BEHIND THE CURTAIN

THE AUDITION KIT

The Audition Kit
This isn’t guesswork about audition rooms. This is exactly how West End auditions actually work.
Long before you walk into the room and sing a note, most actors already have their own little ritual going on.
Their audition kit.
Mine was always pretty much the same no matter what period of my career it was.
Headache tablets.Throat sweets.Throat spray.Water.Mouthwash.Hair products.A snack in case I needed a sugar boost.Dance shoes or trainers if movement was involved.Spare clothes if I thought there was even the slightest chance they might suddenly ask for movement.
And then the most important thing of all.
The folder.
That bloody folder basically carried your working life around in it.
My music was always organised carefully.
At the front would be the songs I was happiest singing.The ones I trusted.The ones I knew I could deliver under pressure.
Then towards the back would be the less popular stuff or songs I wasn’t fully convinced by anymore.
Sometimes when the panel asked:“What are you singing?”
the pianist had already had a nose through the folder.
I actually had one pianist say:“He’s got so-and-so song in here…”
I wanted to throttle him.
Don’t do that.
Actors already have enough going on psychologically without the pianist announcing your backup material to the room.
I don’t think actors silently judged each other by their folders particularly, but everybody took care over presentation.
No one wants to look lazy or unprofessional.That would be suicide.
Young actors especially panic about all this stuff though.
And I was exactly the same.
At the start of your career you’re worrying about everything.
Do I have enough songs?Too many songs?Do I need dance clothes?Should I take trainers?What if they suddenly ask for movement?What if they hate my song choice?What if they ask for another song and I don’t want to sing it?
So you end up packing for every possible scenario.
Then half the time you get home and realise you didn’t need half the stuff you took with you.
But psychologically it helps.
It’s a safety blanket.
I was in scouts after all.Be prepared.
And honestly, preparation reduces panic.
Especially in auditions.
Stress makes people do stupid things.
I’ve checked sheet music a million times before leaving the house and still managed to put a page in back to front.
I also went through a phase where I thought taping all my sheet music together into one giant fold-out masterpiece was going to help page turns.
Didn’t work.
The bloody thing wouldn’t stay upright on the music ledge.
And there you are trying to look calm and professional while your music starts collapsing sideways in front of the pianist.
That’s auditions.
Tiny stupid disasters happening while you try to hold it together.
One of the biggest lessons I learned was properly marking your music.
If you don’t mark anything and don’t discuss it with the pianist, they are just going to play what’s written on the page.
Bog standard.
I learned that the hard way.
I did one audition where I hadn’t marked breaths, little rit. moments, rall. moments or anything where I wanted emotional space in the song.
Nothing.
So the pianist just went at it at a lick.
No room for emotion.No room for feeling.No room to act through the song.
And honestly, I couldn’t really blame him because it was my fault.
Lesson learned.
From then on I became meticulous.
Repeats.Cuts.Quick page turns.Breaths.Rits.Ralls.
Anything that helped them understand where I was going emotionally with the song.
Because accompanists are not mind readers.
And every actor has their own weird little concoctions and rituals as well.
Water bottles mixed with God knows what.Honey mixtures.Throat remedies.Steam inhalers.
Everybody searching for the magic formula before they sing.
I was probably somewhere in the middle.
But over the years my packing definitely became military precision.
At the start of my career it was more:“Damn, forgot the throat sweets.”
Later on it became:check everything ten times before leaving the house.
Because once you’ve travelled all the way into London stressed out of your brain, the last thing you want is realising your dance shoes are sitting back in Swansea.
And auditions love throwing surprises at you.
I’ve gone to auditions fully believing it was singing only, only to suddenly hear:“Can you come back at three for movement?”
What?
I don’t have movement clothes.I may not even have trainers with me.
And then you either blag your way through it or end up doing it barefoot if you have to.
That’s the reality.
People think auditions are glamorous.
Half the time you’re just dragging around an overstuffed bag full of survival items hoping nothing goes wrong before you get in the room.
Audition clothes are another thing altogether.
Some actors massively overdo it.Others look like they’ve wandered in from Tesco.
Most professionals land somewhere in the middle eventually.
I used to have this pinstripe suit I absolutely loved auditioning in.
Smart.Comfortable.Held my posture well.I felt good in it.
Possibly too good.
Because after one recall my agent rang me laughing and said:“The casting director says tell Richard to stop wearing that awful suit.”
Honestly, I was gutted.
Not devastated…but enough for that suit to disappear into the back of the wardrobe forever.
I wasn’t risking unemployment over a pinstripe suit.
I still got the job though.
And I think it was said lovingly.
Some actors also like giving a little nod to the character they’re auditioning for.
If I was auditioning for an aristocrat, I’d wear something that naturally held my posture differently.
Girls might do their hair or make-up slightly towards the period.
Nothing over the top.Just enough to help place yourself physically into the world.
And that physicality matters more than younger actors realise.
Sometimes I’d even carry a recording of the role or something visual with me.
Not to copy somebody.
Just to hold the world of the show in my head while I sang.
Because it changes how you hold your body.How you stand.How you deliver the song.
You can also always spot greener actors.
Not because they’re untalented.
Nerves.
Sweaty.Constantly checking the folder.Back and forth to the toilet.Not talking much.Looking terrified every time somebody else sings.
We’ve all been that actor at some point.
Including me.
But eventually preparation becomes part of calming yourself down psychologically.
That’s really what the audition kit is.
Not just practical items.
Control.
Because auditions are unpredictable enough already.
Anything you can control before walking into that room is one less thing waiting to panic you later.
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SINGER DANCER MOVER

SINGER DANCER MOVER
Auditions are strange things because sometimes it isn’t the singing that gets inside your head.
