Review 2012 March (part one)

March

March was a quiet month. Save for the Bennalyn commercial, which I tried out for. I was a man, obviously, successful, diligent, dedicated who lay in bed with a nose like Rudolf (the Reindeer, not Valentino or Hess) while his wife administered the elixir which would remedy his ailment. Lo, he would be back playing cricket and attending board meetings and generally be rather top hole, rather than laying in bed blowing his nose into a sock.

It was here I met the charming young Sandy Lammit, a wonderful actress who played my obviously younger wife with aplomb and attention to detail. A finer or more talented young lady one could not wish to meet, and I have to say we struck up quite a relationship. As I said before, I am wary of helping young actors; I think in this business you are very much on your own, your journey should always be one of the self rather than one of the passengers, but in Sandys' case something stirred deep within me, and I wanted to really give her some help. She had, she told me, appeared in several films, all low budget indie type nonsense, and this was her first big role. “Showertime Suzie” was one, “Over Friendly” another title she mentioned and “From Behind IV”. I've not seen any of these but a quick mention to my local video stockist garnered the opinion that 'I would not like to be on any lists', whatever that meant.

Anyway, she said she was keen to get on and not blow it, and then made some sort of joke I assume, which I was not allowed in on, that she had done that on all her other films and it got her nowhere.

“tarquin” she said, her voice soft and low, that of a lover, a partner with a question of intimate detail that only a lover should know “Tarquin – 'ave you got the number of your agent?”.

My agent, Harold Strimes, is one of the most powerful men in showbusiness. Everyone in showbusiness has heard of him, and those who haven't should leave and go into scaffolding or sewerage maintenance because he is big time. He manages a wide variety of artistes, including Wrestlers, Celebrity Chefs, a dog who can say the word 'tuberculosis' and myself. To be represented by Harry is like being represented by the Yellow Pages, for he has everyones' number. He also has all the Yellow Pages published since 1964, which he keeps in his Greenwich flat, together with old copies of Womans' Realm and the Times Literary Supplement. Finding him in there is sometimes difficult, and my old friend Lance Percival had his career cut short whilst fetching a garibaldi when he was crushed by a pile of Auto Trader he knocked with his elbow. Sad business, but Lance was soon back on his remaining foot.

I took out my filofax and found Strimes number and handed it to her. “What's that old fing?” she said, glancing at my filofax. I explained to her it was my guide, my diary, my contacts, my important data which I was burdened with carrying everywhere lest I ever forget a job or audition. “You can do all that on your phone” she laughed. Over the next hour she explained what her phone could so. Stock exchange numbers. Weather. News. It was everything. A camera. A camcorder. A dictaphone. A diary. An address book. The list was seemingly endless of the applications of this small, handheld device. “and some people take naughty pics and send 'em to their friends” she said, slyly.

In the Carphone Warehouse at lunchtime is not the best place to be. You are constantly harangued by people called Darren who want nothing more than for you to walk out of the shop with the most expensive, unsuitable handset and a tariff which would take the resources of CERN to understand. After fifteen minutes of what I can only call incomprehensible babble, I bought a Zimpi Goliath II, with the touch sensitive face, and necessary accessories, bag, belt hook, hands free, blue tooth, antenna hat and a trowel... and headed back to the studio, kitted out with the lastest tech.

Sandy, in my absence, had seen fit to ingratiate herself with the producer, which was both a wise move professionally and displayed a certain frugality too, having saved her the cost of sending pictures via her phone. I was appalled by such behaviour but then remembered I had done much the same thing when starting out on the war time classic 'Crowels' Bomb Of Death', during which myself and a certain producer had engaged in acts which I won't detail here. The torrent of passion we both felt, the unspoken naughtiness of what we did in that Sevenoaks hotel room will remain a fond yet haunting reminder of promises broken, innocence robbed and embarrassing complaints from the cleaning staff.

Back we returned to filming, but I was checking my phone every couple of minutes to see if a 'boob shot' had been directed to me, but the only thing I had was a reminder than Arsenal were playing Aston Villa and I could get live coverage should I wish to do so. I coughed and spluttered my way through the dialogue, and between takes would joshingly ask about 'those pics' only to move the subject on quickly, hint dropped, message received.

Nothing.

Sandy and myself were getting on really well by this stage, and so, to hurry things along I decided to take the bull (me) by the horn (****) and send her a pic I thought she might find erotic. Off I headed to the gents.

Having taken the shot I was somewhat at a loss of what to do next. After fiddling with the phone for a few minutes, I managed to set it as my wallpaper and lock myself out of the damn thing entirely.

When I returned one of the runners asked what I had been doing to which I said 'number two'. He then rephrased his question. Apparently he had been working with me on the Drama for ITV, 'Mrs Felch Murders', and wanted to know what I had been up to. A different sort of movement from the one I had thought he was talking of. I mentioned the ads and of course my novel and the pottery. He also mentioned that MFM was back in the Autumn and they would commence filming next week. I told him I had not been contacted, and he said that my role, Terence Pole, the car salesman who in the previous show had underground connections had been voted 'the most unconvincing character in television', beating even Barney The Dinosaur. I was disappointed, of course I was. But an actor can only work with the script he is given. All right so the others won awards for their portrayals. So the script writer won an award. So everyone on the show was mentioned in the New Years honours (except muggins here). I must not let this little trifle bother me with the job in hand.

Review 2012 - February

 February

February is the shortest month of the year, and therefore has literally less time in it to fit in the things you want to do. The days are the same, but there are less of them. This has something to do, I am told, with the agricultural industry. Of course, as I mentioned in my Womans' View column recently, they could alter the days so that it has the requisite number of hours therefore elongating the month to the standard length, whilst not interfering with chickens.

The first hurdle came on the fifth day, when I was asked to try out for the voice of Pearsons' Rubber, a tyre company in the West Midlands who had abandoned their normal voice after a scandal not entirely unconnected with rubber. The studio itself was pleasant enough, and on arriving I was amazed at the ineptitude of the receptionist, who at best thought I was there to mend the photocopier and then thought I was Prunella Scales. I started my audition covered in toner, the script was the usual mix of drama, intonational instruction and deft wordplay

“Buy All Your Rubber Products From Pearsons' Rubber”.

I spoke this line several times, emphasising different words in the sentence, giving it a plethora of meanings from comedic to deeply serious. One thing about voicing things is you need to take direction. You need to be able to listen to what the director – and ultimately the client – wants.

This is very much dependent on whether these people actually know what they are talking about. I made changes but they weren't happy. I suggested improvements but they weren't happy. I went out of my way to enlarge the concept, to make it sound bigger, bolder, much more hard hitting. They weren't happy. I did voices. They weren't happy. Finally, in a bid to make them happy I decided to use the premise of the mystic east, and did the whole thing in a mock Chinese accent. They definitely weren't happy. “What we want” said Robert, the newly graduated head of whatever it is he does “is for you to sit there, and read the words, as written, without the silly voices, intonations or sounding grumpy.”

On my way out of the building I asked if there were any presentation jobs going. I've always thought radio was a communication device, a bolt which the spanner of the presenter would slowly turn to a point where maximum grip (attention) was attained, and I, with my communication skills and training, could really become something of a big spanner. “What are you interested in?” said Robert, his eyes glinting like a child with a new sticklebrick. “I was thinking, Rob, we forget all the pomp and faux celeb of these pop and skiffle types, and have a show where I talk about issues and intersperse it with late 17^th century baroque.”.

