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.