Christmas mk3

So here I am on Xmas day and I must say I feel very festive. All my friends I see have the traditional invites onto panel games, year review shows, almanacs, satirical guest spots, appearances on BBC Breakfast and various cameos on certain dramas, comedies and in one case, the news. I myself am very private about Christmas. I believe it is more than just appearing on such trivia to say what it means to you, and I have to say even if I was asked to appear I would politely decline, which is probably why they didn’t ask me. They respect me too much.

Of course, there is always the risk that as an actor you can become better known as an actor than for the parts you play; When I was in the BBC Playhouse production of ‘The Gay Rastafarian’ in the 1970s, the reaction from the public was nothing less than abusive. Some of them didn’t seem to realise I was trying to expose what it was to be a black, gay, Rastafarian living in Merthyr Tydfil, and the language was such I decided to move to another area.

I would hate to be known as an actor. It breaks the illusion. I like people to come up to me and say ‘You know, Tarquin, I loved your drunken milkman in Borradene Close or your tipsy Lord in ‘Not My Trousers, Asquith’ or your merry do-gooder in ‘The Salmon Of Furley Way’’. Of course, it would be too much for them to remember a name for the characters (even if the writers had bothered to think of one) but to think I moved them so much that they would approach me in the Magistrates Court is touching.

Yes, being known as an actor is the pits. For once people see behind the mask, there is no point in having a mask at all. You may as well go on and be yourself in whatever role you do, just pad it out with some silly faces, maybe an eccentric gesture and a seemingly involuntary rolling of the eyes. Did I actually ring Lesley Joseph? I can’t remember.

So here I sit, Xmas morning, listening to the excellent shows provided gratis by the BBC. Like many others I suspect, shouting at the set when I think something isn’t done to the proper standard, or an actor forgets his lines and mugs his way through. One thing you need as an actor is to be able to remember your lines. It’s not hard, for Gods’ sake. Remember your lines. I am sure I would remember my lines had I been given the part. But that’s the thing about showbusiness, it’s not how good you are, it’s who you know. And what you know about them. And the receipts where they bought the equipment.

My card adorns the wall, as does my now admittedly worn paper chain. And I have gone for a tree which is both theatrical and festive, covered in lights and baubles and tinsel. I am sure the Garrick were closed today and didn’t need it.

Under the tree is a little present to myself. I always buy myself a small trinket just to show someone cares. I carefully fill in the label with my left hand to complete the illusion. I always tell myself not to, but sometimes one feels better having something to open from someone who truly cares.

And of course, what Christmas would not be complete without a traditional English breakfast? Although I have abandoned certain aspects of said meal for health reasons, and updated the entire platter with 21^st century comestibles. Cold Chinese.

I wish you a Merry Xmas, whoever you are, and hope you see me in 2012.

Christmas mk2

Christmas this year has been something of a damp squib. The twenty third is when I traditionally do my Xmas voyage into the town centre for present gathering, but this year I was particularly tardy in my efforts and set about my retail duties on Christmas Eve. What a swarm of locusts had this town lain waste? There was bugger all. I had to make do with what I could find. Between you are I, here are some of my presents for my actor friends.

Sir Ian McKellan – A spare rotablade for a hover mower

Dame Judi Dench – A tickle me Elmo

Sir Peter O’Toole – Hotpants

David Suchet – The 2001 Annual

Sir Michael Gambon – Value Hoummous

Robert Lindsay – A spider enclosure

Geoffrey Palmer – A talking toilet seat

Helena Bonham-Carter – swimwear

Jenny Agutter – A ticket to ride an Ostritch, should she care to visit Berlin Zoo.

Of course, not all of these are entirely suitable, and some of my recipients may suspect the gift en route, especially Robert Lindsey who had I to ring up disgusing my voice as being from British Gas asking about spiders, and Helena BC, who put the phone down when I tried a similar ploy to enquire about the size of her bosoms.

I myself require nothing this Xmas. What can you give a man who has enjoyed the work I have done this year so much? All four days of it was a sheer delight and I have to say if they choose to ring me back I shall be the first to answer the phone.

Christmas mk1

Well, Christmas has been and gone, and yet another pantomime season is over. I am never exactly sure what is the purpose of pantomime. Women dressed as men, men dressed as women and a couple of bears. That’s about it, as far as I can see.

This year saw a pitched battle in Saundersfoot between my own production, Aladdin, and the splinter group which was formed by former members of my production, also called Aladdin. I will leave it to the audiences to definitively decide whose was best, but I think it’s safe to say no one in the mutinous bunch of two faced lard arses will be walking tall away from Saundersfoot, oh no. Even the ones who weren’t arrested in the original fracas.

The problem is one of personalities. A lot of people are very protective of their names, careers and prospects, and rightly so. So when one suggests a slight change to their performance in whatever role, one does not expect to be chased down the high street – in full dame costume mind you – by an angry horde of pirates, a fairy and some bears. I say bears, it was actually Jedward but such was the public appetite for bears we were left with little option but to dress them to appease the great unwashed.

After hiding out in an Arts and Crafts shop for an hour or so (during which I was propositioned by the manager) I ventured out onto the street. Sure enough, my troop of thespians had vacated the area, and I was able to return to my hotel. After a brief exchange of views on the subject of ‘suitable attire’, I changed hotels and managed to find a bed and breakfast. It was just as well as feelings were still running high and the next poor occupant of the room was stripped, shaved, tarred, feathered and finally dropped off the end of what can only be described as a pier. Which reminds me I should write to Lesley Joseph.

Anyway, a meeting – of which I was not informed, invited to – took place and the gist of it was that I was to return my costume (for my own safety in the dead of night) to the theatre and say no more about it. This I did, although carrying a pantomime dame costume through the main thoroughfare of Saundersfoot illicited so many propositions that, had I been in the sex industry and not an actor, I should surely be able to rest comfortably on my laurels.

I have been referred to as many things in my time as an actor. As I dropped the clothes into the specially opened window, I recall a new phrase being added to my canon of nom de plumes, vis “Get him!”

Only those who suffered the natural disasters of a Tsunami can imagine the feeling as the blows reined down upon me. Fists, open slaps, boots and in some cases theatrical props including James Bowlams’ old ‘When The Boat Comes In’ cardigan were all utilised in what can only be described as a frenzy. After twenty minutes or so they began to tire and went off to the local Chinese restaurant.

When I reported their actions to Equity, I was stunned that this was a tradition called ‘The McPhereson Thrashing’. Apparently, it is seen as good luck to remove anyone with the surname McPhereson from a production and administer to them a sound and enthusiastic kicking. I then informed the representative that my name was McPhereson and this was news to me. He then – for some reason - covered the mouthpiece of the phone and when he returned he was interested in where exactly I was. Apparently Christopher Biggins is having terrible problems in the West End pulling off a Magistrate and knocking several bells out of yours truly may just provide the impetus he needs to finish the job.

Once again, I do need to write to Lesley Joseph.

The mask slips and other news

There is nothing more reassuring to an actor’s ego than to be recognised for a part. But then, I suppose it depends what sort of role you have played. If it’s a villainous beast of unprecedented naughtiness, then sometimes people will cuff you about the head and say ‘you and your undersea base. Shouldn’t be allowed’ and walk off. Playing the bad guy is never easy; the public sometimes cannot differentiate between the persona you portray and the person you actually are. Charles Dance was once invited to a dinner party shortly after appearing in The Golden Child. Poor Charles was mistaken for being a demon by the other guests and chased around, finally being pinned down while a visiting priest exorcised him and helped himself to the Hors d'oeuvres. Poor Charles hasn’t had a role that evil since, and to my mind he is the poorer for it.

I once spoke with Arthur Lowe, who, as Captain Mainwaring is almost embossed on the nation’s foreheads as that particular character. Chants of ‘Who Do You Think You Are Kidding Mr Hitler’ and ‘Stupid boy’ kept on interrupting the flow of his story, and eventually he told me to shut up.

When I played Fingers McFadden in ‘These walls that bind us’, I did fear that the role would taint me in the minds of the great unwashed as a convicted sheep rustler, but it didn’t happen. In fact, quite the opposite. I remember at a party held by the Producer and writer Garry Struthers, not one guest mistook me for my character. The fact I was left pretty much to my own devices to observe conversations and character interplay was actually a mark of respect, I felt, for a job well done. Even Struthers seemed to treat me as someone he could not talk to, simply pointing out the buffet on my arrival before shaking hands with Gordon Wellbeloved.

