelly, with these idiots, in bloody Hong Kong? No brainer. And yes, I did have my <a href="http://matricardo.blogspot.co.uk/2016/01/and-world-record-for-worst-gig-ever.html" target="_blank">little issues</a> with Beijing a few weeks earlier, but Hong Kong is a completely different beast, and fast becoming one of my favourite cities in the world, so sign me the hell up!<br />
<br />
Four nights with the "Edinburgh Fringe All-stars" show, and we had lovely audiences for every single show. And as for the daytimes, well, when you're somewhere like this you don't want to waste a second, so me & the gentlemen from Abandoman hit Ocean Park, the huge (and I mean HUGE) theme park and immediately reverted to twelve year old versions of ourselves. Dolphins doing tricks! Sharks! Pandas! Rollercoasters! Log Flumes! An evil thing that winches you straight up really really high, then waits for a seemingly random length of pause, and then drops you in such a way that every synapse in your lizard brain is screaming <b><i>"This only ever ends in death"</i></b> at you, and then you're fine and want to do it again. It basically left us exactly <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SZALYjvhsmw" target="_blank">like this.</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI6EEVMT45_tPKmjfjEInl0oemgaImysLNT9nk9IitxdKTIhjo3C62kqlB2aAH_zxHtDDKaXa_hVpMhCqdhn7Busjzyy4UK1GObIx92v0R6LNnlmCavlM8x-ZCGnF2iqaAQnbsIdoI2V9o/s1600/DSCF7122.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI6EEVMT45_tPKmjfjEInl0oemgaImysLNT9nk9IitxdKTIhjo3C62kqlB2aAH_zxHtDDKaXa_hVpMhCqdhn7Busjzyy4UK1GObIx92v0R6LNnlmCavlM8x-ZCGnF2iqaAQnbsIdoI2V9o/s640/DSCF7122.jpg" width="640" /></a> <br />
<br />
Also found time to go and hang out with old pal, and diablo genius, Donald Grant, who was performing in a circus in town. Really enjoying hanging out with the trad circus gang, and meeting the dancers, each one of whom was introduced by Donald as <b><i>"She's the best dancer"</i></b>. Smooth.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJrzgWFicpTzrmvBS5DlOYKnx9HTe_2W7kh3_v8AQZ4N1odigC4QqFH5d9Yv7RqYSwdGrbHARV77dHEMu8pHYkdAgM0qjvAEQcMnr5l9KcbEkZLEwNf8pHH6ETgJL8tLOGhSaJ37UyowE/s1600/DSCF7621.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJrzgWFicpTzrmvBS5DlOYKnx9HTe_2W7kh3_v8AQZ4N1odigC4QqFH5d9Yv7RqYSwdGrbHARV77dHEMu8pHYkdAgM0qjvAEQcMnr5l9KcbEkZLEwNf8pHH6ETgJL8tLOGhSaJ37UyowE/s320/DSCF7621.jpg" width="213" /></a>The circus show itself was great. I always get a bit emotional watching trad circus in a way that no modern circus has ever made me feel. There's something wonderful about the iconography, style, even some of the routines, being unchanged for so long. I saw the 2pm show. The first of four performances that day, so predictably - and this is absolutely no reflection on the quality of the show - the audience was a bit thin. But they gave it everything. Not a dead eye among the dancers. Not a lazy beat by the clown. And there's something that I, at least, find very moving and noble about performers literally, <i>actually</i> risking their life for their art, and for a handful of people at 2pm on a windy afternoon. Performing tricks and routines that have killed people in the ring, and probably will again. The size of the crowd isn't relevant. They are circus performers. They defy death, and beautifully. It's why they're here, and it's what they do. How many other art forms have that level of unquestioning commitment for their practitioners? I can only think of one similar, and that also takes place in a ring. Good for them, and yay circus.<br />
<br />
As regular readers might know, I suffer from a fun little grab-bag of mental health issues - depression and anxiety disorder leading the pack. This means that in the past, while on gigs similar to this, I've often given in to those illnesses and stayed in my hotel room like a hermit between shows. Safe there. Controlled environment. And this is by no means any kind of judgement on people who do the same - you gotta do what you gotta do to be comfortable and stable. But I've been trying to play better with
others recently, and I consciously tried to do it on this trip. Boy it
paid off. Obviously going to Ocean Park with the Abandoman boys was
brilliant. But also smaller things that I might not have done in the
past - hanging out a bit with the cast and (wonderful) Udderbelly crew,
going for lovely cocktails at the hotel rooftop bar post-show, stuff
like that, which sometimes you have to work quite hard to make seem
casual and inconsequential, when of course, it very much isn't.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
So, thanks to everyone who's face I saw in Hong Kong. I had the most delightful time, and you all helped make that happen. What a fortuitous boy I am, to get the chance to chase these little adventures and meet so many excellent people.<br />
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As per usual, I took my camera. Hope you like..<br />
<br />
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<br />
And now I have a couple of days of R&R, and then it's time to join the big Brian Conley tour. I was his support act a year and a bit ago and <a href="http://matricardo.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/the-dark-truth-of-touring-with-brian.html" target="_blank">had a ball</a>, so I can't wait to be go back on the road with him. 32 dates, all over the place. Wheee!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42nQ_vwhwiDX3ShH_L3uIO55aUCB2umOdVzaUFNE7xRf0_pes0DLFbpXFdD3bcdF2EDG8pDfaI1njDhaEJ_kOJGym_AsRjLFaLG4pw8wsaSMoXkee6m6_ZwvvP2EDkKKsuS9Nrp6nfY-h/s1600/Brian+Conley+A3+Tou%252326782B9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42nQ_vwhwiDX3ShH_L3uIO55aUCB2umOdVzaUFNE7xRf0_pes0DLFbpXFdD3bcdF2EDG8pDfaI1njDhaEJ_kOJGym_AsRjLFaLG4pw8wsaSMoXkee6m6_ZwvvP2EDkKKsuS9Nrp6nfY-h/s640/Brian+Conley+A3+Tou%252326782B9.jpg" width="454" /></a></div>
<br />Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-71158811233130621812016-02-01T02:37:00.000-08:002016-02-01T09:39:53.753-08:00Colouring book. For kids.So I was in my local museum the other day. Local museums are often interesting places, and usually not for the reasons they think they are. Anyway, I came across a childrens colouring book in the gift shop. And I bought it. because it was SUPER ODD.<br />
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Bear in mind, and I can't stress this enough, this is a <b>childrens colouring book.</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7Rjw0Jq_U4doqD5IJwVo8EInmGZoq-vimajhU-mXmbeqDbc-NJY2wdZfQF2T-0tNwe2RZdTrMFY9cMvieNEggAp4dZNQ7SjZZT6v66i9zZxmgniojk72w28wxCUbNFwO2cgdUwhqyCLA/s1600/front-cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7Rjw0Jq_U4doqD5IJwVo8EInmGZoq-vimajhU-mXmbeqDbc-NJY2wdZfQF2T-0tNwe2RZdTrMFY9cMvieNEggAp4dZNQ7SjZZT6v66i9zZxmgniojk72w28wxCUbNFwO2cgdUwhqyCLA/s640/front-cover.jpg" width="448" /></a> </div>
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Ok, so here we go. Front cover. Seems pretty ok, right. British heroes - so we've got Lennon, Twiggy, Concorde, some armed forces stuff, a bus, England winning some kind of footballing prize, and, wait, is that a policeman strongarming a striking miner? Who's the hero here? Is it me, or does that not quite seem to fit with the other pop culture icons? Ok, well, anyway, lets ignore that and get stuck in..<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWYaLQ5ioOCqMm3Etba47llm9OXQ17prbyBrqbPbnsqCVen9affmlkVGb5x14vyytCP_AZrG-1bby51Vo0wF5dX52i8eTm9U0vLXE1y1bm16Y_U05SIENFZTGCWBV0fiF21JxfK88_Kxe/s1600/spies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmWYaLQ5ioOCqMm3Etba47llm9OXQ17prbyBrqbPbnsqCVen9affmlkVGb5x14vyytCP_AZrG-1bby51Vo0wF5dX52i8eTm9U0vLXE1y1bm16Y_U05SIENFZTGCWBV0fiF21JxfK88_Kxe/s640/spies.jpg" width="640" /> </a><br />
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Aaand we're straight into "colour in your favourite spy". Hey kids, forget your One Direction, all the cool tweens are into <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cambridge_Spy_Ring" target="_blank">The Cambridge Five</a>! Are you a Philby head or a BluntManiac?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn5fSxKfJ4rPTEJx-y4SquTvTPlho0YC7wdXzDB0AVGb2HeHci-TS5PmognhUAeZLo0GuKk_0971JlmDKwIk_AAHkK16CwpQBDqFWxyz3hzd2nb3zpiOT7DwDmIcOzN4pnlJKZgj37YUqI/s1600/bloody-sunday.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn5fSxKfJ4rPTEJx-y4SquTvTPlho0YC7wdXzDB0AVGb2HeHci-TS5PmognhUAeZLo0GuKk_0971JlmDKwIk_AAHkK16CwpQBDqFWxyz3hzd2nb3zpiOT7DwDmIcOzN4pnlJKZgj37YUqI/s640/bloody-sunday.jpg" width="518" /> </a></div>
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Couple of pages on and there's a full page to colour in. A real rainy afternoon job here. And get out all your grey and green pens, because it's a depiction of the Bloody Sunday massacre. </div>
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Again, this isn't some dark take on the current craze for adult colouring books. This is, to quote the front cover, "for kids with active minds". Active, terrified, minds.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk8maQ8jx1Jc0FHxWiF81SqhX4HxHmiIeuONT7c3eCDUsZ4hodLuet6X9pqvttJdiUwf-tw6ZslYEZi-ZDrTDjPTKlcFvu9WSFCPhi_j7Dgf8kDDY_Q9VZSIp-QX9qAQkiNFEXG5WSUzkT/s1600/80s-fashion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk8maQ8jx1Jc0FHxWiF81SqhX4HxHmiIeuONT7c3eCDUsZ4hodLuet6X9pqvttJdiUwf-tw6ZslYEZi-ZDrTDjPTKlcFvu9WSFCPhi_j7Dgf8kDDY_Q9VZSIp-QX9qAQkiNFEXG5WSUzkT/s640/80s-fashion.jpg" width="310" /></a></div>
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Ok, things seem to have calmed down a little now. There's a page devoted to 80's fashion. So, Princess Diana, and a tiny Frankie Fan. Or is that a normal sized Frankie fan and a giant Diana? DIANA CRUSH. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYQZEStH4oF9q9uN3B_TdXPY59Kqu873PbSIU_gc-TcjfmMMUjDfRAaqEjUdOoRpAQyUogF3-lm9dEpMo84bNWLhmH8sBp57ax22w2qO4CvoTKiH6igtA6ugqH0v5zB6AWmYyzNe14zVd/s1600/siouxsie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWYQZEStH4oF9q9uN3B_TdXPY59Kqu873PbSIU_gc-TcjfmMMUjDfRAaqEjUdOoRpAQyUogF3-lm9dEpMo84bNWLhmH8sBp57ax22w2qO4CvoTKiH6igtA6ugqH0v5zB6AWmYyzNe14zVd/s640/siouxsie.jpg" width="640" /> </a></div>
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Colour in Siouxsie Sioux! Black pens only, please.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUeD7q1MBhyucl0MO5qRCDvnH8RcMBFGWn0-zj4jG-Gj8vUat1euTzGAfOp9njdF0DEgbh6nXvI-dws3mkM9qxNa98TyVSRlFBANnV6lKLt7mda_WvxRA7KZ9Aw6lyAu85qCcuf9x8Mmh/s1600/clive.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUeD7q1MBhyucl0MO5qRCDvnH8RcMBFGWn0-zj4jG-Gj8vUat1euTzGAfOp9njdF0DEgbh6nXvI-dws3mkM9qxNa98TyVSRlFBANnV6lKLt7mda_WvxRA7KZ9Aw6lyAu85qCcuf9x8Mmh/s640/clive.jpg" width="480" /> </a></div>
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Where are the titans of British industry and innovation? SORTED. </div>
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And finally here's your big British TV colouring in quiz page. How many grotesque gargoyle versions of celebrities can you recognise?<br />
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<br />Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-55259355483876083752016-01-18T03:58:00.000-08:002016-01-24T06:09:13.061-08:00And the world record for worst gig ever goes to...<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepxgqWSrUFsTqSaZL8tlTluHmzH5bxvHDsGopPos3bdyFjpCjMQ8zBxCzo4oa7wto9r2sTowXYG-tICgYZzoA4tJBg3eClzuoZ0XHh5jm7CWjHod36cG7D9T-CLjwIpsITrNyHzBurNnC/s1600/DSCF6866.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepxgqWSrUFsTqSaZL8tlTluHmzH5bxvHDsGopPos3bdyFjpCjMQ8zBxCzo4oa7wto9r2sTowXYG-tICgYZzoA4tJBg3eClzuoZ0XHh5jm7CWjHod36cG7D9T-CLjwIpsITrNyHzBurNnC/s640/DSCF6866.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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They started it.</div>
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No, really, they did.</div>
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A major Chinese TV broadcaster, got in
touch through <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/" target="_blank">my website</a> and asked me if I'd like to come to Beijing
and appear on their “Guinness world of records” TV show, and
break a tablecloth-pulling-related record. That might be fun, I
thought, so I said yes, I'd like to pull the biggest tablecloth ever
successfully pulled. Fun, right? Right.</div>
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Over the next few weeks, emails flew to
and fro from them to my agent to me then back to my agent and back to
them. They repeatedly came up with other, way more complicated, ideas
for a record. Could I pull a tablecloth from one table onto another,
and then onto another, and another, each time the tables getting
bigger? Well, unless you have a magically growing tablecloth,
probably not. But also, I didn't want to be one of those people who
has a record for something that was clearly just invented for someone
to get a record in, y'know? Each time, I made it clear that the only
thing I was really interested in doing was the biggest tablecloth
ever. I figured it was a nice simple to understand record, a great
trick, and a lovely TV visual. But they didn't let it lie. It was
starting to get frustrating.</div>
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Finally, after dozens of emails, we
settled on two records. I'd pull the biggest tablecloth, and also
they'd have a line of a dozen or so smaller tables, and we'd see how
many tablecloths I could pull and put back in a minute. The second
challenge seemed a little bit cobbled together, but I guess they like
time-based stuff, so I agreed. We liaised more about the construction
of props and sizes of tables. I gave them web links to the exact
items I wanted on the tables so they could buy them. All seemed
complicated, but doable. I was going to go to Beijing to pull the
biggest tablecloth ever, and I was going to come home with a genuine,
bona-fide Guinness world record. Cool.</div>
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<i><b>Here's how none of that happened.</b></i></div>
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<u><b>Day One</b></u></div>
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So you know how when you're on a
flight, after takeoff, once you get to cruising altitude, you can
turn your phone back on in flight mode, so you can watch your
carefully curated saved-for-the-big-trip folder of entertainment?
