claytoncast

The other week I found myself in Portugal. In a room with six hundred people. Yesterday it was Waterloo, just one person across a table. Both were meetings, and both worked. It’s strange how different these feel compared to Zoom or Teams. Those little squares on a screen always remind me of Celebrity Squares — for those of us old enough to remember it — only with less glamour and more broadband problems. Neat, tidy, very modern, but relating to people like that is a bit like looking through a stamp collection. Ordered, but no sense of life. In a room you feel things. You notice the air shift when people laugh, the little glance that says “yes, I’m with you,” or the silence that says “no, you’ve lost me.” It’s messy, it’s unpredictable, it’s human. And it’s where work actually gets done. I’ve been watching the COVID inquiry — the Boris Comedy Act, as it’s become — with its endless admissions of what went wrong. We talk about ruined education for thousands of children, but I can’t ...

At this time of year my mind always drifts back to school. New satchel, polished shoes, the faint smell of pencil shavings. And it’s been rather like that this past month — a busy time, conferences everywhere, me scurrying round with my homework in hand. Portugal was the big one. My biggest every year. And, in the end, it was rather marvellous. Everyone acquitted themselves, as my old headmaster used to say, and there were some brilliant touches. Chief among them, an interview with the racing driver Billy Munger. Inspiring, honest, authentic — and truly moving. The sort of lad who makes you feel you could climb Everest before breakfast, or at least manage the hill up to Marks & Spencer without wheezing. Back home I landed on the rarest of rare things — an on-time British Airways flight. Almost a miracle. I was still savouring that when the phone went at baggage claim. Lexus. Always Lexus. The part they’d promised to fit on Tuesday has been “back-ordered”. Which, near as I can t...

When I’m in rehearsals with my director’s hat on, my job is simple: create a space where actors can be their best. They’ll do it differently to me—sometimes wildly differently—but that’s the joy. There’s no point in giving line readings or barking orders. I can offer tips, I can validate, I can occasionally mutter, “Perhaps try it without the limp this time,” but above all, I need to let them flourish. I have a single rule: I never ask actors to do anything I wouldn’t do myself. Which means trapeze, horseback, and bicycles are all out. I’ve attempted at least one of those in the past, and the less said the better. (Picture me in a harness, dangling like an apologetic ham, and you’ll get the idea.) It struck me recently that this is the same in the workplace. If you’re a leader in a company, you’re asking your staff to perform. But here’s the test: would you, yourself, do what you’re asking of them? This thought crystallised during my recent excursion into the seventh circle of he...

Most people, if they’re lucky, only do three or four job interviews in their life. A couple of shifts here, a rung or two up the ladder there, and before you know it you’re in a swivel chair with a pension scheme and a lanyard. Lovely. For actors, it’s different. We do them all the time. Weekly, sometimes daily. Except we don’t call them interviews. We call them auditions. These days, that often means a self-tape — two syllables that strike more fear into the average actor than “tax return”. Picture the scene: you, in front of the only bit of white wall in your flat that isn’t cracked, crooked or adorned with a poster of Les Mis. You’re trying to summon the emotions of a broken man while balancing your phone on a stack of cookbooks and praying the neighbour’s dog doesn’t start yapping during your big moment. You send it off, you wait, you hear nothing. Then weeks later you’re watching telly with a digestive and a cuppa when there it is — the very job you auditioned for, being play...

In my grandparents’ shop in the Soviet Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire, debt wasn’t so much a matter of money as a sort of permanent fixture — like the weighing scales or the flypaper. Nobody thought of it as debt. It was just “tick,” and everybody had some. The shop was the beating heart of the village, and part of that was letting people have things on trust until Friday. Mrs Whittaker, say, popping in for her twenty Park Drive, would be told by my mother — or my grandmother, depending on whose turn it was — “Oh, and there’s six and seven on your slate.” If Mrs Whittaker paid up, fine. If she didn’t, my mother would sigh in the manner of someone taking on an additional personal bereavement and say, “All right, love. But I will be putting your name in the window.” I never recall her actually doing it, though the possibility was enough to keep the village in a state of mild moral vigilance. In a mining community where everybody knew everybody’s business — and some of their unde...