Of course the best thing to be recognised for is a heroic role. When I played Sandor, the lost Prince of Eternitia in the film ‘Gladiators of The Fifth Realm’, people did comment. The role involved a soldier who stole the Magic of Ke’logs, and the curses it brought on him, his family and those who tried to help him. In the end he saw the error of his ways and, begging for mercy, handed it back to the Prince. “Your soldier was the worst I have seen” said one friend. “Awful. I could not watch” said another. The character was obviously so convincing. Oh, and before I forget – Mr Times Theatre reviewer – He was supposed to be bad! If you had stayed until the end you would have seen him repent in a scene which many said – and I use the exact word here “harrowing”.

And so to my latest engagement, which I am thrilled about. It’s a tale by a new writer, Dave Noise, about a dying man looking back on the love of his life. It had everything. Pathos, drama, heartbreak, comedy, romance and sound effects. We record tomorrow, and - Thespis willing – listeners will savour this latest venture. It’s to be broadcast after the watershed to everyone except those on the Maternity wing.

Post Ceremony

There is a considerable rumble going on at the moment. I use the word rumble in the same way  as the kids on the street ‘There’s a rumble’, ‘I been involved in a rumble’ and ‘oi you, you lookin’ for a rumble?’. The aforementioned rumble (though I did initially mishear and thought they said ‘ramble’, something I am not opposed to. The punch in the face was not something associated with traversing the countryside) is again to do with damn awards business.

Let me make one thing crystal clear; I do not act for awards. Many directors have commented on this, saying ‘Tarquin, you’re not going to win any awards for that’ and it’s a testament to their in industry perceptions that indeed no plaudits have been forthcoming. This award, which I will hereafter refer to as ‘The award’, is a milestone in a career. It signifies my place in the business. My work is recognised by my peers, my efforts are appreciated for the Herculian endeavours they demonstrate, finally I am recognised as the award winning McPhereson. And of course there’s a buffet.

An award is the last thing from an actors’ mind when acting. Imagine being in a part on a battlefield, your comrade – perhaps a childhood friend – is laying in front of you mortally wounded and you tend to him, knowing your words of comfort are but overheard by the grim reaper drawing ever closer. The last thing you want to think about is a sumptuous four course meal, with speeches and wine and a limosine home. No, you have to be in the moment. You have to be in that position. You have to be that death comforter.  It’s no good as Alfie moans ‘give my heart to my Dolly, tell her my last thought on this Earth was of her sweet face’, replying that you hope that limosine driver isn’t one of those eastern European fellows who seems to know no English and you don’t want to rely on a minicab to get you to the Savoy, as many of those in Saving Private Ryan seemed to.

I well remember Ben Kingsley, who, after being nominated for ‘Ghandi’, was amazed. A letter was received at the Oscars’ office, and I am sure Ben won’t mind if I quote a bit of it here.

Sirs,

I am stunned you have nominated me for Ghandi, which although was a good job from my humble point of view, didn’t warrant the notion of an award. All I did was shave my head, put on some glasses and dress in a bed sheet. Wander around for a bit. Get shot. That was it. We managed to spindle it out for a couple of hours but essentially it was a very easy piece of work and I feel I cannot accept the Oscar you have proposed I should win.

May I make the suggestion that you consider not I, although I am flattered, but my good friend Tarquin McPhereson who’s portrayal of Elmer The Badger in South Ketterings’ Amatuer Dramatic Associations’ production of Rodent Rebellion (the musical). His moving and deeply felt portrayal of Elmer had people in tears, myself included. He is a fine actor and this would surely be a great tribute to an unsung hero of our industry.

Yours sincerely,

Ben Kingsley.

Europe.

PS Don’t bother mentioning this matter to me as I consider it closed and I will pretend to not know what you are talking about, and being so good at acting, you will be convinced. So don’t. It’s definitely me, Ben Kingsley, writing this.

Ulterior Motives.

It would appear Parker Knowles himself got an award. This would explain his expeditious cuts to my own speech – he wanted the lime light for himself. Well, Mr Knowles, this will not do! I have not spent the last few decades building to this moment, working away from the public, hiding behind characters and shunning the limelight of celebrity to have my moment in the Sun eclipsed by him.

I mean, I am not bitter; he may have made a good speech. In fact, I am pretty sure he has lifted many of my stories, anecdotes and other material for his own evil ends. All I am left with, after his savage cuts, is a brief thank you and a long section about parrots.

Parker Knowles will rue that evening; for now he has enraged the Wrath of the Mcphereson. An untold, untapped power of limitless resources which knows no bounds, no lines, no mercy. I have put his name down for a call from Scottish Power.

The Ceremony

It went well, thank you for asking. The initial nerves one feels when one is confronted by an audience of one’s peers are magnified exponentially in comparison to the butterflies one experiences when faces the great unwashed. And many of them are unwashed, believe me. I am not being disrespectful to the public when I say sometimes you are up on the stage and the wafts of stale farts, beer, garlic and bodily odours are overwhelming. Like being locked in Leslie Joseph’s dressing room.

The worst thing – if there is a worst thing about accepting an award one is entitled to after many bloody years entertaining the aforementioned stinking rabble – is writing a speech which is not going to offend, upset, disclose anything that would result in shunning/prosecution, anger, annoy or insinuate. It is important to be both exciting and vague. A complex paradox indeed.

After much scribbling to adhere to these rules, I had written a speech which was as moving as it was in English. Nervous, with trembling hands, I read it back. This was to be my speech. My chance to say, in my own words my debt indebtedness to the industry which had spawned and supported me. But was it enough? Was it veiled in difficult insinuation? Did it litter it’s prose with double meanings, dark secondary narratives and thinly disguised accusations? Yes.

But I was aware that this could be my epitaph as well as my speech, particularly if Mr Blessed hears what I have to say about him. So off I trotted to Parker Knowles, my companion in my darkest hour, my Savant of wisdom, my guru who offered me nought but advice and succur in this cold, unfeeling life. He was in bed, but he dutifully arose (got out of bed, nothing like that going on, thank you) and read my speech. “It’s okay, may be a little on the long side” he said, brushing away the cobweb which had formed around him whilst he perused my manuscript.

In short, he recommended the following deletions/addendums:

The story about Jacques Cousteau could go. Although you can’t libel the dead, the Octopus may still seek legal redress.

My anecdote about Lenny Henry would have to be cut. There was simply no way that was even physically possible.

Canterbury was not demolished.

Delia Smith had never, as far as can be determined, been to public school and similarly had little experience of ‘taking a hot muffin’.

Costumiers REDACTED

The resemblance in behaviour, smell and acting ability of redacted makes her likely to be more suited to Brighton Sea World than The Shaftsbury, albeit it with her wooden leg and charity work.

Hospital records indicate otherwise in my case notes.

This cut my speech down from a manageable, entertaining seven and three quarter hours to fifteen seconds, although if I spoke really slowly I could probably spin it out a bit.

Awards and All

I was surprised last Thursday by the arrival of an invitation to the Actors Awards. Not that I should have been. I have been a practising actor for many years, and my ability was obviously so convincing that they had completely missed my presence in the profession.

Some times acting is like that. I remember the shock rippling through the audience when Leonard Nimoy appeared at Basingstoke in 'Oscar and the Peach', many people said 'where are his ears?'. His ears, of course, were located on the side of his head but the reference to his greatest role and his convincing portrayal of said character obviously made for comment. In the series, the name of which escapes me, he adorned himself with some plastic pointy ones, a fact which some people could not adjust to. "Who is doing all the science bits for Captain Shatner?" people would chime. So convinced were his fans that he was from the future some even went so far as to accost him for a make shift trial. I put a stop to that as soon as the so-called judge put on the black cap. And well I did! Executing an actor mid-run can really put a damper on a production.

So the awards are tonight, and it is strictly black tie. I have no idea whether I have won or not, but my mere invitation after many a solitary year does indicate some sort of recognition. What, though, could they be congratulating me on? My role as Murph, the sarcastic Irish navvy officer? Lord Felch in "Felch In Trouble"? The second face vommiting up Marmite in the commercial (for which, incidently, I am still arguing that throwing up is a special skill and thus deserves a little extra). I wasn't supposed to throw up, in fact, I was supposed to say 'yum' but I was so immersed in my charaterisation that I lost all sense of the narrative and did what the character - called 'man' would do. They broadcast it with Rodney Bewes in the end.

I have spent the days since my invite concentrating on writing my speech. Who to thank? Who to miss out? Who to credit when the obvious person to credit is the one holding the award (me). But I cannot talk about me all the time. I have selected a letter, chosen at random, from one of the hundreds I recieve. Let me run it past you.

Dear Mr McPhereson,


Saw you at the National many years ago and you really made your mark on me. There's a actor with panache, style. Not like those other actors you were with. They were in the shade compared to you. You were the most convincing, let me tell you that. 

When I am in the steel manufacturing business making steel, there is little or no opportunity for a working chap such as myself to indulge himself in culture and learning, and this is a calimony which really causes me and my working compatriots great consternation.