My next job was around the 14^th. Thorntons Chocolate had a big promotion on, and I was in town to help out. All hands on the sticky deck, one might say, although this particular stickiness was due to chocolate and nothing to do with the recent revelations regarding the dancefloor in a gentlemens' club I may or may not have been frequenting that night. “Get your fingers sticky!” I shouted through the megaphone. “Oooo, get your mouth around my truffles”. This was manna from heaven, I could double entendre all day long and no one would notice. “swallow my nougat surprise”, “Take my Belgian nob” and other double entendres followed, until the Police arrived and I was told to calm down. Sales were good, especially during my lunch hour apparently, so everyone went home pleased and with their sweets. I disputed with the manager though, who stated quite clearly they hadn't actually asked me to be there, and therefore my asking for money for the days' work was 'completely out of ******* order, mate'. An argument ensued, but you can't win an argument with an unarmed man, especially if he has a crowbar, so I left it at that. I shall not be going there again, so their injunction is a waste of time.

The 22^nd was my Sisters' birthday, and I invited her and her 'partner' to dinner, but apparently they were watching television that night.

Review 2012 - January

January

In retrospect this month was poor in terms of work and general acting tasks. Many were the auditions I went to, for butlers, heroic men in cloaks, evil uncles and Mr D'Arcey. Although I say Mr D'Arcey, it would appear I was somewhat optimistic about that as it was actually Mr Donkey, a play about what would happen if a Donkey ran the bank of England. An allegory to our modern dilemmas and the financial situation we all find ourselves in.

Travelling the London Underground dressed as a 19^th Century fop is never easy, ask anyone who was involved in the New Romantic movement or has a Burtons' card.

The audition itself was marred by my interpretation of D'Arcey, pretending to be a donkey destroying the economic system from within whilst having a mouthful of carrot. I am not surprised that they uttered the dreaded 'next'.

Also this month I was asked to talk about my old friend James Wilkes, the actor, for a programme called 'My Glorious Friends', a Channel Four vehicle where those who have attained what we laughingly call celebrity are indeed celebrated. I waxed lyrical about my old mucker for what seemed like days, regaling my interviewer with stories and anecdotes of the great man, before being asked to calm down a bit and not appear to be 'so bloody angry'. Fifteen minutes and two Consulate later I am back, relating my escapades and memories of the man. The Droitwich Caper. The Woolwich job. Other work in other locations all over the land. Wokingham. Penzance. Twatt.

I was surprised the producers of the programme decided to cut down my contribution to a mere eight seconds, four of which were me eating a biscuit.

January was, in many ways, a wash out.

End of the Year

Well, here we are at the end of 2012, and once again I find myself in my flat, wondering what joys the new year will bring. With this in mind I have decided to list the past twelve months as to what I have achieved in this previous twelve months.

January

The year started off in something of a stupor. I'm not sure if it wasn't Perkins' Gherkins which caused my sloth start of 2012. The previous night I had been all set to go to bed when Sir Anthony swung around. “Dear heart” said the Welsh Wonder “I have been scouring London looking for someone to spend New Years' with, and you, my friend, have the winning ticket”. Much as I tried to discourage him, Perkins produced from his trousers his famous gherkins, and I knew I was in for a rollercoaster night.

For those who don't know, the theatre is steeped in such traditions. Every actor has something that rhymes with his or her last name, and suitable escapades ensue. Judy Dench has her bench, Simon Callow has marshmallow, Gareth Hunt sadly died. But many of us can remember the fun and larks these fine thespians have given us, and a few of us are still enjoying the resulting incarceration.

I won't go into details, but I am pretty sure the lovely fellows on Billingsgate Fish Market would frown upon our antics that dark night, as would the Health and Hygiene executive.

So I awake, January the first, sans Perkins, tired, aching and smelling of tuna. Which reminds me I must call Day-Lewis. Anyway, all the business of the previous night apart and the Police having left, I promptly set about my list for 2012.

Many actors will tell you it is vitally important to have a list. A range of targets and ambitions to achieve. Some will ignore this sage advice, and their talent will wilt and fade, their star waning towards the horizon, the glory days long since departed until darkness engulfs them and they appear in a Simon Nye sitcom.

I have always believed in having a list, although in 2009 I picked up the wrong list and my sole achievement was picking up two tubes of toothpaste and a sliced loaf.

One must, to every extent and beyond, stretch oneself as a performer. I well recall telling this on one of my many lectures to the young and restless of this parish, although to be honest they didn't seem that restless, playing as I spoke that awful Hungarian Birds. But I did inspire one young person who came up to me later. “Please, Mr McPhereson, please tell me how you be so good at that acting stuff”. Of course, one has to be careful these days helping youngsters. You can't be too careful. One wrong move, one misinterpreted word out of place, and you are smeared with the foulest of slurs. “Wait” I told the young pretender, leaving them agog and eager to hear my advice and heading off down the corridor to the gents, only later to see their surprised face as the fire brigade prized me from the toilet window.

So the list. As Shakespeare might have put it 'aims and visions of life this list be, what aims this arrow of life true to its' flight, ne'er diverting from true passage, fly true to your command, dear arrow, fly the good flight'. Many people have mentioned my lapses into the vernacular of the bard. I often overhear people referring to me as “That bard” in conversation, and I am flattered. So, what aims do I wish to achieve and strive towards this 365? Which lofty ambition should I be determined to fulfil?

I would like to get my job back as the voice of Franks Jam. I mean, obviously the company distanced itself after the incident, and made several hefty and much publicised donations to the charities concerned, and even now I can't into Whipsnade or London Zoo without being eyed with suspicion. And Ikea have blacklisted me, it would appear. But with a little time, the public will forget the calumnious accusations and ensuing legal wrangles.

I would like to do a play. Maybe one written specifically with me in mind. A comedy, a tragedy, a drama, maybe a farce. Definitely not a musical – not after that business in Chester which was damaging to myself, my fellow actors and the makers of Trombones. Of course, various apologies were forthcoming, not least from myself, and monies were sent to charities and voluntary work was undertaken (where charged to do so) for no fee. So a play. That would be nice. In the West End. But no Sundays. And no matinees – I like my afternoons too much. And if we could just restrict the audience to maybe three nights a week, because I think over exposure to either tense drama or hilarious and well acted comedy should be rationed. Of course, I would have to have the full fee, because I would be unable to undertake any other work should I be forced to undertake such an epic undertaking. And have my hotel paid for.

I would like to be in a Situation comedy as well. I have a great idea. Bob Marvellous is a actor who has a wide canon of work, and is widely admired by his co-workers and peers, who is making reparations for accusations unfounded. His wife is obviously beautiful and talented and he is thought of as brilliant by everyone in general and quite a smashing bloke. I haven't actually thought of any stories par se, but we can get to those once the cheque clears. Should I find myself available I would sacrifice my time for the publics' entertainment.

Also if I could get a new shower curtain, that would be good.

Regret

Like many of the things in life which one should avoid, one should avoid regret. I am sorry I have wasted so much time on it. Regrets about people I have wronged, friends I have lost, dignity I have sacrificed, charges I should have denied. But such is the soup of life; the bread of existence, the umbilical coax connecting us with the nether.

It would be pretentious of me to say that acting is the easiest of the arts. You don't need paint, you don't need a chisel (unless you are using the same dressing table as Vanessa Feltz) and you don't need glue (again, Feltz). It is of course the hardest of the arts. In fact, I would go as far as to say it is the most important and vital work ever, encompassing danger, solitude, safety and camaraderie the like of which much of humanity can only dream. Oh! But that our world leaders were actors. What joy would be injected into the nations' hearts as they told us they were taxing our pensions, levying a variable charge on our properties or cutting our funding. They would do it not with the sombre and serious tone, but with subtle underplay, weaving betwixt text and meaning, between emotion and action, between bond market results and disappointing long term growth yield.

Imagine hearing a factory in Cleethorpes is to close with the loss of five hundred jobs, but the news to be broken by Peter Bowles. I dare say they applaud his fine performance, and as the critics rushed out their reviews, those families affected would be delighted to be part of the story itself, a sort of living addendum, by moving to smaller premises.