When I left the Soviet Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire at eighteen — tender, earnest and armed with a suitcase full of ambition and socks — I went to Manchester to study drama. Three years of Chekhov, Gorky, tragedy, comedy, and the occasional play that wasn’t an act of national endurance. I thought I was embarking on a life of art. I didn’t realise I was also embarking on a life of accounts. Yet here I am, decades later, still keeping ledgers. Not metaphorical ones — actual, black-and-red, hard-backed ledgers. Bought annually, with all the quiet ceremony of a religious observance, from the sort of stationer that also sells brown string and those pens you have to lick. We had a marvellous tutor at drama school called John McGregor — an actor who’d once played Cornwall in Lear and had the receipts to prove it. He taught us on Friday mornings, not about Ibsen or inner truth, but about the tax-deductible nature of fake beards. It was John who first explained that keeping track of ...

We’ve just returned from holiday. And if you asked whether I’d go away again tomorrow, I’d say yes—not for sun or sea or spiritual replenishment, but because I’d need another holiday to recover from the one just gone. Not the destination. Madeira was, in a word, sublime. Mountains above clouds, sunsets like oil paintings, a sort of dignified warmth that didn’t singe the scalp. Even the famous wicker toboggan ride—lunacy in a linen hat—was delightful. No, the trouble wasn’t the island. It was the journey. And by “the journey,” I mean British Airways. Though if we’re being honest, British Airways has become more of a concept than a company—a sort of floating rumour of service with the occasional aircraft attached. We stayed overnight at Gatwick. Business class—our little indulgence. Not for the champagne, but in the faint hope someone might actually answer a question. At 6.25pm we arrived, to find a queue that could only be described as biblical. If Moses had parted these people, he’d...

It’s that time again: the holiday. Or a holiday, I should say. I hesitate to make it sound more momentous than it is. Holidays for me have never been great set-piece events, carefully rationed out in annual quotas, as they are for most respectable people. I’ve always taken the view that if an opportunity for a few days away presents itself, it should be grabbed — like a reduced pork pie on a supermarket counter. That said, my partner Brayden has a proper job. You know, emails, policies, and somebody called Deborah in HR who approves his holiday requests. So we can’t just swan off as and when. We have to pick our moment, like a vicar choosing his text. This year, aside from a quick week in New York which barely counts — more an exercise in walking and ordering coffee wrong — we’ve not been away. So we’re off next Saturday. Madeira. Now, Madeira — if I’m being honest — has always existed for me primarily as a punchline in Up Pompeii — that wonderful seventies sitcom where Frankie Hower...

Fear No More the Heat of the Sun (Cymbeline Act IV sc2) Living on a boat, as we do, you become rather more aware of the weather than your average house-dweller. They check an app and think “Showers. I’ll wear my cagoule.” We, meanwhile, live it. We hear it. We occasionally have to mop it up with an old towel and a resigned expression. In winter, we go full cosy. There’s the reliable hum of central heating, the cheer of a decent wood-burner, and the comforting percussion of rain on a cambered roof. It’s like living inside one of those nostalgic Channel 5 Christmas films—only without the snow budget or the Canadian actors pretending to be British. There’s a smugness in being warm when the world outside looks like a scene from Chernobyl: The Musical. But come spring, we begin to crave the change. A proper sunny day—deck doors open, light pouring in, shirtsleeves and sunglasses at 6pm—feels like reward for good behaviour. Recently, we’ve had a string of such days. The kind of late s...

I’ve always read in bed. Always. For as long as I can remember, really—since before the age when memories begin to settle into things you could recount. It’s never felt like a habit. More like an instinct. A deeply ingrained, highly enjoyable ritual, as natural as brushing your teeth, only infinitely more rewarding. In the little back bedroom of my parents’ house—next to their shops in the Soviet Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire—my first lamp stood on a marble-topped wash-hand stand. The only other furniture was my bed and a chest of drawers that looked like it had given up trying. The lamp itself was a silver lady, balancing on one leg, arm raised to the heavens, in the manner of the Rolls-Royce Spirit of Ecstasy, only this one had a perforated purple lampshade and an air of resignation. It was by her light that I discovered my first loves: Enid Blyton, the Fife-Finder Outers, the Seven Seeker Uppers, and Alfred Hitchcock Investigates—anything in a series. I was mad for a serie...

For the second time in my life, I have bought a new car. I say that with the kind of pride usually reserved for first-time parents or those who manage to grow tomatoes in hanging baskets. Most of my twenties were spent driving my dad’s cast-offs — including a white Ford Escort estate, which felt less like a car and more like a penance. I ask you: a white Ford Escort estate. It was less “motor vehicle” and more “mobile filing cabinet.” Then came a series of small, second-hand affairs: a green 2CV that got me through a year in Stratford — though the first time I pressed the accelerator, it went through the floor like a cartoon. That was followed by a bright orange Mini called Sebastian who gamely carried me through late-night rehearsals and even later-night chips in Soho. After Sebastian, there was Tristram Polo — a tank by comparison. Tristram was the scene of a minor disagreement with the law over the alcohol content of a bottle of Pinot Grigio. He was sold off quietly and cheaply, li...