It should have been your name outside on the posters, not Briars, Hopkins, Irons and West. No, you should have been included. You are certainly one to watch and I hope you win an award. If you do feel free to read this letter out.


Yours,


Fred Smith.

Marvellous. Or this, from the Welsh Valleys


Dear Mr McPhereson Boy,


Oh, you did us proud you did boy. Your appearance in that drama I saw the other night was one highlight of theatrical avalonia I shall not forget in a hurry boy. I would be remiss if I didn't write and tell you how good you were, better than all the others put in a box and dumped out at sea (which can be arranged, I have friends in Merther).


When I am in the mining business mining, there is little or no opportunity for a working chap such as myself to indulge himself in culture and learning, and this is a calimony which really causes me and my working compatriots great consternation, I will tell you that, boy.

Good luck to you and if you ever down this way call in to my house and we shall have tea and Welsh rabbits.


Yours




Ivor Smith.

Charming, and one of hundreds I have received. I best get back to writing my speech. I shall let you know the full extent of my presentation when I am happy with it.

Teary Eyed Tarquin

The sadness which pervades the end of a run is something I have always found hard to get over. Indeed, on occasion I have witnessed many actors anticipate the final performance when I attend the first day of rehearsal, blubbing and wailing and calling their agents in quivering tones.

The problem is that we actors are sensitive souls; we bond so easily. Our company becomes like family, a close knit unbreakable bond develops which can only be broken by death, coma or a Bovril commercial. Yet we are also pragmatists. We know that ultimately, as in life, a run must end and we must move on to the next role, the next challenge, the next audience who have yet to sample our delights.

I am in this sort of mood because I have just finished a run as Cedric in 'Dobermans Dilemma', an interesting mid 18th Century piece about industry, slavery and beans. The play, written by Mallard, is one of the most moving ever put on in Wolverhampton Community Centre (I am informed) and immediately garnered plaudits from the local press. The Wolverhampton Messenger described the play as a 'rollercoaster of emotions' while the Tribune noted 'a hearty, meaty subject tackled with deft moribundity by a cast who were assumed to know what they were doing'. Of course we knew exactly what we were doing; we were creating the actual atmosphere of the 18th century, and this was enhanced no end by the faulty drains.

The team consisted of Miranda Nyta, Christian McColl, David Lewes and Rachel Pargetter-Gratton. Fine performers all, and topped off with yours truely as the seedy smuggler who's intent to court young Agatha was as strong as his desire avoid import duty. The cast formed a strong bond, almost immediately, although I am always cautious of such temporal attachments. Chinese meals were eaten, nights in bars were commonplace, the savouring of all Wolverhampton had to offer, it's exotic and erotic, its' studious and serious, its' meat and drink were all undertaken during the rehearsal period. Apparently. I of course preferred to stay in my hotel room, studying the script and looking at the patterns in the wallpaper, and I am pleased they spared themselves the embarrassment of asking me to join in such things. I find the process of bonding with fellow thesps a joy, but I know the heartbreak of goodbyes all too well and such things can be bad for the spirit and the soul. and I can always order a pizza.

The thing is, I think Wolverhampton CC is haunted. I was struck by the number of times my door was knocked yet no one was there. By the strange way people seemed to look over my shoulder in mid conversation, and by the almost subliminal yet constant whispering from mouths unseen of the word 'cheesy'. In theatre one gets used to such phenomena; the production of raw human emotion is bound to elicit a reaction from beyond the grave - even if it doesn't get much from the audience - and spirits are drawn to our naked and vulnerable exposition of the mortal condition. Also it has heating, which may be a factor. I remember appearing at The Ladbrooke some years back in the 1930s farce 'Binky and the Butler' and was surprised to see the disembodied entity of Sir Henry Irving sat, as real as I am now, in my dressing room chair, brandishing a waste paper basket and what looked to be a gonad. "Beware" said Sir Henry "beware the reviewers, Tarquin". Then the figure was gone. I mentioned it to the Theatre manageress and she said Sir Henry only appeared to a select few, offering his wisdom and guidance and would I like a complimentary bag of wine gums. "My good woman" I replied, my hands still shaking from the phantom encounter "by wine gums this spirit shall not dispel!" and left in something of a huff. I refused to use the dressing room again, but space being limited I had to change in the public toilets, and due to a misunderstanding was cautioned under the indecent exposure laws.

Sir Henrys' words were apposite, however, when the reviews for the show did finally appear. All were what could be described - and I make no apology for using a show business term - not good. Even Exchange & Mart broke with tradition of advertising car parts and dodgy, unfumigated furniture by mentioning how bad they thought the show was, although they were kind to place it under 'Fridges'.

Interview

I was recently interviewed by Jo Toxic on Cumberland Gold, the radio station service Cumberland and surrounding area. She seemed very poorly informed as to my career, but you cannot turn your back on publicity.

Speaking of which I would like to distance myself from the commercials for the Nazis. I now realise this was a bad career move, but in all honesty I was under the impression that Na Zi was a detergent. "We need to get all the filth out" said the representative. I apologise for my involvement and any offence I may have caused; it was entirely innocent. I thought at the time it was a very big washing machine, and it only goes to show you should research things thoroughly before becoming involved.

Bad

I write this from the Mild Attention Care wing of Dunstalls' Hospital for actors. I was in Intensive care, and when I arrived I was in the Keenly Observed In An Intrusive Manner Which Should You Wake Up You May Feel A Bit Annoyed ward.

The hospital is specifically for actors. No extras, supporting artistes or crew are allowed to benefit from the services offered. Around me are some brilliant yet ailing thesps, many of them making a desperate final encore before moving into retirement. Jon Crisp, the actor who starred as the mysterious Agent Pork in Reasonable Cause lies opposite, his legs in plaster suspended by pulleys which neatly lift his buttocks from the bed. Ironic his final illness puts him in the same position as his first audition. Hilary Quim, who I appeared with in Portsmouth in a Pizza Hut promotion, completely covered in psoriasis, poor love, and every time she moves she sounds like my leather bound Encyclopedia of Sexual knowledge. And to my right Bernard Yakob who seems to have bought some pills off the Internet, judging by the ruffles in his blankets.

The staff here are excellent, and all needs are catered for. Mr Battersea was ill Sunday last, with low blood sugar and difficulty breathing and the staff leapt into action with an impromptu version of 'The Producers'. Oh, that funny, funny performance. Most excellent. I know Mr Battersea enjoyed it and am sorry he missed the end.

So here I lay, with splints, bandages and a poor recollection of what exactly happened to situate me thus. I do remember saying to Brian Blessed 'You are a bit loud' and the next thing I woke up here.

Three weeks I will be in here apparently. It could be longer. Depends on how long Blessed is waiting outside.

While I was typing this to you, someone called...

Just received an interesting call from NASA, that’s the National Acting in Space Association, not the rocket people, although strangely it did involve the rocket people.

Apparently they are looking for someone to send into space, an acting mission. To see how Stoppard and Ayckbourn work in a zero gravity environment. Apparently the results thus far have not been good, with the performance of PSmith in the City, performed by chimps, largely consisting of throwing excrement at the loading bay window.

I am going to return their call and continue updating you with my news shortly.

Catch Up 2

The other thing sci-fi wise I have been invited to audition for in the last month was Planet Paddlesteamer, a new show for CCTV (which is Childrens’ Television, not the wretched things which watch you and send you a fine when in fact they have locked all the public conveniences so in fact I should be fining them. Besides, Waterstones? Who goes in there anymore? Pass it off as rainwater, I say.)

Planet Paddlesteamer is about a planet which is shaped like one of those Paddlesteamers you see in anything with Jane Seymour in. Apparently, she has it written into her contract that at least two speeches must contain a paddle steamer moving slowly past in the background, which did I understand provide a series of logistical problems for her stage work, poor love. There are many paddlesteamer anecdotes featuring Ms Seymour, some of which have been hushed up by the media, but I can tell you she did have the good grace to send the relatives and survivors a smashing fruit basket.

So I am up for The Captain, a haughty, seasoned salty old dog of the waterways, whose wisdom and experience is called upon in times of trouble. His metaphors are there for all to see, and for the young to digest and ruminate upon. A sample speech:

“Ah, the waves splash high against the bow, casting the foam like memories of a life misspent. See, Mr Jeavons, see how the wash dissipates so quickly, leaving but the merest hint t’were e’er here. See how the cruellest mistress, her waves and ebbs, her flows and tender tides, caressing the shore like a tender lover. Her endless bounty is never moribund, and what wonders her hitherto uncharted depths do hide from our incongruous eyes”.

Of course being set in space there are no waves, ebbs or any other damp nonsense. So it’s all allegory. It’s a beautifully written but I fear will be lost on the under 3s. But it is work.