It’s one innocent little question.
One sentence.
For me it was always something like:“I know you’re not a dancer, but do you move well?”
Now the truthful answer is…yes…sort of.
I’ve always had rhythm.I can move.I can blend in.If it’s simple enough and I know the style, then yes, I’ll absolutely be fine.
But am I a proper trained dancer?
No.
And there’s a difference.
A big difference.
Especially in musical theatre.
The thing is, by the time they ask you that question, they probably already know the answer anyway.
They’ve seen your CV.They know your background.They know what shows you’ve done.
But it’s still a good question for them to ask because things change.
Maybe I’ve been taking dance classes.Maybe I’ve improved.Maybe my CV hasn’t been updated.
And at the end of the day…I need a job.
So if I know the show and I’ve seen what they actually mean by “movement”, then I can make an informed decision there and then.
There’s no point outright lying if you’ve got two totally left feet.
Which I haven’t.
I’m realistic about my abilities.
So I would confidently say:“Yes, I move well.”
It’s probably a borderline white lie in some situations…
but I also know once I’m in rehearsals and doing it every day, muscle memory kicks in and I’ll usually be absolutely fine.
That’s the gamble.
And auditions are full of little gambles like that.
Dance calls are probably the most psychologically exposing part of the whole process for singer-actors.
Especially when you suddenly realise who you’re in the room with.
I did a huge cruise ship audition once to “Let’s Get Loud”.
Latin feel.High energy.
There were probably about ten actor/singer/movers there…
and about thirty trained dancers.
Immediately your stomach drops.
Because you suddenly realise:“Oh…this is their world.”
Now to be fair, the dancers had a much harder combination than we did.
Ours was simplified a bit.
But still…
dance calls are brutal psychologically because they slowly whittle you down.
First you dance in a huge group.
Great.I can hide.
Then they split the room.
Then smaller groups.
Then maybe four at a time.
And suddenly you’ve got thirty trained dancers sitting around the room watching you sweat and puff your way through a routine thinking:“Why…oh why…do I do this to myself?”
I can laugh about it now.
At the time it’s a bit soul destroying.
Especially because nobody wants front line unless you’re a genuine triple threat and super confident.
That’s another phrase that gets thrown around far too easily by the way.
Triple threat.Quadruple threat.
If I can sing a bit, dance a bit, act a bit and play a little piano, does that make me a quadruple threat?
No.
To me it means you excel strongly at all of them equally.
Not:“I can vaguely survive all four.”
But some people absolutely throw those labels around.
The other interesting thing with movement calls is choreographers.
They are one of two things for me.
Either complete sweethearts…
or absolute dragons.
Nothing in between.
And I understand why.
They need strong technique.Strong energy.Strong confidence.
Especially from trained dancers.
But sometimes you’re all mixed together in the same call and you suddenly feel very exposed.
Most dancers are actually lovely to be fair.
They’ll clap politely after groups finish.They’ll encourage people.
But it still feels odd because I don’t exactly get to sit and watch them sing sixteen bars afterwards.
That balance always fascinated me a bit.
And the panel never gives much away.
That’s the other thing younger actors struggle with.
You’re desperately trying to read faces.
Meanwhile they’re just observing quietly and deciding whether you fit the jigsaw puzzle.
Height.Look.Voice.Energy.Movement.Confidence.
Everything.
Sometimes they know full well you’re not a trained dancer, but they just need to know whether you can survive the track they’re casting.
That’s different.
And honestly, sometimes I surprised myself.
Especially once something was properly rehearsed and in my body.
That’s when muscle memory starts doing the work for you instead of panic.
But if the choreography was seriously technical, then yes, embarrassment kicks in.
Because I know I’m not fooling anybody in that situation.
And nobody enjoys looking foolish.
Especially in front of thirty dancers.
The hardest thing psychologically though is when they stop you early.
“Thank you…”
That’s crushing.
Especially if you thought you were doing alright.
But again, it depends on the level of the show and what they’re looking for.
Do they want an okay mover?
Or a genuinely confident dancer?
There’s a massive difference.
And movement calls can feel brutal because the feedback is often focused entirely on weaknesses.
You rarely hear:“Fabulous pas de bourrée!”
It’s more:“Straighter lines.”“Turn your leg out more.”“No, no…NO…”
You get used to it eventually.
But when you’re younger, one innocent little question like:“Do you move well?”
can suddenly make you feel like everybody in the room has already seen straight through you.
 
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THE JOURNEY HOME AFTER A BAD AUDITION

The Journey Home After a Bad Audition
Unless you have nerves of steel and can keep your emotions under control, the audition room is a killer. You can’t change who you are, or how you feel, or how you react to a situation, but you can try to accept that not every audition is going to be good, no matter how good you are. There are requirements for every audition and maybe this time you didn’t tick all the boxes.
If, like me, you were travelling a long distance, it becomes a very long day. You have been mentally alert since you left Swansea as the sparrows are waking up. Usually some degree of stress driving on the motorway. You either have parking booked or park outside central London and Tube the rest into town…hot carriages, overcrowded, and the horrible stale air smell down at the platforms as the train gushes past you as it arrives.
When you arrive at the audition venue, you do what you do. You go through a million emotions, second guess yourself, compare yourself, try to keep the nerves under control…look at your music a thousand times…then you are in.
You do your best, but you don’t feel it was your personal best.
As you pack up and leave to get back to your car, so many thoughts are rushing through your head…message agent, call a close friend to vent, catch the Tube…
You want to scream sometimes, but you know you’d look mad. The more you think about it, the more you pick away at your performance. You start to convince yourself it was awful.
Elements may have been awful, but in actual fact it wasn’t as bad as I ever thought. I just wasn’t right, or I just didn’t captivate the panel enough this time.