Last week we had a night away in Rotherham's only boutique Hotel while attending a fundraiser for Grimm and Co. This is the review I posted on Trip Advisor. Trying to be a good read while also warning people of the experience. Trip Advisor dont like reviews that are "not relevant to your stay" so they asked me to edit it. I did, but thought the real thing deserved a wider audience Hotel Review: The George Wright Boutique Hotel, Rotherham Three stars for effort, two for execution, and one for the bath on a plinth. As the patron of a children’s charity based in Rotherham—my home town—I occasionally return to support local events, and recently found myself back for a gala dinner in aid of children’s literacy. And where better to stay than Rotherham’s sole stab at central boutique accommodation: The George Wright Hotel, tucked coyly behind the High Street as though slightly ashamed of itself. The first challenge is simply getting in. The main entrance is a narrow alleywa...

Well, here we are. Sixty-eight. Not one of your grandstanding ages. Not a nice, neat multiple of ten, not a coming-of-age, not an “over-the-hill”—though, let’s be honest, the hill is well and truly behind me now, and I’ve been strolling down the other side for a good while. But sixty-eight, I think, is a respectable sort of age. It’s solid. It’s lived-in. It’s like a comfortable old armchair—the stuffing’s gone a bit, but it still holds together, and when you sit in it, it feels like home. The thing about birthdays is that people expect you to look back. To tot it all up, weigh your successes against your failures, and see if you come out ahead. And I suppose at sixty-eight, I’m happy to say I do. Just about. There have been some personal lows—times when life gave me a bit of a kicking and didn’t even have the decency to let me get my breath back before the next one came along. But there have also been highs, and I find those tend to linger longer in the memory. At sixty-eight, the...

One of the more vivid memories of my childhood—apart from the time my mother tried to pass off a steamed sponge pudding as a birthday cake—is Bob-a-Job Week. It was a fixture of my existence as a Cub Scout, along with short trousers in winter and an unconvincing ability to tie knots. For those unfamiliar, a bob was a shilling (or twelve old pence, which, to anyone under forty, will sound like the sort of currency that required a wheelbarrow to transport). A job was exactly that—a task, a chore, an activity that adults could have quite easily done themselves but were instead willing to delegate to small boys in woggles for a negligible fee. The setup was simple: for one week in the school holidays, our Cub Pack would be set loose upon the village, clutching work cards, a sheaf of yellow stickers, and an earnest little speech from Akela about the virtues of public service. The aim was to secure as many Bob-a-Jobs as possible—anything from sweeping a garden path to washing a car or, i...

February has been a month of small victories. The fire has stayed in overnight. The canal hasn’t frozen. We have, against all odds, acquired houseplants. Winter on Scout, our widebeam boat, is not a matter of making do. It is, in fact, a very good life—one of warmth, ritual, and a steady supply of tea. We are not hardy survivalists, braving the elements with nothing but grit and a thermal vest. The fire, tended with the kind of care usually reserved for pedigree dogs, keeps the cabin warm, and the mornings—far from being the teeth-chattering ordeal some imagine—are quite pleasant. Brayden, braver of the two of us, is first up, stirring the embers and setting the kettle on, while I remain in bed, offering moral support from under the duvet. Outside, the world goes about its business. Ducks skid across the canal like poorly trained ice skaters. Dog-walkers in hats with bobbles stomp past, hands buried deep in pockets. Inside, we drink coffee and discuss whether the stove needs anoth...

How wonderful it is to be drawing to the end of January. Not, I should say, because I’m one to wish away time—no, I wouldn’t dream of it. But January always does seem a bit of a slog, doesn’t it? I’m well aware it may sound ungrateful to admit it, especially when I’ve had rather a lot to occupy me this month: two conferences, a handful of radio jobs, and even a couple of excellent nights out at the theatre. (I must mention Kyoto at Soho Place, which was not just good, but beyond brilliant. The kind of production that lingers.) And yet, I find the knowledge that February is peering round the corner rather heartening. There’s something in that first turning of the calendar year, the blank pages of January, that feels slightly unsettling. Too much time spent not quite knowing where one stands. Of course, for freelancers like me, that sense of uncertainty has its own peculiar sting. A busy Christmas season is one thing, but a January devoid of bookings—well, that’s quite another. It does ...