Yeah, well not on Air China, because – and I'm directly quoting
here - <i><b>“CHINA LAW”</b></i>. So, no wrasslin', no old
Letterman shows stolen from YouTube, they wouldn't even let me listen
to podcasts. <i><b>BECAUSE LAW.</b></i></div>
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Sadly, I'd just necked a double
espresso, so sleep wasn't an option for a while, and that, combined
with their deeply worrying version of a vegetarian meal (Rice,
something red and mushy in the corner, and a single cold carrot)
meant that the first hour or so of my flight was spent in an entirely
justified teenage sulk. I investigated the Vic-20 era seatback
entertainment system interface (press button. Wait 4 seconds. Cursor
moves. Not joking, I counted), and slowly scrolled through the
available movies. Nothing of interest. Until the last page. There,
tucked away where hardly anyone would have the patience to find it
was a seam of pure gold. The Jackie Chan channel. Boom. So begun
CHANFEST AT 5 MILES HIGH 2016. Police Story. Police Story 2. My Lucky
Stars, and then, finally, sleep.</div>
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And then I'm in China.</div>
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I'm met at the airport by Peter, my
handler, taken to the hotel, and immediately shunted into a private
dining room for dinner. I meet some of the other performers – a
couple of Ukrainian acrobats, a push-up expert from Norway and his
trainer. It's odd. A bunch of people who can all do one thing better
than anyone else, all jet-lagged and lightly confused, slumped around
a big circular revolving table with bowls of food on it. They know
I'm a vegetarian, so have prepared a large bowl of cabbage floating
in warm water. I tell everyone it was nice to meet them and slink
away to my room.</div>
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<u><b>Day Two</b></u></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEWcuQ4W_1Iyz0ZGt74gbAwnEfxgIoVVtpD8x2jFP0XkuxLP_fmfXwjH2iTxM8H220X1iXsb673iV-xq7b2LTdLp64m10NAYm2chiIyimdFP9iRxFMsoTF9VQQNKgminqCapUMbKD4Od0/s1600/DSCF6856.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEWcuQ4W_1Iyz0ZGt74gbAwnEfxgIoVVtpD8x2jFP0XkuxLP_fmfXwjH2iTxM8H220X1iXsb673iV-xq7b2LTdLp64m10NAYm2chiIyimdFP9iRxFMsoTF9VQQNKgminqCapUMbKD4Od0/s320/DSCF6856.jpg" width="320" /></a>I'm told that although I gave them the
information about which crockery, trays etc to get weeks ago, they
haven't got it. There's some vague and mysterious talk about it being
held at customs. Hmm. So me and Peter have to go out to buy the
stuff. This is a bit of a concern. As you might imagine, any
manipulative trick like this, when performed at this kind of high
level, needs exactly the right props. I'm going to have to try to
find the closest things to what I usually use, in a foreign country,
on a tight deadline. This worries me, but I swallow it down and focus
on the task at hand. First stop is an IKEA, and as I predict, no
dice. Then we drive to a shopping centre full of little shops all of
which sell stuff for the restaurant and hotel industry. That's more
like it. We find some stuff close enough to my usual props that
there's a chance the trick will work, and sit in the shop waiting for
a couple of hours while it gets fetched from the warehouse. During
this wait, I chat to the family who run the shop, who are lovely and
funny and give me a souvenir to take home as a gift, and some nuts. I
also watch their TV, and you know who's got a frankly terrifying show
on Chinese Television? Bear Grylls. And the stuff he does on Chinese
TV is a little, shall we say, more hardcore, then what he does on
your TV. I only watched it for about ten minutes, but I witnessed him
tear the wings of live birds and tell one contestant that <i><b>“I
can't make the jungle safe, you will get hurt, but I won't let you
die”</b></i>. Not the most reassuring pep-talk, if I'm honest.</div>
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Then the props arrive and we pile back
in the car to head down to the studio.</div>
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Slumped in the back of the
seven-seater, head resting on the tinted windows as I try to
constantly elude the grasp of jet lag. Watching the blank, beige,
broken down and – lets face it – old school communist cityscape
of Beijing cruise past. It doesn't have the exciting glowy,
smorgasbord of stuff smushed together that cites like Hong Kong or
New York or Tokyo have. Rather, it looks like they stopped building
and maintaining stuff in 1980, and since then the cracks have just
been papered over, the pipes gaffer taped back to the wall. No wonder
the government heavily censor the internet and television – can you
imagine growing up here and then finding out that not all cities are
this shabby?<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
However jaded and cynical you try to
be, its always fun walking into a big TV studio. Nondescript and
industrial on the outside, but once you're through the heavy doors,
its all lights and cameras and shiny fun TV stuff. And this, since
its for a show with lots of stunts on it, is a big hangar of a
studio, with grids of dramatic lights designed to flash and strobe
and sweep and shine and remind everyone of the importance and
excitement of what they're watching. I meet someone who I guess is a
producer, or at least a high ranking member of the production staff,
and she shows me the tables they've had made for my tricks. And I get
confused. There's no big tablecloth. No line of lots of smaller
tables. Just two, medium sized tables. I question this. She tells me,
no, I'm not doing the biggest tablecloth pull. What they'd like,
instead, is for me to attempt to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o94Pm-Cty3M" target="_blank">pull one cloth between two tables</a>,
repeatedly, as many times as possible in 30 seconds. I tell her that
I came here to do the trick we agreed on. She says they never agreed
anything of the sort. <i><b>“Well”</b></i>, I think to myself,
<i><b>“This went bad quick, huh.”</b></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We go up to her office and talk about
it. I tell her that I'll do her challenge if I can also do the
biggest tablecloth. That's the reason I flew five thousand miles, and
that's what we agreed I was coming here to do. There's some raised
voices. I calmly tell her that I won't do their challenge, unless I'm
also doing my challenge. She calms, and agrees. We talk about how big
the table should be, how big the cloth should be, how many things
would be on the table, etc. We apologise for shouting. Things seem to
have been yanked back from the edge.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I'm sent back down to the studio to
meet the Guinness officials, to work out the rules for their two
table challenge. We run it a couple of times, and figure out that
what with the time it takes to walk around the table after each pull,
I can just about make three repetitions in 30 seconds. After
conferring, the Guinness guys tell me that I'll be expected to do
four on the show. I explain that this is impossible. It's not a test
of my skill, it's just how long it takes someone to walk around a
table after each try. They tell me, yes, but four is a good number.
Okay then. I figure I'm failing this challenge, but thats ok, I don't
care about that one, I'm just here to pull the biggest cloth. If I
get that, I'm fine.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Back to the hotel. McDonalds in bed.
Jet lag adding unliftable weight to my eyelids. I fall asleep
wondering what the chances are that this will all work out fine. Not
good, I figure. Not good at all.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<u><b>Day Three</b></u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Back to the studio. I'm supposed to be
meeting the Guinness guys again to discuss the ins and outs of the
big tablecloth pull so that, if I succeed, it's officially a record.
I get put in a dressing room all day, and nothing happens until I get
told to go back to the hotel. Hmm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Well, I say nothing happens, but that's
not quite true. I start to chat more to the other performers, and
hang around on set observing things. I start to get a bad feeling in
my gut, and it's not the bowl of soggy cabbage. Ok, perhaps its
partly that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I hang out with a gymnast who has come
here to break the record for the highest side-somersault from the
floor. Instead, they have him running up a sloping wall and doing a
back somersault over a bar. Completely different skill. He's just
going to give it a go, because what's the worst that could happen?
Yikes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I talk to an American circus performer
who has come here to break the record for walking on the necks of
free-standing bottles. She uses wine bottles back home, but she's
arrived to find that they've given her beer bottles. Way harder, when
that's not what you've been training with. Worse than that, there's a
Chinese acrobat who's been brought in to compete with her for the
record, and she's been training with the beer bottles for weeks.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There's an Italian acrobat who arrived
to find that he, too, has had a Chinese performer sprung on him that
he has to compete with, and worse still, the prop that they made for
his stunt wasn't made correctly, and in rehearsals he badly cut his
hand on it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then I remember in some of my emails
with them, they very vaguely talked about the idea of a competitor. I
flagged it up, and asked if there would be someone else doing my
trick that I would be expected to compete with. Ohhh noooo, they
said, noooo.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
It started to really feel like this
whole thing was a bit of a bait and switch. Performers being set up
to fail, and worse, set up to be beaten in rigged challenges by
Chinese performers. No. Come on now, Ricardo, Surely I was being
paranoid. Sleep on it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<u><b>Day Four</b></u></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRpwY-qxwSp1funHy60NProuZ3O2unwt9P4eIsdYsq16t3wUKq06VsOLQNiByWvjrFjM59Xps7B3id9zMMmVSyHsxpVRJ_FsZ8BcXdr4w1Je70ztthGpDJP7ls0fBjO61lIGFwUyGvfNh/s1600/DSCF6913.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRpwY-qxwSp1funHy60NProuZ3O2unwt9P4eIsdYsq16t3wUKq06VsOLQNiByWvjrFjM59Xps7B3id9zMMmVSyHsxpVRJ_FsZ8BcXdr4w1Je70ztthGpDJP7ls0fBjO61lIGFwUyGvfNh/s320/DSCF6913.jpg" width="320" /></a>I'm woken up by a phone call from the
TV company. I'm filming my bit tonight. We haven't even talked to
Guinness about the details of my record, but yep, apparently I'm
filming tonight. Alright. I grab my suit, and off we go back to the
studio. I share a ride with the bottle-walker, and another performer,
who mentions in passing that yeah, he's done this show a bunch of
times and they usually spring a surprise competitor on you, and
change the record your attempting. Most people just go along with it
because, y'know, TV.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
We get to the studio at about noon, and
we're rushed into make-up. Odd, since the show doesn't tape until
seven. They give me a basic foundation to cover up the fact that I'm
46 ¾ and have lived a life, and then they go to work on my eyebrows.
And boy do they. I walk out of the makeup room looking like a
particularly startled Groucho Marx, and go right into the bathroom
next door to wash off the borderline clown make-up. Odd.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Next is a camera rehearsal. We rehearse
my entrance, walking down the stairs, waving to the imaginary
audience, chatting with the host, and doing the trick. Doing their
trick. No mention of the big tablecloth. No mention of the reason why
I travelled five thousand miles. I bring it up. Everyone looks
shifty, and confused, and shifty. I get told that we'll deal with
that soon, that I'll talk to the producer again and we'll sort it all
out, and then I'm told to go back upstairs and wait.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I've done enough TV to know that if
something isn't covered in the camera rehearsal, it's not going to
happen in the show, so once I'm back in my dressing room, I ask to
speak to the producer. Sure, I'm told, she'll be right here.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I ask to speak to her every half hour.
It becomes a bit of a running gag between me and the other
performers. I use my grown-up “This is important” voice. Nothing.
I say that there is a very real chance I won't be doing the show.
Nothing. I spend my day sitting in a feezing cold dressing room,
being ignored and not taken seriously.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Finally, at 6.45, literally fifteen
minutes before the show is supposed to start filming, with a studio
audience already filling the huge hangar downstairs, I get granted a
meeting. I ask what about the big tablecloth trick. They immediately
start shouting. What big tablecloth trick? There was never a big
tablecloth trick agreed. You knew you weren't doing a big tablecloth
trick. Why would you lie about this? The producer fixed me with a
hard stare and told me that if I backed out of the show, they would
cancel my return ticket, kick me out of the hotel, and <i><b>“Your
visa, perhaps not so good now”</b></i>.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Whoa.</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
More shouting. In my face. Through
translators. Midway through the yelling, I call my agent back in
England. My wonderful, beautiful, alluring and fragrant agent., who,
let's remember, didn't get me into this, but damn well got me out. I
passed the phone to the producer who yelled down it for a couple of
minutes and then passed it back. <i><b>“Right. We'll take care of
you and get you back home tonight. Get yourself out of there”</b></i>,
said the best agent in the world.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
While I was still being yelled at by a
room full of producers and translators, I calmly got up, and walked
out, smiling sweetly. I think they thought I'd caved, that I was
going to get ready for the show. They were wrong. I think they
assumed that I'd feel pressured to just do the show on their terms,
since by that point, the thing had already started filming. They
misunderstood my ability to be a dick, when correctly inspired.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I went back to the dressing room, told
the other performers, who I think were quite enjoying watching my
story play out, what was going on. Packed my stuff, hugged them
goodbye, and walked across the studio, and for the first and only
time in my career, I walked out on a gig.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Out into an industrial estate on the
outskirts of Beijing, on a freezing cold evening. The middle of
nowhere. Shit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-w0W2a_rTSGttMdLCh8j9KiqHrGuPxkjcrYMGJ4wi8do8ffPMkSELuk4z9Bh8StTVh49iYSWBxKdnrcJBmIjizyhpIM81lqYkUub5BhmHLavVV6QUzJm0dnf2IxLQYQ42wtqus5rkngN3/s1600/DSCF6844.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>The last few days had been a chaotic
shambles, but now things were in sharp focus, and my task was simple.
Get to the airport and get myself on the flight my agent was getting
for me before they revoked my visa. I figured they wouldn't think I
would be going right now, and besides, they were filming the show for
the next few hours, and they'd be concentrating on that, so if I was
quick, I'd be fine.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
There was a little budget hotel across
the street, so I went in and tried to get a taxi. No deal. Taxis
don't come this far out of town, they said. Again, shit.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I crossed the street and went back into
the studio, and found the youngest, coolest looking low-level TV
employee, another talent handler. He wouldn't be doing anything until
the show was wrapped, so I chatted to him, and bribed him 50 yuan to
drive me back to my hotel. He went for it. Awesome.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Back to the hotel, pack my stuff, get a
taxi to the airport, and by the time I get there, I'm booked on the
1.30am flight out of town. Nervous as I went through immigration, but
my visa held, and by the time they had finished shooting the show I
was supposed to be on, I was already in the air.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b>Escape made.</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And the thing is, it's such a shame.
The Guinness book of Records has been a childhood staple for everyone
of my generation. A genuinely unique and treasured cultural object. I
often got bought it for Christmas, and I think it was one of the
first reference books I ever owned. A window into a world of weird,
crazy, special, amazing people and things. I would have loved to have
joined that club. I mean, if you're going to devote your life, as I
have done, to learning some ultimately meaningless, ridiculous feats,
then you might as well have the only authority that matters tell you
that you're the best at it, right?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
None of this was the fault of Guinness.