Or the complete crash of the stock market, making all monies and bartering tender obsolete, bringing our very society back to a feudal time. But announced by John Simm. I'm sure our so-called Newspapers would be full of praise for Simms moving performance as the everyman, the face of us all, battling insurmountable odds to simply survive, and asking for his fee in cash.

Or a terrible pandemic, likely to cost the lives of billions of innocent people as it cuts through the population leaving only disease and pestilence in its' wake narrated by Graham Norton.

You see my point? Everything is made better by theatre and the merry coterie of workers who present you that illusion. The idea could be extended to the emergency services. I recently ventured to suggest the idea to a Fire Brigade bigwig during a impromptu but highly controlled barbeque.

"What if" I opined "the..." I struggled to express the words at first, while his gaze on me was uninterrupted, despite his garibaldi. "The Fire Brigade is in a lot of financial quagmire, and I have a solution to your woes" I stood there waiting for his reaction, which consisted of poking me in the lapel with his biscuit. I took this to be an improvised 'go on'. "You currently take twenty minutes on average to get to a blaze. What if - what if the Fire Brigade financed a small theatre troupe to perform at blazes before you turn up. This would do two things" Bloody hell! There was no going back now "This would firstly expose these people - or as you call them victims - to contemporary theatre, tackling the issues of the day and making them think about themselves and their fellow man, but it would also take their mind off, to a certain extent, the deadly blazing inferno which was destroying their home and possessions" he chewed his garibaldi. My idea was getting through! One last push, like the final thrust of the copulate act, and I would attain paradise "also it would keep the noise down for the neighbours as making a fuss during a live performance is considered very rude. So we would discourage screaming". My words had got to him. Garibaldi despatched, he moved on to talk to someone else, no doubt about this great idea 'he' had just had.

Working with Animals

Occasionally in this mixed up world, one is asked to do something which one knows one would secretly delight, but which one must hide ones' delight as not to lower ones' fee.

[note to self - lots of ones in that sentence, don't want to sound like Queen Victoria, does one?]

This week I am in Lowestoft Wild Monkey Park, for a commercial representing the Ironing Board Safety Council. They have councils, panels and departments for all sort of ridiculous things these days. You can't move for advisory bodies and Health and safety executives and welfare officials and security personnel. It's all a far cry from one producer, a man working the camera and a ostrich puppet.

People are so demanding now. When I made 'Clifton, The Ostrich Legged Lethario' a few years back (a biopic of Bernie Clifton, whose entire catalogue of stories for his grandchildren seem to increasingly involve an ostrich), it was just me, Michael Gambon, Michelle Dotrice and a ostrich. The four hour script we had (which we edited down from the original nine hours) was packed to the gills with japes and feathery head burying and we knew we could make a film at least as good as Cleopatra, although instead of the pyramids, cast of thousands and romance of the Egyptian landscape, we had a mantlepiece. We took it in turns to film as one of the other two played with form, and I particularly remember the tender and emotional scene towards the end of the film where one of the sticks that work the neck (on the ostrich, not Clifton) broke and caused much eye watering sadness.

We intended to show the film at community centres and old peoples' homes up and down the land, to share in Cliftons' struggles, to show it wasn't all pecking at imaginary bits of trill or attacking Michael Parkinson. Both Gambon and Dotrice were busy, Michael on his stage work and Dotrice had some pottery to be getting on with, and so it was left to me to demonstrate the result of our out pourings to the world. I also too responsibility for the subsequent Public Order offences.

My point though is this; for that production it was three people. For this advertisment we have over six hundred people involved, and I have no idea what any of them actually do. I know what I must do. I must iron a shirt faster than the Orangutan, which I can't see being much of a problem. But all these people... why? Why Lord?

Stage and Television Today

I once again apologise for my lack of entries into this, my online world. I am afraid I got embroiled in a particularly strict game of Farmville, which resulted in broken arms.

On the plus side I must say having your arms broken by a group of otherwise lovely friends is a real eye opener. I have not been able to do anything for myself for a while, and this has made me appreciate my arms all the more. Arms are wonderful things, allowing you to signal, lift, wave and all manner of other activities which normally we take for granted. Where, I wonder, would Magnus Pyke have been in his televisual career had not we evolved arms? He would have been explaining things wobbling around like a weeble.*

 I am not sure how the human race would have developed without arms. Certainly from a performers point of view key works would have been presented in an entirely different way. Shaw's Arms and the Man would have had to have been retitled, Hans Christian Anderson would have another name and I don't even want to mention Goldfinger.

All this thinking got me thinking, and thinking resulted in creativity. Why not, I surmised, why not do a musical based on arms? If Lloyd Webber can do Cats and someone else can do some nonsense connected with engine lubricant, I am sure I can do one about Arms.

I began the laborious project of working out how this would work. How would we have a collection of arms, just arms, on stage, singing songs about being arms?

Would they have left civilization after some catastrophie unknown? Could there have been a disease which makes them fall off or have to be amputated? The obvious problem was how to get them to sing; it would have to be a disease where your mouth ends up on your upper arm, otherwise it would just be a load of severed limbs on stage thrashing about, and I think we've all seen Billy Elliot.

I'll have to think carefully about this. It could be a winner.

So, arms now working as good as ever I am entreated to some marvelous physiotherapy. 

*It's been pointed out to me that Magnus would not have been wobbling at all, due to the fact he had legs. Well, suppose something had happened to those legs? Suppose he had upset Wiltshire Women's Guild during a demonstration game of Canasta? I would venture to suggest his scientific pontifications would not have been quite the profound insights into the universe and the laws governing it, had he been a-wobbling around like an egg, that was my point, but oh no, the lady proof reading this has to point out these things like some spoil-your-conversation Nazi and insist I of all people write a full and hearty explanation of why my comment relating to Dr Pyke was flawed in almost every respect. Like there was going to be any comeback anyway.**

** I have been contacted while I was writing by the estate of Magnus Pyke to the effect that I must make it perfectly clear he was not a weeble, and that any connection between his eminent work in science and wobbling whilst failing to fall down is mine and mine alone. The modern world, eh??

Mysterious NuBold

One is often asked, as one is something of a local celebrity, to attend functions, seminars, lectures. To give an almost papal blessing by opening supermarkets, theatres, sports facilities and museums. Such is the honour which befell myself when I was asked to do the Tombola at St Marigold's.

St Marigold's is one of the most wonderful diocese in the country, boasting over fifteen hundred people in the small Lincolnshire village, and those that had heard of me turned up to see me spin the old tumbler. I hate large crowds anyway.

It was something of an honour for me to pull out from the barrel the name of the person who has won the Vosene gift basket. Mr Harrington was delighted and gave a small speech, during which he mentioned my good self, although I had to correct him that I was not in fact Ms Windsor.

Calls - a Tarquin in demand

I have this morning received a call from a 'Lawrence', one of the myriad number of interns employed by Sharon, who seemed to be under the impression I was scheduled for an audition this morning. I dislike when agents schedule you to do something and don't tell you. It makes turning up difficult.

As an actor, and I don't know about other actors but I find this to be the case, I need time to think and consider how I will approach any part. For the role of 'man eating toast' in the Rowntree Jam commercial, for example, I spent a week eating nothing but toast. While doing this, I considered what sort of man I was. Was I married? Was I a professional man or one of the workers? How did I relate to my friends? What car did I drive? What was my relationship to my Mother like? How did I react when the cuts to live theatre in the provinces were announced? All these things were, to me, vital if I was to cram in as much pathos, character and meaning as Rowntree has crammed in real apricots.

You may think a lot of this work is wasted; oh no, I reply, waving a correcting but none-the-less stern finger in your direction, it is a vital and living necessity that I portray something like this to the best I can, breathing in realism to every gesture, conveying the meaning of life to this man to the wider public through the medium of eating toast. They would know his joy, his pain, his very soul, exposed for all to see and savour, the essence of the human condition. Through this medium, and using me as a conduit, he would be revealed to the world.

