Pantomime

Well, December is drawing to a close and so I fear is my stint in pantomime. Not that I fear a rest. There's only so many sweets you can fling at an audience while someone more famous than you stands there singing about grinning.

I don't think there's many pantomimes I haven't done. Pan, Alladin, Snow White, Cinders and a couple of others. I don't mention them on my CV, although a cursory look at my credits and certain news sites will give a flavour of what I achieved. I love the imagination of Pantomime, the sheer thrill that literally anything can happen. Many directors don't understand this, and insist on blocking and lines and actions being as they appear on the page, but sometimes an actor needs to spread his wings, to explore a part, to get under the skin of a character. Sack me if you will, but that is my opinion.

I well remember having this conversation with Su Pollard in her house one fine summers' night. “The trick is Su” I mused “To know your character. To put on the makeup and the clothes and look into your own eyes in the mirror and say 'who are you?' and 'What do you want?'” Su repeated those words to me and I knew the message had sunk in. She also made reference to my wearing her clothes and makeup. I bit my farewells to Ms Pollard as she went into the next room to use the phone. My tuition, I hoped, had helped this starlet, and indeed within months she was appearing in televisions' The Survivors as a corpse.

Pantomime of course is a staple of the Christmas entertainment resume, and I feel proud that I was asked to stand in at last minute for someone who was having dental work. To be considered for 'third pirate' was an honour indeed, and, as the director Frank Arbetter said, I was very lucky to get the part. Frank of course is steeped in theatrical legend like myself, having had a play on several of the most prominent stages at the Beaulieu Open Air Charity Theatre event, one of which I was lucky (again) to feature in called 'Thor-Rah' about a transvestite Viking. It wasn't a tremendous success, but oddly did reignite Moira Stewarts' career.

One of the things I love about Arbetter is his faith in his performers. He allows you full freedom to explore and express the motivations and the gamut of emotions of your character. Occasionally one will be rehearsing and hear a moan or grunt from the darkened area, the odd snort, that sort of thing. But he really trusts you to be faithful to the text, sometimes you would not even know he was there, and occasionally he actually isn't.

Pantomime of course is an annual event; many actors from both stage and screen clear their calendars and make their way to major and minor towns and cities to swash and buckle. I can't think of a single performer who hasn't donned tights and wig come Yuletide. I can think of several who have at Easter, or during a particularly prolonged bout of 'resting', but that's another tale.

One of the things about this particular genre is the heritage it represents. I spent a great deal of my time in preparation for this, watching Alan Ladd, Errol Flynn and anyone else who had gadded about in tights. Tights work – for the male – is surprisingly under-tutored in the thespianic world. In other forms, Ballet or suchlike, there are manuals and instructions and a certain number of magazines and websites dedicated to this subsection of the arts, but nil (as far as I could find) for the actor. A simple web search produced little of interest, let alone bookmark, and an enquiry at my local library resulted in a request to leave the premises. Even the great Mel Brooks failed in his documentary – I assume that's what it was – Men in Tights. I sat through about twenty minutes before becoming totally annoyed and sticking the cassette in a toaster. So not only am I no further in my exploration of male tight technique, I am also without toast.

Another aspect of pirate based activity is swordsmanship. There are few things which scream 'heroic lead' more than a sword fight. Guns are overused, knives are not dramatic enough and all that gadding about in martial arts... well, it's just not, is it? No, if you want an authentic, brave, charismatic male lead then you simply have to have a sword fight. And you need decent, manly swords as well, not these things which would look good next to the butter dish. To this end I have at my own expense, mind you, engaged the services of Francis Meng. Meng is probably the best sword fight teacher in the country.

(A word to the wise, if you are thinking of following my advice then look up these tutors under sword fighters, and not fencing. This is a mistake I have made, and some of the answers you will receive will be quite unsavoury)

Six weeks of an hour a day cavorting with sabres and I am quite the Zorro. Of course, I have had niks and grazes, slices and cuts and one particularly personal loss, but I really feel so much more comfortable (apart from the stitches) handling a sword now. Meng even said it was a pleasure to duel with me, and ceased charging me informing me that 'the slicing and dicing was payment enough'. Bring it on, I told him. He very much brought it on, to such an extent he got quite carried away and was about to reenact the Sean Connery death scene in Highlander when the doorbell went.

Ah, I have just had my call. So I must leave you. I shall return.

Training Video pt1

One of the most stimulating jobs I have had in the last year or so I have just returned from. Evington Plastics selected me, based on price, to present ‘The Evington Way’, a training video for their new inductees, featuring health and safety, accounting practices and other sundry office procedures.

