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History ensemble member Nick Asbury on being a hypochondriac...
Battle of Barnet
I didn't write at all last week, firstly because it was Press Day and Night for the Henry VIs and Richard III, and secondly because I caught one in Barnet.
 No, this is not the story of a dodgy encounter at the end of the Northern Line. I got smacked over the bridge of my right hand in the Battle of Barnet. This, let me remind you, is the fight towards the end of Henry VI Part III when Warwick is killed and fifteen guys with broadswords fight on the stage at the same time. It's bloody dangerous at the best of times. Each move of the sword and move of the body is carefully choreographed by the master, Terry King, so that it is safe, but mishaps can happen. I got a sword round the shoulder about two years ago doing the same fight and others have had little nicks and near misses (which could be the title of my autobiography). It almost invariably comes at the end of a very long day of performance so minds and bodies are tired. Suffice to say I got a sword right across my hand at full wallop. I shot off stage in some distress. I thought it was broken to be honest - god, it hurt. But I took my glove off and there was a small but very deep hole in my hand, but I could feel it wasn't broken. Then I found myself in the odd position of having to put fake blood and mud on my face whilst real blood was streaming from my hand. Odd, I thought. Then I had to put my glove back on - no mean feat as my hand had already swelled up, rush back onstage and shout "Ah, Warwick, Warwick...!" and look all concerned and pained about poor old Patrice all a-dying and making strange high pitched noises. The pained I could do, concerned frankly less so. Finally, he died, which meant I was able to pelt off stage and let out a silent scream. Then it was on to support Katy as Margaret in her speech then rush off again and get really bloodied up and a bag over my head ready to get told I'm to lose said head by Forbes as Edward IV. Phew.
One of my most treasured moments in this project is standing in the 'Hell Mouth' (the mirrored area behind the big double doors upstage centre) before that last entrance in Part III. It is pitch black, and the boys are going mental on the drums up above us while Chuk wanders about in feathers on stage. The noise, it's incredible. It seems to be amplified by the tunnel that we're all crammed together in and it never fails to stir the soul. I love it. This time however I was concentrating on a getting a piece of rope over my throbbing hand. Then suddenly I'm on stage, I spit at Forbes (which came out as a dry sort of sphutt because I'd lost all saliva), then I'm off - thank God. It's my last exit of the day and as I hear the awful, fearful sounds of Katy in full screech at the death of her son, I'm finally able to take off my glove and inspect the damage. I'll live - but I couldn't write for three days. And the worst thing was, because it was Press Day, at the party afterwards everyone kept shaking my hand and I'd start bowing and my knees start buckling and I'd be making a noise like Fu Manchu. Man, the weird stares I got. I was introduced to some posh Casting Director and I'm sure I'll get an audition for the next martial arts epic...
But, in truth, we're beginning to hurt ourselves rather a lot. It's because we're tired and we're pushing ourselves, and maybe, just maybe, it's because we know it's all coming to an end soon. Katy fell off the stage during the Death of York scene in Part III. She popped back up and in Clive's words looked like a meerkat as she remained where she was in the audience and carried it off with aplomb. He was kneeling there trying to do his death speech and that was all he could think of. But she really hurt herself. The bruise on her hip looks like Jupiter and the scrape up her entire arm's length is not funny. Both Richard Cordery and David Warner walked slap bang into the metal posts backstage and came away with Tom & Jerry-like bumps. We had another Trilogy Day on Saturday, and I ended up falling into the trap as Pistol during the fight with Falstaff. Doing my knee in at the same time.
I'm aware that I'm sounding like the biggest hypochondriac in the world here, but it's bizarre. But then everything is bizarre in this job. We've just done a Press Night and we end in two weeks. We have two octologies in a row. That, in itself is a serious undertaking. But then we stop. We've just had three days off. (Which is lovely, although rather stupidly I played my first game of cricket of the season on Sunday and consequently couldn't move for two days. It was only on Wednesday that I could walk without looking like a man with a Zimmer. Or a man on a bike attacked by a badger.) We have spent two and a half years jumping and running through a series of ever bigger hoops. Just two more to go. And we'll try not to hurt ourselves.
I think it's the getting through the last hoop that will hurt the more.
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Watch extracts from the Histories
 View scenes from Henry V and behind the scenes in rehearsals.
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Latest blog posts
- Listen. Time passes. Listen.
- I feel alive
- Things happen to you
- Sleeping on ladders
- Battle of Barnet
- Buckets of blood
- Hamming
- Three and a half weeks
- Letting go
- Unforgettable
- Lighting grids
- A new stage
- Gloriously
- The men in black
- Really listening
- Making history
- Happy birthday!
- Bleeeuurghhh!
- Dead weight
- Card sharks
- Tomorrow I scalded myself with tea
- You stink
- Turning to slush
- The threshold point
- Holidays!
- All change
- Strange things in the bath
- Back to school
- Corpsing
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About blogger Nick
Likes: Cricket and music. Fields and dark pubs with no music
Dislikes: Lager, crowded streets and light bars with music |