I attended this particular audition with a 108-page dossier of information on the man, his likes for Chopin and the Chemical Brothers, his passion for Bolton Wanderers, the hidden rage which lies behind all unharnessed talent. The director, who couldn't have been older that seven, tossed my information to one side 'You're only here to eat some toast' he said, not realising he'd missed out on my accounts of the man's jury service where he always thought an innocent man had gone to prison, completely negating the tale of the trouble he'd had with local kids trampling over his tomatoes and the ineffectual response of the local Police. The trials and tribulations of his planning permission application for that new patio. He missed all that. “Just eat the bloody toast, McPhereson” said the prepubescent plebe, and eat I jolly well did. Of course, my diet of six loaves of bread every two hours for a fortnight had given me something of a wheat intolerance, but I soldiered on. I tried to imagine I was one of our brave lads during the first world war, trapped in a filthy trench, facing the Somme and the Germans, knowing their new machine gun was waiting to launch the bullet which would end my life. Only replacing the Germans, the Somme and the gun with some toast and the prospect of slight indigestion.

In all my research I had forgotten to actually decide which sort of jam this man would prefer. I was shocked to find I had been dished up raspberry. “Raspberry?” I pondered, incredulously. “This man would not eat raspberry! He is a strawberry man. Strawberry is his perchant, his raison d'etre. His toast camouflage.” A heated argument ensued in which I stated that to do this character credit and give him any credibility at all, it would have to be strawberry or the whole thing would fall down and the whole of Britain would be laughing at our incompetence and unrealistic portrayal, and he put his point that I either did it or piss off.

I ate the jam, but with every mouthful I slowly and surely sank into a deep and loathful mire of despair.

They never called me back.

Lawrence seemed insistent that I had been told but checking my diary I found nothing to indicate such an engagement. Apparently I was to be a henchman in the new Bond film 'Snookerhips'. Or at least audition for one.

Of course, this all comes at a time for me that has been difficult. I have trouble keeping this blog going, partly because of the lack of suitable acting work for someone of my type, but mainly because I had the electricity cut off. And this after I offered to make their commercials for them. I had it all laid out.

Enter King Richard

“Foresooth, doest this bill of electric accurate my usage reflect? To mine knowledge, this seemeth a bit steep. The morrow I shall go and verily gather knowledge of other competitive tariffs in this the so called sector of domesticity”

It goes on to a battle between the Royalists who support Richard whose throne and future is thrown into doubt also in his quest to obtain a better unit base rate for his consumption of power and British Gas.

They didn't even reply. Is this to be the way of things? When I have a conversation with lovely Dame Judi or charming Charlie Dance or even Pongo Hopkins I expect a reply to my words, not an empty void of silence. But these are professionals; these are people who take parts of other people, mannerisms, affectations and in Hopkins case innerds, and turn them into something people can really appreciate. I dare say if there were a few more of them employed by British Gas I would have no problem communicating my financial problems to their customer services.

I envisage the conversation to go thus:

“Hello, thank you for calling British Gas, this is Sir Anthony Hopkins speaking, can I have your account number please”

There then would follow a conversation peppered with anecdotes, trivialities of acting gossip, snippets of information about upcoming productions he may or may not be involved in, all the while sorting out a better payment plan. And of course, should he be in a bad mood, he could use his Hannibal Lecturn character in awkward calls

“I think you people are blood suckers. You have screwed up my direct debit, taking 120 when you said it would be 80 and this has given me a shit load of bank charges, what are you going to do about it, eh?”

“Do you remember, when you were a small boy, you had a owl. And the owl would stare at you, night and day. Where ever you were in the house? And when you grew the owl grew until one day the owl was not there, and that was the day the Priest came to your room...”

“I am so sorry”

“Sorry isn't good enough. Remember... I have your account details on screen. Sleep well.”

That would be a change indeed. Of course, I am in no way suggesting British Gas should start actually eating their customers, although if the notion is raised in future years I would like some sort of recognition.

October

I again am forced to apologise for my tardy postings.

Being an actor, one is forced into a set of circumstances; auditions, applying for auditions, doing auditions, asking the director what it is exactly they want, arguing that the vision they have is not one you share, waiting the call back, hanging around the theatre, finding out where the director lives, finally accosting them in Waitrose dressed as the part you auditioned for (in this case a transexual Viking) and then all the legal and custodial events I shall not bore you with.

It really is rude of people not to do the simply thing of letting one know whether one will be able to afford to eat. You pick up the phone, you call me, and tell me “Sorry, Tarquin, we cannot see you are Eugene this time”. I can take it. I'm not a monster. Contrary to what Mssrs Aldkirk and Weston have claimed, I am professional enough to accept defeat.

I must say though the mafia had a good thing of placing a severed horse's head on the pillow next to their intended victim. I couldn't actually find a horse, and I did feel somewhat odd harming an animal just to make a point, so my decision was right, I think, to use sprouts.

Voodoo is also something which I have found to be ineffective, and I have now disposed of all my dolls and pins.

'My Beats' - transcription of my show - By Tarquin

Renee and Renato; which is which remains a mystery.

And so I graduated early from Drama school. It was a proud day, and one which resonates with the fraternity there. Mr Olga, the Head of the College, told me – and I quote “We have nothing we can teach someone with your level of talent”. As I exited the portals of the learned buildings, many of my compatriots and fellow students were so overcome with emotion stayed away, so warped with grief, and the few I did see couldn’t find the words to express their sorrow at my departure, choosing instead to look at a advertisment for a jumble sale in the students’ union rather than meet my gaze.

My work was full and varied. Ne’er a year pass without one part or another. I hate to boast, as you know, but my work was unparalleled in both it’s breadth and girth and quality.

3 Blob Creature in Dr Who

Crowd member in Boys From the Black Stuff

Patient in background in Casualty

Unnamed laughing Cockney Cheeky Chappie in pub in Eastenders

Dead man in Holby City

Pedestrian in The Bill

Plague victim in The Survivors

Slab Occupant in Silent Witness

It was a fantastic time; and the truth and exposure I brought to all the roles meant it may have distracted viewers from the main action, and would explain why I was never asked back.

It was also about this time I was asked to front a campaign and become the face of a product so fundamental to our democratic and quasi political way of life it had become endemic to our national image. When I was first approached by Finchers Crab Paste, the substance had remained largely unknown to me. I had no idea crabs produced paste, let alone what that paste would do. I tended to use Gloy.

I was taken on a tour of Finchers’ factory, and my knowledge of crab paste increased exponentially. “Are you up for it?” said the Managing Director, whose name is lost to me temporarily. “Yes. Yes I am” I replied.

For five years I was the voice of Crab Paste. No one could rival me in terms of enthusiasm for the product. Every event, every public speaking engagement, every after dinner speech I made at the time was festooned with humourous stories relating to, involving or somehow used as a metaphor, crab paste.

But the party came to an abrupt end one cold day in March, when I received the news there was no longer a Finchers Crab Paste to be the face of. The manager, whose name still eludes me, had apparently taken a turn for the worse, and shot eight people in his factory, before turning the gun on himself.

This tragedy touched me deeply. How could I continue to front a company which now was basically a warehouse full of dead bodies and errant shellfish? How would I reaffirm myself into the world of serious acting? My face was known, yes, but was that enough? I rang my agent who appeared to have changed his number and I got through to a Tyre replacement centre. As an actor you learn opportunity knocks but once and asked if they had any plans to stage any theatre in the near future, whether traditional or experimental. I wasn’t bothered. And neither, judging by the reply were they. I did however avail myself of a set of smart radials, with good tread and a three year warranty. Which was handy, a good price and should come in handy should I ever learn to drive.