It is always a joy to help a young director, who was mainly in charge of the stationary acquisition, to get a foot hold in my industry. Young fellow me lad was quite confused at first, didn’t appear to know who I was, or what I was there for. But a word from his employer soon put him and the two guards back on the straight and narrow.

My brief was this; make a training video which inspires and informs, which enlightens and entertains. Obviously my consummate skills (juggling, comedianing and curious talent on a unicycle) would be called into play in a moments notice. The lack of things to juggle with or indeed a unicycle was shocking, but thankfully there were three items on my ‘list of skills’ and I commenced with my ‘routine’ as we call it.

After just three minutes the Director informed me they had a script, and I was furnished with the document and given coffee and a room to myself for my study.

Certainly the script had the rudimentary elements. Man in office. Talking about the hazards in that office which lay unseen. I started to picture this man in my head; I saw him as a frustrated man. A man whose marriage had long since lost its’ sparkle, whose teenage hopes had been crushed by the mundanity of the ‘machine’, whose spirit had withered with the years resulting in him seemingly spending his time talking to a flower pot on top of a filing cabinet for solace.

I started to dissect the script, as one does. That part about the stapler; obviously a metaphor for his relationship with his daughter, who, though errant and wayward, he still cares for, even if she won’t talk to him after that business in Altrincham with the refusal to buy her an iPod. His son, a deep, bookish boy whose introversion maybe hid a dark secret, a secret which would shock and perhaps revile those around him, only revealed when we get to the bit about the hole punch.

His wife, uncaring and scathing, causing him many late hours in the office, whose secret liason with a Vietnamese Sous Chef is reaching for want of a better word a climax. A woman who has long since lost interest in salvaging their relationship, a woman who wants something better or the illusion of it – this was plainly obviously to be as he demonstrated how to adjust a chair for optimum lumbar support.

I worked on this character. My pen flew across my notepad, almost guided by this mans’ spirit… I do find that sometimes, and a part I am playing will literally talk to me… I find myself talking to them and answering back in character sometimes. Which as you can imagine causes a little bit of a stir in Waitrose, as I argue with both the manager and a Nordic God over reduced sausages.

By the time I had finished I had fifty two pages of notes, detailing this mans’ life. His work, his employer, his friends, his colleagues, his family life, his internet browsing history and his car. I had them all pegged, laid out, like the post death revelation so many of us dread. We lay there, deceased, while people say ‘I never thought he was into that’ and all the time our useless corpse wants to reanimate itself just to say ‘No! It must have been mixed up with my stuff in the Launderette’.

And so the process begins. Over fifty pages of notes, a couple of drawings (although one of them was an angry Colonel) and some rudimentary blocking ideas.

Now I was ready. Now I was prepared. I entered what I call my receptive state. This is a state many actors and performers have; just before we go on stage, we put ourselves into a light trance. We clear our minds of everything that is not related to the job in hand and become what we have been asked to become. A Danish Monarch. A frustrated taxi driver. A seven foot talking hot dog. All require the same process. Although one can overdo and start snoring. You can pass that off as researching how the character would sleep. I know Joanna Lumley does.

Oliver Meeke

Tremendously sad to see the death of Oliver Meeke this week. To think it was only 50 years ago we were on the set of the ‘Oh Go On’ film ‘Oh Go On Give Us a Quick Cuppa Tea’, the eighth in the series of ‘Go On’ films. There were 108 in total, all written by the tremendously hardworking Ric Tickel. Tickel went onto such triumphs as ‘Whoops! Where’s my genitals?”, “Up Your Bottom!” and Panorama.

Of course there were the standard reunions and anniversaries, many of which I missed due to other commitments (dentist, Florist and for some reason a gynaecologist). The films had a charm of their own ; an allegory for a more innocent time, a heroic tribute to an earlier era. Not as some people called them ‘crap’.

The Go On films were tremendously popular. Meeke had a laugh which defined the films. Combining a raspy gaffaw with a cheeky bass note and chirpy chuckle, it was a trademark of his own and kept audiences amused and educational psychologists in work. His face too was instantly recognisable, well defined features which could at once portray grief, mirth, triumph, despair, envy, rage, and an allergy to mayonnaise.

But Meeke was so much more than that. He frequently gave to charity; he once told me off set that more single mothers depended on him than he cared to count.