Catch up 1

This last few weeks has been a maelstrom of activity, a veritable nightmare of fevered endeavour, a seeming thick dust cloud of action in the midst of which, I have shouted ‘Eat my dust. Swallow my filth.’

Mid August I had a call from the producer of Dr Who. Apparently they were working on a new monster, from the planet Thespian, a creature which thrives and feeds on the emotions and bad feeling it can create in a small to medium sized production company, and would I like to take part in some screen tests as Queenie Ooer, the asexual King of Thespis. A Thesplord. My hand trembled as I spoke in revered and respectful tones to the albeit it just out of short trousers producer. “Meet me in the old warehouse in Kings Cross” he said.

The covert nature of this job meant I was unable to inform anyone of where I was going and what I was up to. Dr Who is now a closely secured working environment, where only those who are supposed to be there, are there. And Lesley Joseph.

I turned up at the warehouse at the presumed time and presented my interpretation of Ooer, flaming, incensed, sad and angry, belligerent, merciful, playful and sexually alluring. Well, as sexually alluring as one can be with bubble wrap up ones nose.

After some photography and a light buffet, I was informed I was in the running and being considered. Now, let me tell you, a Dr Who baddie can lead you to great things. Look at Trevor Eve. Started off as a Puddle of Slime in Avengement of the Snork, now his CV reads like a directory of everything in the acting profession, but mostly acting. The Puddle isn’t even mentioned. Dame Maggie Smith was the Vhaal of Clwuddiayn, an alien being so terrifying, parents refused to watch and turned over to the Comedians instead. And of course Bonnie Langford.

Satisfied my place in the pantheon of Who adversaries was secure, I retired to the Pug and Poodle, a famous Kings Cross actors’ watering hole. As I walked in, my confidence plummeted. The entire bar was full of other noteries with the same ambition. Ben Kingsley, Timothy West, Ian Lavender, Brian Blessed, Anthony Hopkins, Pierce Brosnan and Lembit Opik, all with bubble wrap filled nostrils. I am afraid my anger got the better of me, and there was a small melee. The papers of course picked up on it, and it got blown out of all proportion and you may have read of the Kings Cross Riot From Hell. Although it was actually just a spilled daiquiri.

Dispelling the Myth

One of the worst things about acting is that people consider you will do anything for money. This could not be further from the truth. I myself am very, very picky about my work, and limit myself to leading man, romantic lead, supporting roles, tv cameos, tv main roles, extra work, radio, commercials, product endorsement, voice overs, charactorisation, character voices, webcasts, chat shows, panel games, opening supermarkets, judging vegetables, judging cat, dog, horse and reptile shows, opening fairs, book signings, reality television, writing, appearing at literary festivals, doing childrens' travelling theatre, hosting radio discussion shows, writing scripts, promoting my new range of dietary products, the shopping channel and of course hand shadows.

It is with great pride then I notice the SciFi channel are repeating 'USF Collosus', the sci-fi series I made some years hence with Windsor Davies. I played Captain Trent Tugbote, a rough and ready captain exploring the depths of space with his intrepid crew, which included Davies as First Officer Llew, an alien from the planet Kharki. There was a scottish engineer, Mr McTavish, and a Doctor we called 'The Spine'. Although his real name was Eric. Now, some of you are thinking 'this is just a Star Trek rip off'. You would be wrong. It was a different from Star Trek as it is possible to be. For a start, our mission was seven years, and there were no pointy ears. Windsor did have a gelatinous moustache, but I am not sure that was down to make up or the soup at lunch. Plus, our space ship resembled a plate, balanced on a pile of old tyres, painted green with a tv ariel coming out the top. Which in fact, it was. We explored planets, not worlds. We didn't seek out new life or civilisations, but we did stumble across a few inhabited worlds which seems to have a social structure. Plus our teleport technology consisted of a curtain and a big ladder.

We didn't have Phasers, we had Phosers, and they could be set to Stun, Stun some more or Gobsmack. But never kill. And Windors' character didn't have a tricorder. He had a quadcorder, which could detect aliens with ten miles, analise whatever world we were on for dangerous gases and toxins, and most importantly, get Radio 5 live.

So completely different.

Hacking

I was shocked in Carphone warehouse to discover that I had been hacked. The papers deal in minor celebs such as McCartney, Morgan and Cameron. I myself considered myself to be above this sort of thing. Who would want to listen to a lot of winging from an old actor, his agent and British Gas? How wrong I was. To think someone may have listened in to my negotiations over that cactus with the garden centre. That someone would have accessed the intimate details of my caravan rental agreement. A third party may have eavesdropped on my delicate and deeply personal chiropody problems.

While all this didn't make the front pages, and I was not besieged by hordes of reporters, it still invades my privacy. One wonders what else they had been reading? My mail? My email? My Internet? God forbid they had found my todo list, which has comments about people in the industry, many of which make more than a passing reference to medieval torture.

Private lessons

I have to say I have had to curtail my educational services. Although I felt my contribution to young actors was something worth doing, and passing my wealth of experience onto a new generation gave me a sense of pride and self-fulfillment rare in these troubled times, I have had to end it. Also my silverware went missing.

One young man was particularly talented, and as we sprinted through the Bard, gave shape to farce and explored the world of existential theatre I did feel he was going to have an issue tackling Dickens. and that he did. I tried him with my Pickwick and he made a complete hash of it. I am afraid I lost my temper. There are few things which oil my anger stick, but this was one of them. "Take thee from this place" I shouted "and lest thou ever darken this portal again, be thy aware my wrath awaits undiminished by the passing solar epoch". He asked me what the f*** I was talking about, which just goes to show.

Classes

As you may be aware, the ad I placed was probably not worded correctly, and I had to change it after it started appearing in phone boxes all over London.

Hmmmm

You would not believe the call I just had. I may need to rewrite my ad.

UPdate

I apologise for my tardiness in keeping you all updated with my activities, but the truth is I stepped in some butter and consequently have been out of action for some time.

Being at home, I decided to make use of my theatrical experience and actually give something back. I am a great believer in giving things back; almost to an obsessive level. I recall, while having lunch with Joan Hickson, she offered me one of her delicious saute potatoes. Yes, it was delicious. Yes, it melted in the mouth giving the superb texture of potato and spices. She smiled winsomely as I masticated in front of her. Sadly, my attempt to share my soup resulted in a less satisfactory outcome and considerable costs in dry cleaning. Old Joan swore like a docker, and attacked me with a cake stand. It truely became out of hand, and I can only refer to the statement I gave to the Police.

It all blew over after several years, and Joan and I worked together in Joan of Arc - The Musical, although there was an incident with a pyke which left me unable to sit down.

Where was I? Ah yes, working from home. It's delightful having the talent and ability to work from home. I don't know why I haven't tried it before. Actually, to be brutal, I have. Although performing all the roles in "What Became Of Larry Grint?", the gritty, social drama about the crimelords and subtefuge of prohibition in the 1930s world of Luton, in front of a captive audience. I personally did a fine crime lord, probably the best I have done. Fish never appreciate theatre.

I think though I have a lot to offer in terms of teaching younger actors. Method, motivation, characterisation. I can utilise the spare room at the rear of the house which is unfurnished. It may be a small utility room, but there is enough room for vocal training. I don't want parents bringing their brats around; I want people who have made the decision to act. So only college people only.

I have place the following ad in The North Athcot Argus

"Accomplished actor seeks to guide his method into younger performers. 18+. With my extensive experience I intend to turn your little acorn into a thick, hard oak. Plant your seed in my fertile little back room. Also aural service offered. Call XXX XXXX."

I don't know why I hadn't thought of this before.

Agent 2 = The Bitterness of Change

That was Bob True, manager of the Truro International Theatre Syndicate (he apparently hates the acronym), asking if I was available to do some work for him and the rest of his coterie. He said he had rung Avril, but she had told him of the situation vis my departure from their books and how I was ‘not very good anyway’ and would he prefer to hire someone who can actually act, as opposed to ‘the wooden old man with the flatulence’.

I had to think back a bit to think of when exactly I have farted in her office, and I think it’s not a great deal. I think a ratio of 8:10 is probably about right, and I don’t recall anyone complaining at the time. I remember her actually telling me once, that a certain performer, not entirely unconnected with pianos, staircases and PG Tips, actually defecated on her desk while she was in the room. And STILL got the voiceover.

I also don’t recall anyone saying I am wooden. Unless you count my stint as Pinocchio, the wooden child puppet which I played in ‘Pinocchio, The Accountancy Years’ (a savage work by the Epsom Esoteric Theatre Workshop about tax evasion) which was heralded in the Epsom Evening Argos as ‘meh’.

In fact, not one person has ever called me ‘wooden’ in any part I have played. Except where the part has required a certain timber-like quality. (Bert the Beech in The Trees of Soloman Lakes for example). No, I will not be called ‘wooden’.

