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Auditions

Auditions are bad. Waiting for them is worse. If acting was not already fiercely competitive enough it doesn’t help to be placed in a tiny space, often a staircase but sometimes some kind of underground holding chamber, and made to sit and stare out everyone else who is auditioning. Often people arrive ridiculously early, in the hope that the director will simply see you waiting patiently for the audition, and send everyone else home, recruiting you without needing to see anything. However, it’s worthless to fight. You will inevitably arrive late, breathless, oozing with sweat and garble a pathetic excuse like “sorry I’m late, I had a lecture in the Rad-Cam and my books were on fire”. Gathering your thoughts and realising that you have just spouted some nonsense worthy of Edward Lear; you spot the poor person whose audition you have interrupted, giving what you fear might be the best performance of the closing Faustus speech you have ever seen. Any initial feeling of embarrassment is rapidly replaced with a sense of malicious glee that you may have thrown the audition of your new arch-rival. However, before you can glory in your triumph, you are immediately ushered from the room by a disgruntled producer, informing you that your lateness has led them to give your spot to someone else. Now you’ll have to wait.
After an inane conversation with another actor who is far more attractive and almost definitely more talented than you are, you have a very brief glance at the forty line monologue you’re supposed to have memorised. But it’s not long before you have to ask the bearded grad opposite if he could possibly stop muttering his lines aloud as it’s impossible to concentrate through his babbling. After a staring contest which stretches on for what seems like an age he opens his mouth to reply. But before he can speak, the producer calls your name with what sounds like a mixture of dread and boredom. Now you shuffle awkwardly into the JCR kitchen where the auditions are taking place.
You make your way into the centre of the room and in front of the panel of creative genii who have set themselves up as the X-Factor judges, begin your speech. After changing your accent about five times in your first struggle, you’re stopped by the director who asks: “Would you mind doing that again, except this time a little more… bigger. You know what I mean?” Despite having no clue what he means, you nod enthusiastically. So you take up your position in the centre of the room, with your legs wide apart and your shoulders as broad as you can make them, in a vain attempt to satisfy their inscrutable criteria.
Finally, with the director’s “we’ll be in touch” still ringing in your ears you hurry out of the room as quickly as possible. If you’re unlucky you’ll spend an excruciating ten seconds pushing against the immovable exit door, before an exasperated voice calls from behind, “it’s pull.”

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