It was then I entered what is known as my ‘dark period’. A succession of films – none of which I am ashamed of – followed. Again the range was vast. Plumber, gardener, bridegrooms’ best friend, tv repair man, ointment salesman and campanologist. The plots were wafer thin though, and my Spotlight entry that year was deleted on the grounds of the Obscene Publications Act.

There was also the incident with Una Stubbs in Mother Goose in Cirencester.

These were dark times. And my music reflected that.

My beats - Transcript - Part 3

“What would you like to be?” said the careers officer, his eyes twinkling with the forlorn dreams of what will never be. “I want to act, Sir” I replied “I want to present to the world the dilemma and dichotomy that is the human condition. I want to explore issues and emotions and expose the essence of what it is to be human. I want, through my work, to help people exist with each other, to foster tolerance and understanding. In short, Sir, I want to be at it”. “There’s no chance you could do all that in Bernards’ shoes on the high street? They’re looking for someone”

Such is the attitude of those outside the profession. Those who have not and never will act we call ‘nactors’ within the profession. That or Matthew Waterhouses. Acting is simply the hardest job in the world. It is parachuting into enemy territory in a luminous jump suit at night with a faulty parachute and realising you forgot your packed lunch. It is fighting pirhana while being covered in slices of ham. It is sitting next to Brian Blessed during an otherwise quiet bit at Wimbledon.

It is a struggle; like climbing Everest in a ballgown or taking on the entire US Military with a Cornish pasty. I knew then I would settle for nothing less than the challenge of a script.

My third month in Bernards’ Shoe Emporium heralded a light in the darkness, illuminating not only the shop itself but also casting it’s rays on a glimmer of hope. Mr Bernard had decided on an amateur dramatics performance. But not any – oh no – this was to be a staging of a Mid Summer Nights’ Dream. We had three staff I remonstrated with him, we can’t do it. And Mrs Caruthers has a bladder condition. If we put her in a false forrest, who knows what will happen. She was bad enough left alone with the Hush Puppies. Then the mind of my employer was displayed in all it’s finery “We shall do the whole play, but the actors…” he drew breath. I waited, poised to pounce. “The actors shall be the shoes themselves” he finally added after a long lunch.

This shoeman, this purveyor of footwear was – unbeknownst to himself  - a genius of theatre. The play was cast, with spats, lace ups, Doc Martins, Wellington Boots, Sneakers, galoshes, brogues, pumps, stiletto heels, espadrilles and a startling performance by a winklepicker. It was an overwhelming success, and the four audience members watched in awe, although one of them had to leave as he was supposed to meet his Mother for a sandwich.

Our little show revealed much of human nature and a comment on the raw and savage world of consumerism, and the fact Mr Bernard had a breakdown and started stuffing clogs with offal shows the effect it had on him, the shop and the audiences.

But back to my story; a brother of an audience member had a friend who knew a man whose sister was seeing a man whose wife worked with a woman who was married to someone who was seeing the doctor of a theatrical agent. A call was placed. I was on my way.

And this was the song which heralded my new direction. A song of hope. A sweet melody which evokes the idealism of the young, the possibilities of youth and the optimism of the future. Renee and Renato.

Part two of my program 'My Beats'

Dean Martin, recorded before he died, and Memories are Made Of This.

School was unremarkable, although I was even then a keen participant in the school productions. I played as wide  a range of characters I possibly could, from small merchant selling fruit in the corner to silent onlooker to donkey. The donkey presented a unique challenge. How does a donkey think, what is it’s motivation, it’s raison d’etre? How would it feel to actually be inside a donkey. A question I put to several teachers and subsequent educational psychologists.

I would have done anything to get the lead role, that of the shepherd, but in a way the awarding of the prime character part to Richard Mule was a lesson in life; no matter how talented one is, one is always going to be overlooked for someone else. I did for sometime let my anger and fury fester deep inside, but, and this is the main thrust of my words here, I did not let them rule me. I was the Donkey. A peaceful, tranquil beast. I would focus my energies on my performance and not the way Mule had stolen what was rightfully mine.

I discovered Stanivlaskys ‘method’. For those who don’t know, Stanivlasky – first name…Mr… was one of the pioneers of the ‘Method’. The idea was to live the part, to experience it first hand and translate that into your work. Dustin Hoffman I am reliably informed uses the method a lot, and once used to to completely transform himself into a role few actors thought was possible. It was difficult to recognise him under that make up, but we all know he was Lassie.

It took Hoffman several months of research, fetching sticks and licking his privates before he was truly ready. Even now he greets you by sniffing your crotch or licking your face, and if you throw a ball at the Oscars, Hoffman will return it to your table for a tasty treat.

 I decided I should live as a Donkey does to know this part, and this raised a lot of eyebrows as I grazed lightly outside the classroom, defecated on the PE room floor and did surprisingly well in a maths test. As the educational psychologist took notes, I remember this song being on the radio. A sweet tune, almost hypnotic, though that may be partly due to the injection.

The Beatles and Twist and Shout

A retrospective.

It was with great pleasure this week that I was invited to BBC Radio Bristol to record ‘My Last Beats’, a programme much in the same mould as desert Island Discs, but hosted in Bristol and featuring songs which remind one of times in ones’ life one would either cherish, lament or quite like really to forget about. There are many ‘tracks’ as the youngsters call them which I would prefer to be deleted. But there are many more which evoke fond memories of people, places, performances and in one case, litigation.

Six tracks and a mystery food. Here is a transcript of the show

“Hello. (OFF) Is this on? Are we on this time? Okay. (normal) Hello. As the more perceptive of you will know, I am Tarquin McPhereson, actor, wit, writer, critic and bone vivante of the acting world. It is my honour to guide you through the tracks of my life which I feel something for. This is ‘My Last Beats’.

I was born on a notorious day. The 5^th of August remains synonymous being the anniversary of the last Danish army invading Britain, the Americas stops flogging criminals and the day the BBC stopped showing neighbours. But 1955 was the year I made my debut, cast out from my dressing room (my Mothers’ womb) down the wings (her cervix) and finally onto the stage (exiting her vagina). I don’t mean for a minute that my Mother gave birth on stage, that would be terrible, and lead to a lot of bad reviews, especially if she had to do it six days a week with matinees. No, I am using what is called a metaphor.

The lines I had that day were limited but the scope for development was there. ‘Waaaaaaaaaaa’ I emoted, so convincingly a dummy was placed in my mouth reducing the possibility of further dialogue.

1955 was a good year for music, and I am only too sorry I didn’t arrive on this Earth sooner so I too could have enjoyed Doris Day, Pat Boone and Perez Prado, but sadly I was occupied filling my nappy and screaming all night to really take an interest in popular music. One song which did touch me though was Dean Martins’ Memories are made of this, which I recall playing in the car on a family holiday to Lowestoft, while my father shouted and my Mother tried to get the sick off my clothes. Happy days.

Whoops

So caught up was in telling you my woes I forgot the reason I was posting. Having checked the job papers this morning I was amazed that my old pal Nigel Farmer was holding a reunion for the stars of the 1980s soap opera ‘Anglian Lives’. The show was local & never made it to network, the snobs in London felt anyone in the East Anglia would be of little interest to the rest of the populous, but oh! How wrong they were. This ignorance afforded us a certain cache, we could cover issues those in London would balk at.

Some of the subjects covered which those in London would have balked at.

Tractor maintenance

Fleas

Over cooked Puddings

Faulty pitchforks

Jamborees.