I’m at the car.
Huge sigh of relief.
This is where I really let go.
Quick, get in or someone might see you start to crack.
I’m sitting in the car and if it has been a rough day, if I feel I was rubbish or I didn’t get any positive words in the room…it affects you. The not knowing is not for the faint hearted. You wish you were allowed to ask them how it went, but it simply doesn’t work like that, unfortunately.
It’s going to take about four hours to get home if there are no delays. You lament and wonder why you do this to yourself every time. You know it’s coming to some degree, but sometimes it hurts. You get despondent and wonder what the others had that you didn’t.
You start going through the people you heard sing in your head and then the critique starts. You convince yourself none of them were that good or, in your eyes, were not right for the show…anything to soften what has turned into a shit day back to Wales.
I probably beat myself up mentally for the first hour and realise I have to let it go…and I do.
Eventually I just crank the music up and block the day out…another audition done…I tried my best. I can’t ask any more from myself.
It’s an enormous amount of stamina and energy used at auditions. If anyone else says that it is all good and enjoyable from the start of your day to the finish at an audition…I’d take it with a pinch of salt.
Don’t get me wrong…some will have a good day in parts of it…but they will have worries and doubts like everyone else there…
They just hide it better.
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THE DIRECTOR WHO WASN'T THERE

THE DIRECTOR WHO WASN'T THERE
There are directors that you will work with in this industry that genuinely change you. Not in a therapy way, not in a motivational poster way. I mean they actually shift something in how you work. And then there are directors that... don't. And the gap between those two experiences is enormous.
Ken Caswell. Original cast. Barbican. Les Misérables. By the time I joined the first ever number one national tour outside of London — the very first — Ken had a god-like status. He had an acidic twist on his tongue at times, but was a warm man and knew his stuff inside out. And he should — he'd lived inside that show from the beginning. What he brought to directing it came from the same process he'd been through himself. He'd worked alongside resident directors, associate directors, learnt the spine of it in a directorial sense. These shows are massive beasts. They follow a format. That format breathes and occasionally shifts, but in essence it remains the same. And Ken understood every inch of it.
It was my first big show. If he'd told me to lick the floor I would have done it. But he didn't need to do that.
Week one of rehearsals wasn't blocking. Not even close. Week one was about getting to know each other. Exercises. Bonding. Getting comfortable working close up and personal with people you knew nothing about. And this cast — some of these people had come through open audition, beaten thousands of others, got in because they had a quality. Not necessarily a great pair of lungs. Actor singers. Singer actors. Dancer singers. Every variation. That mix made it real. And Ken understood that. He didn't try to flatten it.
When we blocked, he read descriptions from the novel. He highlighted what was in the show, what wasn't, why. So by the time we were moving, we weren't just following traffic. We were already believers. Fine tuning was easy after that because we were all in. A hundred percent. Because he'd made it a masterclass before we'd put a foot on the stage.
What Ken gave you was the truth. No bullshit. A good truth. One that could make you angry, one that could make you cry, one that made you incredibly proud — because it came from the right place. In the moment you might not agree. But days later, weeks later, you'd realise he was spot on. He'd noticed something. He told you about it. Didn't scold you. Left you to figure out the why. Told you what was wrong or what was right and trusted you to work out the rest or build on it.
That is what a director is supposed to do.
And then there's the other kind.
I'm not going to name shows. But they exist and if you've worked in this industry for any length of time you've been in that room. The director who gives you bare minimum. "Come on from here. Land there. Do your thing." And when you look for more — "it'll come to you eventually." Cast going out afterwards, talking about how they are not being directed. Under the guise of someone who would absolutely say "that's how I work, suck it up darling."
Now — and this is important — don't confuse that with an actor's director. A genuinely collaborative director is a different thing entirely. Ideas thrown back and forth. You try different ways into a scene. You both analyse, you agree a direction, you go. That's collaborative. That has value. What I'm talking about is something else. That is just lazy.
And what it does to you — quietly, slowly — is it makes you despondent. You take any tiny bit of feedback with a pinch of salt because you don't trust where it's coming from. You go home. You work on it alone. You come back and you unceremoniously perform it and you cross your fingers that it's what they want. It's not fun. You don't enjoy the room. And by the time you've opened — the director may be standing there saying "marvellous darling" — and you know. You know it really isn't.
I did a studio production once. Small scale musical. The director was deep into Stanislavski. Charts on the wall. Floor marked out in boxes. Getting in touch with your inner feelings. And look — one or two things from that world, fine. But the whole concept? That does not wash with me. And the problem wasn't the method itself. The problem was there was no collaboration. They saw it one way. Only one way. And that killed any momentum you had. Anything you wanted to bring to it — gone. That show fell apart. We — the actors — pulled it together. But I will never work like that again.
Here's the thing about directors who don't give you what you need. By the time you've opened, you haven't nailed the inner workings of the show. You haven't had the time to tweak and build the character because you were still finding the basics on the day of the get-in. You go into tech with your fingers crossed. And that is on the director. Not the actors. The director's job is to make sure it lands. If it doesn't — that sits with them.
Ken made it land. Before we even got to a stage. That's the difference.
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THE NIGHT THE BARRICADES BROKE

THE NIGHT THE BARRICADES BROKE
There's a difference between a first night, a press night and a gala night that the public never really gets told about. To an audience member they all look like an opening — but inside the building they are three completely different beasts with different stakes and different energy.
First night is the one. Super adrenaline, floating on high, ready for anything that may come your way. The show is finally ready to be viewed by a live audience. First night audiences tend to be family, followers of the company — the Mackintosh world, the Lloyd Webber world — people who've closely followed workshops of the piece, people who are genuinely interested in the story or the topic. That audience is on your side before the lights even go down.
