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.
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