Hard to believe that the 24-7 Festival is eight years old this week. Brilliant of course, because it's now one of the highlights of the theatre calendar. But flashback to 2004, and nobody really believed that Manchester needed a fringe theatre festival - particularly one devoted to new writing. How wrong we were.
During the very first festival, I wrote and appeared in 'Detox Mansion', a black comedy about a Hollywood actor who accidentally kills a prostitute, and gets involved in a cover-up, orchestrated by his slimy agent. The play was loosely inspired by the self-destructive life of trashy Hollywood producer Don Simpson, as revealed in the jaw-dropping tome 'High Concept.' The play was intended as a stupid romp - nothing more - and there wasn't much in the way of depth. That said, a lot of people thought it hilarious, it was brilliantly directed (by Ian Townsend), and featured some killer one-liners: I recall one particular zinger about a porn film called 'Amish Gang Bang', which still makes me laugh. Well, you had to be there.
In those days, 24-7 revolved around the gruesome Printworks, one of the most soulless places in Manchester. Let's be honest, the Printworks - with its blaring music, crap food outlets, plastic bars and plastic people - was not designed as a theatre venue. 'Detox Mansion' was staged in a defunct night-club called Babushka (ay-ay). During one performance, some hateful oaf and his tarty, fake tanned girlfriend talked throughout, smoked a few fags, and then left early. Both seemed utterly bewildered by what was happening on stage; I'm guessing they had stumbled in by accident (and I bet they went to Nando's afterwards).
On Thursday night, Babushka (ay-ay) went into liquidation: There was still one performance left. On the Friday afternoon, I received a phone call from Amanda Hennessy, informing us that we would have to perform in the Tiger Tiger nightclub instead. We had forty minutes to re-block the play. Talk about living on nervous energy. That particular space had an industrial sized air vent in the ceiling which couldn't be switched off. 'Blow wind and crack your cheeks!' Ironically, in spite of the difficult conditions, it turned out to be the best performance of the week - though the sheer stress of the production served to drain any enjoyment I might otherwise have experienced.
Obviously I'm a glutton for punishment because in 2005 I submitted another play, 'Lovesick', in which I played a wife beating psychotherapist. In all honesty, it was the worst theatrical experience of my life. The Midland Hotel was used that year - a much nicer venue - though the problems lay elsewhere. Through a circuitous series of links, I managed to get a director on board; the chief drawback was that he was moving to Paris, and could only part commit to the project (and he was directing another play alongside). On the plus side, he knew an actress who would be perfect to play the lead role. I won't reveal her name though I will call her Mrs Rubbish. She was more than up for acting in the play - so much that she was even prepared to cancel her pre-booked holiday to Ibiza. Liar! At the last minute, she decided to go anyway, arriving back in England a week before opening night. Mrs Rubbish had promised she would be word perfect upon return. Liar 2! She only knew about half the script.
Opening night. I still have flashbacks. Industry people call it 'the loop'; that moment when an actor repeats an earlier line, and drags the rest of the cast back to the start of the scene. Which is what Mrs Rubbish did. A decade long pause followed, and she looked at me like the proverbial rabbit trapped in headlights. Somehow, I managed to get us back on track, resisting my instincts to strangle her in front of an audience. As the week dragged on, relations between Mrs Rubbish and the rest of the cast deteriorated to the point where, off stage, we hardly spoke to one another. It was clear she regretted committing to the project, and couldn't wait to leave after the curtain call; towards the end of one performance, she was in such a hurry, she accidentally pulled down a curtain rail. So unprofessional dahlink!
Some new writing big-wigs (including the jolly old BBC) came to watch the Thursday matinee. This was the one where technical problems kept the audience waiting in the dark (literally) for 15 minutes before the start (the director had left for France by this time). Halfway through, a spotlight blew and Mrs Rubbish delivered her big monologue in silhouette. Deservedly so. What else? The main technician somehow succeeded in playing the music cues at the wrong tempo; it was as if the venue had been taken over by Alvin and the Chipmunks.
In his annual theatre review, Giles Haworth had this to say: 'I had no idea where it was going or how it got there.' I should put that one on my CV.
In the two years afterwards, I gave 24-7 a wide berth. I've only just finished therapy. Teething problems aside, I'm glad 24-7 has found its feet. Now that it's here, we all know how much we would miss if it disappeared. Next year I'm going to submit Lovesick 2. You have been warned ...
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