Monday 1 March

Of which more on. A mixed bag are we. Most of us appear to be budding young actors fresh out of these Drama Schools we hear of. But standards at such institutions have recently risen to such a degree that we can’t always judge by appearances when it comes looking their alumni in the eye. A perfectly charming creature may approach us, claiming to have studied at Bolton College of Mime (incorporating Whitehaven Wind Farm), only for a closer inspection (fingernails, dah-link) to reveal him to be an attendee of Oldham’s working Mineshaft Theatre of the Blacking-up. Likewise, a sturdy lad who claims he’s here only for ‘a pie and a laugh and another pie if chance be upon us’ might in fact be a recruit of the new school of Espionage and Spycraft that hasn't just opened up near the city council’s Ministry of Love.

One or two older chaps (if older can be applied to a late-blooming 29 or 30) have clearly sneaked in so that they may network with the more established members of the cast; their acting careers already having something of the stale bun about them. It is these fellows who may be seen lounging around in the corners of our dressing room (yes, our VERILY OWN dressing room – with twenty names upon the door in black and white!), trying not to stimulate their invisible wrinkles while reading of ‘that bastard’s’ success in second-hand editions of Stage. You’d be too polite to say it, but as an amateur hack I perchance complain more than you’d like about this writing business; yet to see these chaps is to realize that time remains – remarkably enough – upon my side. It is these boys who must thrust themselves, pelvis-first, into the limelight when given half-the-chance; they who must pay their agents a quarter of their wages (a bit rich even given the convenience of maintaining one outside of London town). The knockbacks suffered in their short careers weigh heavy on their stooped shoulders; highlight the irony that an actor’s body must be kept upright and nimble for eternity and they will give you a look so withering that it almost melts your make-up.

So it may not surprise you to learn that Dempson and I stick with the marginally older crowd, backstage at the Exchange, where boiler-suits hang and chains await us beside fake muck for our feet – those who, perhaps surprisingly, have least to lose and so get most excited about this great big dressing up adventure. By day we may be full-time dads or social workers or council bigwigs – by night we play out together. It is all in the game, as they say. It is a four-star triumph, say the Manchester Guardian, after ‘our’ press night performance this evening. We supernumeraries hang out after our shuffling feet have done their business, but the glamorous 'after-show' appears limited to some crisped potatoes and a selection of celebrities too local for my taste, while the free booze appears to have been taken by those schemers at the Ministry of (drunk men speaketh the) Truth.