Press night is a different animal. You've done a few shows by then, you've found your feet. This is the one where the press are invited and this night matters for ticket sales and hype. Getting bums on seats. You'll have agents in. Industry people. Pro actors who are already in a show, but sat there watching, working out if this is something they might get into one day — if it survives.
And then a Gala night sits separately again. Celebs, magazines, influential people, paying customers — but the celebs get the full works in private and the great seats. That's its own atmosphere.
Now — I'm going to take you to one specific gala opening night. Les Mis. Manchester. My first big show. We had half the cast of Coronation Street in and many other celebs. Stakes — huge.
Let me first take you through what the day of an opening is meant to be.
The night before, I would have analysed everything. Everything I'd done, learned, covered myself for. Any eventuality within the show. How would I deal with this. What if I don't get there in time. Can I go on if the principal is ill right at the beginning — and it has happened. Anything that could go wrong, I've covered as much as I can.
There might be an early call to tidy tiny bits up, but truthfully it was all there. I tend to be in early regardless. Even though I have a dresser, I will personally check my stuff. Make sure everything is where I want it. I'm basically going through a fail-safe checklist. I know it won't go wrong, but still — ninety nine point nine percent sure.
I don't want to deplete my energy with nerves. So if I am in a couple of hours early, I'll try to relax — but excitement takes over as well. This is what I have utterly worked my hardest for. A perfect opening night. So the day has to stay real. Go out, get some food, maybe with others. We chat about how surreal it is. Who would have thought I would be opening in Les Mis this evening — but I am. Arghhhhh.
You don't want to peak too soon. Your time has to be measured and used effectively. Company warm up is about thirty five, forty minutes before curtain and then you are into the real prep for the opening.
It sounds simple. Everything is in its place. You simply have to perform it now. Right? You are focused. Locked into your track in the show. It has so much hype around it. Cameron Mackintosh is going to be there. Last minute notes from Ken Caswell. Into costume. And you are waiting for that call.
"Act one beginners to the stage please."
Here we fucking go. This is the real thing. It's now or never. I am buzzing.
Two flights up. You're passing everyone you love — the people you have rehearsed with for weeks. Good luck. Toi toi for tonight. All the theatrical good luck wishes you could think of. I am at the ground floor, into my dressing bay, my lovely dresser is there, we are all buzzing, but we have everything locked in.
I step onto set. It's a dark beginning, behind a gauze. Other actors doing their little rituals. Standing behind the gauze an actor says: "This is MY stage and I belong here."
I didn't have a specific ritual. But it's fascinating watching people. I can hear the orchestra warming up. We are close. You can make out blurred figures through the gauze, see late comers rushing to their seats.
Lights down. The baton raises. And we are away. Whoosh — adrenaline kick just for good measure.
The show is flying. Act one is going beautifully.
I'm in my dressing bay changing into my student costume — when the barricades come in, it's all the students with Enjolras, so I need to be ready. And then I realise — something should have happened by now. Something is wrong.
The barricades had broken down. Flat out wouldn't move — either of them. They sit on metal tracks and the revolve has to line up with them. Either the power or the mechanics went — I can't remember which, but they never moved an inch. Eponine had just finished her number centre stage and cleared the space, as staged, ready for the barricades to come on. And then they didn't. Nothing came on.
I don't wear cans — only stage crew wear them — but you didn't need to. You could feel it. High alert. Panic stations. Everyone scrambling to sort it. We had to stop.
We stopped for about ten minutes. The audience had no idea what was happening. Were we carrying on. Were we cancelling. Nothing.
It became clear the barricades were truly broken and they were not going to move. And we needed them in act two. They are a major part of the show. A huge spectacle. You cannot do Les Mis without those barricades.
By that point the whole cast had congregated stage right in the wings. We were devastated. People were prepared to improvise — bring on chairs and tables, anything, just get through the show.
Cameron Mackintosh came backstage. Stage right, in the wings, all of us there. He was professional. Relatively calm. I expect thinking quietly to himself about how many tickets he was going to have to give out for free — but he had his head screwed on. He'd experienced things like this before. He made an executive decision.
He had to cancel the rest of the show.
It was like a knife to the heart. It was the right call — but we would have done it. We would have improvised the whole of act two with chairs if he'd asked us to.
What we did do — we performed the end of act one. Just so we didn't leave the audience with nothing.
Cameron went out front to tell them. Explained what had happened. Said the cast were prepared to improvise but that he didn't want to minimise the piece. Said we were going to finish with the finale of act one and that was the show.
And from the audience — Les Dawson. The comedian. Sat there watching. He called out, in that voice of his —
"Can you tell us how it ends?"
The whole house roared.
And then we went and did the end of act one. We dug into the deepest parts of our souls and we brought the house down. There were tears — it was already a highly emotional evening, but this took it to another level. Inside we were devastated. But what came out of us in those final minutes of act one — that was something else.
That was my gala opening night. Half of Corrie in. Cameron in. The press in. The barricades broken. Les Dawson heckling. And a company of performers giving everything they had to twenty minutes of a show that was meant to be three hours.
You will never recreate an opening night. They told us that in rehearsals. They were right. Just — not for the reasons any of us expected.
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THE STAGE DOOR

THE STAGE DOOR
Most people who've never worked in theatre think the stage door is glamorous. Fans waiting. Programmes. Photos. A bit of attention at the end of a long night. The reality from our side is something quite different — and over a career you learn that the people at that door are not all the same, and the way you treat them matters.
Let me start at the beginning. My first show. Palace Theatre, Manchester. Les Mis. I'm two floors up from the stage door. After a show you are tired. Genuinely tired. And everyone wants to get out as quickly as possible. I wanted to get out too — but I was always a bit slower. I'm trying to slow my metabolism down after a show, not accelerate it.