It was the TV company that ruined it with their dishonest and
disorganised approach, not just to me, but from what I saw, to many
Western performers. It was absolutely shocking to be faced with a
major broadcaster who were so ready to bring someone halfway across
the world on false pretences, lie about what we'd agreed in dozens of
emails, and then try to bully me into just going along with the whole
sorry mess. What a pity.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Would I still like a chance to get that
record? Hell yes.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Do I want to go back to work on TV in
mainland China? Thank you, no.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Was it fun commandeering a car to speed
across Beijing so I could get to the airport before the asshats
revoked my visa? Yes. I did feel a bit like Jason Bourne. BUT SO
WOULD YOU.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-83392759139788955962015-12-01T03:36:00.001-08:002015-12-01T03:38:41.026-08:00HK OK!<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiugurWevb95E82_yKJM2wjQE6bVVMwPP3-3ryjIKtHJ2JRuLjBn8aKtDRnHkpDrnH1M1TeCt1iTFknLtBfcptxwyd8edAQ8_uXBIhp-UckQ60XHwP9TzGyPBzB-FmZfB2XAwQx8uNSvwAb/s1600/DSCF6492.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiugurWevb95E82_yKJM2wjQE6bVVMwPP3-3ryjIKtHJ2JRuLjBn8aKtDRnHkpDrnH1M1TeCt1iTFknLtBfcptxwyd8edAQ8_uXBIhp-UckQ60XHwP9TzGyPBzB-FmZfB2XAwQx8uNSvwAb/s640/DSCF6492.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
As I type this, I'm sitting in my
dressing room awaiting my final show in Hong Kong. I say dressing
room, it's a top floor balcony room at the famous Jumbo King
restaurant (google image search it now!). There's a warm breeze
coming off the water as I look up from my laptop at the boats
pop-popping by in the harbour. I feel like Chow Yun Fat, having a
peaceful and reflective cup of tea before capping a bunch of
gangsters in elegantly choreographed slo-mo. I'm not though, I'm a
trick-throwing gagman who, by dumb luck and good fortune, has just
had a rather excellent week.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I arrived 8 days ago, to do two
headline cabaret spots at two gigs, with a week in between them in
which to explore the city that birthed so much culture I love, but
which I had never visited. I'm met from the airport and unloaded into
my home for a week, a hotel with a view from the window that seems to
unreal to be actual.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
First things first, though, and I got
taken to the Hong Kong convention centre to meet everyone, soundcheck
and rehearse for my show. It's all smooth, and the event producer has
a badass haircut, so we're all good. It's a James Bond themed night,
so there are video screens showing montages of classic moments, a
huge gold 007 backdrop, bars pushing vodka martinis.. its all very
expensive and fun. My opening acts for tonight are a chanteuse
singing Bond themes and a bona fide Hong Kong stunt team
somersaulting off the stage and doing a fun little action sequence.
Then its me, and fighting jet lag like Roger Moore fighting Jaws (and
by that I mean unconvincingly) I do my thing. Seems to go great, they
clap and laugh in all the right places. Like Lorne Michaels famously
says, “It's easier when they laugh”.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
And then I'm back at my hotel, and that
view has turned into a real world screen saver of Blade Runner
twinkly lights and video billboards. Totally future-beautiful. I have
a little nightcap, toast to my reflection in the window, and plan my
week. I've got some things that I want to do here.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUrWxM6kXgjfHdjDWsit9LgdycLq44radlwzibZzT3aDRdbxkWOyu97XGz3U4nHXv5nPuQNZzYeSLaHm3Ug_hqKIo57jam7g_azLCOrl5Q0cTbvDQ8TxhGk09_5HxrWOL_hicqH87lD9hY/s1600/DSCF5083_fhdr.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUrWxM6kXgjfHdjDWsit9LgdycLq44radlwzibZzT3aDRdbxkWOyu97XGz3U4nHXv5nPuQNZzYeSLaHm3Ug_hqKIo57jam7g_azLCOrl5Q0cTbvDQ8TxhGk09_5HxrWOL_hicqH87lD9hY/s640/DSCF5083_fhdr.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMBbY7KmxQw-XjCmRspDdsar7_KEB7tMqmDVJUVAkpxSufyiw1VIm_0esOL2woSLxrm4Ni5fye7jqOYaDPe8dcT07lE39r4cOcHzTQeuO6W8to7q9Y6mq3xnGSR2S3-jX9NiuXv9YWUMk/s1600/DSCF6248.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMBbY7KmxQw-XjCmRspDdsar7_KEB7tMqmDVJUVAkpxSufyiw1VIm_0esOL2woSLxrm4Ni5fye7jqOYaDPe8dcT07lE39r4cOcHzTQeuO6W8to7q9Y6mq3xnGSR2S3-jX9NiuXv9YWUMk/s200/DSCF6248.jpg" width="200" /></a> It's a busy town, but somehow doesn't
feel aggressive. Not sure how they did that – every other place
I've been to where bustling people are packed tightly into each
others personal spaces, there's at least a slight feeling of “grrr”,
but I just didn't get that here. Then there's the smells. Oh my god,
the smells – like a patchwork quilt of
invisible-until-you-walk-into-them signifiers. So many, and so
different. Gorgeous wafts of food cooking, spices, something hot and
sweet, something meaty and crackling, and then a hellish rotting
stench that might knock you over with its sudden pungentness, were it
not short-lived and closely followed by smells anew. I thought it
might be like this, and I thought I'd hate it, but I didn't. I grew
quickly to love the smells. They're somehow evidence of a living
city, of stuff going on. I think I'd rather have them all, than a
homogenised none of them.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7i_Nu3fW18moPf825IEh4xCAe3wZXEWBRntou4iQ-PSmYIPPMqNI_5AYKhpGNWDsEoE7e3fgFiQlQbuTNWIGMeFN_P408xM-ddTAVy4PpytF_r4xMJyIv8nevPRvUOyo7iBTWEj01tMTr/s1600/DSCF5226.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7i_Nu3fW18moPf825IEh4xCAe3wZXEWBRntou4iQ-PSmYIPPMqNI_5AYKhpGNWDsEoE7e3fgFiQlQbuTNWIGMeFN_P408xM-ddTAVy4PpytF_r4xMJyIv8nevPRvUOyo7iBTWEj01tMTr/s320/DSCF5226.jpg" width="133" /></a>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The main impression my first few
expeditions into getting lost in the city left me with was a simple
one, though. I've rarely seen a city with such a perfect balance of
the old and the new. Gleaming luxury cars share the roads with
clanging hundred-year old trams. Beautiful, placid temples with sweet
incense-thick air sit in “rest gardens”, just a few paces from
the busiest high-end shopping streets. Shiny glass skyscrapers
half-built, held up by bamboo scaffolding lashed together with rope.
And you won't find a living analogy to this city better than that.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I do some touristy stuff. I ride the
steepest funicular railway in the world up to “The Peak” - the
best view of the city, and its quite the bobby dazzler. The rest
though is the usual shopping centre banality. I mean really, who goes
to the most famous view in one of the most exciting cities in the
world, and buys a Bubba Gump hat? I walked back into town and had a
big bowl of gorgeous chewy noodles and some fried pumpkin. I don't
regret not buying the hat, but goddamn I'm glad I didn't miss the
noodles.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCHX7sbjkok2py2uytnOMJ9sElHVrOlZ8vAQGzJbKrKM4A9cY9sfsFC-vWvNagdAG5yGReJMaj3lQwgTc8PLuMr4rqp1YAd_j0MzYFLem-hsJU_x1ChWLIUu7oSKjmqMoPPK6-kOBtps11/s1600/hong+kong+from+peak.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCHX7sbjkok2py2uytnOMJ9sElHVrOlZ8vAQGzJbKrKM4A9cY9sfsFC-vWvNagdAG5yGReJMaj3lQwgTc8PLuMr4rqp1YAd_j0MzYFLem-hsJU_x1ChWLIUu7oSKjmqMoPPK6-kOBtps11/s640/hong+kong+from+peak.jpg" width="640" /></a>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJpDvavKIcbaeJGYppFbSzJ_309cBIdsuWPwDZay3_ssZh60_v6KfiUmI0qhDrtQz2gqkVFBKFf2RTXe3UBA7A1kQjWumkujKmLBda8EPVrySQlfz8JAryaKm3Q3XJLZCtzwb-Gy00St3/s1600/DSCF5391.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJpDvavKIcbaeJGYppFbSzJ_309cBIdsuWPwDZay3_ssZh60_v6KfiUmI0qhDrtQz2gqkVFBKFf2RTXe3UBA7A1kQjWumkujKmLBda8EPVrySQlfz8JAryaKm3Q3XJLZCtzwb-Gy00St3/s320/DSCF5391.jpg" width="320" /></a>Went to a bunch of markets. I do love a
good market. When I was a kid, a couple of times a week me and my mum
would walk the 15 minutes up the road to Edmonton Green market and
meet my grandma for lunch in the co-op cafe. I have very happy
childhood memories of Edmonton market – the smells of fresh
produce, the butcher, the flower stall, even the mothbally smell of
cheap clothes. The sounds of stallholders yelling how many, exactly,
one could expect for “A PAAAAAAAHND”. Markets are a comfort zone
and a happy place, and Hong Kong has some doozys. Meat, pastries,
fish, clothes and toys in the maze of streets off Hennesey Road in
Wan Chai. The ladies market in Kowloon for knock-off everything, and
scared, overwhelmed tourists being effortlessly fleeced. The Temple
Street night market for souvenirs, electronics, toys, tshirts,
gadgets, and all sorts of crazy oddments. Went to them all. Loved
them all. And don't be a rube – HAGGLE.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
If you know anything about me (and if
you don't, how did you end up here reading this?), you'll know that
I'm a floozy for a nice bit of tailoring. I'm a schmutter-slut. So of
course right at the top of my HK-to-do list was getting some suits
and shirts made. A quick trip on the Star Ferry (Which, by the way,
immediately became one of my favourite things in the world. As I sit
here typing this, knowing that I'm going home tomorrow, I already
know I'll miss it. Just yesterday, as I rode it for the 8<sup>th</sup>,
and last time, I realised that, without any thought or planning, I
had a favourite place to sit. Good sign), and I'm at Sams tailors in
Kowloon being measured and consulted. I'm a suit nerd, so I'm very
clear on what I want, and choose fabric, cut, style, detailing,
lining etc. Despite everything that everyone knows about Hong Kong
tailors, I still find it insane that they'll have two bespoke suits
and two shirts, all made from scratch for me, ready in two days flat.
But two days later, as I'm scanning the walls of previous satisfied
clients (Michael Jackson, Bill Clinton, Prince Charles, DAMMIT Donald
Trump), here they are – perfect fit, exactly as asked for, and
beautifully made. That's how you get a customer for life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
The other thing I wanted to do while I
was here was touch base somehow (I wasn't really sure exactly how)
with kungfu. I've been a student of various forms of martial arts for
most of my adult life, and used to be a devoted practitioner of a few
various forms of wushu and kungfu, before moving into a little Jeet
Kune Do, and various other arts. I figured it would be a waste not to
at least try to find a little tuition of some kind while I was here.
I put out some feelers, did some research, and managed to secure a
little quality time with a couple of teachers. My take away, apart
from a few sharper techniques, and things to work on, was how kungfu
is truly considered an art here. The term “Martial arts” is used
globally, but perhaps rarely actually thought about. These are
systems of combat, of course, but that's often not completely why
they were created and developed. The people I spent time with
considered, no – assumed – that kungfu is of the same family as
painting or sculpture, a folk art, to be treated with national pride,
preserved and understood, with a legacy and history of great
practitioners who – like all great artists – invested some of
themselves into it, in order to personalise and develop it. As one of
the gentlemen I met with, through English that was not perhaps as
broken as he pretended, told me: “It's art, like painting a
portrait. Not just fighting, like painting a house. But a portrait
painter can paint a house, and it would look pretty good, huh?”.
Then he lit another cigarette. Awesome. Wisdom from a kungfu teacher
in Hong Kong? Ticked off the life list.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrSa7asQo-4Pc9JXkl2HfP4FVLH19QCTxh4Oetd0yVib66wr7_-oCYZps6DCQW5HATbvg4HrC86EDZQFByoW3qyosD437_CzoUJVQCmRvKtHBlhikpjtDwCJesJ_6Ya0cbCnea2-THsgQ/s1600/DSCF5931.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrSa7asQo-4Pc9JXkl2HfP4FVLH19QCTxh4Oetd0yVib66wr7_-oCYZps6DCQW5HATbvg4HrC86EDZQFByoW3qyosD437_CzoUJVQCmRvKtHBlhikpjtDwCJesJ_6Ya0cbCnea2-THsgQ/s200/DSCF5931.jpg" width="200" /></a> Other fragmented memories of the past
few days.. Let me think.. Oh yeah, whoever invented the little pastry
and hot bean curd dim sum thing? Give them the bloody nobel food
prize. That's a thing, right? Holy cats, that was the good stuff.
Along with a double espresso and egg tart, which is the correct way
to start your day. Had that so often that even though I was only in
town for a week, the coffee bar next to the hotel now know my usual.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDgFUKFAXz0JciO_sQo8bkzYViurM5YKCMW3XqWgNbG9HyVYZNZ9VKBDmZG-K4zZEKwI-msMSF_b2_8S5H9rIblSfLjgHzjYobfmknuW3mhnHjZ3JJUbW-Dzjo0q1h90rq9EqYKu3XHB5/s1600/DSCF5617.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDgFUKFAXz0JciO_sQo8bkzYViurM5YKCMW3XqWgNbG9HyVYZNZ9VKBDmZG-K4zZEKwI-msMSF_b2_8S5H9rIblSfLjgHzjYobfmknuW3mhnHjZ3JJUbW-Dzjo0q1h90rq9EqYKu3XHB5/s320/DSCF5617.jpg" width="213" /></a>And now we've flashed forward. The last
24 hours were a blur of crispy noodles, being on stage, packing,
checking in at the airport, and grabbing the occasional nap, all of
which brings me to the now – sitting typing this, bleary-eyed on
the last third of the six thousand mile flight home. I'm no longer in
that crazy city, my little adventures of discovery have moved into a
different part of my brain and become memories, locked and saved. All
done, achievement unlocked, game over. Months ago, when I found out
that my absurd job would be taking me to Hong Kong, I was excited,
sure – I'm always excited to be able to spend some time in a new
town – but I really didn't foresee falling in love with the place
to the extent that I did. It's noisy, smelly and busy. Go to any main
street and if you tilt your head backwards you'll struggle to see the
sky through the cacophony of signs hanging out from walls or from
wires overhead. Alleys are lined with trays of flapping gawping wet
fish, piles of crabs and fruit and vegetables of the most unlikely,
star-trek-ish design. The same market stall will sell religious
iconography right next to iphone chargers that light up and play a
tune as they give your phone juice. I'll never forget the
similarities between the rows of various beautifully carved Buddhas
in the temples and the toyshop windows crammed with equally expertly
made figurines of more modern icons – Iron Man, Kamen Rider,
Princess Leia. And talking about temples - the way the open slats in
the roof of Tin Hau temple let the incense smoke create layers upon
layers of diagonal beams of sunlight, which light up statues like
spotlights on a stage will stay with me, I think, for ever.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPjaUjRRSrocihLlJYE8zROI5-FW4aW_dxVEq6T-uUBguFQiLT0dukCe7EO8KK37CsQyjjMSStJFPEVigvHOVbmfLeJsb89M_VGhfCTmMPIbnKyHKRrVQ_HbNSYiO3GtRhIeJPbgzWkJF/s1600/DSCF5516_fhdr.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPjaUjRRSrocihLlJYE8zROI5-FW4aW_dxVEq6T-uUBguFQiLT0dukCe7EO8KK37CsQyjjMSStJFPEVigvHOVbmfLeJsb89M_VGhfCTmMPIbnKyHKRrVQ_HbNSYiO3GtRhIeJPbgzWkJF/s640/DSCF5516_fhdr.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
I always get a little self-concious
writing these pieces. I sometimes worry that they might come across
as smug, as “Hey look at my exciting showbiz life”, but that's
really not the intention. The point here is that when I was a geeky,
nerdy young teenager, with very little, prospect-wise, I found a
thing – juggling – that for whatever reason, seemed to mean
something to me. Back then, the idea that it might be able to pay the
rent, even just for a little while, seemed fantastic. Nearly thirty years later, and I am
continually slack-jawed that its given me the opportunity to have
adventures like this. To meet so many astonishing people, to have
seen to many incredible sights, to have been to places that I
genuinely would have never believed I would get the chance to go to.