I suppose it could be a compliment. Wood is after all eternal and reliable. It provides shelter, can be fashioned into weaponary and also provides a natural nesting and breeding environment for a rich ecosystem of life. Much like myself.

I shall take it that is what she meant. Although it is weighted by the phrase at the end of the sentence ‘shitbag’.

Agent

 

I have to advise those interested in booking me for engagements I have changed my representation. I used to be with Avril Peck Artistes, and Avril served me well for many years, since I left RADA actually. I well remember meeting her in the RADA bar. As I carried her out, she told me I was a marvellous performer and I should sign up with her agency should she ever form one. I wasted no time in calling her the very next month, and she seemed surprised to hear from me.

The sheer variety of work since then has been stunning

• 3^rd Dalek in Dr Who
• Man in Lorry in the Information film ‘Don’t lie under lorries!’
• Ferry Passenger waving in Triangle
• Dead Body in Survivors
• 15^th face in Godley and Cremes’ ‘Cry’ popular music video
• Lead in BBC TVs’ Doctors

Of course there were other roles she secured for me. I well remember the long nights of method acting to really get into the character of Strawberry jam. To know what it is to be jam. How jam feels and thinks and loves.

And the theatre work was fantastic too. Although the uniform was the wrong size.

But things change, people move on and Avril really hasn’t given me anything for a few months, except a text (which she says she doesn’t remember sending) at 2.43am which simply read ‘tosser’.

So all enquiries are now to be made through Elliot Trubstien Associates, a small but powerful company, headed by Elliot himself. Elliot has a fine pedigree of acting talent to draw from. Tim West, Robin Kessler, Googie Olsterham, Claire Sacheimer and myself, of course.

He says he was enticed into poaching me when he saw a film I made years ago, something which I thought all copies had been destroyed, in Covent Garden. A film where I played a young man whose dreams of success in the big city are cruelly and mercilessly crushed under the heel of the capitalist agenda. ‘My Big Part’ was, it has to be said, an metaphotical look into the world of class, of rich and poor, of have and have nots, of hope and despair told in a series of increasingly explicit sexual encounters with a variety of partners and a parrot.

Excuse me. Phone.

Improvisation

A few tips on improvisation. Improvisation comes from the improvise, and is a valuable tool in any actors armor. It comes from the Latin, as most good words do. Vise, meaning see, Prov meaning prove you can do it and imp meaning a small dwarf like creature mainly listed in medieval mythology. It is important you understand, if you are to make any headway in theatre to understand words, their derivation and meanings. For instance, there's a word in theatre called 'workshop'. Most people think this word means a small space, maybe in a garage or basement, where one or other member of a relationship can hover around, piddling about with some frankly stupid idea which never comes to fruition while the responsible one, the one who spends his evenings not cuddled up on the settee, but in the very real battlefield of contemporary theatre. Ducking the shrapnel of reviewers, the bazookas of inattentive audience members and the enormous sherman tank of the interval where suspense builds to see if anyone actually comes back, and more importantly, did those who didn't return claim a refund. And that person does this because he loves his partner and loves his home and his partner is to lazy to get up and do something themselves, being so 'busy' making a motorised gnome or something in the basement.

IMPROVISATION AS A LIFE SKILL
It's not even like the house is kept tidy. The working one comes home and the house looks like someone has had a heavy metal convention. Bed unmade, half empty takeaway cartons, disguarded clothes. It simply isn't good enough. The working one gets very frustrated with this course of events and probably at some point the feckless basement dweller will be looking for other accomodation if they are not careful.

USING IMPROVISATION AS A CHARACER DEVELOPMENT AND SOCIOLOGICAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL EXERCISE IN PERSONAL AND PROFESSIONAL DEVELOPMENT
I mean it't the principle of the thing. If someone says they will clean the mayonaise off the bedsheet I more or less expect the bedsheet to be mayonaise free by the time I come in. I do not expect to get into bed and find I am impersonating a Caesar salad. Then there's all the expenses that go hand in hand with relationships, things everyone has to spend out on, apparently, to make life a little more scrummy. The three foot plasma screen, the games consoles, the workout area. All these things came from my hard work playing butlers, suspicious relatives or angry tennis coaches. Not one penny was contributed to these things by 'the other party', and now I come to think of it I pay for all the food as well. The emporer has no clothes! Seeing it written down like this has really brought it home to me that this is simply a relationship on a par with the Slave movement on the 1800s. Only instead of an evil mill owner owning, whipping and sexually molesting me I am in a theatre where the only sexual molestation I have had in years was when Francis De La Tour got the wrong dressing room while I was putting on my penguin suit. No more the Fool! Out damn spot!

IMPROVING YOUR IMPROVISATION SKILLS - VITAL CAREER ASSET ADVICE
I just had a word. Promises made, hugs exchanged, points made. sometimes you can build these things up in your head to a ridiculous proportion. Fortunately being a level headed sort, I reasoned it out, although I will have to call the window repair people. So all is good, and the Chi of the McPhereson household is restored.

Where was I? Improvisation, ah, yes. Just make some shit up.

More Poetry

I just had an email from someone who enjoyed my poetry and wanted more. Well, let me write you something straight off the cuff. Again, this demonstrates the value of improvisation, honed after years of performance and practice, with many, many theatre companies.

Down at heel, the old man
Troubled times, heaped on his shoulder
Not a parrot, like a pirate
No
Trouble. Trouble in the form of
a Phone call. A letter. A conversation.
Sacked? Sacked? Tis a noble word
And I didn't want to be in his play
Anyway
They can keep it, they can have it
They would rather have Timmy Mallett.

Watch out Pam Ayres! There's a new kid on the block! McPhereson Prose!

Suddenly busy

I was writing my poetry in the dressing room the other day. So caught up was I in semantic couplets, I missed my entrance. Running onto the stage, I totally forgot my meat cleaver, which my character uses to to threaten the Olinda family into silence. Time to improvise, and this is where the trained thesp streaks ahead of the paltry efforts of the amateur. Seizing a oven glove, I threatened the family and the scene worked a treat. Afterwards, the director, Mylosh Stravin, came to see me in the dressing room. As he does not speak English I had to go by his use of body language to gauge and absorb his message. As he slammed the wardrobe door on my head for the sixth time, I picked up some dissatisfaction with my performance. I don't remember him leaving. When I regained consciousness, I picked up my poetry and continued my prose, albeit with a couple of spots of blood falling on my manuscript. I would like to share this with you now. It's about bees.
Oh, honey bee
You do see
The flowers that are
here for me
you know the route
to find your nectar
and don't have to
put up with stupid
directors who know nothing
of conventional theatre techniques
Stupid Pole. Stupid Stupid Pole.

There is apparently interest in the anthology of my poetry. I am going to try another now.

Winged Chariot of Time
Thy hours pass relentless
Chime the clock
Chime the clock
Owls hoot
Can this really be Newtoxeter?

Disgusted

I am not going to lower myself to their level. It is one thing to be heckled while on stage. It is another thing entirely when the heckling comes from the same stage.

Keeping In trim

One of the things about being an actor is keeping your mind, body and spirit in tip top condition. You never know what job will beckon next. A gymnastic Faust. A underwater Hamlet. A Bold commercial set in 1915 on the Somme. So it is imperative that you keep your body, mind and spirit honed, sharp and ready for anything.

Throughout the ages many actors have striven to find the ultimate workout regime, from Thespis’ kicking Romans in the shins and running away to Sir Henry Irving who legend has it used to hang upside down from Putney bridge when not employed. Of course, there are ways of exercising not ultimately involving lions or being a hazard to shipping, and one of those is the ancient, noble art of d’ong wang.

Based on the martial art, d’ong wang is over 20,000 years old and boasts just as many mysteries. It is rumoured the Pharoahs themselves practised it, and they still look as young today as they did then. Proof indeed that this is the pinnacle of internal and external cleansing.

To practice this, one must lie on the floor and try and make a perfect circle. This is the paradox of d’ong wang, because as we all know it is impossible. It is the method by which we accept all things are not possible, and something things are not only beyond our mortal reach, but likely to do your back in.

Then the second move. A highly complex and symbolic ritual, involving chanting, interpretational dance and a not inconsequential amount of excrement. (I should point out this is not something to practice on a shagpile). This is the cleansing, the abolition of pride, the banishment of self-restraint. This is the very essence of being, where innermost longing, deeply embedded memory and the relinquishment of the constraints of societal rules are exposed and expunged. It’s also a bit smelly.