Sometimes I would literally be coming off stage and some of the girls — because they keep their stage make-up on, just stick a cap on — are already flying down the staircase. I don't know how they did it. They were quick.
I'm not really carrying anything. I want to go home, or maybe I'm going out for a drink — not often. But if the fans are there, I will always stop. Always. They were so nice and they were genuinely interested in us. Not just the principals — us.
And then there was Jenny. Jenny was one of the regulars. There were several girls who'd come back and see the show multiple times. Jenny and I are still friends now — on Facebook, we talk regularly. That's the kind of thing the public doesn't see. A fan from your first show, decades ago, who's stayed in your life. That's not nothing. That's something quite special.
Now — the awkward bit of stage door. The uncomfortable bit.
Some people standing there aren't avid fans. They're waiting for a principal. And you have that awkward moment as you walk past — shall I offer myself? Are they going to ask? You smile. Nothing. You walk past. It's all very odd. They don't see you as a major part of the show. Sometimes they genuinely don't recognise you out of costume and out of wig — and I don't take that personally.
I sign a few, smile, and leave. I hate assuming. I'd rather walk off and just say goodnight than stand there like a lemon waiting to see if anyone wants me.
It got worse on Beauty and the Beast. I was rarely stopped on that show. The audience and fans really only wanted the main principals. And it got to me a bit. You open the stage door — they're right outside — and you can see the look of disappointment on their faces. It's actually funny in a way. People stare at you. And I'd think — shall I ask if they want me to sign their programme?
I asked once. They said no.
It's funny and uncomfortable at the same time. But I don't live for those moments. If someone like Jenny — a real fan, an aficionado, someone who takes time and energy to follow me, write, send cards, come specifically when they know I'm on for Marius — that holds a lot more weight for me than chasing a "no" from a stranger.
Now let me talk about the principals. Because this is where I have feelings.
The two main leads in any show are tiring, emotional rollercoasters. Some can be aloof and want to get home and rest up. I get it. I genuinely get it. What I don't like — and I'm not naming names — is when someone is specifically asking for them, or someone sees them and asks them to sign something, and they say they're in a hurry and walk off. That. That I don't like.
I hope they look back and think how unkind they were in that moment. Because it comes with responsibility. You took the role. You took the billing. You knew people would be there.
And the knock-on effect — if I'm still standing there signing, I'm the one having to say "oh, so-and-so isn't feeling well, they just want to get home, don't take it personally." Awkward. I'm covering for them. And god knows I have just wanted to fly by myself plenty of times. If there are several cast signing, I'll try and mooch past unnoticed. But ninety five percent of the time I will stop. Because we are human after all. They are human. The whole thing is a human transaction and you can't just switch that off because you're tired.
The gifts and letters are something else. I've had fans bring me beautiful cakes. Pictures done of scenes from the show. Letters. Some asking for full length pictures — I find that odd, each to their own. Nothing has ever crossed a line for me. But you do feel beholden to them every time you see them. They've taken time to do something for you, so you carry that with you. Sometimes they'll have taken photos outside stage door without you knowing and send them to you.
I finished in musical theatre in 1999, so I missed most of the social media era at stage door. No phones held up. No selfies. No fans turning up having already watched a bootleg on YouTube. It was simpler. You had your regulars. You had your one-offs. You had the people waiting for the leads. And you had Jenny and the girls — coming back, sitting through the show again, waiting to say hello.
Those are the ones that matter. The ones who are still in your life decades later. Who'll message you to wish you happy birthday. Who remember which performance you went on as Marius.
That's what the stage door actually is, when you do it properly. It's not the autograph. It's not the photo. It's the relationship. And the people who treat it as an inconvenience are missing the entire point of why those people are there in the first place.
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THE WARM UP

THE WARM-UP
Well before the half — every night, every show, every company you've ever been part of — there is a warm-up. The audience never sees it. They probably don't even think about it. And yet without it, the show doesn't function. It's not just about singing. It's about the company switching on together.
Let me take you into one. One of the nicest companies I was ever in was the Manchester tour of Phantom of the Opera. Opera House. Just a lovely feeling, like a little family.
For Phantom you can't warm up on stage — there's so much scenery, so many cloths pre-set, the crew don't want us anywhere near it. So we'd warm up in the stalls bar, in among the carpets and the optics, going through scales.
Normally it's the assistant MD running it, sometimes the MD himself — depends on their schedule and availability. The dancers look after their own physical warm up. There isn't a physical warm up for the rest of the cast — only vocal — but for that, we are all together.
Everyone has to sing. But not everyone has it as their first skill. I would never say dancers can't sing — some are brilliant all-rounders. Some aren't. And we work with that because they bring something else to the show. I can't pas de bourrée and they work with me on that too.
Most of the time it's just a warm up. Occasionally ensemble parts slip — get tired, get sloppy — and we'll get reminders. Often have to sing a section through just so the MD can hear it properly and give notes. You may also get the company manager there if there's a notice — something happening during the show, someone special in. A payslip, if you're lucky.
Everyone goes into it professionally. Some feel it more than others. Some have already warmed up in their dressing room and they're really just there to be present — to be part of the team. Because that's the other thing the warm up is. It's a get-together. You may not see certain company members at all during a show because of your track — your particular path through the night. It is a funny old world when you only see someone to say goodnight. So the warm up is where you actually catch up. Chit chat. Hello. How are the kids.
You get jokers in the company. You get the ultra-serious. And yes — there are actors who are, shall we say, punctually challenged. But if that happens a lot, it goes in the show report. The warm up is compulsory. Nobody should be skipping it unless they've agreed something specific with the company manager.