But off screen his life was a tapestry of human experience. A former eel farmer, he came to this country with nothing but the clothes he stood up in and a trunk full of stolen money. From there he worked his way up from Double Glazing salesman, gravel supplier and window repairman to the lofty position of Head of Goals at Fulham football club. Then he left there and decided to fulfil his ambition to be an actor. I remember him coming to me and asking me how I acted. “I want to act” he opined in that unique way. How fitting he should want to find his own technique, his own centre, his own rhythm. “I don’t want to be like you” he said. Of course! Each actor finds his own way, his own interpretation. His own speed of motion. A line delivered by myself maybe delivered completely differently by one of the so-called greats.

For example, a line as innocuous as

            “A punnet of strawberries please”

Could be delivered in a variety of ways. As mysterious, as loving, as threatening. A line like that could indicate malice. In contextural terms it could indicate villainy, perhaps an errant Lord planning a crime, a serial killer whose trademark is a strawberry left at the scene or someone who simply likes strawberries.

A piece of text wrote thus;

            “Your change”

A line full of potential. What change is this? Metaphysical? Biological? The result of some bizarre imperative? some anomaly hitherto unknown to man but through the effort of the protagonist revealed to be a universal truth resulting in a super power beyond the dreams of men? From a Snickers?

That long path to Thespis Excellence was frought with danger. Drying, corpsing, prop failure & appearing with Bobby Davro all waiting to befall the unsuspecting artist. Acting, I told Meeke, was an exploration of the self, a delve into all we are and all we can be. An awakening of the dormant and an exposure of the soul. Plus the wigs itch.

I imparted my knowledge to him. Performed ad hoc passages. Demonstrated my craft. In that flat I exposed all that it was to act. All that I knew. For him to cherry pick what was useful. After quarter of an hour he said that was fine and good and he had it now and was grateful and borrowed £20 to go down the Furrier’s Arms.

Once he had departed I went to my window to wave to him. To my shock several other actors were outside. Blessed, Guinness, Sellers, Connery and Mike and Bernie Winters. Off they went in a most jovial gait to the pub, leaving moi alone, considering his position and his worth and most importantly perhaps, knowing in his heart he will ne’er see his £20 again.

On set all was good. The Go On films were a success for all of us. Betty Mince had her adverts. Tom Gruelbakker had his deal promoting cars. Lovely Michael Gussett was hardly off the screen with his endorsements from everything from yoghurt to surgical trusses. And of course Meeke had his own sitcom, ‘You Foreign Bastards’, about a man who lived next to some foreigners. This was followed by “You Foreign Bastards of a different hue” and “God, am I surrounded by these people”. Probably three of the greatest sitcoms of their age, although the riots which followed every single screening were, and I continue to insist this, coincidental.

The end of the 70s saw the end of the Go On films. The humour had become dated and a several of the cast members had died (two through the catering) so maybe it was best to put the series gently to sleep.

Meeke then was Hollywood bound; the British sense of humour and timing has always been a draw for American audiences, and with his eyebrows he was a sure fire puller. Film after film after award after award followed. The man soared like an Eagle. Year after year his name became bigger, bolder and instantly associated with a hit. By merely mentioning his name you could make money. His name was on everything. Whiskey, diving boards, resuscitation equipment.

Then it all went wrong. Like so many at the top of his game, enough is never enough. Personally I knew Meeke to like either men or women. I don’t think this was a secret. But to be caught in his car on a Los Angeles boulevard performing a sexual act on a stuffed goose. It was too much. Although defence attorneys tried to claim it was consensual, his name had been tarnished beyond repair and doors slammed in his face. And not just taxidermists. The film industry too. Television didn’t want to risk it, radio couldn’t take the chance and even newspapers would take his recipes.

He was finished.

He returned to Britain a broken man, but a wiser one, and it was about this time he met his soon-to-be wife Melissa. Meeting as they did during an incident at the Natural History Museum, she swept him off his feet and, in his words ‘handcuffed my heart as well’.

Following his release from Rehab, the two were married in a private, personal ceremony with just four thousand people attending. Apparently. I couldn’t go anyway, I was having my shoe repaired.

And now this. Meeke no more. I can imagine him now, looking down on me. “McPhereson. It is your duty to uphold the baton” he would be saying, with no real intention of making a pun on my part time job in Subways. “Uphold the baton of what it is to be a British Actor” he would be saying. And I just wish producers could hear him. “You should be on telly in your own series. Look at some of the rubbish they have on now. You’re miles better than that lot” he would be saying “Stupid bloody BBC, bet they haven’t rung you back have they? You want me to have a word with God? Smite their Media City with Gonorrhea

 and scurvy? I can make him reign fire on them or even flood the whole land and kill those who ignore your great talent”. I smile when I think of him saying that. But no, Oliver. No. I shall persevere. I don’t need help or the destruction of Manchester just to get my own show.