So maybe that's what this blog is – letters back to the teenage me,
telling him to not be so shy and unsure, to have a little faith that
the thing that he found, despite what others may have thought,
despite obvious conventional wisdom, was...the right thing. So,
here's to having a thing.</div>
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Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-83944367672089458622015-09-26T23:16:00.001-07:002015-09-28T11:33:01.955-07:00Bayley and Sasha<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
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This is an essay about professional
wrestling, so if that ain't your bag, or you're not curious, or if you're rolling your eyes, then there's no need for you to stick around. In the words
of Malcolm Tucker, <b><i>“Off you fuck”</i></b>. The rest of you, who love,
understand, or at least don't pre-judge one of Americas great
contemporary theatrical forms, this is for you.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wrestling is about moments.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Its theatre and its reality and sometimes,
when the stars align, something happens that is both theatre and real life simultaneously. This happens in no other artform, except occasionally
perhaps circus, and its something very special indeed. There are
moments every wrestling fan will tell you about. Foley soaring off
the top of the cell. Jericho first arriving on Monday night and being
unleashed on The Rock. Mick telling Hunter that he can't beat him,
<i><b>“But he knows a man who can”</b></i>, before transforming before our very
eyes into the feared Cactus Jack. Shawn saying <i><b>“I'm sorry. I love
you”</b></i> before superkicking Ric into retirement. The Undertaker's
bell. If you're a fan, you're smiling right now. Moments, you know
what I mean?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Sometimes wrestling is also good at
stories, but sometimes, just like any soap opera (which, of </div>
course,
is to some extent what it is), sometimes the plotlines inspire more eyerolls than jaw-drops. And often it was the female wrestlers that got the crappiest deal.<br>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Wrestling doesn't have the most
sparkling track record when it comes to depictions of women. WWE,
throughout its most popular and financially successful period, even
with talented and beloved performers like Trish Stratus and Lita
failed dismally much of the time. Plots centered around bitchiness,
fighting over the affections of men, and – even in the lycra-heavy
world of wrestling – wearing as little as is humanly possible.
There were matches held in giant bowls of pudding, matches where the
winner was the first person to yank off the dress of her opponent,
and occasionally, inexplicably, just plain old swimsuit beauty
contests held in the ring. On a wrestling show. It felt like the
scripts were being written by the kind of guy who'd step in front of
a woman on the street and block her path to say hi, and then when she
ignored him, would berate her for being a stuck-up cow. Women were
all either sluts, bitches or frigid. It was insulting to the
performers and to the audience, and it made being a wrestling fan
really difficult for a lot of people. Fast forward a decade though,
and it looks like we might be entering a little golden age, which
brings us to Bayley and Sasha.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
NXT is the WWE wrestling brand that
showcases the new talent being groomed for big league stardom.
Developmental, they call it. But in an odd twist, it's become the far
better show for wrestling fans to watch. It's short, light on its
feet, smart, and is chock full of hungry talented performers who
relish every opportunity to get in front of an audience and impress.
I adore it. One of the things that they've been working hard on
doing, is reinvigorating womens wrestling. They've been bringing in
some of the best talent from the independent circuit, and having them
train with Sara Del Ray, one of the best female workers on the
circuit for years. And it's working.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Bayley is the new champ, and she's
got quite the ground-breaking character. In an industry where
performers play demons, dead men, supermodels, rock stars, superheroes
and much more, Bayley is...nice. I'm not sure it's ever been tried
before. She's a scrappy underdog. Positive. Glad to be there. Full of
high-fives and smiles. Goddamn it, her t-shirt says “I'm a hugger”.
And people LOVE her. More importantly, a whole new set of people love her - young girls - the very audience the previous depictions of women would have repulsed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Her current nemesis, Sasha Banks is a
whole different deal. Dripping in gold, styled up the wazoo,
sunglasses on, and swagger firmly activated. She holds up her hands
on the way to the ring so you can read her full-knuckle rings that
say “legit boss” - and indeed, she used to be the boss, the
champ, until a couple of weeks ago, when Bailey won it from her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
On a recent NXT show, Bayley had just
had a match. She was celebrating in the ring, the crowd showing their
love, and Bayley riding the cheers. She took the microphone and
started to thank them, and as soon as she started talking, Sasha's
music hits, and here she comes. Now, of course, this is a traditional
piece of heel behaviour – crash the good guys party and spoil it.
Be a bad loser. But here they did it everso slightly, and
beautifully, different.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><i>“I didn't come here to belittle you,
or berate you”</i></b>, says Sasha. Wait, what? You're the bad guy. That's
exactly what we expect you to do. <b><i>“I came out here to congratulate
you”</i></b>. This is important. There's no bitchiness here, no personal
hate. These are women acting like athletes at the top of their game
rather than knock-off “Real housewives”, and it's refreshing. It
encourages the audience to admire them both, even if we have a
favourite. Sasha says that everyone's been saying that at the last
show, they had the best match – and the crowd chant as one, <i><b>“Yes
you did”</b></i>. She says that people have told her it was the greatest
womens match the company has ever seen (Which might genuinely be
true, it was a barn burner), and then there's a fleeting moment when
she looks at Bayley, looks around at the crowd as they chant <i><b>“Match
of the year”</b></i>, and she visibly nearly cries. It's amazing. Remember
when I said how wrestling is best when its the theatre and reality clash together? There it is.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then she gathers herself and tells
Bayley that last time she was better for only three seconds – a
clever way of referring to the match-winning three-count pinfall –
but now she needs to prove that she is better. Again, this is
important. They're not going to fight because of some kind of
playground feud. They're not fighting over a boy, or over who said
what to who. They're fighting because they're <i>professional fighters</i>
vying over a belt that tells the world who the best athlete is. It's
simple, empowering, and with performers this good, totally
compelling.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Then we're at the final act. Matchmaker
William Regal comes out to join them, with a shit-eating grin, and a
glint in his eye bright enough to power the Blackpool illuminations.
He grants their wish, and tells them that their match will headline
the next big show. The first time a womens match has ever – as far
as I know – main-evented a big American wrestling show. It's
payback for bringing the house down last time, and the crowd love it
and lose it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
Bayley and Sasha, the crowd chanting
<b><i>“Holy shit!”</i></b>, slowly take it in. They look each other in the
eyes, grins spread across their faces, and they shake hands. And
everyone knows this is going to be good. Everyone understands what it
means. And there's your moment.<br>
<br>
<br>
<b>October tour dates ahoy!</b><br>
<br>
Friday October 9 - now on sale<br>
<a href="https://southendtheatres.org.uk/Online/default.asp?doWork::WScontent::loadArticle=Load&BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::article_id=89699A19-F903-4DAC-9268-720181A61DAC" target="_blank"><b>Palace Theatre, Westcliff on Sea</b></a><br>
<br>
Saturday October 10th- now on sale<br>
<a href="https://quaytheatre.ticketsolve.com/shows/873536350/events?show_id=873536350&TSLVq=4bfda05d-6429-4d0f-8cdc-4ec2601525a7&TSLVp=40c97349-909b-446d-99c5-b1990a99973b&TSLVts=1439545296&TSLVc=ticketsolve&TSLVe=quaytheatre&TSLVrt=Safetynet&TSLVh=431b91104166a7101e5ebb97adea2bfd/" target="_blank"><b> The Quay Theatre, Sudbury</b></a><br>
<br>
Saturday October 24th- now on sale<br>
<a href="https://www.ticketsource.co.uk/date/ELDGFE/" target="_blank"><b> The Otley Courthouse Theatre, Otley</b></a><br>
<br>
Tuesday October 27th- now on sale<br>
<a href="http://www.marinetheatre.com/mat-ricardo-support-tuesday-27th-october/" target="_blank"><b> The Marine Theatre, Lyme Regis</b></a><br>
<br>
Thursday December 3 - now on sale<br>
<a href="http://www.overpelt.be/nl/events/1533/retro-comedy-night-met-mat-ricardo-en-lili-la-grace.html" target="_blank"><b>AGB Overpelt afdeling Palethe, Overpelt, Belgium</b></a><br>
<br>
Friday December 4 - now on sale<br>
<a href="http://www.dewerft.be/kalender/kalenderitem_fiche.asp?voorstelling=2441" target="_blank"><b>CC de Werft, Geel, Belgium</b></a><br>
<br>
<br>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>...and this is what you might see...</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b> </b></i></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/135438218" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://vimeo.com/135438218">Mat Ricardo mini showreel 2015</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/user14559090">Mat Ricardo</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-58061603469747856362015-09-26T04:32:00.003-07:002015-09-26T23:16:46.225-07:00A week in September<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ckmil0kSTVqWdpeXbxToT2dXVKsUanrHFRRU1CO0NBaS29sfjTQDtAzIq2fN7MHmnom0IMI7GyDgtpKMa2GM_BM8HFXuD9wpIWRZ4fKCnCB3bukU4KyAon9E5JNGE0Pmv6ve-eGFJnlz/s1600/DSCF0706_stitch_fhdr.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ckmil0kSTVqWdpeXbxToT2dXVKsUanrHFRRU1CO0NBaS29sfjTQDtAzIq2fN7MHmnom0IMI7GyDgtpKMa2GM_BM8HFXuD9wpIWRZ4fKCnCB3bukU4KyAon9E5JNGE0Pmv6ve-eGFJnlz/s640/DSCF0706_stitch_fhdr.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>
<br />
So, here was my week.<br />
<br />
Up stupid early. Espresso. Trundle case down potholed streets to my
local station. Sucking on an apple candy I got in Korea while in Essex
on the way to the Seychelles. Yes.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Heathrow express. A ten minute
journey that still feels the need to try to upsell you to its spacious
first class cabin with complimentary drinks. What kind of douchenozzle business traveller is so fragile that he feels the need to be in first class for the bloody airport shuttle? Anyway.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
I get checked
in by two bloody wonderful rum south London women, who are
flabbergasted that I'm only going go to be in the Seychelles for one
day. They immediately start aggressively flirting, telling me that they should come
with me and that we should all stay for the whole week, while cackling
at me. They weasel out of me what I do, and ask me my opinions about
Americas got talent, recently won by fellow Brit Paul Zerdin. I spill some gossip, mention that since there were so many non-Americans in the final this year, it must be safe to say that America no longer has talent, and they hoot with laughter and tell me what
a nice man I am. Then they move some seats around so I have a whole row
to myself. Thanks ladies. They wave goodbye, shouting after me that
next time I'd better take them with me.<br />
<br />
More coffee. Big breakfast. I always eat a big meal before I get on a long flight. As a vegetarian, you can never be sure what creative and terrifying interpretation of my diet an airline is going to slide onto my tray table. I once got a single, huge, slimy mushroom. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
At the other end I'm met by Kim. Militarily efficient. "Are you mat? K, let's go" which only adds to the
feeling I always have on gigs like these, of being a hired assassin. In
and out before anyone realises whats gone down.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
It's early morning by the time I get to my hotel, so of course my room isn't ready yet. I'm tired from the flight. Feel
covered in a thin slimy film of foggy exhaustion, so I'm a bit grumpy.
"Would you like a coffee by the ocean while you wait?" the grumpyness
vanishes pretty quick. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
They
serve me a spectacular espresso.. All treacley and gorgeous, and a
mayalsian diet coke that, according to the label,contains sugar. It also
rather delighted fully tastes of cardamon. There are worse ways to spend a Sunday morning than sipping on it while I stare out at the perfect green and blue stripes of the horizon and feel the warm salt air on my face.<br />
<br />
Once my room is ready, I dump my stuff and go for a swim. Best way to kill the tramps mouth feeling of jetlag, I've found. Then some nice room service and I'm ready to go to work.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
A driver arrives to pick
me up, and eyeing my suit, says "you look slick, man. You're....a magician?"
Close I tell him, juggler. "Juggler? Well maaan that's even better!".