The Phantom isn't there. He's not coming down to the bar. He has a big dressing room and he is in it, with the door shut, getting psyched up for the role and for the arduous task of having all that make-up put on.
My best friend was first cover Phantom on that tour, so I used to go in and watch the make-up being applied. With principals you know well, fine — but with some you don't. Because of the seclusion, you don't feel you can just walk in and say "can I watch?" — and that's fair enough. That's the business. You don't take offence. They are sipping some kind of concoction, gentle humming — you are not going to get them gassing away. They are reserving their energy a hundred percent.
The other principals — the ones with smaller roles, or the ones who are on while ensemble are off — they might come to the vocal warm up just to be social. Say hi. Be part of the room.
I should tell you about "the green." When we finish a warm up, when we are about to go our separate ways, you'll hear people say "see you on the green." It means see you on stage. And it comes from a medieval and Elizabethan thing — back then everything was performed on the village green. Makes sense when you know, doesn't it.
You don't really hear any other sayings at warm up. The other classics — toi toi, that sort of thing — those come later, just before you go on, especially if someone is on for a principal. What you really don't want is to be sitting in your dressing room having turned the tannoy down low — most of us do, it can be annoying — and missing your call. Getting the fright of your life when you hear —
"Mr Burman is off the green. Mr Burman is off the green."
You are in deep bleep at that point.
Now — one thing people ask about. Bad voices at warm up. The truth is you would not get someone turning up with a bad voice. If you are coming down with something, you pre-warn. Professional thing to do. You'd say to the MD or company manager — "Just so you know, I'm not feeling grand. I'll do tonight, I'll see how I feel in the morning, I'll make a call then."
If you turn up and you are clearly not well — it is because you are prepared to dig deep and get through it. You don't want to let the company down. Or you know your cover hasn't fully rehearsed yet and you don't want to put them in a difficult position either. You take the hit. That is part of the job, but if you are genuinely ill, you should go off, you don’t want to be spreading germs around an entire company.
So the warm up is — in essence — a vocal warm up and a pre-show get-together. Some are reading the newspaper. Some are on their phones. Some are doing basic stretches. Some are just feeling the space. It isn't glamorous. There's no romance to it.
But it is the moment, every single night, where the company becomes a company again. Where the show begins. Where you remember who you are doing this with and what you are about to walk out there and do.
That is the warm up. And without it, none of the rest of it works.
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CLOSING NIGHT

CLOSING NIGHT
People imagine a closing night is all tears and champagne and big speeches. Some of it is. But the truth of it — from inside the company — is a stranger, quieter, more complicated thing than the public would ever guess. And it's not always even a real ending.
Let me set the scene. I'm back in Manchester after the Les Mis tour — that was Manchester, Dublin, Edinburgh — and I'd been offered first cover Raoul and ensemble in The Phantom of the Opera. A happy time for me. My second big contract.
Now I should be clear about something, because people get this wrong about closing nights. This wasn't a full closure. The show wasn't dying. Several of us were leaving and the show was moving on to Edinburgh without us. So it was my personal last night with the Manchester company — not the end of Phantom. That distinction matters, because the show is a machine. It continues without you. It does not stop because you're getting off.
And it is very different from a normal day. I'd forged a lot of good friendships in that production and it was going to be hard saying goodbye. There's this inner voice that starts up — "well, this is it. The last day. This is where it ends." And you've known it for a long time, obviously, it's been in the diary for months. But it still creeps up on you. People going "ooh, two weeks left… then one week left…" and then boom. It's here.
I had a lot of mixed feelings. The majority of it had been brilliant. There are always one or two moments in any contract that spoil part of it — and I'll leave that there, I'm not going to elaborate — but on the whole, a very, very happy time for me. I was ready for progression, ready for a new show. But that's the other thing nobody tells you — you never actually know where you'll be next. You're closing one door with absolutely no guarantee of the next one.
Now — here's where I want to correct something people assume about closing nights. The corpsing. The pranks. The idea that on the last night everyone messes about and tries to make each other laugh on stage.
No. Absolutely not. It is worth more than your life to try that on. We are not in am dram. People have paid good money for those seats. The audience on your closing night has never seen the show before — it's not their last night, it's their only night. They deserve exactly what the people on opening night got.
Now — I'll divert to another show to show you what happens when someone forgets that. Beauty and the Beast. Someone was leaving. He played Salt — as in Salt and Pepper, the cruet characters — and Salt has a big dance break in the middle of Be Our Guest. On this, his last night, Mr Salt decided that instead of his normal choreography, he was going to come on on ballet pointe. With a fan in his hands. And do an entirely new routine he'd made up.
It was hilarious. It genuinely was. But we had big wigs in that night — important people watching — so I dread to think what sort of dressing down he got afterwards. So no. I would never do that.
What you can do — if you know someone really well — is a subtle facial expression. A tiny something only the two of you would clock. But never, ever in sight of the audience. That's the line. The audience never knows it's your last night unless you tell them. The performance is identical.
The curtain call, though — that's where it gets you. I definitely got a lump in my throat. But you stay professional. There are no speeches when someone leaves. Again — this is a machine, it continues without you. You don't stop the show to mark your own exit.
And here's a strange detail the public never thinks about. On a tour, there's a gap between venues — so you don't see anything being struck. You don't watch the set come down. You don't see the thing you've lived inside for months get dismantled. It just… magically arrives at the next venue, fully set up, ready to go. Without you. You leave, and it simply carries on somewhere else.
As for the night itself — honestly, I can't fully remember. I probably went for a drink with a select few and then back to my best friend's flat — he was in the show with me, but he was staying on with the tour. So even my goodbye wasn't really a goodbye. He was carrying on. I was the one stepping off.
