April the first is a day I dread, but for some God awful unknown
reason I still fall for every bloody prank there is. Over the last
four years I have fallen for
- Yetis in the Spar
- I won a donkey and had to pick it up from the airport
- It's safe to bathe in gravy
- The Moon is on a collision course with my flat
- Tax refund
- Vampire cannibal owls.
Living here in Swiss Cottage
there is simply not a lot else to do, apart from pull pranks on the
actors, artists and writers scattered throughout the area, some of
whom actually have property here. I have pulled one or two myself,
although I now draw the line at teasing a person living in a doorway
after having to pay for the sculpture he made, as directed in my
prank. I still have the sculpture, although I cannot show it to
people until they repeal either the Treason Act or the Obscene
Publications. Besides, the Queen is getting on a bit now and I think
the shock wouldn't do her any good. When I pass on, I want to be
remembered for my acting, and not for murdering a Monarch, albeit
remotely. I remember Wilkes-Boothe was an actor, and he is not
celebrated for any of his work, just killing Lincoln. It would be
akin to the carnage caused by a psychotic June Whitfield attacking
the Duke of Edinburgh with a machete. It's unlikely. Although I
haven't seen June in anything for years so I am assuming she is
somewhere brooding.
My diary for April 1st
is intriguing:
Anyway, apparently,
according to Bonham-Carter next door, Johnny Depp is staying with a
friend in the same building as I live. Oh, he may be in disguise, he
may be wanting to keep it down for the friend, but it is none the
less my duty to crave an audience with the great man and learn from
him his technique in his many roles. I haven't actually seen any of
them, but I wasn't about to let Bonham-Carter know that.
I shall seek him out. But
first, I have to know it is really him.
I spent two hours behind
that hedge with my binoculars, until the Police arrived. Back in my
flat post-questioning, I worked out where the room was in the
building and drilled a hole in the floor.
I had just got down on all
fours, and was peering into the void when the Police arrived again.
It is difficult for a member of the public to lie to a Police
officer. Firstly, you have to find one. And you have to have
something to lie about. It's no good cornering your quarry and then
saying 'I invented the ground'. Most officers will see right through
this. And you have to have something to lie about. For instance, say
I was holding a large bag of stolen watches, wearing a balaclava and
running down the street away from the alarm ringing outside the local
jewellers. I would need a good explanation for my actions, which
would cover the presence of the watches, my attire and the reason for
my stealth. The same applies when you are on all fours, peering
through a hole in the floor into your neighbours' bathroom.
It is at this point that
improv pays dividends. I remember many sessions, letting the muse
land oh so gently on my shoulder, then fly off again, then settle,
then finally leave a dollop of muse on my shoulder which should come
out with a little dry cleaning. Myself and Leslie Grantham did some
improv work a few years ago to the staff of a local bakery. Oh, the
lines flew, the invention was mighty. It was a tour de force of
acting in all its' majesty and power. Although we were told by the
supervisor to get back to the production line. I have often found
this with people in so-called real jobs. In my experience, Sales
assistants, Customer service people, production operatives and
anti-terror officers seem to have no sense of art. They go through
life with their heads behind the parapet, ducking down and avoiding
the very real shrapnel that we actors must face. I ask you – do you
really think fighting for our country, facing an unseen and deadly
foe and knowing each day may be your last is anymore difficult than
sitting on the wrong bit of the bench in Brecht? I think I know what
your answer is. We walk a tightrope with each performance, each side
of which is the empty black void of eternity, we balance walking and
talking and being careful not to look down into the opaque darkness.
And don't even start me on the dressing room sandwiches. Is a
triangle so difficult? Is it the sides which confuse? I ask for my
sandwiches in a certain way, surely they should be presented to me in
that way, and not look like they have been thrown in a washing
machine, which, by the way, they often taste like. You know I had
some buffet comestibles in Stoke once, I am not even sure they
weren't dipped in slurry. I can't prove anything, obviously, and it
would be wrong and impolite of me to poke fingers, but whoever made
those abominations should face some sort of retribution. All I wanted
was a cheese salad sandwich. It's not much to ask. What did I get? I
got something that tasted like ketchup coloured Radox. I mean, how I
am supposed to react when I bite into my fayre and it bubbles? That
can't be right. I was told it was a local recipe, and no one else had
complained, but I like to think of myself as an unappointed spokesman
for the acting fraternity, for those who say “don't make a fuss,
Tarquin” or “shut up”. I remember once with Richard Griffiths,
doing a Christie in Lewes, and we were presented with a gorgeous
looking chocolate gateaux. As 'the Griff' and I polished off the last
crumbs, and Griff busied himself with licking the plate, it became
clear to us we had just eaten a prop (the cake was a vital part of
this particular play, being the location of the note which names the
Cooks' murderer). Disaster! Griff and myself busied ourselves
vomitting into a bucket, and the play had to be adapted so that the
note – such as it was – was produced from a pale of sick. I had
hoped that the rest of the cast would not notice, but alas, being
professionals they did, but johnny public didn't and I have to say
the reviews were forgiving. Apart from one which said the bucket and
contents were the best thing in it. But that's the financial times
for you. Anyway, if there are any theatre people reading this please
concentrate less on your box office returns and refunds and
complaints and more on sandwiches. Thanks.
Where was I? Oh, yes.
Anyway, I pretended I was a interloper to the UK to the Policemen and
I was an amatuer astronomer with a bad sense of gravity. I think they
swallowed it. And it wasn't Depp at all, as it later turned out.
MAY
Much of May was spent
performing for the local prison population.
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