Ritual Devil sacrifice

Home made curtains

Yes, and even to this day those in London are woefully ignorant of such things. We also covered social and environmental issues

Oil

Water

Electricity

The Rainforrests

Bovril

The set up of the show was simple. Rob Wainright (Richard Griffiths) was a man who discovers a new fuel source in a field in East Anglia. He makes his fortune, millions (which today would probably still be millions) of pounds rolls in. It was truly the Dallas of its’ day, with Ron playing the head of a oligarchy of super rich people, and his cheating, unfaithful and duplicitous wife, whose evil was only out matched by her glamour and looks, Doreen. (Played by Penelope Keith). He had a son, two daughters and a dachsund, although the Dachsund didn’t seem particularly used to film sets, and was written out after biting a guest stars’ ears off mid scene. As the blood gushed from his wounds, Rickman continued to deliver his lines, and even as he lost conciousness he was still emoting like a good ‘un. Of course it’s not something he chooses to talk about, which is why so few interviewers ask him about his ears. I did hear the Radio Norfolk personality Nathan Wickham mention it to him in passing during a interview about Rickmans’ book, shortly before Wickhams’ mysterious disappearance.

Oh, the array of stars who queued up to be on the show. Sylvester McCoy. Bono. Dr Hilary Jones. A man who claimed to be Hartley Hare. It was halcyon days of invites, chat shows and controversy. I remember we did a story line, which, if you took a straw pole around some of the villages in East Anglia (or E.A., as we liked to call it) You would find almost 8% of people were talking about it. 3% positively. Yes, were were the flavour of the month in many ways, an intoxicating brew of talent, script and direction which assured us success. Such a shame Anglian Television decided to ditch it after the first show and put on repeats of sale Of The century.

I am back

Good day. Firstly I must apologise for the lack of updates. There are several reasons for this, the last of which is I had my fingers broken in a protection racket run by a certain television actor. For obvious reasons I cannot name the performer, I don’t Wannamaker angry, or risk My Family in any way.

I think I am correct in saying my last post was in April, just after the debacle of Dick Van Dykes’ pajama theft (something which the British Police seem totally disinterested in, and the only action they took in relation to this crime was an arrest and imprisonment for much of May under the Mental Health Act). At the beginning of June a letter sprouted forth from my agent, Mcallister and Thorneycroft,stating that because of my attitude, my relationships with fellow performers and indeed the standard of my work in general, they no longer wished to represent me.

I was shocked.

What had I done to deserve such detrimental treatment? I immediately rang the office to seek answers to the hundred or so swirling questions which moved through my mind like a hurricane. It was actually two questions, but with repeats…

I spoke to David, who was less than helpful. “Listen, love” he opined “we have people on our books, and with your exclusion we now have a 100% of them who have never smacked David Suchet in the face”. I was stunned. Was I to be treated thus because of an incident which both of us (myself and Suchet) had long since sorted*.

“I don’t need you” I shouted down the phone “Talent always wins. And I am talent. And you will regret doing this to me” I screamed, my anger as palpable as a strongly odourous cheese. But he had hung up.

As work seems to be thinner on the ground than Nick Robinsons’ quiff, I have decided to enter the work of the great unwashed, and currently I am to be found in the dish washing section of Harry Ramsdens’ in Gospel Oak. This may seem a step down from the world of showbusiness, but I maintain it is healthy to mix and undertake the work of the public; it keeps you grounded. And who knows, maybe a role will come up featuring dish washing in a television play, or maybe even a film. And then my experience here will pay dividends. To play a role, one must live it, and the ability to play a man who stubbornly refuses to stop until that pasta sauce is wiped from the dish, no matter what the cost to himself personally, is one which I think any director worth his sort would look at.

*The dispute was settled in a barn in Totnes, where Suchet and myself fought in hand to hand combat. Both of us had been working hard, and had both come straight from our respective sets. Suchet dressed as Poirot, myself as a large petunia (I had been filming a commercial for Rennie). Suchet took a beating that night, and his ‘little grey cells’ were well and truly shaken up, as for some days after he was convinced he was Folkstone.

The Return of Galaxy Log!

Scanning through the myriad emails and messages, I notice one from Peter Nayland-Goathe, a old and wily man and dare I say, a friend. Although he has not been in touch recently, not since the end of Galactic Log, he brought glad tidyings. Apparently they are thinking of bringing back GL for  whole new generation.

For those who don't know Galactic Log was one of the most innovative Sci Fi shows ever made. It had a cult following in the 1980s, and to enhance it's exclusive and on the edge style, it has never featured in any sci-fi convention, and wouldn't do even if we were invited. The reviews were mixed for it, it seems the critics just 'didn't get it'. One that stands out in my mind was 'Galactic Log should be renamed "there's nothing on BBC2 either"'. A trifle unkind.

In the series I played Vorbilon, a Spand from the planet Squirb, who had been recruited into the United Kingdom of Planets partly because his own planet and star system was burnt up in a supernova and partly because of the luncheon vouchers.

Sadly Vorbilon was struck dumb by an alien crumb ray in the second episode, so I had to convey the angst, loneliness and desperation of my character using only my physical perspicacity and rubber tendrils.

I am to meet Nayland-Goathe tomorrow - the 15th. I shall keep you informed.

Return to Reality

The last week of March I spent at the Foreign Office, being quizzed on the performance and how it went and what it involved. There was certainly a lot of interest! People would come in and go out and then another set of people would come in and go out. There was talk of a diplomatic incident, although I can’t really take the credit for how the populous of that nation reacted to our departure home. It was a team effort, although if pushed, I would have to say my puppetry during Mid Summer Nights’ Dream was something I would be proud to have on my CV, and any future employer can explore at length my Bottom.

The problem which also dogged me was Melvyn Hayes, who was under instruction from a Columbian Cuddley Toy Cartel to smuggle in as many toy penguins as he could. Imagine my surprise when his body scan revealed over fifty eight of these items hidden in his rectal passage. The image of poor Hayes being led away by guard to literally have the stuffing taken out of him is something which will live with me for a long time, as is the imaginary image of him placing them there in the first place.

I returned to my flat to find absolutely no trace that Dick Van Dyke had been there and set an elaborate trap to force me to meet my maker. This was a tremendous relief to me; as readers know I have had a rather heated dispute over a set of pajamas which went missing in Greenwich dry cleaners and which subsequently I saw on an episode of Diagnosis Murder; it seems Van Dyke is biding his time.

London is something of a bump to reality when returning from a foreign tour. No one here comes up to me, let alone chases me, and to some extent I feel lonely, unappreciated and neglected.

I must ring Nicholas Parsons today.

Back from the Brink. Or Africa, as some call it.

It’s been a while so let me fill you in on what I have been up to. I have spent much of the tail end of March in Malawi, with the RSSPC. Not a charity, although if you want to donate some funds to them I am sure they will be gratefully received. Neither is it anything to do with the RSC, as the injunction clearly states. The Royal Shakespeare Shadow Puppet Collective performs the Bards’ plays via a complex set up of a wall and a table lamp. Oh, the deep feeling of doing something new! The raw emotion of being the first to explore this medium with the greatest playwright the world has ever seen. The embarrassment of Two Gentlemen of Verona where I made a rather convincing but unscripted mallard.

I have to say at this point we were in no way responsible for the civil unrest which seemed to dog our performances; we put this down to a sweeping desire for political change, and nothing to do our actual shows, which were dogged by technical, performance and rioting issues.

The endless chanting of “pothawira iye” and “McPhereson! Duka chotsa mavalo a chimuna” I took to be especially heartening. To think my name is now part of the language in Malawi. I am reliably informed it means “We must give him what he deserves” and many of our security personnel and latterly the army certainly seemed to concur.

My journey to the airport was eventful, as faithful audience members rocked the vehicle, perhaps hoping for one last performance of our epics, although we lacked a suitable torch, and Enrico (head of security)  said it was unwise to go out in case they got over excited, and with each wanting to savour a part of me pull me limb from limb.

Threatening call

I have just received a call from a withheld number. The words are etched on my mind like the graffiti on the front door.

