The Fool Enters Stage-Right Accompanied by the PlayersMature

I need to make a confession.

I am truly sorry.

Please forgive me.

I failed the mission yesterday! However, this blog entry will heal this. "Why?!" I hear you bellow loudly at your computer screen with spit splashing all over the monitor. Some of you have went into seclusion and never want contact with any human being again. I understand but I must say, you are over-reacting. Let me tell my side of the story first. Blimey, you'll jump in my grave quicker!

It was an English lesson in which we were discussing the hilarious novel (I was the only one who seemed to enjoy it) Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons. I was tired and wiped out from the Theatre Studies preparation; there is an examination on Friday, oh joy; can you pick up sarcasm via the interweb? A good friend of mine whom I have known for many a year walked up to me smugly. He had read the blog. "So Dan, do you like the BNP?" I was tired and confused remember. "No, I hugely dislike the feckless idiots!" was my instant response. Oh dear.

So Mr Donlon, here is my response to your earlier question:

"Yes I do like the BNP because they remind me that the world is still full of ignorant shites therefore I must not be a bad person after all." Happy?

***
Rehearsal beckoned. I was to play a murder-ee, rapist and gay Nazi that night. The wonders of Oswaldtwistle Players, eh? The cast of "Arturo Ui" (shortened title) crammed together in the upstairs room of St Mary's Parish Centre, Lock Street AKA the pub. Whilst acting the genius of Brecht, the thespians (no, not that! THespians) could share a pint or two of the finest ale.
A bloke called Dann, who feels it makes him special to spell it with two "n's", approached with a glint in either eye. This was known as the crocodile tears in the trade. This is a man whom I had spoken kindly of in prior entries. Alas, it is no more. "I read your blog." he stated with authority. The man can read! Now that's a surprise. "Can you buy me a pint of lager?" He smiled wickedly. Obviously he had not expected my infamous rapier wit. "But Dann," I boomed loudly so the bar lady heard clearly, "I am 16 years of age. I am under-age when it comes to alcohol therefore it would be against the law." He shuffled away embarrassed. Now, dear reader, that is what they call a "BOO-YAH!"
"Oh Sheet!" cried an actor in his role of a cauliflower salesman representing Nazi Germany although the play is set in Chicago (no, me neither). I was sitting content waiting for my cue. I was prepared for my big entrance. "You know that you have to say yes to everything?" enquired Dann. Where on Earth did he come from? "I could stop the mission right here right now. Dan, could you stop saying yes to everything?" Bastard.
Wow. He used his brainpower. I could never think of that. But...wait...he would stop the...Swine. "Nah, instead can I try this fake blood wound on you?" Why yes you can, Mr Allan.
Fifteen minutes later, I had a tissue diamond stuck on the back of my hand by PVA glue covered in numerous drops of red food colouring. "Dan, can you not wash it off?" ARGH! The director summoned me over. He looked me in the eyes and then at my hand. "What the hell is that?" he asked cautiously; this was not the first time something unusual had happened with the Allan brothers and I. "Dann." I simply answered. He nodded his head in sympathy. "Can you wash it off?" he asked. My saviour. "Of course I can."
I wandered into the back of the public house/parish centre/thing. There was a single light bulb swinging from the ceiling creating shadows wherever its direction was. Each step I made, creaked on the deteriorating floorboards. Dust flew through the air and tickled the back of my throat. I eventually reached the toilet and the holy grail, the sink. I felt like Macbeth trying to wash the blood from his hands; it felt like I had committed a murder. Be gone, PVA glue! Do not clog up the drain! Blood, leave thy skin! My concentration was suddenly diverted. A small cough behind me confirmed someone else's presence. I turned 360 degrees around. "Erm...it's not what it looks like."
What a day! All because of one man and yes, I am laying the blame pretty heavily on one man's shoulders. You deserve it. I also have to - Banksy style which makes it slightly exciting - graffiti the college Oscars posters with mini pictures of Dann on the statuette photo. One last note...
I crept down the stairs wanting to make my exit swiftly. I was about to pounce.
"Dan! Can you get me a pint of lager and Dann a glass of Coke?" ordered Jo. Dann had told her my misadventures.
IOU.
The End

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