“BBC? More like Bunch of twats!” his ethereal spirit is probably shouting.

Rest in Peace, Oliver. Rest in Peace.

Dr Who

I have heard tell there is a new job going in the BBC, that of a show called Dr Who. Apparently this thing has been running for years. How it escaped my notice is beyond me. It’s about a man in a blue box who goes around, apparently, poking his nose (and there have been several noses, if you believe that) into other peoples’ business. Aliens, apparently. The Dereks are his big foe, apparently.

Now, I have heard tell that the main role in this show, the Doctor, is up for grabs and they are looking for an older type gentleman to portray this gent. Who better?

I immediately rang Neville, my agent, and after excitedly telling him how suitable I was to be a time travelling alien, the confused Polish cleaner put me through to his mobile. Neville works strange hours. He never seems to be in the office when I want to speak to him, always away at meetings, at his Son’s barmitzvah or busy with important clients. Well, when you represent such luminaries as John Leslie or a Cheryl Baker lookalike you can expect to be pretty active.

When I finally got through I told him my plan “I would love to be Dr Who” I said.  My reasons for this disclosure followed and must have seemed like incomprehensible babble to him. There was a long pause at the end and Neville said he would pull every contact, call in every favour and harangue everyone involved with the show that he could find to make it so.

Neville can truly work miracles in television. He once represented a well known television newsreader who, after a particularly poorly directed ten o’clock news went on a killing rampage in the directors’ booth. Some of the staff, particularly the cleaners had never seen such carnage. Finally apprehended and tazored to the ground while covered in intestines and bits of intern, the situation was hushed up largely due to Neville’s influence. (Rumour has it they hid the corpses on a Nick Knowles show as contestants. The perfect crime. Although you didn’t hear that from me.) As I say I don’t wish to name any party involved, but as to the newsreader she’s still there and sometimes on Radio Four too.

I sat back in my chair. Soon I would be captain of whatever starship this person drove, issuing orders while clutching some sort of torch which people pretended to die from when I pointed it at them. The ice in my weak orange cordial literally shaking.

Two minutes later he called back. His answer encapsulated all the blinkered thinking, all the prejudice and malice, all the private little club mentality of such a production I have come to expect. ‘No’. I demanded to know why.

Readers my remember my stint in Blackhammer. For those who don’t, Blackhammer was about a android who was sent back from the future to right the wrongs which had been wrongly put down at the time as being right but had, in hindsight, been wrong. Also as Gor in Gor The Revolutionary, about a group of rebels attacking what they felt was wrong with the galaxy. Gor had a dark side to him, but he was essentially a good man caught in a storm. Many TV critics felt it was ‘exceptional’ television, and a few of them went so far as to call me personally a ‘cult’. Finally I told him about Dark Waves, a series in which I played a man who didn’t exist (who did, obviously) and his adventures with an automated canoe. Solving crimes, that sort of thing.

Neville was very firm on this. ‘Tarquin, this was all years ago.” He whined in that authoritarian whiney way of his “there’s a reason why none of these series are on DVD yet DIY SOS has a boxed set”. I said it was ridiculous and the BBC should put the tapes onto DVD and ship them out to the shows fan base immediately. I was told then, that in the early eighties, with storage being short and tape being expensive they had to make decisions about what to keep. Apparently my epics were top of the list. In fact, had it not been for the tape shortage they were earmarked as central heating fuel anyway.

Shocked as I was, I persisted. I put my case. I knew the show. I knew how to say Doctor in a mysterious way. I knew and remain in full knowledge of how to open the door to a cupboard and go in in a variety of speeds. I know how to hold a small coloured torch up like it’s some sort of weapon and most importantly, I know how to be inside a small space with a woman without subsequent charges.

But I was told no. I was told they had some specific people in mind, and I was none of those people.

The line then dropped and that was that.

Oh, what joy I would have brought to the role. Mysterious, yet approachable. Fun loving yet safety aware. Clever and yet… not quite so clever. I would have brought so much to the role that other actors would have said ‘I could never have done it like Tarquin. He will not be forgotten because of this’.

I would have been up there with the best Doctors like Steve Davis and Richard Baker.

It’s their loss.

The end of June

It’s the end of June and Summer is finally here. Many of my compardres have already departed for sunnier climbs; Connery is in Egypt, Moore has gone to Barcelona and Jacobi is being taken up the Urals by some mountaineers.