“Evenin’ Guv. It’s a real pea souper out there and that’s a fact. People bound to go missin’ tonight, squire. Cor blimey, it’s a bleeding nightmare for those who remain when some bloke goes missing, so it is, chief. I tell you mate, I can feel something awful about to happen, never have I had such a sensation in my plums”

And the line went dead. The cockney accent was so bold, so assured I can only assume it was made locally or at least in the Northern Hemisphere. 

I would switch the lights off and close the curtains but Van Dyke stole them all.

I may go and stay with Binky Biggins tonight. If I do I want you to know that if I am reported to have been found in a sex game which went wrong, it was nothing to do with me. Well, it certainly wasn’t consensual.

The pajama game

Further to my earlier post, I have just come off the phone to the producers of Diagnosis Murder. My conversation was somewhat curtailed by their refusal to believe in my stolen pajamas appearance, with threats being issued on both sides of a most boisterous nature. Since putting the phone down I have reflected on the career of Dick Van Dyke, and the money has has accrued, and am under no misconception when I say that the man intends to carry out his threats, many of which relate to my bottom.

To think this business may actually lead to my untimely death. It’s only a pair of pajamas I know, but it’s the principle of the thing; then the horror of the truth hit me. 

Van Dyke had robbed my flat!

He has the power. He has the money. He has my pajamas. It all fits. I rang the local police station and informed them of my suspicions ; several times to several officers, all of whom passed me onto another officer to explain my theory. They assured me someone would come around tomorrow and speak to me about it.

But that is tomorrow! Tonight is the questionable time. If I am found dead in my bath, or deceased after some bizarre sex game then I can assure you that I did not kill myself, I had no intention of killing myself and frankly if I am found in a cupboard with jam on my genitals and a noose then it is definately not a sex game gone wrong. I cannot emphasize this enough. 

If I am found with a tangerine in my mouth and a dog collard in ladies undergarments with a Henry hoover attached to my manhood then ignore the report - it will be murder. 

And if I am discovered with a black mamba ‘adult toy’ rammed up my behind, blindfolded and tied up spread eagle and naked then I can assure you it was not of my doing.

March Madness

One thing March is famous for, apart from the Ides, is madness. It has been quite fraught here of the last few days. First, on the second a man called around claiming there were some slates missing off my roof. I inspected the roof myself while he waited, and found no such deficiency in slate provision, and on my descension I discovered it was not slates I was lacking but a television, DVD, blue ray and for some reason my pajamas. Having informed the Police of this foul business, I was duly sent a form (well, they claim I have been sent a form but to be honest I have recieved squat diddly from them). My pajamas I will miss, everything else can be replaced, but they were a gift from Chris Timothy and the very same pajamas featured three times in All Creatures. A collectors item for sure. Then on the fifth another man came around to tell me Mark Featherstone at the Bull Theatre was looking for someone for his play 'Hopeless'. Apparently Featherstone had written the play with me in mind! I rushed around to the Bull stage door, full of adrenaline and enthusisasm, only to find there was no such play ergo no work. With a horrible feeling I rushed back to Islington where I discovered my setee, chair, table and lamps had all gone. what foul trickery does the criminal underworld think it is playing on me? Then, yesterday, the tragic news of Godfrey Bellamy, with whom I had the pleasure of appearing in 'No No, Not Mr Bellamy' in the 1970s had passed away during an epic attempt to scale K2 (although only having one arm since appearing in the musical live theatre version of 'Born Free' could be seen as something of a handicap. I poo-pooed this news thinking no sooner would I have left the house than Bellamy would be around taking what is left of my possessions - albeit slowly with his one arm - off to the underworld. I flatly refused in my paranoia to believe he was dead and this lead to them taking me to the undertakers and prizing open his coffin to check. Lo and behold, Bellamy. I have to say I have never felt so bad in my life. To doubt someone is dead simply because it may mean saying good by to my Victorian Tea Pot or the sideboard was unforgivable of me. I felt a fraud and a charlatan. I gave a splendid (if I say so myself) impromtu speech at the service 30 minutes later and was consilatory and sympathetic as any funeral goer could be.

I returned home to find they had taken everything but the floorboards. No one saw anything of course, I mean it would be too much to ask that people look out of their windows and see someone carrying doors, light fittings, taps, kitchens and an entire toilet and loading it up in a van. What is the public doing, not looking out of their windows? It's not like they have much else to do. Theatre is afternoons and evenings, therefore the notion they are too busy to look or even ask a question 'What is going on outside' indicates to me they are not the kind of people I would want to watch me play Rattigan.

While I have been typing this I have had Diagnosis Murder on, and horror of horrors, one of the actors has my pajamas on.

Update

Here we are approaching the end of February and not one word from any of the applications I have sent off, auditions I have attended. The last two months have been almost annoyingly quiet. Apart from one job I did have at Warner Road Police Station where I was involved in an identity parade. That was before a collosal near-miscarriage of justice, which was cleared up in under three days, though I am pretty sure word got out to the grocers in the area.

It was during my sojourn in Warner Road I started to think about how famous people would survive in gaol. I don’t think there has been a convincing portrayal of Prison life; I mean that. I mean, there was The Green Mile, The Shawshank Redemption and Within These Walls, but no really gritty, socially combative exposure of life ‘inside’.

Which is why upon my release I started to write a new novel. I don’t see why not; Richard Fairbrass is not coming back to me about that audition for the West End, and he is leaving it a little late, considering it’s been on a week. And Penguin haven’t even replied to my idea about a book about the adventures of an amorous chair.

and so my mind is sharpened, my pen is ready. I say pen because I feel the writer works best when the process is not weighed down with the rigors of technology. Plus the electric has been cut off. This is what I have written thus far

Bob Crime is a garage proprietor from the east of London. Involved with some shady coves, he quickly becomes immersed in organised crime, and is involved in the notorious fruit stand caper, where he and his cohorts knock over a fruit stand. Alone and sentenced to four thousand years, he has time to think about the error of his ways. About his wife, and about sodomy. Not necessarily in that order. Anyway one of the convicts - or lags to use the parlance of the cells - tells him to do something or other which is totally contrary to the rules of the prison and thus presents a moral dilemma which is the main driver to the story. There is conflict as well with the prison big crime man called Mr Big, and for light relief a small scuffle over a pudding.

Glorious, gritty, real.

An Agents' Birthday

Today is Rhianna's birthday. Who is Rhianna? She is the delightful creature who has replaced Pamela who seems to be always at the dentist/on a course/skiing/up Mount Snowdon when I come in these days. She is much younger than Pamela, and I know I will regret typing this, much more efficient. Yet under her sultry greeting, behind those dark eyes, inside that mysterious feminine mind lies a throbbing, burning, passionate woman. I am sure of it. The way she asks me to sit in reception and then ignores me for an hour or two. It's obvious she likes me, the poor lamb. I made some enquiries and it appears she has changed her name and is now named after a pop star. I cannot remember which one. This just makes me even more intrigued. Who is this bewitching boudica? I need to know all I can.

I have therefore been going in to the office quite a lot, making excuses to be in her presence and watch her. Of course, I don't just sit there and stare. No. I have a magazine in front of my face with one hand and a small childs' periscope over the top. I am not sure she suspects. I have the inspiration for a poem:

Oh Rhianna
You type like Diana
She was a Princess
But you are a receptionist
Oh Rhianna
I hope a spanner
isn't in your works.
Because you wouldn't really need one
In the course of normal secretarial duties.

It's obviously a work in progress. But I am keen to know more about this sultry temptress. Not from a romantic point of view, although that would be nice and mean I hadn't wasted the money on the tablecloth, music and delicious food from the Harvester buffet. No, she has a strange aura.

Oh fickle love, what turmoil you are causing to my delicate, open heart? What strange emotion courses through my veins? This longing, this need, this burning? Although it could be the pickled onion I had earlier.