YES. YES IT IS.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
As we bounce around the island roads to the show he points out local ares of interest. Rocks
that make a bong when you hit them, his house, and some naturally
occurring steps down to the sea where, he assures me, there is probably
some kind of sea monster. Oh, and a huge rock that looks exactly like a pig. Well, it looks a bit like a pig, from certain angles, but he's convinced it's a porcine doppleganger of the first order. "How can you explain that? You cannot. YOU CANNOT". Well, alright then.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lpEF8yuWY9043_jp0BmvJLZ1tSeOpRG8TEWwamQ4FGmOAnKYvt8gPtnhMF7WrET2rLbr9onZFNHC7EpfTJppmST_y3ajsBO8iHezcBjT17cqIL-st6xrGmjiDoS7TByBEMwwhpJkXmDs/s1600/DSCF0898_fhdr.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lpEF8yuWY9043_jp0BmvJLZ1tSeOpRG8TEWwamQ4FGmOAnKYvt8gPtnhMF7WrET2rLbr9onZFNHC7EpfTJppmST_y3ajsBO8iHezcBjT17cqIL-st6xrGmjiDoS7TByBEMwwhpJkXmDs/s640/DSCF0898_fhdr.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
A few hours later and I'm back at the hotel. Another swim, this time in the dark, some more room service, and in no time I'm back on a plane heading home.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizjvVxyNJCRlv_W8YcBKUvFQXudYjYueFP9qUqXvHZPqyMYArUJwdw7FFIQjCeEaRYkSkRtugyF0qRF9dERRdzOJ5HQZ2clVfD1BuKGZLdPBlX1hM95hKfS1-c1lW9iGW2BVMKrpsxoJI/s1600/DSCF1368.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizjvVxyNJCRlv_W8YcBKUvFQXudYjYueFP9qUqXvHZPqyMYArUJwdw7FFIQjCeEaRYkSkRtugyF0qRF9dERRdzOJ5HQZ2clVfD1BuKGZLdPBlX1hM95hKfS1-c1lW9iGW2BVMKrpsxoJI/s640/DSCF1368.jpg" width="425" /></a> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One day to decompress and then I'm back on stage at the London Wonderground on the banks of the Thames. Love this venue. First time I played it, which was, I think, with Al Murray, I felt a little intimidated by the scale of it, but these days I feel right at home. I was part of Lili La Scalas "Another Fucking Variety Show" - a show I'm a regular cast member of when it plays the Edinburgh fringe, but since I wasn't there this year, it felt great to rejoin the family, as it were. I had a very fun set, and stayed around to watch the rest of the excellent show and take some photos.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIlCjY10DPjggsPOvriM5qTC6h9psMMSs4PPOWPyn04hlWxKlcokHrYllBTlzXEKooYT0PspnNrwizP6rHjbdAEAENEMvgSSknL79_Ddd3Fre9rOVMXixYI8J_k9nS-GNXJH7G6pgZKEYK/s1600/DSCF0960.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIlCjY10DPjggsPOvriM5qTC6h9psMMSs4PPOWPyn04hlWxKlcokHrYllBTlzXEKooYT0PspnNrwizP6rHjbdAEAENEMvgSSknL79_Ddd3Fre9rOVMXixYI8J_k9nS-GNXJH7G6pgZKEYK/s640/DSCF0960.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Friday night saw me back with Lili, along with a cast of swashbuckling low-life, for the Salon Des Artistes cabaret at the Cafe Royal. Intimate, beautiful room, and everyone was on fire tonight. Headliners Eastend Cabaret took the roof off the place, topped only by Lili's final song which brought the audience to their feet. What a fine way to make a living.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVC5tvsuxLVxaLdN-lga3ol1HdW74kctG0do2EyUGBnKXWivbhX29LInoIu38VnzB3KjRVs0s_YWklvb0fZn_vtke4NI1Z1RW_8FkHnVL1L5X5654n7zarzPYdBFwRbFfG5LJPHI46jYa/s1600/DSCF1598.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSVC5tvsuxLVxaLdN-lga3ol1HdW74kctG0do2EyUGBnKXWivbhX29LInoIu38VnzB3KjRVs0s_YWklvb0fZn_vtke4NI1Z1RW_8FkHnVL1L5X5654n7zarzPYdBFwRbFfG5LJPHI46jYa/s640/DSCF1598.jpg" width="640" /></a> </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
One more private show, and then I'm slipping out of the country for a week for a little holiday. I know it might seem that much of my life falls into that category, but trust me, there's a big difference between what I did this week - lugging some suitcases full of props halfway across the world, plagued by nerves, stress, and knowing you have to deliver whatever the circumstances, making sure you find a way to make your work succeed in whatever venue or audience gets thrown at you, no matter how jetlagged, tired or unsure you feel - and spending a week wandering around somewhere beautiful, looking at, eating and drinking delightful things, with Mrs.Ricardo.<br />
<br />
Oh, and if you like my photography, please do follow me <a href="https://instagram.com/thematricardo/" target="_blank">on instagram</a> - I post many more photos and videos there than you'll see here. Thanks! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I get back, I've got a handful of UK tour dates, so if you're near any of these places, or know someone who is, get yourself in my audience...<br />
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Friday October 9 - now on sale<br />
<a href="https://southendtheatres.org.uk/Online/default.asp?doWork::WScontent::loadArticle=Load&BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::article_id=89699A19-F903-4DAC-9268-720181A61DAC" target="_blank"><b>Palace Theatre, Westcliff on Sea</b></a><br />
<br />
Saturday October 10th- now on sale<br />
<a href="https://quaytheatre.ticketsolve.com/shows/873536350/events?show_id=873536350&TSLVq=4bfda05d-6429-4d0f-8cdc-4ec2601525a7&TSLVp=40c97349-909b-446d-99c5-b1990a99973b&TSLVts=1439545296&TSLVc=ticketsolve&TSLVe=quaytheatre&TSLVrt=Safetynet&TSLVh=431b91104166a7101e5ebb97adea2bfd/" target="_blank"><b> The Quay Theatre, Sudbury</b></a><br />
<br />
Saturday October 24th- now on sale<br />
<a href="https://www.ticketsource.co.uk/date/ELDGFE/" target="_blank"><b> The Otley Courthouse Theatre, Otley</b></a><br />
<br />
Tuesday October 27th- now on sale<br />
<a href="http://www.marinetheatre.com/mat-ricardo-support-tuesday-27th-october/" target="_blank"><b> The Marine Theatre, Lyme Regis</b></a><br />
<br />
Thursday December 3 - now on sale<br />
<a href="http://www.overpelt.be/nl/events/1533/retro-comedy-night-met-mat-ricardo-en-lili-la-grace.html" target="_blank"><b>AGB Overpelt afdeling Palethe, Overpelt, Belgium</b></a><br />
<br />
Friday December 4 - now on sale<br />
<a href="http://www.dewerft.be/kalender/kalenderitem_fiche.asp?voorstelling=2441" target="_blank"><b>CC de Werft, Geel, Belgium</b></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>..and here's a taster of what you might see...</b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/135438218" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> </div>
<a href="https://vimeo.com/135438218">Mat Ricardo mini showreel 2015</a> from <a href="https://vimeo.com/user14559090">Mat Ricardo</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-70970845062496722082015-09-02T06:04:00.000-07:002015-09-02T06:04:48.135-07:00Korea DefiningSorry about the pun, I'm jetlagged.<br />
<br />
Twenty-something years ago, I was asked to go and do a gig in South Korea. Long, and very complicated story short, it turned out to be the single worst gig I've ever done, by a country mile, and involved contracts being torn up, agents jumping to their feet and threatening to fight me, serious injury due to negligence, the possibility of losing both a decent amount of money and my passport, and a scary van ride that we were convinced was going to end in the middle of nowhere next to a shallow grave rather than the promised airport. As you might imagine, for a long time, a gig in South Korea became short hand for a thing to run in the opposite direction from.<br />
<br />
Not any more.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJWFMPi6ZRXmz1Q6J9EmwQVdusj9PLHvD9weGleme4ZynXAkPLlcCfs3k0XNPBmj_8gVuCAeEDPDqm3CvEPYTUneHGUZVKqH3DCQSrc-MpGJ5UBHm5DVF_dbr8OINJtSQ33uqpQ_mH5JM/s1600/image4.PNG.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJWFMPi6ZRXmz1Q6J9EmwQVdusj9PLHvD9weGleme4ZynXAkPLlcCfs3k0XNPBmj_8gVuCAeEDPDqm3CvEPYTUneHGUZVKqH3DCQSrc-MpGJ5UBHm5DVF_dbr8OINJtSQ33uqpQ_mH5JM/s320/image4.PNG.jpg" width="238" /></a>Last week, after a couple of decades and change, I returned to South Korea, to take my one man show to the Busan International Comedy Festival. I knew very little about the festival before I went, so had little idea what to expect. What I got was far and away one of the nicest gigs of my career.<br />
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Pusan is a beach city, and reminds me very much of Miami. Long sandy beaches curl themselves around Mandelbrot coastlines, bookended by the occasional sprouting of clumps of shimmering skyscraper hotel blocks. Miles of delicate white suspension bridges link the various parts of the sprawl, and gave us perfect postcard views of Haeundae, where we'd be living, as we drove into town from the airport, the warm breeze curing the film of stickyness that long-haul flights coat you with.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkiTGEEq7gBDst6yH3KEhREPu6fX57pF7OwrV6g88TUE3KOVY3d9FnHwUqBIVp7veHT_MAPl_Jos-vnNTAxRF2aciUvXWRaUFUbW960kmX2FA-QUCiySBGasFRyPTdFV6LkRGzBcMSpap/s1600/IMG_0836.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRkiTGEEq7gBDst6yH3KEhREPu6fX57pF7OwrV6g88TUE3KOVY3d9FnHwUqBIVp7veHT_MAPl_Jos-vnNTAxRF2aciUvXWRaUFUbW960kmX2FA-QUCiySBGasFRyPTdFV6LkRGzBcMSpap/s320/IMG_0836.jpg" width="320" /></a>Every building in downtown Haeundae is covered with signs, neons, animated lightups, screens and pvc banners. The grey city blocks are made gaudy and beautiful by a different sign, for a different thing, in a different colour and font, on every floor. The blocks end up looking like stacks of old VHS cassettes labelled by different people at different times. "MEAT", "CHICKEN & BEER", "WHISKY, BEER & DRINK", "TOM & TOMS COFFEE", "SEXY LIFE"..<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqPF7S6s4iG5eh13jIuXU7XBKQ53S0b8JLLDkUa9UTj1ncRr3ZCsUBZzW5fsp0-Z_1cgwte37UN3gV1sF-y7rCjpTY-RTj6Vcbv5pqhG3ZtY2Y8hTwRQLqtiuKSYuRJtTC0lvynQnJmVx/s1600/dakids.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqPF7S6s4iG5eh13jIuXU7XBKQ53S0b8JLLDkUa9UTj1ncRr3ZCsUBZzW5fsp0-Z_1cgwte37UN3gV1sF-y7rCjpTY-RTj6Vcbv5pqhG3ZtY2Y8hTwRQLqtiuKSYuRJtTC0lvynQnJmVx/s320/dakids.JPG" width="320" /></a>I check into my hotel, plug into the wifi, and am immediately greeted by a message from some old street performing pals. Daniel and Kim, "Street Circus", had seen that I'm also in Busan, as are they, and are asking where in town I'm staying. Turns out I'm staying two floors down from them in the exact same hotel, so next morning, we're all at breakfast, once again talking about how cool and random our lives are that the last time we saw each other was a year ago in Toronto, and here we are in South Korea, having had no idea that we'd be meeting. How lovely.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmz_JJaNTD8l3eQjzpjDzBUgWI7x6EfXcPDerGV2YM_wkpnV-iijoLJkyZBxcpsM2zPc2PDeJ6RFp1OE4ouD9-A4B92pypcFSIp_iV3oODs6c_lX2pR_oK6pf_v9C9JfhGpoFAzd7rTsG8/s1600/IMG_0632.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmz_JJaNTD8l3eQjzpjDzBUgWI7x6EfXcPDerGV2YM_wkpnV-iijoLJkyZBxcpsM2zPc2PDeJ6RFp1OE4ouD9-A4B92pypcFSIp_iV3oODs6c_lX2pR_oK6pf_v9C9JfhGpoFAzd7rTsG8/s320/IMG_0632.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
On this trip, I have a sidekick, the mighty Taz. The show I'm performing on this trip is a little more tech heavy than my usual stuff, so Taz is handling all my sound and lights, and is brilliant at it. It's also really nice to have someone to hang out with and share the ridiculousness of my job with. A witness. And if ever a gig would need someone to reassure me that, yes, this is really happening, then it'd be this one.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmApWoQW4mV8gql_t_LDxbPNovY2-M0Zvq87uCeflpe6o_Tnd4vw5Ob4-1a0EuQjHXSbhi-n-25IP4QvIGZ34tEz6Az15S_rfpWHwKNfwWL4dKNq6Xp3hR_kqZJUzBsQQDExVXKY16HPE4/s1600/image1.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmApWoQW4mV8gql_t_LDxbPNovY2-M0Zvq87uCeflpe6o_Tnd4vw5Ob4-1a0EuQjHXSbhi-n-25IP4QvIGZ34tEz6Az15S_rfpWHwKNfwWL4dKNq6Xp3hR_kqZJUzBsQQDExVXKY16HPE4/s640/image1.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6s4M53LYfT7aaD3U-Umycm4pMf0Xd3QjtWlgCJgFccJiltTN2l0rK122MSi1QHy12Odtquxjgo6WBUN4Wp_JlptIZGuZAj6oymnfzlyzguNwHfmq4ZtNhNF22o0A9y_e33n6XJ9zUNAzL/s1600/image6.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6s4M53LYfT7aaD3U-Umycm4pMf0Xd3QjtWlgCJgFccJiltTN2l0rK122MSi1QHy12Odtquxjgo6WBUN4Wp_JlptIZGuZAj6oymnfzlyzguNwHfmq4ZtNhNF22o0A9y_e33n6XJ9zUNAzL/s320/image6.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
The first bit of performing I was down to do was a short spot in the opening night gala. I had been told that this was quite the event, but was fairly unprepared for what a huge affair it turned out to be. Two thousand people in the live audience, and the show was being being broadcast live on television. The first few rows of the audience filled with local celebrities, the casts of famous Korean TV shows, and important Korean politicians and leaders. It all started to get a bit giggly. I was lead into a holding area filled with the products of all the sponsors, and was immediately given a bottle of Coca-Cola. Great, I like Coke. Wait a second. This bottle of Coke had me on it. That's ridiculous. More giggling.<br />