Alas, such travel is beyond me these days. Not that I haven’t ventured. I have ventured a great deal personally and professionally. I don’t think there’s a town in the UK which I have not appeared in in some production or another. Certainly many of them still remember me. My appearance in one long dust covered play was described as ‘a tour de force of the eternal human condition. Or it seemed eternal’.

One thing and actor must be able to do is portray the human condition. Be it happy, sad, angry, betrayed, envious, confused or some of the other emotions I can’t think of right now but I am sure they are around. I often use a technique I learned in drama college. “When you want to show sad, Tarquin” said old Macklby, our drama lecturer “remember something sad”. And it worked.  That evening in a production of Antigone, I thought of something sad. In fact, I thought of several of the saddest moments of my life and ended up apologising to the King of Thebes for not doing my technical drawing homework.

But it is a technique I like to pass on to younger actors. “Think of something tragic” I say. This resulted in one of my students performing what I believe modern parlance to be a ‘killing’ performance of Hamlet that very night. I won’t name him, bless him, and I don’t want to imply that his success on television, radio and indeed in films is down solely to my gently coaxing out his inner Thespian. It would be wrong to suggest that all the awards and plaudits and praise should be mine also, and far be it from me to even postulate that his millions of pounds, beautiful wife, luxuary lifestyle is totally and utterly traceable back to advice in that toilet in Grimsby.

For myself it is the art that is important. I have no time to write lectures and acceptance speeches anyway. I simply find that awards and all the glamour and glitz that go with it to be too far removed from the art itself. How many of those awards have resulted in a true portrayal of a down at heel bookmaker, addicted to crack, on the streets forced to service businessmen to glean a small token sum for his next fix? I couldn’t portray that role, even if it were offered, knowing that on my mantelpiece I have a trophy which screams ‘YOU ARE THE BEST’. It would distract me. And then there’s the obvious production and crew who love to see these awards, and you would have to take it in and they would all be in awe and then you would have the extra burden of being convincing on camera/mic/stage/in the marquee knowing they all know this is not the real you, no matter how true to life and tear jerking your performance.

No, keep your awards, I say. Don’t even mention me. For me, ‘tis the art that is important. The ripping of the shroud from the dark corners of the human psyche, the revelation of who we all are, and how far we could all fall, that is the key, the reason, the truth.

I would write further but I have to go as I am on lates in ASDA.

June. Still quiet.

May was the quietest month of my career. I don’t know why. Normally it’s bustling setting up roles for the Summer, negotiating parts, schmoozing and networking and generally being simply the busiest of bees.

But this year it has been quiet. Scarce has been the cheery ring of the phone, the knock of opportunity, the heady anticipation of the clunk of a new script hitting the welcome mat. There was some kerplunking which I took to be a new offering from one of the finest scribes but it turned out to be a magazine about belts from Amsterdam.

Not that I am bothered. It irks me not one bit that I have been overlooked by all those who have chosen elsewhere to seek their thespian talent. I have plenty to do. My novel. My jams. Finally getting around to organising my collection of photographs of Gloria Hunniford. Oh, the McPhereson sphere of activity is fair bursting with active endeavour.

It has also allowed me some well earned time to think about my retirement. Having played almost every single role in theatre and television, except the major ones, (which would be of little interest to me anyway. Often the more interesting parts are the more minor, the cogs from which the power of the greater engine is derived), I sometimes think it’s best to quit while you are ahead.  Or in one case, still the behind.

I could of course use old Geoff Palmers Cotswold Cottage for a couple of months in the Summer to ruminate.  Geoff has always been very kind to me, even after the last time and that little problem with the mustard.

Of I could have a word with Helen Mirren. She’s hardly at home these days, and has little time for acting given all those awards and gala luncheons. I could camp in her front room as I have done many a time before, and consider my life in the sweet focus of distance, whilst obviously studiously observing her request of no bonfires.

Of course, this is not the first time I have considered such a move. A few years hence I was in a similar position, no work and little prospects (this time not because of age but because of a small altercation with a BAFTA bigwig over some twiglets). I remember in the late 80s a similar desire for solitude and meditation came over me, and I spent a great deal of time on Simon Le Bon’s boat. Simon was the perfect host, always checking I was still there, suggesting at the various ports famous landmarks I should not miss and at one point taking an active part in aiding my on-going battle in learning to swim.

Another Award?

