Keeping In trim

One of the things about being an actor is keeping your mind, body and spirit in tip top condition. You never know what job will beckon next. A gymnastic Faust. A underwater Hamlet. A Bold commercial set in 1915 on the Somme. So it is imperative that you keep your body, mind and spirit honed, sharp and ready for anything.

Throughout the ages many actors have striven to find the ultimate workout regime, from Thespis’ kicking Romans in the shins and running away to Sir Henry Irving who legend has it used to hang upside down from Putney bridge when not employed. Of course, there are ways of exercising not ultimately involving lions or being a hazard to shipping, and one of those is the ancient, noble art of d’ong wang.

Based on the martial art, d’ong wang is over 20,000 years old and boasts just as many mysteries. It is rumoured the Pharoahs themselves practised it, and they still look as young today as they did then. Proof indeed that this is the pinnacle of internal and external cleansing.

To practice this, one must lie on the floor and try and make a perfect circle. This is the paradox of d’ong wang, because as we all know it is impossible. It is the method by which we accept all things are not possible, and something things are not only beyond our mortal reach, but likely to do your back in.

Then the second move. A highly complex and symbolic ritual, involving chanting, interpretational dance and a not inconsequential amount of excrement. (I should point out this is not something to practice on a shagpile). This is the cleansing, the abolition of pride, the banishment of self-restraint. This is the very essence of being, where innermost longing, deeply embedded memory and the relinquishment of the constraints of societal rules are exposed and expunged. It’s also a bit smelly.

Then, and only then, is the subject ready for the main event, or as we call it ‘t’bizinez’. The voyage into the unconscious can be an arduous one, especially if you have lead a life like mine. Faces popping up that you had forgotten about, demanding you leave them alone, angry theatre managers, Trevor Nunn. You must travel past them, past the empty seats on a Wednesday Matinee, past Richard Dawkins appearing to be praying for the play to end, past the Sunday Times theatre reviewer whose name you cannot remember but who was instrumental in your not only closing on the first night, but never being able to enter Colchester or its’ suburbs again, and certainly not to attend any livestock displays. At the end of the ordeal is the door. The door to self. The door which, when passed through, all things are possible. An eternity of possibilities. A ceilingless realm where you can ascend to take your place with the acting Gods – or what ever occupation you are in.

It is the most alive I have felt in years, and the eighty five pounds is surely well spent, despite what the Daily Telegraph says. Although I did reach the door tonight only to discover I had left my keys on the hall sideboard.