And that's the thing about a closing night when you're the one leaving. You carry the memories — always will. But you have to be practical about it. It's nice to have the break. To see what's next. To reflect. The grief, if you want to call it that, is real but it's brief, because the industry doesn't give you long to sit in it. There's always the question of what comes next.
So a closing night isn't really a grand farewell. Not for the person leaving. It's a normal show — performed to a normal standard for an audience who deserve it — with a lump in your throat at the curtain call, a quiet drink with the people you'll miss most, and then the strange reality that the machine rolls on to the next town without you.
You don't get to watch it go. It just goes.
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THE AGENT

THE AGENT
The agent relationship is one of the strangest in this business. You pay someone a percentage to fight for you — but you can't make them fight, you can't sit in the room when they're meant to be talking about you, and you spend a lot of your career wondering if anything is actually happening.
Let me start at the beginning. Where I came from and how I achieved my first professional musical was the journey of a young twenty-one-year-old who, like thousands of others, had dreamt of getting into musical theatre. In particular the West End. That was all I wanted.
I didn't have an agent. I had barely started the journey to becoming a professional MT actor. So I didn't need one until I was in my first job. Why? Because everyone was telling me "you need an agent." I saw no rush. But eventually I found one.
I had four agents at different times in my career. The first one was a recommendation from a cast member — several of them were already with him. You don't always get to meet them instantly. It's through dialogue, emails, a slow build. But when I was in Edinburgh and went on as Javert, he travelled all the way from Yeovil to come and see me. That was nice. He was very theatrical — I sort of like that. You know they live and breathe it.
It was all very friendly. And because I was already in the show, he didn't take commission until he renegotiated the next contract.
The percentage in those days was twelve percent — fifteen percent for TV. Oh, how times have changed. And what you should be getting for that cut is someone who is invested in your career and development. Someone who knows the industry well, has the contacts, and is able to talk to you straight when needed. Which I like. I wanted more of a manager than an agent — and while some say they do both, it didn't transpire most of the time.
The one thing you really need — the most important thing — is for them to get you in the audition room. To be seen by great producers and great directors. That is the job.
No, I don't feel I ever had an agent who really fought for me. At least not in the way I wanted. And that matters. At the end of the day, I am paying them to find me work. I go in and secure the work — or don't. But the door has to be opened first. And as a young actor you can be bamboozled into doing as you're told and believing every word. Believe me — I got wiser as time went on.
The most painful part is waiting for the phone call. Hearing that you have an audition. Any normal actor will eventually get itchy feet and call the agent — "it's been three months, I haven't had anything." And then the lame answers about why that is, and how hard they're working for you.
Now — I get it. I have been on the other side. I ran a small, bijou agency for actors myself. So I know it's a lot to carry. And if you're not getting your actors auditions, you do end up in these conversations. Their answers are probably factual. But it doesn't mean they get to sit back and do nothing.
Even if you get the line "I have other actors I represent, I can't give all my time to you" — I want a plan. A direction. What if nothing comes for six months? What's the strategy then?
And then — eventually — you get the soft version of "darling, you know I love you, but nothing's happening, no one's shortlisting you for auditions." That is the agent saying I can't get you anything, and therefore it must be your fault. You usually part company at that point. I don't mind it — I can see it coming a mile off — so I normally get in first and leave them. They have essentially abandoned you and they take no responsibility for it.
That was the point where I said: no more.
I have never had an agent after the fourth one. And this was in my major years of MT — in the West End. From then on, I represented myself.
Let me tell you something about being on the other side of that desk. Running my own agency taught me what the job actually is. I am a "say it like it is" kind of guy. Not in a horrible way — I'm a realist. A lot of actors want it to be fluffy and nice, and I'm fluffy and nice at times — but if I am working tirelessly to find the right auditions for a client and they keep not being selected, eventually I have to weigh up — have I done all I can? Is it me?
And if it is, I will say it. "I just don't have enough connections in that particular area." And the actor is well within their rights to say "then I'm going to have to leave you." That's fine. It's disappointing — because if I believed in you, I'd have wanted to work on a strategy to improve the odds. But most leave at that point. And I accept it. It's the reality of that role.
But here's the flip side, and this is the bit actors never want to hear. I have had solid plans for clients. Told them the plan. Told them exactly what I needed them to do to stand out more and make my suggestions to casting directors more solid. And then they would do nothing. "Yeah, I'll do that next week." That isn't someone who wants to work with me. I will work night and day for a committed actor on my books. It is a two-way relationship. I will use every avenue, every contact, every casting site I have access to. But I cannot physically make a casting director see a client. It doesn't mean I haven't tried bloody hard to make it happen.
What I never had — but wanted — was the personal friendship to go with the management. Someone I could be really honest with, so we both learned how the other operated. A streamlined working relationship, both on the same page. But that rarely materialises early on. You don't get given that depth of relationship; you have to grow it.
For me personally — I gave everything I had to that business. But I was a tiny individual, not a major talent agency. A small fish in a big pond. But boy, did I swim well.
When I went self-represented, I did it because I knew I could put myself up for whatever I believed I was right for. Not having an agent decide I wasn't right for a show and quietly not putting me forward for it. Because if there is one thing I know — it is myself.
It was liberating. It was hard. But I was pushing myself to be seen, and I did get seen. Producers and casting directors don't care that you're self-represented. The only time it comes into play is getting through an assistant who is filtering submissions and may not know you personally, or who doesn't bother to read your credits fully. That was the big part of getting seen. They look at the major West End credits and sometimes — not always — there is a right of passage thing. They appreciate you as a professional. They know you must have some sort of talent to have been in those productions in the first place.
So my advice — and many will disagree with me, this is just my experience — do not rely solely on the agent's advice. It is not always the right advice. You have to take charge of your own career. The agent works for you. Not the other way round. And if they are not working for you, you have to be brave enough to say it — or brave enough to walk.