She coyly sighs when I ring; she seems indifferent when I enter the room; she hands me my script in preparation for my meeting with Audrey (my agent) without even looking up from her burrito.

They always say the ones who ignore you are the ones who like you most and she really, really ignores me. Could she be... the one? Is this the bewitching tickle of love in Tarquins' aching, lonely heart? Could we make it work, against the odds, against society, against the world?
















No.

Opportunity Knocks

Often in life things occur when one is least expecting them. January is always a quiet month for us thesps, many of whom are either scraping off the makeup piled on from work over christmas or furtively avoiding the call from Debenhams for the Santa costume back.

I myself have been immersing myself in decorating my new cottage; I have to say it is very cathartic to move away albeit temporarily from subtext and motivation to flock wallpaper. I have to say those that have visited me have commented that my design is both original and striking. A new, undiscovered talent perhaps? I came up with the 'farmyard' design in conjunction with Chris Wainright, although I should point out Chris generously said I should take all the credit for it. Such was his generosity he turned down any money or undertakings of favours in return, finally stating - and I am having documents drawn up legally - that he wanted nothing to do with it.

The design itself is strikingly simple; pasture shades of green, mellowing into the golden tinge of Autumn, with the occasional brown dollop. The dollops themselves are affectionately known as Cow Pies, and with the three D glasses (optional) you can imagine cattle had indeed hoofed it across your wallpaper, leaving only the goodness of their excrement as the proof. You may also, should you wish, purchase the optional scratch and sniff accompanying the wallpaper.

it really is rewarding, living in a old house, to be a custodian of the past. There are so many parts of the house which I find enchanting. Only this morning I was delving into a Priests' nook, while this afternoon saw me sliding sideways into a concealed passage. I mentioned this in the pub - The Ryder - and was surprised when the Landlord informed me that 'we don't like that sort of talk in here, Mr McPhereson. If that is what you are after, try The Beefy Bicep on the Holland Road'. Bemused at their lack of interest in home improvement and local history, I ventured to the said hostelry, mentioned the same issues I had previously in The Ryder, and within an hour I had a small group of interested young workmen - evidently just finished a long, hot shift on site by the look of them - to come back and labour through the night.

Labour down here seems to be a different meaning to the one I was intending. Whereas what I had envisaged was some pointing, plastering and the odd bit of woodwork, what actually transpired was a lot of disco music and naked dancing. All very nice indeed, but not conducive to my cottage being restored. They also refused to leave, and as the Police report clearly states, they started the trouble.

When the fire was extinguished, I was left with nothing more than a letter opener, two chair legs and a roll of my wallpaper.

Pamela, my agents' so called assistant.

I have never been so insulted. I just came off the phone to Viviens’ assistant, Pamela (I have been given her mobile number as the office is quite busy) and she wasn’t even at her desk. At this time! On a Saturday! She was in Sainsburys. Hardly a place to discuss new ideas, although they are stocking Bengali pickle now.

I suggested my idea to her – after having to remind her SEVERAL TIMES who I was – and she said ‘What do you know about food?’. What do I know about food? WHAT DO I KNOW ABOUT FOOD? I advised her to look at my Curriculum Vitae, but she said what with being in Sainsburys she didn’t have a copy to hand. When I then said she should ask them to see the unsuccessful applicants file for the tobacco counter in the personnel file, she declined. She repeated her enquiry about my level of knowledge of food. I reminded her how much food had played a part in the parts I had played

• Yogesh the Radish in The Travelling School players production of ‘Fruit and Veg’
• Dr Richard Onions in ‘The Armageddon’
• Smearing myself and Anna Massey in yoghurt during a love scene in Lady Jane Grey (although technically I wasn’t in that)
• Winston Churchill eating a Melon in ‘Winston – The Melon Eating Years’
• Cyril the Healthy Hamburger on the Streatham High Road

Was this not enough? Of course I am leaving out the scene in ‘Locks’ Fortress’ where myself, Gordon Francis and Bob Muckerjee were rolling around naked in a huge vat of blackberries. That film though may not count as I don’t think it was ever commercially released although I have had a cheque to prove it was recently shown in a club in Brighton called ‘Clench’. I do love these clique movie enthusiasts.

I’d also been eating most of my life, which I hoped counted as research.

“What do you know about food, Tarquin, do you cook?” My food knowledge is – and I am the first to admit this – limited. I had to reply that over a six week shoot my recipe for porridge would become a little repetitive, even if I added jam around episode four as a plot twist.

“You have to know something, Tarquin, about the subject. We can’t just waltz into the BBC with any old crap and expect them to say yes. We’re not Jennifer Saunders”. And the line went dead.

Replacing the handset into the cradle, I pondered her words. I then rang her back and impersonated Jennifer Saunders with the same idea, but got through to her voicemail and had a coughing fit, during which a large gob of phlegm covered the handset and caused much disgusting language from yours truly. So if you see Ms Saunders making flambé Cheese Cauliflower or icing a cake which looks like an Epsom printer, you know it’s all fixed.

Why can I not do cooking on TV? I would be very good. One of my hobbies is cooking, and then eating, and to have someone else, or preferably a couple of million people who can’t interrupt me watching me eat something, that would be ideal.

So now I am planning my McPhereson Delicious Road Trip. I shall visit theatres, radio stations and on location news reporters and cook for them and film the results. And I will send the tape to the BBC myself. Then we will see if the BBC can resist my tasty talents.

New Year, New Start...

New year was a quiet one for me. While Binky next door celebrated into the night, with his coterie of thespian friends, I opted for a good book, a cup of cocoa and a pouffe. I must admit though, I don’t like reading fiction. One of the worst things about being an actor is you are always visualising text as it would appear, as you would perform it. It is a curse of our profession I am afraid, and reading Delias’ Summertime Treats did nothing to assuage my preparation.

Soon I was scouring the Internet for pastry ingredients, convinced I could, perhaps, perform a more convincing portrayal of someone cooking something than Delia. The bells rang heralding a new year, and I was writing to Amazon to complain about the lack of pastry. I think more people should write complaints to companies at this sort of time, instead of partying with friends, colleagues and peers. It shows one cares about the business.

I could present a cookery show. I am not sure what sort of food I would specialise in. I could of course base my entire culinary output on my acting experiences; years spent on sets, with the caterers. Although I hasten to add caterers is a pejorative term. I have often considered the very real possibility that that manufacturer such poor food simply to finish you off before the cheque turns up. How could I improve this? Less sausages? A shade less mash? No flies? It would be a boon indeed to be the man who made on set location food edible. And it would lessen the work for the forensic people. I would become even more of a national treasure than I already am. And I am a national treasure. I know this because people rarely mention their valuables in case some swarthy type breaks in and steals it when they are away in the Dordogne. There would be nothing worse for theatre, film or television that I would be stolen, possibly melted down and sold. Imagine, the phone ringing with an offer for Casualty while I am being bundled into a sack. The humanity.

So location food. Awful. I remember once appearing in All Creatures Great and Small and Bob Hardy turning up with a tin of winalot, the food there was so poor. Spoonful after spoonful he consumed, all the while talking about long bows. It was lucky he was among actors, any other profession we would have had him put away.

Hospital food is another area I could specialise in. While I was visiting Bob last week, I was struck by how he had everything mashed up and was being fed by the nurse – somewhat forcefully I have to say – with a plastic spoon. Apparently he had managed to work the straps lose and there was an incident with a pudding the previous week. But mashed up food seemed to be very common in there. I could mash things up and then make them into some new sort of cuisine. And the beauty of it is, you can mash anything, virtually. And bits you find difficult to mash there are always the miracles of modern technology. The Krelby Auto Mash, The Rosco Blender, The Ford Focus.

I shall call Pamela this afternoon and discuss my idea. McPheresons’ Meals is the working title. I did ask Binky but he suggested Tarquins’ Tiny Treat and wandered off laughing.