I’m not sure how it happened but my name has been mentioned in connection with an award. As you will know I am of modest stock, awards and plaudits rarely make my list of ambitions, and I always tell people when such matters are raised that my mantelpiece is full enough with pictures of those l love thank you, and to place an award there I would have to remove one of my ‘friends’ and replace them with a trinket.

Of course this would cause irreparable damage should said person visit my abode unexpectedly, seeing their visage has been transferred from the hallowed altar of the room to the bookcase. Conversely, though, they might be quite pleased I had segregated them for special treatment away from what they may regard as ‘the rabble’. I can’t choose anyone not of European origin, obviously, that would be making a statement which I choose not to endorse. And I don’t want to move a woman because, again, that would lead to an expression of view I abhor.  Age is also a factor, too old and they may think they are being virtually put in a home, albeit between Mrs Beeton and a rather excellent compendium of Rattigan, too young and people will think I am patronising the youth of the business. Height, weight and general demographic all have to be taken into account. And Richard Griffiths is just barely out of the building so I can’t remove him. This delicate and attention-to-detail matter is something I need to consider, and consider it well, for one wrong decision at this juncture could cost me dear. Ostracised from the acting fraternity, forced to wander the darkness, lost, broke and without the hope of a decently written grandfather or dark menacing priest being put my way. The consequences of an incorrect decision are too terrible to contemplate. I’ve seen Casualty.

I shall today call Dancy, my interior designer for some advice on my mantlepeice conundrum. A marvellous young man, who can see faults a mile off and correct them with a wave of his handkerchief.

I shouldn’t, of course, count all my chickens before they have actually laid eggs, although I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a reasonable chicken to egg ratio. Any farmer will tell you that you need yield, you need enough eggs to sell in order that your chickens are actually worthwhile your investment, otherwise you are simply wasting money on seed for them, and they are taking you for a ride. And no farmer wants to be scammed by a hen.

I think perhaps my pills are kicking in now.

The sad Passing of Henry Yimp

Receiving the news Henry Yimp had passed on a few days ago, left me bereft, bothered and banjaxed as to the meaning of life; Henry had been a stalwart of theatre, a perfectionist in his art, who once – such was his drive for utter perfection – held auditions for scenery. Henry, who had once enjoyed a joke at my expense with Leonard Rossiter, sending me up in a hot air balloon over a clay pigeon shoot. Henry, who had always enjoyed, with gusto, a game of Hide and Seek, and pretended upon discovery, that he hadn’t been playing at all. We delayed the announcement so the usual arrangements could be made.

When the news finally leaked out, I was of course called for my ‘opinion’, or as they call it ‘reaction’ by all the big news agencies. ‘The Southwark Herald”, “The Malmsbury Gazette” and one call where the emotion finally got to me and I broke down and said how much I would miss the old chap and his zest for life, although that later turned out to be Specsavers telling me my new frames were ready.

It was when the BBC called I was at my best. Primed with quotes and quips from the great man, I prepared and steeled myself for the onslaught of tough questions; “Where would this leave acting?” “How can anyone ever act again now he is gone?” and “Surely you are now the most prominent actor in your field, with old Yimp gone to meet a fiery eternity? How will you shoulder this heavy burden and remain an inspiration to young actors?”. It behoves me to say none of these questions were asked, and I think it goes to show the lack of journalistic integrity at the BBC.

The interview, conducted by someone who I presume was about six went thus;

“Sad news with the passing of Acting and Directorial legend Henry Yimp, with me on the line to speak of Mr Yimp is Taquin McPhereson.”

“Hello”.

“What will your memories be?”

“Well, my memories, Alistair, will be wonderful, rich, funny, touching, sad, enriching and in one particular case, rather arousing”

“Er, ok. You worked with him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, he was a joy to work with, and he oft said the same of me. Tarquin McPhereson is one to watch he always said. Quality in every sense of the word. If those idiots at the BBC don’t recognise talent they should all be sacked. Wise words. Wise, wise words”

“If we can get back to Mr Yimp”

“Yes, yes.”

“You knew him from the days of Ealing, did you not?”

“Yes, I did. Even then I struck him as someone who would soar, soar above the mediocre, into the stratosphere of the acting pantheon. Lythe, sprawling-“

“What was he like, as a man?”

“Oh, he was a delight. I mean, what you saw was what you got from Henry, a genuinely nice fellow. I remember him saying to me “Tarquin, you should definitely be on television in a drama about me broadcast just after my death”. Such a kind thought.”