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Then my name is called, and I'm pointed out to a stage, where I stand and strike a couple of casual poses while dozens and dozens of press photographers pepper me with flashguns, while my face is streamed live to the three giganto-tron screens that frame the stage, and beamed to millions of doubtless confused Korean homes. The stage manager waves me off the stage, and I walk down a gangway that cuts through the audience. A thousand people of each side of me hanging over the barrier for high-fives and selfies. I get halfway down before it hits me. This is as close as I'll ever get to feeling what a wrestler feels when they make their Wrestlemania entrance. I slow up. Start to work the crowd a little more. Play around some. Then I'm at the end of the walkway and I take my seat and await my turn to do my thing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Xtu1TtYGJKTL83JpIHvFg8cgcZvjrf0nlutKWrSAkb1Pxcyabn-rRGAQAE78SVCDPzOmoNyWNOfvU0XPusvtC4wWX5fAy8-5DsUO-We0gdILOJv5QFqZADtcy1NM6paDPqIPhJqv9RQE/s1600/image8.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Xtu1TtYGJKTL83JpIHvFg8cgcZvjrf0nlutKWrSAkb1Pxcyabn-rRGAQAE78SVCDPzOmoNyWNOfvU0XPusvtC4wWX5fAy8-5DsUO-We0gdILOJv5QFqZADtcy1NM6paDPqIPhJqv9RQE/s640/image8.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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My spot went well, getting some lovely big loud reactions from the crowd and a standing ovation from the cast of one show, which was lovely of them. Then there was eating, drinking, and jetlag, so it was time for bed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEighBfRFCxsDDJbvWuOdRd7EMgk5es82jUaR7P2NIHN_xPdqBTxaZtSfT7aIv5k0nulY7uWVB9DwzTpwzpT8SRpiY3zef5bRoWvS9O7MaN65I6yg4qirmYYQkMxFpEZixDqeFe8OBgxy5Rx/s1600/image3.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEighBfRFCxsDDJbvWuOdRd7EMgk5es82jUaR7P2NIHN_xPdqBTxaZtSfT7aIv5k0nulY7uWVB9DwzTpwzpT8SRpiY3zef5bRoWvS9O7MaN65I6yg4qirmYYQkMxFpEZixDqeFe8OBgxy5Rx/s320/image3.JPG" width="320" /></a>The next few days involved gala shows in a four thousand seater venue, along with lots of great Korean comedy acts. Always great to be able to watch a comedy act working in a language that you're completely in the dark with, and yet to be able to still genuinely laugh at their work. I had some lovely shows, quickly learning to modify my comedic rhythms slightly so that all the right moments fall into place and get the laughs they're supposed to. I must have been doing ok, because by my last show, they added a big gas jet pyro that went off on my final bow, right in front of me. Hilariously, they neglected to tell me about this, and so instead of a triumphant cool besuited guy taking his final bow, what they got was an English guy going "Hey.. Thank You, Thank You so WHOAAAAA okaaay". All good lolz until someone gets pyro'd through the roof.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PVKxUkTgdkD1fT2PUTilN9mjVEu15WPQLZCbtElge8EQJGth6AW6BzN_uNk_eK4-j1qIWlbv3DwX6fQyYojv4Vvf73SiWOt9CNyvWpQFIOGYmT6suc9oZr4Z2s6Z3kAdQrudhfdCX2LR/s1600/IMG_0781.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6PVKxUkTgdkD1fT2PUTilN9mjVEu15WPQLZCbtElge8EQJGth6AW6BzN_uNk_eK4-j1qIWlbv3DwX6fQyYojv4Vvf73SiWOt9CNyvWpQFIOGYmT6suc9oZr4Z2s6Z3kAdQrudhfdCX2LR/s320/IMG_0781.jpg" width="320" /></a>Me, Taz, Dan and Kim went out for dinner together after the first night of shows and explored the town a little. We found ourselves in a long street full of fresh seafood. And by fresh, I mean eels, fish, crab, lobster etc all in big tanks waiting to be picked out, expertly hacked to pieces, flash-fried and presented on a polystyrene plate for your enjoyment. We also stumbled, along with a group of African American travellers, on a stall selling jet black eggs. Just normal looking eggs, but matt black. Curious. As Kim, and one of the guys tried them, his friend screwed up her face. "What's with the black eggs". Quick as a flash, I pitched in, "They're just eggs. Why you gotta be like that? Some of us don't see colour, y'know?", which received the greatest deadpan stare I've ever got, before she broke, grinned widely at me and chuckled hard. Phew.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnMdUT3a2U70W8dwQQzEsbT7Ra0CwKnsCDlNBiBsOenEc7WQ5NAjAxzvi5Zrdyz4_vH8FE-ovgRVabigGmlH5s8xi5beorpDP4CpIapyaHnXF3sPetncvCglc0wkTeP1KjDdEpGveYZlgc/s1600/fooood.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnMdUT3a2U70W8dwQQzEsbT7Ra0CwKnsCDlNBiBsOenEc7WQ5NAjAxzvi5Zrdyz4_vH8FE-ovgRVabigGmlH5s8xi5beorpDP4CpIapyaHnXF3sPetncvCglc0wkTeP1KjDdEpGveYZlgc/s320/fooood.JPG" width="320" /></a>We ended up eating at Mr.Jungs, what seemed to be a fairly traditional beer & fried stuff restaurant. It was great. Sweet potato cakes, spicy sweet cold noodles, thin crispy potato pancakes, lots of sauces and dips, and cheap cold beer. Contentment.<br />
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The next couple of days were spent shuttling around in a taxi, across those curving, gently arching bridges that link the districts, while the radio played fizzy, whip-tightly produced K-pop, making the whole thing feel like playing a level of the videogame "Outrun". We found some time to go shopping at some markets, where I picked up a pair of Barack Obama socks for Mrs.Ricardo, because why wouldn't you? And every night I had a performance of my one man show. I'd been, if not nervous, then at least conscious about working to an audience that spoke much less English than some of my usual crowds do, so I'd booked a rehearsal room for the week before I came, and worked long hard days to put together a low-language, high-skills version of the show, featuring routines choreographed to some lovely swing and jazz tracks. After the first night, I was thrilled that the work had seemed to pay off. Everything worked, and people seemed to love it. The cherry on the cake was the final night, where I had a nice big crowd full of students, young people, comedy people - all of whom were totally up for what I do. They were clapping and dancing around on my entrance music, and it just got better from there. So great a crowd were they, that I had to work hard to wipe the grin off my face, scared that I'd end up looking like an idiot, when I'm supposed to be looking all mean, moody and cool!<br />
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The last half of the trip, perhaps because they kept me super busy in the days, and happily drunk and fed in the evening, seemed to whip past, and before long - just as the jetlag was subsiding, it was time to come home and kickstart that biliousness all over again. Which brings me to now, waiting - as William Gibson writes in the wonderful "Pattern Recognition" - for my soul to catch up with me, after yesterdays full day of travel, and attempting to hammer out this blog post.<br />
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For twenty-odd years, South Korea stood, in our house, for "Worst gig ever", in one week, its been changed to "Best".<br />
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Took my camera, of course..<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Want to see "Showman" live? Autumn tour dates ahoy:</i></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://southendtheatres.org.uk/Online/default.asp?doWork::WScontent::loadArticle=Load&BOparam::WScontent::loadArticle::article_id=89699A19-F903-4DAC-9268-720181A61DAC" target="_blank"><b>Palace Theatre, Westcliff on Sea</b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Saturday October 10th- now on sale</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://quaytheatre.ticketsolve.com/shows/873536350/events?show_id=873536350&TSLVq=4bfda05d-6429-4d0f-8cdc-4ec2601525a7&TSLVp=40c97349-909b-446d-99c5-b1990a99973b&TSLVts=1439545296&TSLVc=ticketsolve&TSLVe=quaytheatre&TSLVrt=Safetynet&TSLVh=431b91104166a7101e5ebb97adea2bfd/" target="_blank"><b> The Quay Theatre, Sudbury</b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Saturday October 24th- now on sale</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.ticketsource.co.uk/date/ELDGFE/" target="_blank"><b> The Otley Courthouse Theatre, Otley</b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Tuesday October 27th- now on sale</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.marinetheatre.com/mat-ricardo-support-tuesday-27th-october/" target="_blank"><b> The Marine Theatre, Lyme Regis</b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Thursday December 3 - now on sale</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.overpelt.be/nl/events/1533/retro-comedy-night-met-mat-ricardo-en-lili-la-grace.html" target="_blank"><b>AGB Overpelt afdeling Palethe, Overpelt, Belgium</b></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Friday December 4 - now on sale</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.dewerft.be/kalender/kalenderitem_fiche.asp?voorstelling=2441" target="_blank"><b>CC de Werft, Geel, Belgium</b></a></span><br />
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/135438218"></a><br /></div>
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/135438218"></a><br /></div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-89549738557118481272015-08-14T00:59:00.001-07:002015-08-14T01:40:30.498-07:00The Man From The Man From Uncle<div style="text-align: center;">
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I was sitting at home. I can't remember what I was doing, but a
safe bet would be either dicking about with a new trick or watching
wrestling. The phone rang and a stranger started to explain to me
that he had been tasked with finding someone who could not only do,
but also teach, the tablecloth trick to the star of a new big Hollywood movie. Apparently my name had come up several times, so
here he was. I said that yes, it's teachable, and he told me that
he'd be back in touch with more details soon, and no, he wasn't
allowed to tell me the name of the star or the movie or anything
else.<br />
<br />
Which is how I found myself, a couple of weeks later, standing in
a hastily erected gazebo in the middle of a muddy field, next to a
fully-laden dining table as Henry Cavill strode toward me, dressed in
an all black special ops type outfit, covered in mud and fake blood, thrusting his hand out for me
to shake with a confident and charming <i><b>"Hi, I'm Henry, so what
are we doing?"</b></i>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQvi-K_8Ku9xzPRTLB5DSnlUkXdYU3co9CUtphaSEHnFrFsqIMiuJtfav2lDaxt3PoBRlYEVuDBIALBr68H9kyMAbq_RboJIKbvTGnxZloUXfu_oLwlfe7fZf72kL6GK_naBVzkAY1Kmdy/s1600/IMG_5489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQvi-K_8Ku9xzPRTLB5DSnlUkXdYU3co9CUtphaSEHnFrFsqIMiuJtfav2lDaxt3PoBRlYEVuDBIALBr68H9kyMAbq_RboJIKbvTGnxZloUXfu_oLwlfe7fZf72kL6GK_naBVzkAY1Kmdy/s320/IMG_5489.JPG" width="320" /></a>My first thought as the heterosexual, long time married,
professional that I am, if I'm being completely honest, was, "OMG he's gorrrrgeous"
but I swiftly regained my composure. But heavens to betsy: <i>hunktown.</i><br />
<br />
So we spend a little while talking about the trick, and picking
props, and working it through, and by the time we said goodbye, he'd
pretty much nailed it. Everyone seemed very happy, and the plan was
that I'd be on set for the duration of the shooting of the relevant
scene to help wrangle the props, keep Henry up to speed on the trick,
and generally make sure that my part of the scene ran as smoothly as
possible.<br />
<br />
So, couple of weeks later, Monday morning, and I'm in a car being
driven to Goodwood racetrack, where a city of trailers, production
trucks, hair and makeup units, stunt teams, catering and famous folk
have gathered to film a couple of scenes for Guy Ritchie's reboot of
<b>"The Man From U.N.C.L.E."</b><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Exciting.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's how four of the five days of my week there went. I arrive,
go get breakfast from the cheery and expansive catering truck, and go sit in
a bus. I mean it's comfy and nice and warm, as has sparkly showbiz
lights running around the walls, but it's still just a bus. And I
watch movies on my tablet. And then, at lunchtime, suddenly there's
the sound of stampeding support artists, and the bus suddenly fills
with chattering extras, all dressed in the most beautiful cool 60's
duds, inhaling as much lunch as they can. They talk and gossip about
what they've been doing, and I pick up on a few overheard details,
trying to build a mental picture of what the scene actually looks
like. Then they're gone, and back to work, and I'm left with the bus
to myself to watch more movies and graze more snacks, until, at some
point around 4pm, a nice lady will pop her head in, say <i><b>"Ok,
you're clear Mat, your car is ready when you are"</b></i>, and I'll go
home.<br />
<br />
That's how it was for four days, but on the fifth day, things got
a little more involved.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HUJG9oB1RO2FOQrp5YWgd8hjh1qkRcAsPXdxi1-u5ZNu_zTa9tzCKyjbzHnS5fbsjuXyCQ8kCBWnVOVg-Eng8THeG8_0P9q9gX4gweQmLUBE1x5m1EMN6IDEQTNnXNjD6WeROo1isrni/s1600/IMG_5482.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6HUJG9oB1RO2FOQrp5YWgd8hjh1qkRcAsPXdxi1-u5ZNu_zTa9tzCKyjbzHnS5fbsjuXyCQ8kCBWnVOVg-Eng8THeG8_0P9q9gX4gweQmLUBE1x5m1EMN6IDEQTNnXNjD6WeROo1isrni/s320/IMG_5482.JPG" width="216" /></a>It was my first time actually seeing the set, and holy crap. A
huge cocktail lounge had been built, filled with dozens and dozens of extras,
barmen, waiters, cool countesses and hipster dudes, through which our
heroes would saunter, before stopping at a balcony, outside of which
actual genuine vintage racing cars would zoom by, and beyond the
track, another hundred or so extras watching the race. This is the
kind of scene that, had I seen it on screen, I probably would have
assumed was largely CGI, but no, real people, real racing cars. Only
the cocktails were fake.<br />
<br />
I chatted to Henry, we looked at the props, he practiced the move
a couple of times and all was well.<br />
<br />
Then Guy Ritchie introduced himself to me, thanked me for being
there, said how great my trick will be in the scene, and was
generally very affable and blokey. He walked over to talk to some
film folk, then, across a set filled with actors and crew, he turned
and yelled across the hubbub at me. <b><i>"Mat, mate.."</i></b>, he said,<b><i>
"So apparently you can put the tablecloth back on the table too?
Is that right?"</i></b>, I told him, yeah, I can, and that I was the first person in the world to learn it. <b><i>"You wanna teach
Henry that, too?"</i></b>, he yelled.<br />
<br />
That kinda put me on the spot. Changing the terms of a deal, on
set, in front of everyone. Ballsy fucker, I thought, but then again,
it is his house. <b><i>"Sorry"</i></b>, I yelled back, <b><i>"My contract
is for pulling it off"</i></b>, then I chanced a little ballsyness of my
own, <i><b>"You're not paying enough for putting it back on"</b></i><br />
<br />
Genuinely, and I promise you this is true, there was a silent, and seemingly way too long pause. Until Mr. Ritchie broke it
by grinning and saying <b><i>"Fair enough."</i></b>, another long pause,<b><i>
"FUCKING great trick though!"</i></b><br />
<br />
I said thanks, and took a long deep breath out, and everyone went
back about their showbusiness.<br />
<br />
The rest of the day was spent hovering behind cameras, watching
the scene over and over, watching Henry nail the trick pretty much
every time (Good teacher), and generally enjoying being on a major
movie set. Even if you're a jaded and cynical old showbiz grunt like
me, big movie sets are still incredibly exciting places to be. The
crew are like a military unit - everyone a specialist, working as a
well-oiled team to push the overall thing forward.<br />
<br />
After a long day of repeating the same thing a zillion times, we
wrapped and I was cleared to go home. One last firm manly handshake
with Henry and a couple of crew members, and I was in a car, having
signed a piece of paper saying that I couldn't talk about any of
this, or post any of the pictures you see here, for nearly TWO YEARS.<br />
<br />
Yep, this all happened in Autumn 2013, and only now am I allowed
to admit my involvement. Almost like being a spy.