Then, and only then, is the subject ready for the main event, or as we call it ‘t’bizinez’. The voyage into the unconscious can be an arduous one, especially if you have lead a life like mine. Faces popping up that you had forgotten about, demanding you leave them alone, angry theatre managers, Trevor Nunn. You must travel past them, past the empty seats on a Wednesday Matinee, past Richard Dawkins appearing to be praying for the play to end, past the Sunday Times theatre reviewer whose name you cannot remember but who was instrumental in your not only closing on the first night, but never being able to enter Colchester or its’ suburbs again, and certainly not to attend any livestock displays. At the end of the ordeal is the door. The door to self. The door which, when passed through, all things are possible. An eternity of possibilities. A ceilingless realm where you can ascend to take your place with the acting Gods – or what ever occupation you are in.

It is the most alive I have felt in years, and the eighty five pounds is surely well spent, despite what the Daily Telegraph says. Although I did reach the door tonight only to discover I had left my keys on the hall sideboard.

Resting.

There are many actors who dislike the whole ethos of being 'out of work'. Many consider it demeaning, some see it as just a necessary part of the job, while others are driven mad and feel compelled to appear on the Performance channel moaning about having nothing to do. Surely such people have made enough out of the Italian Job and Harry Brown?

Anyway, I find that the phone is suspiciously quiet of late. I have gone so far as to have the line tested, firstly by being the other side of the road in the local phone box and ringing myself, dashing back to hear the ringing (although being careful not to pick up the phone. At 30p a minute, I am not some chat line customer. And even if I was, I would not be asking me what I am wearing. I don't need to call up for that.) Anyway, I endeavoured to get back to the flat, narrowly missing a lorry on my journey - although another traveller was no so lucky (sent flowers to the family) to find the phone chirping away. The dilemma was heartbreaking. Could it be an actual call? Should I risk 30p on the off chance it would be a major producer offering me the chance of a lifetime? Gingerly I picked up the receiver. I placed the receiver quivering to my ear, my nerves at breaking point. "Mr Speilberg?" I almost whispered.
Down the line came the most enormous raspberry I have heard for some time, in fact I have never heard such a noise since I was doing a 'Murder In the Library' in Glasgow. But the voice on the other end had not said 'no', so I repeated my question. Again, the sound greeted my ears, a rasping, rolling raspberry, this time followed by a voice which said 'You old pouff!'.
But still no definitive answer, and the call had been terminated. Could it be Speilberg himself had called me to issue this abuse? What had I done to him? I had met him on one occasion, when he was kind enough to come back stage, ask my name and have someone write it down for future reference.

And so the mystery deepens.

Saturday night blues

I find myself at something of a loss tonight. as I look out of my window, I see hordes of people, evidently having enjoyed a good evening, wending their way home, albeit in a slightly shaky fashion. It's hard to describe their gait, but imagine Geoffrey Palmer, having been administered a sound thrashing by Tim Brooke-Taylor, and being forced to walk around with jelly in his trousers while the Nolan sisters look on and laugh, while Taylor and his bully boys hard lads stand there impressed. That sort of gait.

While some people got to meet Barak Obama yesterday, I was booked to meet Tommy Mallett in Argos. At least Obama turned Up. Mallet made some excuse about getting lost in the Arndale centre, though I think we both know He was lurking behind the bows in Tie Rack.

The Actorium

I am sat here with a cup of cocoa thinking about last night. The Actorium is a strange set up. Fourteen men, dressed as Yodellers, hitting each other with herrings, while a woman in the corner plays three blind mice (literally) at Kerplunk. A casual glance would indicate a bunch of loons, but the power these people wield is fearsome. One wrong move, a noted furtive glance and one could find oneself in experimental theatre playing a lightbulb.

None of it made much sense to me, if I am honest, but I felt a humbled sense of self as I watched the investiture. I was honoured as a guest as well, by the traditional trapeze.

Afterwards I was invited to the small soiree, during which I got talking to someone who knew someone who was a co-worker of someone whose Mother knew Ghandi. The insights of the great man were both illuminating and soul warming, and I did indeed agree to meet his representative who happened by happy coincidence to be in my area on Tuesday. Something he said struck deep with me, a connection with another soul, a insight into my situation which created a strong bond in those precious minutes we spent chatting. The thing is I actually do need new windows, and my new friend realised that from my aura.

When I returned home I got a message I was to be in a new experimental production of Wortherungs’ Epic ‘Furniture Speake’, where I am to play a sideboard.

It’s all very exciting.

Grab your coat and get your hat.

I have just been invited to Ken Brannahs' do celebrating his ascension into the Actorium. Oh hallowed day. For those who don't know, the Actorium is the theatrical equivalent of the Masons, and many who have fallen foul of them have but ne'er been dressed up as a Pantomime Chicken throughout Europe again. Their power is such they can ruin an actors career with a wave of their manicured hand. I knew a fellow, put Anthony Hopkins, Peter Finch and Alec Guiness to shame with his immense talent, he made an error of crossing the Actori, and was run over by a truck some years later. They are not people to be messed with. Recently I saw them remove Alan Davies' name from a poster, although there is some question on what it was doing on a lingerie ad anyway.

My invitation comes care of Bob Fould, brother of the famous Norman, who is one of the Actoriums' guardians. He stands on the door of the mighty shed, and doesn't let anyone in unless dictated to personally by the hallowed Actori Luvvy Majoris, the leader of this mysterious covern-like outfit. "You might as well come along" he said "if you have nothing better to do". Well, as luck would have it, I didn't have anything else to do, and so along I go.

the investiture is a complex one, featuring dance, recital, mime and excrement. Get it right and it's Hollywood and the multimillion dollar clique. Get it wrong and it's six years pretending to bandage up people from a jam commercial in Doctors.

Letters in absentia.

Just been opening some of my mail, one of the letters if from a fellow actor. I can’t reveal his name for professional reasons, but I would like to reprint it here. I have used a code for his name.

Dear Tarquin

Splendid to see you as Francis in The Truffle Patch, that kids’ show. You played a blinder as a disabled ethnic minority lesbian pig. I take it that’s what you were because of the make up, costume and snorting.

Me and [name withheld] watched that and how we laughed. [Name Withheld] said he hadn’t laughed so much since he made Hannibal. You should do more scurrying around in mud patches. It suits you.

Emma Thompson sends her best.

Yours,

B. Krannah.

High praise indeed, Ben. I shall indeed be sniffing for truffles next year as the series has been recommissioned. It’s reassuring to know that fellow thesps follow your career with interest, and spend their time watching a man dressed as a porcine cavort around in a muddy paddling pool looking for talking vegetables. Another missive comes from a member of the public

Dear Mr McPhereson

I have admired you for many a year. From your appearance in ‘Donglebys’ Dental Dramas’, the 1970s show about a dentist/detective, through ‘Two Yarns’, ‘The Playhouse Madness’ and ‘Borneo Blues’. I particularly liked you as Chez Guevara in the biopic of his life, times and loves where I feel you absolutely stole this one man show.

Please may I have a signed picture of you.

Yours,

Peter M. Middleaged

Spalding.

Charming. Critics can be wrong, you see? Someone liked my Chez Guevara. What do critics know, exactly? And yes, there were poor audiences, with occasions where I was performing to concessions staff, but it’s the creative juice that matters. Many of them had to be on overtime to attend, and I think they were very moved by what they saw. So much thought, so much intensity. One could hardly expect them to applaud after being exposed that all that. The raw essence of struggle, survival and purity of the soul.

I am out of Sugar Puffs. Damn. Be right back.

I returneth.

I have just got back from Norfolk, where we have been filming Danger UXB 2011, a reworking of the 1970s classic television series. I have to say I had my doubts about this particular venture, I dislike this cheap no ideas culture which stifles modern talent, but they then said a couple of things which perked my interest in the project in a bank transfer, which is nice.

The writer is Dan Ogilby, a talented young man who worked on many projects, including ‘Whoops Mrs Ogg’, ‘Bernie Cliftons’ Big Top Special’ and Panorama.

Dan is not one of those writers who insists on everything being ‘just so’. In my experience many writers make the mistake that actors don’t know how to deliver lines, where to stand or indeed lack any acting skills at all. Dan is not one of them. He let me get on, delivering my lines, often with an expression of pure absorbtion for my portrayal of Benning, the chief accounts manager for the UXB Team. His silence was appreciated, a mark of respect almost, and his obvious delight at my work encouraged him to tell the director to shoot my scenes for the entire series first. Out the corner of my eye I noticed his wide eyes studying my technique, and several times I did note my emoting elicited his hands to be placed over his face, obviously to cover himself from the truth of the human condition I was demonstrating. Wonderful man. Even made sure some runner drove me to the bus station and saw me safely onto the bus.

When I enquired about a second series, he simply said “you’ve done enough”. Obviously presenting a rounded character and fully exploring the nooks and crannies of Bennings’ personality has been more than sufficient.

One man show.