Now at fifty-seven, wanting a comeback career, I may have to lean on an agent again — just to get me back in the room. I can get an agent. But again, if they don't do the work or give the support, I won't be with them for long. I have done it once on my own. I can do it again.
Take charge of your own career. That is the lesson. And don't be afraid to walk away from the people who aren't walking with you.
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BETWEEN JOBS

BETWEEN JOBS
This one's a hard piece. Because most actors won't talk honestly about this part of the job. I will.
For someone who becomes totally lost when not doing what they love — being between jobs is painful. Genuinely painful. I have had several gaps in my career. A month. Two months. Three months. Six months. An awful year at one point. And I want to tell the truth about what that's actually like, because the public sees the West End credits and assumes the rest takes care of itself. It doesn't.
Let me take you to a specific one. I finished in Phantom in London, around April 1997. When I came out of that show, I was in a bad place in my head. I felt the world was against me. I still wanted to be in the West End — but all good things come to an end. Lesson one of this business.
I didn't know what to do. Where to go. Do I stay in London? No — I can't afford it anymore without my West End job. So home to Wales it is. And that in itself is horrendous.
I had somewhere to stay, which I was lucky to have. But coming out of the bubble was hard. That's lesson two. The bubble. I wasn't a superstar or anything like that — but in the West End I felt good about myself. I liked the buzz. I liked the city — not the tubes, smelly disgusting things — but the rest of it, yes. I had purpose. At home it was just normal. Nothing happened. Quiet.
And then comes lesson three. When people know you're home.
"Oh — what are you doing next?"
Do I fake it. Do I lie. Do I just say the truth. It's the feeling of failure. Almost like you've been sent to the back of the class with a "try harder, D minus." And some people genuinely relish in your misfortune. Knowing you are no longer in the West End. Jealousy. Bitchiness. People who will never do what you have done — or probably achieve anything near to it — and you can see it on their faces.
I became numb. Staying up later and later. Procrastinating. Getting up late. In my head, as a young actor, I always believed something would come along — and I didn't want to do an ordinary job. Luckily I was being fed and had a bed to sleep in. But this wasn't laziness. It was something else. If I accepted it and made it the reality — I could get lost in it.
And I'll tell you what happened to me once I did exactly that. This was after my West End years — but it's an example of the danger. I came home for what was meant to be a short while and I took a job in a call centre. I liked it there. Good crowd. It became the norm. Bad mistake. I think I was there for nearly two years. It just flew by.
That is exactly why I didn't take an ordinary job during my West End years. Because I knew. I knew if I did, that would happen. The ordinary would absorb me. I knew it and I wasn't going to let it happen.
There was no structure when I came out of Phantom. I got involved with some bits and bobs in amateur dramatics. I played Jesus in the local society in the Grand Theatre, Swansea. A role I would never get professionally — which is exactly why I did it. But it fed my theatrical juices. It kept something alive.
And this is where I have to say something honest about other people I knew. Some were never going to make it. That's not a scathing remark — it's the truth. Some were talented but didn't try hard enough. Some got sidetracked by other interests and dropped the dream altogether. There isn't one individual I'm talking about, but you have to live and breathe this dream to achieve it. I did.
I would sometimes just live on hope, naively. The "it will find me" kind of vibe. And in a way it sort of did — but there was always work to do, you had to push yourself to be in the right places, to interact. I find networking very hard. Others thrive on it. I did the bare minimum because to me it is so fake. I wanted to get there on my own merit.
I would see people I'd been at college with who'd wanted the dream at the time. Marriage and kids happened to some — they made the decision to get an ordinary job. That was right for them. Maybe some regret. I don't knock them for it.
But others — like me — realised something. I may never get another chance to go for this. Because those kinds of things don't happen to people like me. So when I saw my avenue, I took it and ran with it. Or I would have been full of regret for a lifetime.
And there were some I bumped into later — ex-college friends. Some I was surprised hadn't followed through. Others, looking back, I could kind of see they had other things tying them down. Those people end up doing am dram — which, by the way, is bloody great in Swansea — and that became their release alongside real life. Not theatrical life. Real life.
I used to feel great shame when questions were asked about my career between jobs. Nobody wants to explain why they're not still in the West End. Even I didn't know exactly why. It just happens that way. You're back on the conveyor belt trying to get a good audition. And when I came out of Phantom I didn't have an agent either — which made it doubly difficult.
If you're talking to hardened theatre folk, you can be honest. You can tell them you left, or the contract didn't get renewed, or whatever happened. They understand. But to other people you just need them to know you're still in the game. So you say things like — "auditions? Oh, nothing right now, I'm just trying to get a new agent." Which is the truth.
But what you can't say — what you really want to say — is: "I am pulling my hair out. I miss it every day. Is this it. Has my good luck passed already." That kind of thing. You can't say that to most people. You smile. You make sure people know you have not given up. Not by a long shot.
So this is the part of an actor's life nobody puts on the highlight reel. The flat in Wales. The call centre that nearly swallowed me. The Jesus role in Swansea Grand to keep myself sane. The cousins and old schoolmates wanting to know what's next when there is no next. The lying-awake at four in the morning wondering if your one shot has already been and gone.
For some lucky actors — they go job to job. For the rest of us, there are these gaps. And some don't make it through them. They drift into the ordinary job and the ordinary life and the dream quietly dies. There's no shame in that. But you have to be honest about what's happening before you can stop it.
Live and breathe the dream. Don't let the ordinary absorb you. And when someone asks what you're doing next — smile, say you're auditioning, and keep going.
Because the alternative is the version of yourself that never tries again. And that is the worst ending of all.
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