<br />
<br />
<br />
The movie looks like it's going to be pretty fun. Stylish, witty,
and paying tribute to the source material, which I'm a bit of a fan
of. I can't wait to see it, and not just to be the only person in the
cinema cheering a tablecloth.<br />
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<br />
---<br />
<br />
Oh, and if you're new to this blog, have no idea who I am, and have come here via "Man From Uncle" related mullarkey - here's a little video that'll show you what I do...<br />
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/135438218"></a><br /></div>
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/135438218"></a><br />
Feel free to follow me on the various social media stuff listed on the right panel :)</div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-70050356388262339252015-08-03T05:59:00.000-07:002015-08-03T06:07:39.840-07:00Cilla<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiVPGpqU2EXPr5u-QOVh2JJ9NLIB22vyig5olsnwsLQIXyc0vdZwRs4rnGsL6yXiBP_lV3gQWgHOMvR9CBlys6YgzlPanmTwT5avSenES0tU8jK_3JBdejOEgU-jNIdOefvnwXBTPe3xf3/s1600/me-and-cilla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiVPGpqU2EXPr5u-QOVh2JJ9NLIB22vyig5olsnwsLQIXyc0vdZwRs4rnGsL6yXiBP_lV3gQWgHOMvR9CBlys6YgzlPanmTwT5avSenES0tU8jK_3JBdejOEgU-jNIdOefvnwXBTPe3xf3/s640/me-and-cilla.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
In the late 1990's, somehow, I found myself a semi-regular cast member of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YB3pZv4QQbU" target="_blank">"Cilla Black's Moment of Truth"</a>, a big Saturday night shiny floored game show. It was originally adapted from a Japanese show called "Happy Family Plan", and ended up being cancelled because people thought it was too cruel to the contestants, but it ran for four seasons and I cropped up every so often in all of them. There I am, in the picture above, looking like a Lidl Derren Brown.<br />
<br />
My job on the show was to devise and demonstrate a physical challenge that the contestant had to learn within a week, and perform on the show in front of a live studio audience, in order to win big prizes. It was a fun thing to be involved in, and I ended up pulling tablecloths, flipping spoons, throwing hats, stacking glasses, flinging cocktail shakers, and all manner of possibly learnable skills.<br />
<br />
The best part of being involved, though, was getting the chance to work closely with Cilla Black. The first part of each challenge was a pre-taped outside broadcast. Cilla would arrive at some poor unsuspecting schmucks house, with me in tow, and genuinely knock on their door unannounced with a TV crew. The rest of the family would know what was about to happen of course, but the one doing the challenge would be blissfully unaware. It never stopped being huge fun watching someone answer their door on a drizzling wednesday evening to find Cilla bloody Black standing there all smiles and <b><i>"'ALLO CHUCK, BET YA DIDN'T EXPECT THIS, DID YA? WELL? GOING TO INVITE ME IN?"</i></b><br />
<br />
Of course by that point the post-Blind Date Cilla revival had fully happened, and she was basically the queen of ITV. Totes an icon, but still, to the public, a brassy working class girl. People would recognise her, be totally starstruck, but at the same time feel completely fine about yelling something friendly and saucy at her, safe in the knowledge that she'd grin and yell something back, which she always did. Good quality to have, that.<br />
<br />
I was even less of a nobody than I am now, but from day one she was warm, friendly, and fun to work with. When she could see I was nervous, she was encouraging, and when she could see me getting cocky, she'd say something to tease me back down to size. She taught me the right way to kiss her hello on camera, and, wonderfully, by season two, when I was becoming part of the team, started calling me <i><b>"Our Mat"</b></i>.<br />
<br />
When you're filming, especially on location, there's a lot of standing around, so we'd occasionally chat. I got to tell her that her version of "Anyone Who Had a Heart" was one of my wife's all time favourite records, and she was genuinely pleased to hear it, telling me that some people had forgotten that she was a singer. I was glad I got to do that.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ykd7172CUeA" target="_blank">Click this</a> and watch a beautiful young Cilla belt it live, and remember her for what she was truly born for, and I'll remember her for the time she watched me perform a trick live on the show, in front of an audience, perfect first time, and then, when we went to commercial, telling the crowd <i><b>"It didn't bloody work once in rehearsal! Luck!"</b></i>, before shooting me a huge wink.<br />
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Always loved this portrait of her by one of my favourite photographers, Jane Bown.Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-8261319524961660702015-06-26T14:05:00.000-07:002015-06-26T14:05:10.374-07:00Cold call<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So, I was in my office this week when this happened..<br />
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<i><Phone rings></i><br />
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Me: Hello?<br />
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Her: Hi, yeah, just updating our database and we see that you've been involved in a road traffic accident recently, is that right?<br /><br />Me: Well, I killed those kids.<br /><br /><silence for a few beats><br /><br />Her: Are you fucking with me?<br /><br />Me: Well, you started it.<br /><br />Her: No I didn't?<br /><br />Me: Yes you did. You scam-called me.<br /><br />Her: It might not be a scam.<br /><br />Me: Did you just say "It <i>might</i> not be"?<br /><br />Her: It might not be.<br /><br />Me: But it is, isn't it?<br /><br />Her: How do you know? Have you been involved in a road traffic accident?<br /><br />Me: Well, I don't drive, and have never been in an accident, so no.<br /><br />Her: Oh<br /><br />Me: Yes. Quite.<br /><br />Her: Ah. But. Ah. You see. What sometimes happens is that someone with the same name as you WAS involved in a road traffic accident, and gave your number instead of theirs. That sometimes happens.<br /><br />Me: Wait. You're telling me that someone with my name, just happens to be carrying around the phone number of someone with the same name as him, so he can give it to the police if he's ever in an accident?<br /><br />Her: Um, yes? You never know.<br /><br />Me: You don't think that it's, perhaps, more likely that your evil boss just bought a bunch of phone numbers from some awful company that sells peoples private info for a quick buck, and you're just trying your luck?<br /><br />Her: Could be.<br /><br />Me: Are you on commision, or on a wage?<br /><br />Her: Oh, I'm on a wage.<br /><br />Me: So you don't care how much time I waste of your work day?<br /><br />Her: God no.<br /><br />Me: Ok. Hi!<br /><br />Her: Hi!<br /><br />Me: You must get some shit from people you call, doing this job, right?<br /><br />Her: Oh god yes. Had death threats, people saying they'll kill my whole family, that kind of stuff..<br /><br />Me: You know why that is, right?<br /><br />Her: Oh yeah.<br /><br />Me: You do an awful, bad job, that isn't necessary, and people hate it.<br /><br />Her: Yeah.<br /><br />Me: Well, I'm not on a wage, so I'm going to say goodbye now.<br /><br />Her: Ok! Have a nice day.<br /><br />Me: You too. Don't let the shit get you down, but also, y'know, change your job.<br /><br />Her: Yeah. Good idea. Bye!<br /><br />Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-36455801831814001772015-06-13T06:31:00.000-07:002015-06-13T06:31:11.001-07:00Dusty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was standing in the lobby of a theatre this week, about to go and see a one man show by another old vaudevillian, Jim Dale, when twitter told me the very sad news that Dusty Rhodes had died. For those of you not familiar with the world of pro-wrestling that I sometimes talk about here, this will mean little, but the rest of you will know what a huge loss this is.<br />
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One of the greatest stars of the 70's and 80's, and an important figure afterwards, he didn't have the jacked-up look of a modern wrestler, but instead, portrayed the big, rambunctious, blue collar badass everyman. The kind of dude who'd be the life of the party, but also be first in line to hand out an ass-whuppin' if things went sideways.<br />
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And boy could he talk. That's what I first loved about him. Working-man poetry delivered in a lisping Texan drawl that was made for people to do impressions of. If you've ever seen one of the final shows in any of my runs, then you would have heard his words, as I always end the last show of a run by thanking the audience with my favourite of his lines:<br />
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<i><b>"I have wined and dined with kings and queens, and slept in an alley eatin' pork and beans"</b></i><br />
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Earlier this year, my friends William Regal and Robbie Brookside took great delight in telling me that Dusty had been watching some of my stuff on youtube, and loved it. Brookside said that they'd shown him the reverse tablecloth trick, and he'd looked at him sideways and said (and please start your Dusty impressions now) "Where's the gimmick man? Where's the gimmick?"<br />
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There's a very special feeling to hearing that someone whose work you love, enjoys yours back, and just as it happened with Regal and Brookside, when it happened again with Dusty I was a bit bowled over. Along with the aforementioned Brits, he was instrumental in the success of the brilliant NXT show, and I started talking about the possibility of going over to Florida where it's filmed to hang out, and see a show. And part of the fun of that idea, undeniably, was the chance to meet Dusty.<br />
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It's a testament to how loved and respected he was in the wrestling world that on the day of his death, dozens of wrestlers - big, testosterone packed behemoths, tweeted about the last time they stopped by his office for a hug. How wonderful.<br />
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It makes me very sad that I'll never get to meet him, but I'll keep on using his beautiful words, I'll keep on doing my awful Dusty impression, and I'll be grateful that my friends that were his friends made that connection.Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-86989638329536075612015-05-18T02:40:00.000-07:002015-05-18T02:40:29.247-07:00Gearing up for the big one<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqrAUZSiAmywg6q-KqzKPGYpd6qyJhlDK6XmCc2q_CLld5IiJu0JeGEyT2Pf-oLYIe58PMUN30AmokUsshS0K1rw4yFnaAtZcXQG3PQb6gJ-6oUXOPaZfeFZUQqTE_QcIrlU3YLMYeL83o/s1600/image2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqrAUZSiAmywg6q-KqzKPGYpd6qyJhlDK6XmCc2q_CLld5IiJu0JeGEyT2Pf-oLYIe58PMUN30AmokUsshS0K1rw4yFnaAtZcXQG3PQb6gJ-6oUXOPaZfeFZUQqTE_QcIrlU3YLMYeL83o/s640/image2.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
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You find me, dear reader, mid-tour. And it's a very happy place to be. Other, more jaded and cynical comedy schmucks might moan about the lonely hardships of touring, and sure, criss-crossing the country dragging two suitcases full of tricks behind you on the ever-unreliable public transport network, while not seeing your loved one as often as you might like, can be a downer, once I get to the show, it balances right out <i>and then some</i>.<br />
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I am, as I say towards the end of <b>"Showman"</b> not a famous person. I'm not on any comedy panel shows. My artform is still, despite my best efforts, pretty damn niche. But that's kinda good. It means that while I have to bust my ass to get the word out about my shows, and work hard to seduce people into buying a ticket, once I have them, I can deliver. My mission at the moment is to change minds. People look at my poster, maybe read something about me, perhaps look me up online, and they take a chance on me, and that's all I need. I'll work as hard and as funny as I can, and send them out at the end needing to tell their friends about me.<br />
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My most recent stop was at the newly created <a href="http://www.oldjointstock.co.uk/whats-on/birmingham-cabaret-festival" target="_blank">Birmingham Cabaret Festival</a> (and Birmingham peeps - there's still time to catch some awesome stuff in the fest, so GO), and I had a hell of a lot of fun there. I was also lucky enough to get a <a href="http://stagetalkmagazine.com/?p=7736" target="_blank">rather nice review</a>, which I will, if you'll permit me, quote a little of here..<br />
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Who doesn't like being called a rock star? Nobody, that's who. Thanks Birmingham :)</div>
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But the next date in my tour is the big one, the grandaddy. On the 3rd of June I'll be performing "Showman" for one night only at the <a href="http://www.londonwonderground.co.uk/whats-on/mat-ricardo-showman" target="_blank">London Wonderground</a>. A beautiful spiegeltent slap bang on the South Bank, right next to the Thames. I cannot wait.</div>
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This is and important one for me personally, and I'll tell you why...</div>
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There's me, grinning like a loon at my own billboard, as Al Murray gurns down at me menacingly. I wanted that picture taken for one specific reason. The Wonderground, my venue for the show, and the location of the billboard poster, is literally thirty seconds walk from where, not that many years ago, I used to do street shows. Every weekend, I'd lug my gear in from South London in the early morning, get in the queue of performers and sit on my suitcase for hours until it was my turn. Then I'd battle apathy, violent breakdancers, and the great British weather, to try to earn enough to pay the rent. It was simultaneously a beautiful way to make a living, and often a heartbreaking one. No feeling as good as going home with a backpack heavy with money from hats, and no feeling worse than knowing you cant pay the rent that month because, after waiting all day for your spot, it rained.<br />
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So it's about as literal a signifier as I could wish for. By returning to my old stomping ground, it literally shows me how far I've come. My wonderground show will be special, and it's my only London tour date for the rest of 2015, so please come, and bring your friends, and spread the word.<br />
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Let me change some minds and drop some jaws.<br />
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<a href="http://www.londonwonderground.co.uk/whats-on/mat-ricardo-showman" target="_blank">Click here for booking details.</a></div>
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<br />Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-29936583641636570962015-04-22T07:22:00.001-07:002015-04-22T07:42:06.252-07:00Holy Shit!It was that time of year again - WWE was in town, and lately that has meant a couple of things. Number one: Overly excited nights at the O2 arena with Mrs. Ricardo watching people beat the tar out of each other in variously entertaining and impressive ways. Number two: Getting my annual hang out with British wrestling legend and pal William Regal.<br />
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This year he was doing one of his <a href="http://www.eroscomedy.com/" target="_blank">spoken word shows</a> in London and had asked me to open for him, which I am always very happy and honoured to do. One of the lovely things about being "a turn", as regal would call it, is the ability to work anywhere. God knows I've done that - from the Palladium, to the lobby of a Tescos, I've been booked to play everywhere you could imagine, and to every audience. Very few audiences, however, are as great as a wrestling crowd.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3bQd63WYxX27DJSc0rLtUrB4YtLcDMg49dYA9DWJD6jaucSVkOYg02mgHBeJes5ZPekoFIUUltVDJcNF53vXsUElrBpK9XlwfIp0ccgzpJXYrpuoAZNuOMf9o6xMMIXeaGoW3FxzcutH/s1600/me+and+regal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3bQd63WYxX27DJSc0rLtUrB4YtLcDMg49dYA9DWJD6jaucSVkOYg02mgHBeJes5ZPekoFIUUltVDJcNF53vXsUElrBpK9XlwfIp0ccgzpJXYrpuoAZNuOMf9o6xMMIXeaGoW3FxzcutH/s1600/me+and+regal.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>Conventional wisdom states that in a basic wrestling match there are, in fact, four, equally important, participants - two wrestlers, the referee, and the crowd. They all talk to each other, and as a group, decide how the match goes. Wrestling audiences, when they're on form, can exhibit an amazing kind of group wit (As an example: in one of the shows at the O2 this year, when one of the grapplers was injured and was taken out on a stretcher, the entire audience started chanting "NHS! NHS!", which was, frankly, a hoot).<br />
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What this means is, that a wrestling audience realises that they can play with the performer. This isn't heckling - their goal isn't to stop the show, or steal the attention for themselves, but rather to add to it. So, during my spot, when I chastised an audience member for being too vague, the whole crowd started chanting "BE SPECIFIC! BE SPECIFIC!" at him, before dissolving into laughter. And then, when I put up one of my signature tricks,<a href="https://instagram.com/p/1koeshRXns/?taken-by=thematricardo" target="_blank"> this happened.</a> Which was great.<br />
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Anyway - thanks to everyone who came to see the great Mr. Regal - I hope you liked me too! If you did, please do come and see my one man show "Showman", I'm in Brighton, Birmingham, Gateshead, London and Yorkshire in the next few weeks - full details at the bottom of this post. Jaws dropped, GuaranDAMNteed. ;)<br />
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In the meantime, a couple of words about the WWE shows.. Notably enjoyable, these days, is watching current WWE womens division goth badass <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paige_%28wrestler%29" target="_blank">Paige</a>, who I first met when she was a tiny child running around backstage while I performed in an odd little comedy show with her mother, the equally feared and cool Saraya. Paige has both her mothers good looks and ferocity, and it's great watching her do so amazingly well on the big stage. It was also a pleasure to watch NXT star <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pac_%28wrestler%29" target="_blank">Neville</a> do his stuff in his home country. I'm a huge NXT fan, and remember watching Neville, when he had a different name, in a couple of British shows years ago. I think NXT has reinvigorated a lot of slightly jaded fans love of wrestling - that's certainly a little true for me, and it's amazing to see the talent that it's both attracting and developing.<br />
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Here's a few things my camera saw over the weekend...<br />
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And just before you go...<br />
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Here are the next few dates - click each one to be taken to the relevant info and booking page...<br />