“I”

“In fact, I was so taken with this generosity that I wrote the script that very evening, such was the inspiration he gave to me. I’ve already called Joanna Lumley”

“Tarquin McPhereson thank you very much”

“I have one about a detective ghost dog!”

You won’t be surprised to learn what with the lackadaisical and sloppy manner at the BBC, no one has yet shown the slightest interest.

And to be honest, his widow frowned at me from her pew.

April. How much have I missed thee

And so April rolls in. I have to say I was not subjected to any Aprils’ Fools, despite Leonard next door screaming all morning for help. I have to say he didn’t fool me, and when his friends turned up dressed as paramedics and broke his door down, well, let me say gentlemen ‘effort wasted’.

One of the best times of year in the theatre is April. The sun shines, there’s a light breeze and people stroll arm in arm through the park, wanting nothing more than an matinee or evening performance of a Christie mystery; to sit in darkened awe as the story of double dealing, false alibis and dramatis extremis is played out. And if they don’t they’re not normal.

The above paragraph was taken from my notes in my class for ‘Advertising Copywriting’, something as an actor I have up until now only been a tool in. A mouth with which to service their outpourings. But the psychology behind it is breath taking. I spoke with the creative director, a young man named Alan, who, between copious visits to the toilet, spoke eloquently about the art.

“It’s like you are a bloke in the sea but you are not wet and then a someone on a passing liner throws you a lifebuoy but you don’t know you need a lifebuoy and like it’s only then you notice the water.”

I have to say it’s an analogy which was lost on me, and Alan, who appeared to have some sort of nasal condition kept disappearing and coming back with stranger and stranger allegories.

“Sometimes you think that someone is following you and you don’t want to turn around so you go the long way around but the person is still there even though you can’t see them and they have tiny friends with them now and you are not sure whether they are going that way or not and eventually you need a minicab”

To

“No one calls anyone shrimp anymore”

And rounding off with

“You can save money by being fully clothed and having a hot bath in Persil.”*

I have to say the last one doesn’t work. It’s no way to spend your afternoon and most of the evening, draped over a radiator.

But the science stands.

For instance, if I am playing a man of advanced years, laying in bed putting his teeth into a glass, I could turn to camera and say ‘And this could happen to you’. Of course, this would put the fear of God into people, there would be absolute and total pandemonium as toothpaste almost literally flies off the shelves as the great unwashed choose to protect themselves from dental decay. Such is the power. I well remember when Anthony Hopkins first sported his ‘slightly balding’ look, all of a sudden men of a certain age were combing back their hair, proud and tall they walked through the thoroughfares and passageways and alleys of their areas, without a care in the world, seeming to sneer at the ones they called ‘the hirsute’. And a great many of them didn’t engage in cannibalism, which is good.

The interesting thing about advertising is the method. First an idea is mooted; no, actually, there has to be a product, because if it all started with an idea for an advertisement, it would just be a series of ‘Wouldn’t it be great if…’ which is okay as it goes, but wouldn’t sell much. So, secondly an idea is marketed. How to present my product to the public.

There are many ways of presenting a product to an audience. But audiences are smart now. You can’t just say your product is the best and expect sales to rocket. You have to create what is known, apparently, as a need. I misheard this and thought he said knee. “I have two of those!” I said, lifting my trousers to display my popliteal for his consumption.  After what can only be described as an embarrassed silence, I lowered my trouser legs and nodded for him to continue.

Apparently even the lauded Blessed cannot sell goods on bellowing instructions alone, there has to be a need. Whereas people have to have food, water, shelter and a modicum of money (unless you are in rep), everything else is a luxury. One can tell this from the latest Dan Brown epic, where ne’er a mention is made of shagpile carpets adding a real sense of opulence to your home, to the Bible, where Jesus rarely mentioned adding additional channels to your Sky package.

The result of market research, prodding, nudging, psychological tricks and subliminal techniques have revolutionised this industry, apparently.

It is all so different from when I made the advertisments for ‘Preeps’, a small toy for children under 9. The basis was the ‘Preeps’ were a family unit, and when gathered together you could tell stories about their days – well, not you, the children. I’m not saying you wouldn’t want to, I mean after a hard day in a factory or bank or whatever it is you do, perhaps laying down with some Oriental plastic moulds and pretending they had had some sort of excitement in their lives might be quite therapeutic. I don’t know. Anyway, the Preeps were small, like eggs with faces on. And I did the voice.