I have also been working on an idea I have had for a one man show; a show which demonstrates my prowess, talent and foresight. A show which highlights my still nimble and full functioning body. A show which in a very real sense takes the audience on a voyage around me, my psyche and my soul. All the items which go to make up this warrior of Thespis. Although I am not all that happy with the title.

McPhereson, a journey around my Tool.

In acting there is a theory that if a line is spoken and there’s no one in the audience, does anyone actually hear the line? And the answer is yes. Yes. For even if the audience figures are disappointing, surely it is showing great disrespect to those who have passed from the stage of life not to do a full and fascinating performance. I tried to explain this to a theatre manager once while doing Ackbourn in Upperthong but he would not buy into it. “You do it, you’re on your own” he opined, putting on his ‘hoodie’ and heading off to the bar.

Young people in the theatre think it’s a quick side step into Eastenders, I am sure of it. They don’t realise the texture of, say, a smouldering 17^th Mill Owner is different from a unemployed cockney jellied eel salesman. They play one part and think they know it all. James Walland is one such lad. Appearing with him in Doloievs’ ‘The Spanish Lover’ one would people had come to see him, the way he ponced about on stage, obviously not knowing where the audience was, who to speak to or indeed what his lines were. It was a travesty of theatre. A bloodbath.

I spoke to him afterwards about his performance and the nuances and cadence he was missing, about the emoting and empathy of his character, the driving psychology he may benefit from knowing. Also making time to ask if he knew if any of the current cast, say, middle aged men, were leaving. I did it very subtly, don’t worry. One has to be subtle and catch ones’ fish with caution. So I rang him up with all this around three am. I was shocked at his response. Shocked. I have not heard such language since I accidently sat on Francis De La Tours’ sandwich.

Anyway, the one man show. It’s going well, I have to say. I’m on act six currently, involving primary school and a character forming event during a field trip to Dover castle.

Oh my. I have just realised the show, should I include all the character forming events, may last 4 and a half years. Which is a little on the long side, especially for a matinee. I may have to trim it a bit.

Adventure

I apologise for being off line so long. Essentially, and I don’t want to go into any detail, but the other night I was kidnapped by people who I thought were MI5, but who, in fact, turned out to be a small, radical wing of the Runcorn Operatic Society.

Imprisoned in a 5 Star hotel in Runcorn, with only ensuite, 24hr room service, freedom to come and go as I wished, I was held captive in that living hell for over three weeks. They subjected me to Matinee performances, evening performances and weekend early riser special presentations. I must say I thought I had died and been sent to hell. Albeit Hell with a superb wine list.

But I didn’t give in. Unlike much of the squawking I heard both on and off stage, I remained defiant of my fundamentalist masters, so much so that they bought me a train ticket home, and, after a superb luncheon of scallops and evening disco, I was released none the wiser back into society.

Of course, they deny any part of this, as they are known to do, and have even had the affrontary to claim never to have heard of me.

I am putting this ‘out there’ because I believe other actors or even James Corden may be approached and recruited into this movement, and I feel it only right to warn them.

Royal Wedding

I have to say I was surprised I didn't receive an invitation to the nuptuals. I remember meeting Prince Charles in 1978 and we seemed to get on. He shook my hand and asked me about how I settled on being an actor. I said I had always been 'of the theatre' and he looked at me in a charming way and said 'Yes, there is something theatrical about you' and moved on. It's something that has always stuck in my mind, his kind words. I remember him spending sometime with Suzannah York, and both of them looked at me at the same time, looking away when I raised my hand.

The decision was made during a holiday I took with my then parents in Yarmouth. Persuaded during a show the male lead was not as convincing as he should be, I demanded that I should be given a shot in the starring role. And so it was I portrayed Mr Punch, sat on the haunched shoulders of Mr Beckley, the puppet operator. What pathos I brought to that role. What angst I dredged up from my young, fertile mind, as I walloped his other hand with a truncheon. The play was abandoned half way through when the wretched chap committed that crime that all theatre audiences hate, a complete coronary collapse mid performance, which caused the tent to fall to one side. I tried to rescue the production but it was no good. Still, I learned a lot from the oratory I have at his funeral.

I still can't believe though that I didn't make the cut. I can only assume having moved several times since that meeting, he was unable to confirm my address details. I've checked the phone works. No worries there. I have even hung around outside the palace recently, but I got moved on. He could have rung my agent.

I did ring the office and someone called Eugene answered. They have a lot of interns there now, and I enquired with him if in fact he had answered the phone to Prince Charles, Prince William or any of the Royal Household, and if he had, had they asked for yours truely. He said that they had had no such call, and frankly, one that offers me anything would be on the calendar. This shows how much they value my talents, and how little the Royal Family rate me. Personally, I think he was faking.

Thinking about it now, I did meet him again in 1981, in the Shaftsbury were I was playing Algie in 'The Importance of Trousers'. Again he shook my hand, and he remembered me. "Still at it are you? Good God." I was very much 'still at it' I replied. 'The theatre is in my blood' I told him. 'I was born to act' I added on the end. 'In what?' he asked. The conversation went on something like this for a few minutes until a stage manager stepped in an broke us apart. Of course, the papers were all over it and this made a lot of reviewers mark my performance down, given my propensity for giving fat lips to Royalty. 'McPhereson is both terrible and moribund' said one. After scuttling to my dictionary, I was enraged 'McPhereson should never be allowed in front of an audience again' screamed The Stage. 'McPhereson causes Monarchy Meltdown in Matinee Mashup' was the headling in the Telegraph. I'll leave it to you what the Tabloids said, and the Mail mentioned something about bringing back hanging.

Not that I'm bothered about it; I have other things to do. There's my autobiography 'McPheresons Big Parts' which I am waiting to hear back on, my fitness video for the over 65s, which I am discussing with the Health and Safety people and my forthcoming launch of Chutney.com, where I share with the world my in depth knowledge of Chutney, Pickles and Preserves. Actually I probably would have turned them down; I'm no Royalist, I mean I wouldn't cut off their heads or start a revolution or anything like that, but I do think some people go to these things simply to be seen. I don't need to be seen. I've been seen. I've been seen in all the right places. I don't need to be poncing about Westminster on a Friday in a suit in front of two billion people just to be seen. Besides, I am waiting for a call from Timmy Mallett about that caravan he has for sale.

The process

As an actor I am often asked, what do you start with to get into a role? With different actors it is different things. I cannot divulge other professionals techniques, but I can say there are certain actors of note who start with the socks. Socks say so much about a person. Colour, pattern, length. Which goes to show why his appearing as Gandalf was such a disaster. another performer I know tends to go by underwear, and on more than one occasion has been caught rummaging through the underwear drawer of strangers for character research.

I have tried both these techniques and many more; it is a question of what works for the individual. My own method - which I give at great personal and professional risk is how a character picks their nose. Of course all the great roles have mysteriously abdicated on this trait, so it's obviously something that the writers of reknown have shied away from.  So I have to improvise. For Sherlock Holmes, a jab of the finger, pin point accuracy, gone. King Lear, a majestic sweep of the arm, cloak billowing until entry achieved, then a royal flicking. And Satre, which requires a deck chair.

The Audtion

There are three main things to remember about auditions. Firstly, be sure you are in the right place.

Many moons ago I was invited to audition for the role of a certain mariner who seemed to labour under the misapprehension that fish were naturally in finger form. Dressed as the Cap'n, I made my entrance, talked of voyages to the seven seas, of my search for fine cod, all the while yo-ho-hoing it in all the right places to discover I had misread the address and was in a meeting to determine my suitability for Polish citizenship.

always have standby text. Once again it is best to have certain classic pieces of text memorised in case you should find your material unsuitable. I once attended an audition, and my piece was a routine from the Black and White Minstrel show. Of course, how was I to know my audience would themselves be black. My Faux Pas was avoided by my remembering of another text, and with deft professionalism, I switched roles to the much more suitable montage of black role models. My name is Mr Tibbs,  Orthello, Mr T, Darth Vader, that sort of thing. They were bowled over by the performance, I could tell

Thirdly and by no means last, make it quite plain you are sexually available to each and everyone on the panel. This can be done by eye contact, body language or crotchless panties.

I remember when starting off in the industry having an audition with the now notorious Bigsby Weathershaw, who bedded each and every member of any cast he was working with. It was a time of hedonistic pleasure, of carnal lust and elastoplast. Bigsby of course passed into obscurity as the years wore on, but I did hear he was working on Farming Today - The Movie.

So, I have my script, my costume, my obvious talent and my remarkable availability. How can they refuse?

:(

Simon Callow is a very rude man. His advice was not only unhelpful, it was unhygenic.

Much excitement

It's 3am and I just had a call from my agents' assistant. Apparently I am Up got a commercial as the face of British Radishes. I know! Who can I ask for advice? Who?

