20110330

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

20110321

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.

20110320

NHS

One of the things one learns in life is that no one is actually on your side. You are in a cold and lonely world, one which you have no escape, no respite and certainly no access it seems to a second opinion. My doctor, Mr Gleedle, was definate when he stated I had sustained wounds which needed treatment. Well I had. But Dr Singh said my wounds were minor and didn't need any further medical intervention and discharged me. As I battled with him, first verbally and then a struggle with him and the guard, it became clear!

ACTORS ARE A THREAT

There. I said it. We are a threat because we see things as they really are. Yes, Mr Tonner in the next bed was told he didn't have anything to worry about. Yes, Mr Yorath was happy enough with his service and treatment. But how much better informed they were when I told them their real situation. Lifting the veil of medical mumbo jumbo, and revealing the naked truth. Now, I have had no medical training, I should make that clear. I did once administer a plaster on Casualty, which I think goes someway toward it, but I grant you, is not a comprehensive knowledge of medicine. Yes. their relatives cried when I told them the truth. Yes, they were angry at not being informed of the true seriousness of the situation. And yes, there was something of a squabble. But as the Sergeant said to me "sometimes it's best to just keep this (indicating his mouth) shut."

Actors see through falsehood, you see. When I appeared as Tarvon, the green alien searching for meaning in a far off galactic mining colony in the sci-fi series Plutok, I tried to be truthful there. And yes, I managed it in a speech about fairness, about liberty and about the timetable adherence on the Piccadilly line. All of which were met with silence by the cast, director and crew. They knew I spoke truth. That as Tarvon I could say what Tarquin McPhereson could never do. And yes, the scene was deleted, because of the powers that be decided that - and I quote - 'a ten minute rant on where to put your luggage when using the toilets in Tottenham Court Road was not integral to the plot'. If you ask me, someone got to them. Like they have got to Mr Singh. Or Dr Singh, as he prefers to be called.

In short actors must absorb the cold, hard truth of reality for the rest of you, much as I had to absorb the impact of the pavement outside Out Patients on my behind.

20110318

Awake

Being in the theatre, you become used to being awake late into the night, and asleep all (or most) of the day. Unless you are rehearsing, or resting.

I am indulging myself in a little game myself and Jean-Claude used to play, called Diagnosis Life. You look at someone and guess their age, occupation, status. Of course, the advantage here is that I can also add a new pinch to the mix, ailment. Guessing what malady my fellow wardmates have is honing my skills.

Mr Gravis obviously is a scaffolder. His build indicates that. The catheter suggests his diet of junk food, and his pallor is a greyish yellow, indicating...oh, they just put a sheet over him. Bugger.

20110317

Sword fighting

The art of stage fighting is something which I feel is important. Every actor, from Henry Irving to Linsay Lohan and the grand pantheon of performers in between have had to do stage fighting at one point or another. Although obviously I cannot include the Archers actors, who just make grunting noises and can bang a couple of saucepans about and pass it off as a ruccus over a ewe.

as I lie here in hospital, reflecting on my own abilities in the area of conflict, I feel a yearning to be back at the coal face. To chip away at my part, to really get into a rhthym and pour out my innermost to a willing audience, who receive my efforts with glee.

The cast and crew have been very professional and understanding, and know that an actor does not want his vulnerability or maladies to be the subject of idle chatter, and have refrained from visiting me. Several people have recognised me though, presumably from my spell as "Dorf" in science fiction drama, The Ajax Five. Dorf was a alien from the planet Vohorr, a dying world, and Dorfs' people had no knowledge of emotions, being ruled entirely by a mighty computer called 'the Ronald'. People are kind enough to say I was the most emotionless alien they have ever seen, and often pass comment on where they can get prosthetic lips and eyebrows like Dorf. Kind, too kind. Of course, there are conventions, one of which I will miss because of this injury. I can always get a refund on the ticket.

I don't want to go into the circumstances of the accident, suffice to say I was talking to Mike Styone when he asked me for more details. "What are you on about?" he said, as I told him of my grand design. I am not even sure he's trained in stage fighting, but he insisted we rehearse, so I grabbed my scabbard and stood on the stage. And waited. And waited.

Gunfire is unmistakable. And SO not medieval, as I tried to explain. But then I understood. He was trying to show me the futility of my characters' situation, the inner pain of unrequited love, the agony of one sided passion.

So that's how I am here, Ward six, bed 9.

So onto news

One thing that has happened this year is the dearth of work for actors such as myself. You go to auditions, you attend promptly and sing/dance/comede/act your heart out only to hear the word 'next!' uttered from the darkness of the stalls. Moreso now I am afraid. As the theatre dries up work, subsidies are withdrawn or shrunk, there is less work to be spread over a wider area. Several of my contemporaries are considering leaving the profession. Dear old James Corden is working in Waitrose. Tracy-Anne Obermann is esconced in Sainsburys freezer maintenance, while Hardeep Singh Kholi is currently to be found in the adult section of Waterstones. Although whether he is actually employed there is a matter for conjecture.

Some are even branching into other areas. David Tennant, poor shrub, is working on a ten part adaptation of the history of Wimbledon Strawberries, with himself as 'King Of Wasps'. And I did hear Trevor Eve is appearing as a paving slab in Corrie. All hard times.

"But what about you, Tarqs? What are you pulling out of your hat? What's that up your sleeve?". You may well ask. And it's not my sleeve, it's my trousers. For I have finally deigned to enter the world of filth, degredation and disgust. Yes, medieval rep. My codpiece at the ready, I am playing 'Trem', a lowly blacksmith whose love for Lady Elvira is tempered in the fires of hell and largely rust proof, in the 13th century comedy 'Oo, what a palava'. It wasn't my first choice of work. I have spent months looking for work with no avail, and having redecorated my Mayfair flat four times in three months, I decided I should be 'back out there'.

Mike Styone is a fine director, only really speaking to me when he feels he has an idea which may improve the piece. "Stand there" he says, in his commanding way. "Move over a bit" he says. He did actually moot once doing the whole play with me missing, which is truely innovative, I think. He is also always working, developing new ideas. When I questioned him on motivations and text, he simply looked at me over his brioche, chewing both my ideas and the brioche slowly, as only a man with his depth of being can. Finally he knew I was right, because without a word he got up and left our table, to sit with someone from wardrobe. I know he was mentioning my input as several of them looked over and nodded at something he said. I love being part of this great organ called Theatre.

Morrow

I am afraid I have not been able to publish anything over the last three months due to a court order taken out by McBilland, the theatrical entreprenuers. Essentially, and I won't bore you with the ins and outs, but it was to do with a statement I may while dosed up on Benelyn in a pastiserie in Bolton. Suffice to say the medication, coupled with the hot toddys I had been drinking all day to asway my symptoms, caused an involuntary and premptry outburst which I initially put down to Tourettes. Of course the mysterious publication of my contract, their accounts and the name and address of the directors didn't help, along with the encouragment of where to buy rotten eggs in the area and which windows would probably be open at that address.

I cannot stress enough my regret at my actions, and an attempt to blame the makers of Benelyn for my actions fell on stony ground. But we are all great friends now, and can laugh about it. I know many of my thespian colleagues are guffawing as I speak.