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.