I went back to my labours, slaving over a hot part, when I suddenly
realised my phone had fallen from my pocket onto the studio floor,
and a small crowd had gathered around it to witness the screen.
“Who's phone is this?” said the errant young runner, a gleam in
his eye I have not seen since Blessed discovered a chocolate pudding
in the vending machine in Crewe. I could not very well reply, it
being against the 'art' to have your phone on you on set, and
secondly because of the wallpaper which featured heavily my personal
last turkey in the shop.
Many words, mostly unpleasant were exchanged. 'Pervert' I remember
was particularly popular. Also 'maggot nob', 'tiny todger',
'mini-mini me' and, for some reason 'Jeffrey Archer'. The phone was
placed in lost property and last I heard had been auctioned off to an
old peoples' home. Good to know then, that my handset will be giving
pleasure to an old folk. Although I have cancelled the contract.
Back to my amour; she seemed now distant. Like Camile, she had had
what she wanted and cast me aside like so many bowls of spaghetti
before me. I stood there, my ardour wilting as I watched her
'present' to the producer, in every possible sense. From deep within
I felt a rage unknown, a deep, fermented, troubled anger which brewed
through my veins, rising in intensity and pressure until I could not
stand the sight of this abandonment anymore. “Enough” I bellowed,
loud and clear. Although I then had to work out an excuse for
suddenly shouting “enough” without being unprofessional or mad.
Eventually I managed to convince them I had had a rather polite form
of Tourettes, which had suddenly come on, possibly die to lactose
intolerance.From then one I was playing a man who was playing a man.
I was no longer Tarquin the actor, but Tarquin the fraud. The player.
The mellow deceiver. It had been pointed out to me that if I was
truly lactose intolerant I would be throwing up all over the place,
and naturally to keep the lie in place, I would occasionally wretch
during a take, following it up with a smattering of polite
non-sequitors. It went something like this
(WRETCH) Thank you (WRETCH) Good Evening!
(WRETCH) Do you remember Poldark? (WRETCH)
Having been given my cheque at the end of the day, which I promptly
pretended to baulk at, and then actually did baulk rather more
convincingly with diced carrot in the admin room, I bid my fellow
professionals good night (obviously I made it clear this was a
genuine good night and not my Tourettes). As they watched me leave, I
heard the voice of my former potential lover coming, very literally,
from the Producers' booth.
Move on. Next job. Ho and a bloody hum,
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