Adam Wu

I have been asked by management here to apologise to Mr Wu for the previous but one posting which questions his personal hygiene. Even though I was not the culprit, I am held to be guilty of this. I don't even know who Adam Wu is, but that holds no truck with the management, my agent, the Police or Mr Wus' solicitor.

I am unaware of any overly fragrant extra. To me they all smell. Of desperation and ambition, all chomping at the bit for one of us 'stars' to fall prey to some horrible end, meaning they can all leap in there. Well, no one is chomping on my bit, I can tell you that.

I myself remember being an extra, waiting for my big chance. Five years I paced up and down as expectant father, mowed as garden hand, painted as a contemporary (unspeaking) of Van Gogh and was a Roman gladiator. Something many people still comment on, partly because it exposed the sinuey muscle of my legs but also because it was The Great Gatsby.
I remember thinking "I would like someone to fall off that gantry". I am ashamed of that now, of course, but at the time blind ambition and naked greed fuelled my furnace. I could stop at nothing, my drive was strong, my ambition huge, my tool sleak. Week after week of being treated like a proll didn't help. Ordered around, poked, prodded, pointed at, shouted at, dismissed and escorted from the premises. All these things tempered my desire. Soon, I thought, soon. I would sit at home with my cat, and perform oratories the depth of which no one could ever conceive, let alone my cat, who seemed more interested in the Porkyfish treat I had sellotaped to my nose to catch his attention. That, and a ten minute cassette of applause I had recorded from the Proms made me feel like a proper actor. Other people said I was mad, especially the neighbours, but I was dedicated to my craft.

It was shortly before Easter 1969 when working on Pablocs' 'The leotard of Leighton Buzzard' Tom Legend, the film and stage icon fell of a gantry in mysterious circumstances. Many took it  that his final words - which I am flattered to say were my name - were an indication of who should take his role now that he was clearly going to die. I had told the stagehands, I remember distinctly, putting those steel tipped plate spinning rods on the stage was asking for trouble. and trouble it did indeed provide.

After a lengthy inquest, which many were kind enough to say was 'one of McPheresons' finest acting jobs', we recomenced the play. I could not hope to fill Tom Legends' shoes, obviously, him being such a 'draw' for the public with his high profile persona. So I simply tippexed over his face and put a passport picture of yours truely in its' place. And the rest is history. the CRB proves that.
Anyway, I apologise to Mr Wu if I have upset you. but you will face many more upsets than being told you are a maloderous little runt if you want to be an actor, boy.

Terribly sorry

I left my laptop open whilst I was in makeup, and one of the young scamps thought it would be funny to infiltrate my blog. Well, I have changed my password so we'll have no more of that.

I am on the set of Wizard School, a furtive supernatural romp, where I play Old Chi'z, a mighty wizard who, due to a miscalculation with mustard during a fertility rite is forced to teach junior Wizards and Wizardesses the arts of the Wizard.

I am working with the delightful Ben Tucket and Lisa Strombo, and below is a picture of us at the Casiopia Restaurant in Cheadles' bright West End celebrating our assigned roles.

As you can see, we are in costume and looking closely you can see Trevor Eve in the background, enjoying Chablis. Of course, the waiter, who looks surprised here, was actually a real Mexican, something which we found hilarious, when you consider the connection between Mexican waiting staff and Fantasy Fiction.

The bottom of the pic you can see Bens' favourite momento, something he wears on almost every production he is on, although oftwhile he is instructed to keep it hidden.

A wonderful night.

Adam Wu Smells.

Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.Adam Wu Smells.

Pizza Hut

I knew there was a third. Bloody Pizza Hut refuse to deliver to me. I know last time it was a little difficult, they came, I was just out of the bath, my robe fell open, it happens. Then the time before that I was doing my martial art, K'ing K'ong, in my kimono, when they arrived and a similar situation arose.

Now they refuse to deliver to my address because apparently according to the girl on the telephone, I am some sort of pervert. I have told them 'do you know who I am?' and they replied most certainly they knew exactly who I was, and so did the Police. And the only deep fill I'll be getting if I should keep on bothering them is in Pentonville nick.

I was enraged and went straight down there. "I want to see the manager! I need to have it out with him" I told the girl, to which the impertinent scamp replied 'I bet you do'.

It's Dominoes all the way now, PH. See how you like that.

Dot McAllister

Now I hear Dot McAllister has left us as well. I never worked with 'old Dotty', but the stories about her are legendary. The carousing, the parties, the glamour. Her parties were the talk of the industry. Everyone who is anyone was there. Apparently. Of course she realised my dedication and shyness and the embarrassment I would have felt at such occasions and spared me the horror of having to make some excuse or another to her invitation.

One story springs to mind. Dot was appearing in Weibers' 'All Cry Down' and there's a scene when Mrs Carte (played by Dot) confronts the chambermaid about pilfering onions. It's a delightful scene and really evokes the early 20th century staff relationships. So she is in the middle of her speech, the 'Ms Boon, don't fink I ain't been countin' them tear berries (as Weiber called them) I counted them all and there's two a missin' ' The poor girl forgot her line and Dot came back with a priceless one liner which not only moved the plot along, but the whole audience enjoyed. I can't remember what she said. Something about pinking sheers, I think. Anyway, the point is she didn't let a fellow artiste look ridiculous on the stage, her largesse was that she was generous enough to help the young actress, who I believe left the profession that very night.

Sad news. They say bad news comes in threes. I wonder who will make this motley trio?

Norman Andrews

I have just heard of the tragic passing of Norman Andrews, who for many years played Gerwyn, the Welsh character in the radio series 'Farm Folk'. I am frankly in shock. Norman was a vibrant character both in person and in his work. I well remember him at the Chichester Grand, his old stomping ground, wowing both audience and critics with his one man show 'Nearly Normal Norman'. That was a grand show, and it indicated something of the feelings stirred in management that they felt it so good that the first performance could not possibly be topped and took it off. Always leave on a high. Or in Normans' case, arrive, work and exit often at the wrong moment, on a high.

I must ring Mitzy Oliver the producer tomorrow and offer my condolences in my best Welsh accent.

a hard days' night, morning, elevensies

I have just come back from a riotous rehearsal at the Cottesloe. Late Monday night I received a call from Dick Shining, the theatrical producer, who said due to a misunderstanding over a restaurant bill, his main actor had deserted him.

I've never had much time for Dick, but felt obliged to help in anyway I could.

Dick spoke of the play in preparation 'Ravings', a piece by a new writer called Amanda Shining. The play centers on the increasingly bizarre rantings of one of those bus station people one is often greeted by. The ones who insist on showing you a magic trick involving a trivial pursuit card, half a tennis ball and more recently in Victoria Station, a penis.

The play strips away the pretence of an uncaring world, exposing the core of a hopeless man beset by challenge, the lack of opportunity and special brew. I have, it has to be said, met a great many of these people, and some of them have been inspirations for characters I have been involved in. Phelgm is such a malleable medium to work with. One gent I met was actually formally in the profession, and we spent many a long hour waiting for a bus to Clitheroe chatting about the Industry and the theatre in general before he informed me he was related by marriage to The Moon. I won't name him, but he was a smashing lead in Midsommer Murders.

Anyway, the whole play is focussed on this one mans' struggle. And who should Dick want to play that man? Me. Little old me. I was flattered that I was the man for Dick.

"What about the script?" I asked around 3am, after some particularly delicate leering work "Oh, there's no script, just rant and rave. Expose yourself" said Dick. I ranted. I raved.

All day

Bloody traffic!

Don't they know I have to get to the Cottesloe?

Dinner

I have just returned from an excellent dinner hosted by my good friend Lionel Hump. Lionel heard of my accident and immediately summoned several people to a dinner party. When I heard about it I rang him and after some badgering he said he would be pleased if I attended.

I must say though the conversation was not of the calibre I expected; Egypt, Patio furniture, golf, Yhatzee all featured heavily. No one really seemed interested in my wound, my condition or what the doctors had told me. Mike Simon, the manager of the Bond Theatre in Leicester seemed to be interested at one point, but sadly had to leave. He did give me his mobile number prior to departure, and, when I returned home I rang it eager to tell him how it had given me a gusto (the shooting, not the telephone number) and a renewed thirst to explore the human psyche. He must have been driving, poor love, because the call routed through to voicemail. I don't want to waste the opportunity so I rang forty two times (they only allow for three minutes per message) to tell him how I felt closer to God and if there was any panto work going.

On my return home my copy of the Stage had arrived, and in it my nemesis, my would be assassin was for some reason being interviewed by them, as opposed to be interviewed by the metropolitan Police as he should have been. I became enraged at the wording. 'Not even bleeding', 'difficult to work with' and the final coffin nail 'whining prick'. I am afraid I became so enraged I immediately went into the garden and broke a gnome.