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<a href="http://boxoffice.brightonfringe.org/cabaret/9607/mat-ricardo-showman" target="_blank">MAY 8TH - BRIGHTON FRINGE SPIEGELTENT</a><br />
<a href="http://www.oldjointstock.co.uk/whats-on/mat-ricardo" target="_blank">MAY 16TH - BIRMINGHAM CABARET FESTIVAL</a><br />
<a href="http://www.londonwonderground.co.uk/whats-on/mat-ricardo-showman" target="_blank">JUNE 3RD - LONDON WONDERGROUND</a><br />
<a href="http://www.jesterval.co.uk/2015-details/MatRicardo.html" target="_blank">JUNE 13TH - JESTERVAL COMEDY FESTIVAL, GATESHEAD</a><br />
<a href="http://www.holmfirthartsfestival.co.uk/" target="_blank">JUNE 16TH - HOLMFIRTH ARTS FESTIVAL</a><br />
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And here's what you can expect from the show...<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="https://player.vimeo.com/video/118526558" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> </div>
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If you like what I do, spread the word!Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-90174906858216046172015-02-10T04:39:00.001-08:002015-02-20T04:42:09.777-08:00Warm bath<div style="text-align: left;">
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After the ridiculous cocktail of anxiety and happiness that framed my run of <a href="https://vimeo.com/118526558" target="_blank">"Showman" at The Purcell Room</a> (And thank you <i>so much</i> for coming, if you did), it's was an easy pleasure to slide back into a weekend of doing some spots at a few London cabaret shows. Short sets are still my bread and butter, but you never know what you're going to get - they can be lovely and welcoming as a warm bath, or lary and unpredictable like a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XLXKJMj3aw" target="_blank">Jackie Chan fight scene</a>. Luckily for me, I was at the Cafe Royal for <a href="http://www.theblackcat.info/" target="_blank">Salon Des Artistes</a>, and Kettners for <a href="http://www.rubydeshabille.com/default" target="_blank">Ruby Deshabille's</a> <a href="http://www.kettners.com/whatson/sohos-high-societease/" target="_blank">High Societease</a> - both completely gorgeous, classy and uncomplicatedly pleasurable shows.<br />
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They both share similar vibes, too. Sometimes cabaret shows try, I think possibly a little too hard, to be edgy or dangerous or sexy, and often end up coming off like a French teenager on a day trip to London pretending to smoke a fake cigarette to look cool (An image that every other ex Covent Garden street performer will instantly recognise). Salon and Societease don't bother with that, instead just presenting assured, quality, grown-up bills of intimate high class cabaret. And by doing that, they create the gently evocative atmosphere of illicit fun that gives this artform its character. A pleasure for those both sides of the curtain.<br />
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I threw my camera into my prop case just before I left the house, so here's a few of the things it saw..<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I now have a signature cocktail! My work here is done.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abi Collins slays her fellow performers</td></tr>
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<br />
...and that's how you end a show.<br />
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Just before I sign off, it behooves me to mention that the first set of tour dates for <i><b>"Showman"</b></i> have now been announced. If you're not a Londoner, then maybe there's somewhere near you here, and if not, keep your eye on my<a href="https://twitter.com/matricardo" target="_blank"> twitter</a>, as there are more dates added all the time. Oh, and if you're a Londoner who missed out on the Southbank Centre shows, never fear, plans are brewing for something fun in London this Summer.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/118526558" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> </div>
<a href="http://vimeo.com/118526558"></a><br />
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<u><b>"SHOWMAN" 2015 Tour dates</b></u><br />
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30th March - <a href="https://farnhammaltings.com/events/mat-ricardo-showman/" target="_blank">Farnham Maltings, Surrey</a><br />
1st April - Arlington Arts Centre, Newbury<br />
2nd April - <a href="http://www.theploughartscentre.org.uk/" target="_blank">Plough Arts Centre, Great Torrington</a><br />
7th April - <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/www.devonportguildhall.org">Devonport Guildhall, Devonport</a><br />
8th April - <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/www.devonportguildhall.org">Devonport Guildhall, Devonpor</a>t<br />
10th April - <a href="http://www.squarechapel.co.uk/en/event/1311" target="_blank">Square Chapel Centre for the Arts, Halifax</a><br />
11th April - <a href="http://www.swayfield-village-groups.webeden.co.uk/#/village-hall/4549094709" target="_blank">Swayfield Village Hall</a><br />
8th May - <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/www.brightonfringe.org/box-office">Brighton Spiegeltent</a><br />
16th May - <a href="http://www.oldjointstock.co.uk/whats-on" target="_blank">Birmingham Cabaret Festival, Old Joint Stock Theatre</a><br />
13th June - <a href="http://www.seetickets.com/event/showman-mat-ricardo/baltic-square-gateshead/855492" target="_blank">Jesterval festival, Newcastle</a><br />
3rd December - Overpelt, Belgium<br />
4th December - Geel, Belgium<br />
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More info than you could possibly need, at my <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/" target="_blank">newly repainted website. </a>Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-26343845486664692392014-12-02T02:33:00.000-08:002014-12-02T02:35:31.741-08:00Life and death and Jojo's<div style="text-align: center;">
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Things die and other things are born and stuff evolves and that's the way of things. And, to be honest, usually I'm one of those people who kind shrugs and takes the stance that if one is going to like new things, then sometimes old things are going to disappear because that's just how life is. But sometimes there's a little more at play that natural evolution, and when it comes to city planning, there almost always is a lot more at play, and it's far from natural. I was part of the movement that successfully saved <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2011/dec/11/gabys-deli-theatreland-closure">Gabys Diner</a> from being swept aside to make way for a chain restaurant, but that kind of protest rarely succeeds. My treasured <a href="http://www.thegraphicfoodie.co.uk/2009/02/new-piccadilly-cafe-gone-but-not.html">New Piccadilly Cafe</a> is no more, victim of redevelopment, and now, a similar fate has befallen the wonderful <a href="http://www.madamejojos.com/history/">Madame Jojos</a>.<br />
<br />
Much has been written about how a violent incident involving doorstaff was what closed it down, which is technically true, but you don't have to listen to hard to pick up the whispers of possible dodginess. Well, I've never been much for whispering, so I'll say it out loud. It stinks. Some of the key door staff in the incident didn't even work for Jojo's, they came from neighboring businesses. Jojo's were told to change the management and take on a whole new, council approved, door team - which they did. And yet, even after complying with all demands, their license was still revoked, swiftly and without debate. Put this together with the fact that public records clearly show a plan to demolish Jojo's and replace it with new, lucrative retail units that was drawn up long before the incident ever happened, and it doesn't take Woodward and Bernstein to figure out that this whole affair looks exactly as crooked and cynical as you'd expect. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's just my cynical paranoid mind at work. Or maybe a Tory council and real estate developers just ain't the most ethical of motherfuckers.<br />
<br />
Either way, it's done. Nail hit. Coffin door secured a little more firmly.<br />
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A spokesbot from Westminister council is quoted thus: <i>“Westminster is rightly proud that Soho is now a safer area for people to live, work and play. It is not something we will apologise for.”</i>. Well, I don't doubt their reticence to apologise for anything, at all, ever, but I think this says, perhaps, more than was intended. Here's the thing, cities <i>should</i> have areas that are a little..rough. It's part of the fabric of a city. There should be places that aren't ideal for kids. There should be a couple of streets that are mainly for grown ups - that offer grownup pleasures, grownup thrills, and sometimes grownup dangers. It's cultural texture. If you make a whole city family friendly, then you become like a parent who smears anti-bacterial gel all over their kid, every time they touch anything that fell on the floor. You think you're doing the right thing, but as soon as that kid catches a cold, they're going to drop dead. Allow the exaggeration, to make my point, won't you?<br />
<br />
On top of that, I adore the fantasy that chain stores and high end dining = safer. Like nobody's ever been mugged outside a Wahaca, that shit only happens near McDonalds. Such low-grade misdirection that the council hopes will take our attention away from the gorgeous new linings of their pockets.<br />
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Oh well. It's tragic, and boring, and shite, but the shows will go on, have no fear about that. Just like always, the travelling circus will just find a new place in which to pitch its tent. Crowds will follow, and the shows will thrive. We're flexible, like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VqHSbMR_udo">Bruce Lee's water</a>, and that makes us strong.<br />
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For me, I played Jojo's pretty regularly, usually as part of the excellent <a href="http://www.magicnight.co.uk/">Magic Night</a>, but also, over the years, with the lovely <a href="http://www.thefollymixtures.co.uk/">Folly Mixtures</a>, or in Bete Noire, or with the mighty Chutzpah and Hagen, and I never had a bad gig there. I'd bounce on stage, get my first laugh by noticing the low ceiling, and we'd be off and running. It was such a strange shape room, you could play the people in the pit right by the stage off against the folks way back by the bar, to the amusement of the people sitting down in between. The crowds were always lovely, but just on the cusp of considering the possibility of being lary, which meant you couldn't sleepwalk through your set, you had to deliver. I do love that in a venue. I knew I'd done good if I could stare through my own reflection in Andy's sound booth to see him cackling away. That was a nice feeling.<br />
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We had a..well..there were differing labels attached to it..was it a protest? A procession? A vigil? A funeral? Whatever it was, it was good, and a couple of hundred retro and reprobates, dressed in their finest, paraded a coffin through soho. I figured many passers by might have thought it was a genuine funeral of a soho character, at least until the coffin was upended and dumped in Jojo's doorway, where, hilariously, the lone security guard inside started freaking out that he might be trapped inside. Lols were had.<br />
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Then there was drinking and chips and chatting in a pub nearby and the sense of family that often exists in this little community was felt. And I didn't get a chance to tell Abigail O'Neil what a great job she'd done organising it all, so I'm doing it now.<br />
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And then, as if to re-enforce the fact that the show must, indeed, go on, I jumped on the tube and got myself over to Acton to perform at The Aeronaut. Packed house, cool acts, lovely (and quite new) venue, and snakes! One venue dies, another thrives. So there is, at least, that.<br />
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Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8764786763979427673.post-20886726936152147932014-11-18T08:02:00.000-08:002014-11-18T08:02:40.144-08:00Before your very eyes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Back in the day, it used to be
different.</div>
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Back in the day, conventional wisdom
said that you'd toil for years, decades even, on the road. Leaving
flopsweat footprints on creaky stages across the country, setting up
that nightly payment of your dues, making friends and enemies,
finding and losing lovers and agents, as you criss-crossed the map
doing your thing. Squinting through cheap spotlights at a fresh set
of faces in the darkness every night, and, if you were good, if you
were lucky, sending them back home as fans. Slowly, you changed minds,
made strangers into believers, one half empty auditorium at a time,
until you got the call. Then, with your pedigree proven and your suit
pressed, you got a shot on telly.</div>
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Your colleagues would suck at their
teeth at the news, knowing, as did you, that you were faced with a
choice. Did you do your best stuff, the song that had almost become
your catchphrase, the trick that people clapped you on the back and
shook their head with disbelief at, and, by putting it in front of so
many gogglebox-fixated eyeballs, render it useless for future live
work? Or would you only give 'em your B-material – don't run the
risk – save the good stuff for the crowds that had made you, and
that would see you into another few years? Would you dance with the one that brought you, or do the old switcheroo?</div>
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But here's the thing: I'm pretty sure
that conventional wisdom is wrong on this one.</div>
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Television is often cited as one of the
main contributing factors to the death of music hall and variety, and
I think it's pretty obvious what a crock this is. For a start, it's
fairly well documented that greedy venue managers started to realise
that they could book a couple of these new-fangled rock & roll
bands into their hall, paying just for two acts, rather than a whole
mixed bill of performers, and by doing so, attract a younger
audience. Bands would work for less, because the more fans they could
create, the more records they'd sell the next week. That was the
killer heart punch to variety – the re-purposing of the stage as a
place to promote another product, to a whole new market, the
teenager.</div>
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But surely TV didn't do any good? Well,
all I can really do is relate my own experience. I've done one of my
signature tricks on some pretty <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10eyL26FjO0">high profile shows</a>, and my live work
is going better than ever - although there has been a discernible
change in my audience reaction, and I think its very telling. A few
years ago, before my reverse-tablecloth trick had infected your
screens quite as extensively as it has done since, I'd pull the
cloth, get the applause, and as I'd prepare to put the cloth back on,
they'd be a nice feeling of happily confused expectation in the
audience. They knew something was coming, but they had no ideas what.
When it happened, it was a surprise. These days, in pretty much every
crowd I work to – at least in this country – as I get ready to
put the cloth back on, there is – and I promise you this is true –
a completely tangible feeling from a section of the audience of <i>“Oh
shit, it's that guy”</i> - they realise, in a split second, that I'm
the guy a few of them have seen on TV do that trick, and then they
realise that they're about to see it live, and they get excited.</div>
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And that's the key. I think, these days
more than ever, when people see a million incredible things on
youtube before lunch, that to see one of those things live – before
your very eyes – has gained in value. I imagine those people
telling their friends - <i>“You know that guy we saw do that
tablecloth thing on youtube? He was at the show last night! He did it
right in front of me!”</i>. I think that the more opportunities to see
things on screens there are, the more prestige there is in seeing
something right in front of your nose.</div>
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Screens didn't kill variety, but they
are helping revive it.</div>
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Which is why I've been enjoying making
some little bits of video to put up online. It's a fun, creative
process, and people who enjoy the videos might well seek me out in a
live show. And besides, we're supposed to be makers right? It's
possible to make little movies with cheap equipment you can put in
your pocket. Why would I not want to do that?</div>
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In only slightly unrelated news, I was
told recently that a fairly well-known burlesque and cabaret producer
thought the only thing I did was pull tablecloths. I'm currently
touring my third <a href="http://www.matricardo.com/#press">hour-long one man show</a>, which is full of bottles,
hats, canes, electric carving knives, yoyos, bowling balls, and no I don't,
so far, have a routine with a kitchen sink but it can only be a
matter of time. I work pretty hard at creating new pieces and pushing
the boundaries of my art form as much as I can, so I'd be a liar if I
said it wasn't frustrating when someone who, frankly, should know
better, writes me off as a one-tricky pony. Not that I'm not proud of
that bit of business, you understand. So I guess that's another
reason that I'm enjoying infecting the internet with little video
calling cards – hopefully it'll remind people the breadth of what I
do. Anyhoo: whinge over.</div>
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It's been a great month – did my last
few 2014 tour dates in a beautiful spiegeltent at the Canterbury
festival, and in some gorgeous venues around the Lake District. My
mind is still happily boggled when I walk out on stage and find a
room full of people who have chosen to spend their hard earned money
on a ticket to my show. I couldn't be happier when that happens, and
hopefully it'll happen a lot more next year: <b>“Showman”</b> comes to
the <a href="http://www.mimelondon.com/mat_ricardo2015.html">Purcell Room in London's South Bank Centre</a> in late January, (Which is INSANE) and
plans are in place for some more tour dates in spring 2015. Can't bloody wait.</div>
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Between now and then, I'll be popping up at lots of burlesque and cabaret shows, supporting the brilliant <a href="http://www.thepuppinisisters.com/">Puppini Sisters</a> at the Garrick Theatre in the West End, oh, and if you're in Germany, you'll be able to see me do my hat & cane routine as part of the <a href="http://www.pba.be/fr/saison1314/183/gala-rire-sur-la-ville">Rire Sur La Ville comedy gala</a> which will be broadcast on RTL sometime over Christmas. It was full of very famous Europeans, who I didn't know, so it felt weird, but the lighting was gorgeous, so I'm looking forward to seeing how it looks!</div>
Mat Ricardohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348863140830436960noreply@blogger.com0