            “preebs. The small family with the big adventures”

although to be fair the main adventure they had was sitting in a box most of the time. The problem with the Preeps, it seemed, was an inverse supply of Preebs to the desire to buy. Despite my best efforts, I could not seem to convince the British people they or their children needed to lay on a floor and do voices out of the corner of their mouth pretending it was a talking egg. They were not convinced, I was losing faith and I also had some rather angry letters from Educational Psychologists.

I am afraid at this time, I succumbed. The mechanism crushed me into it’s brain soup and I became a consumer, and to this day I have the largest (and to my knowledge only) collection of Preebs in the western world, which are kept in a lockup in Chelsea. So, if ever you are in need of egg related conversation, with an egg, I am very much your man.

Alan explained the whole process, at times becoming quite animated, but by take 148 we apparently had ‘everything we needed’ and it was ‘as good as we’re going to get’ so that was that.

But I learned a lot today, and I have to say I overheard Alan say much the same thing.

The week.

The week started off well enough, I suppose. I visited Mrs Carr, who runs the local laundary. Wonderful woman with an outlook on the world which is refreshing and candid, albeit peppered with more swearwords than one can comfortably entertain.

That is the modus operandi of the actor; the devour those salient features of a personality one might find useful later. For instance, I may, on occasion, meet a drunkard in a bus depot. Unlike those other people I should approach said intoxicant and engage him in conversation. Snippets of these peoples’ lives adds a tapestry and realism to ones’ work, stories, emotions, mannerisms. And if anyone wants me to do a role which requires reaction to a punch in the face, I am a prime candidate.

Many other actors have used those who they know or who they have worked with between jobs to gather such valuable material. For example

Derek Guyler : Got his whimsical wide eyed look for Play School by watching Stockport fans during a thrashing by Chelsea.

Anthony Hopkins: He mastered the brooding menace and threatening tone of Hannibal Lector by trying to return a jacket to a dry cleaner

Charles Dance : discovered he could swivel in a chair like all his comrades during a temporary position with British Gas (although he has yet to use it in a role)

Helena Bonham-Carter : perfected that look of shock from a mechanic after she tried to get a 1982 Datsun Sunny through it’s MOT without extra charge

Jude Law : I don’t know where he gets his material from.

Johnny Depp : Presumably drugs.

One thing young actors always ask me is ‘how do you start with a character?’. It is quite difficult, and every actor is different. Some will say it’s the voice, others the walk, others still will pish pish all that and say it’s the ears. With me, I always start by deciding what socks they would wear. From there, I work up to the knees, then the thigh, then the naughty bits and finally the torso and head. It may sound presumptuous, but my system is the best and all the others are rubbish.

One thing that proves you have done your job well, is when people fail to recognise you. I can walk down my road in Camden and no one says ‘hi’, no one bothers me. As an actor it is tremendously liberating to experience the highs of success and the joy of freedom. In fact, such high esteem I am held in, so serious my work is taken by the denizens of my district, some ignore me all together, nudging into me, crossing the road or in one instance, recently, shouting incoherently from a balcony (are you listening, Jamie Theakston?).

So anyway, from Mrs Carrs’ tender mercies I proceed to the market, where, as I say, I am free to wander around unfettered by the great unwashed.

And there, on the table at Donald Knotts’ Emporium of Flapdoodle, like the beacon of the Grail to a holy man, I saw it.

A genuine Georgian Toilet Roll holder.

I’d read about it online and exchanged several emails with sellers but their ridiculous greed had made me pull out of any prospective sale. But there it was, unmistakeable, irreplaceable, beautiful. Next to the gonks.

Don’t be deceived by Don’s cheerful cockney way, his almost cheeky chappy demeanour or his two hefty bouncers. And don’t let the presence of the plain clothes police officers meandering about his stall bother you either. Don is a salt of the earth fellow. And so what if he has done time? He served his sentence, that money was recovered and who knows? Maybe that Post Office Clerk wanted surgery to have his ears reduced anyway. It was a shame they were lost in the post though, all the same.

Don is one of those people I mentioned earlier. An invaluable source of mannerisms, traits and foibles so intrinsic to my art, although he doesn’t like having his picture taken. Ordinarily I would put a picture of Don here but my camera is sadly broken at present.

So this toilet roll holder. What stories it could tell if it could talk. Made from what I perceived to be China, and written clearly “if found please return to George III”. They’d have a job!

I am returning today after my initial enquiry,  the response to which I think I can best describe as somewhere between ‘frosty’ and ‘threatening’, to negotiate a full and satisfying transaction.

It can sit in my cabinet of treasures, along with the Alfred the Great Hot Cross Bun mould. Conversation will never again be short in my flat.