The rumours, the truth, the legend and paranoia

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about doing some provincial theatre. There doesn’t appear to be much happening in Televsion, Films, Radio, Voice overs, Narration, Audio books, commercials, training videos or school informational films. Seems all these markets are totally sewn up.

I spoke to Angela, my agent, and she informed me that unless I changed my name to Martin Jarvis, there was nothing.

Jarvis. Ever my nemesis, his dulcet tones accompany my plunge into despair. His evil machinations continue to plague me. I’ll warrant he’s been bad mouthing me again. When he’s not spouting Wodehouse, Dickens or details pertaining to some furniture sale, I’ll bet every word out of his mouth is a diatribe about me.

People think I am paranoid about this, but they won’t say anything. But I swear on my copy of Sir Johnnys’ biography, he means nought good for the house of McPhereson.

I should give you some back story as I see it. When I was working in the Windmill (the theatre, not an actual windmill), Jarvis was there at the same time. And one night he turned up wearing a false beard (which he claimed was to avoid fans, if you can believe that). Seeing a strange man back stage with a beard I instantly considered him to be a terrorist, and stuck a bag over his head and tied him up with the curtain pull until the security people turned up. If there’s one thing which will ruin a perfectly good night at the theatre, it’s a terrorist outrage. It’s bad enough paying a fortune for the programme.

When the people turned up and informed me it was not some monsterous entity of evil but Martin Jarvis I immediately thought of apologising profusely but took the option of hiding in the prompt box until he had gone away.

That night the performance was, to put it mildly, strained. I don’t think the audience noticed, thank God, but every possibility Jarvis had to put me off, interrupt my lines or hit me with bits of scenary he took. I took a nasty blow from a French window, although this was misquoted in the Guardian and many thought a sexual act had taken place on stage.

The horror did not stop there. As we took our curtain bows, Javis moved in such a way to elbow me in the face. Then there was the cab on the way home, which he had paid the driver to head to London Bridge and make a sudden left in the middle, just so I would squeal. Who wouldn’t? At the meal at the end of the run I was unable to eat any of the food as Jarvis would continually point and laugh at the dishes as they arrived, seemingly from a different locale than everyone elses’ food (the toilet).

His campaign didn’t stop there, deliberately auditioning for all the roles I went for, out classing me and taking the food on the table, the crumbs on the floor and probably nibbling the skirting board to boot.

Late at night I would hear familiar laughing all night outside my window, and when I know Jarvis was busy he had an understudy stand in.

People say I was heavily paranoid during this period, but I know what I am talking about.

It is the real reason I bricked up my windows and doors and for a short time could only leave my Camden flat via a toilet window, which put a real crimp on holding dinner parties for friends (those who Jarvis hadn’t poisoned against me) if I indeed had held any. I did have one but sadly Biggins became stuck on the way in and ruined the evening. There’s only so much conversation you can have to stall your guests when the backdrop is Biggins’ flailing legs and pleas for help. The Fire brigade eventually turned up and freed the Big Man, who coincidently was the last guest to leave, roughly a minute after his newly recovered freedom.

So now you know. Jarvis is everywhere and I am slightly less well known outside my own flat. And this is the cut throat nature of showbusiness.

But I would rather do quality rather than quantity. Oooo, there’s a vacancy in The Stage for someone who can tie knots on a scout video. Must get in before Jarvis.

Post Valentines' Day. Or more accurately, no post.

So here we are, four days after Valentines’ Day and nothing. Not a sausage. A sausage would, of course, not be welcome. One cannot be expected to send a message of undying love on a pork product. But I would have liked to have received something.

I don’t think there’s any food, really, that can be said to be romantic. Certainly I have never found anything erotic about food of any kind. I have heard of people using food in their love making or romantic rituals, but personally I can’t see it. A turnip? A beetroot? A bag of potatoes? None of which set the pulse racing particularly. I did know of one actor who used Chocolate Mousse in their amours. Smeared it all over himself. Didn’t get the part, and suffered an uncomfortable bus journey home.

Of course, having recently moved (4 years) it is possible my admirers have not updated their address book to my current Kennington address. Also I have changed my phone numbers and agent in the last decade, and that could be another reason. It’s not like I am that difficult to find.

But it doesn’t bother me.

I just think it’s odd that I got absolutely nothing. No card, no invites, no mysterious gift, nothing. But I am not letting it get to me.

I rang a couple of people to check what they had got. I was surprised to find they had all received admiring missives from people either known or unknown to them. And yet, someone like myself, nothing. It’s not an important thing but one likes to be appreciated. One likes to think that on a planet of six billion people, ONE would go to a little trouble. It’s not much to ask.

I know I have fallen out with people in the past. Perhaps someone has been spreading untruths again. Maybe they mentioned me as an answer on some daytime quiz show as an answer to a question the context of which was resultant in NOT GUILTY. I shall check the farming magazines tomorrow.

I don’t need adoration. I don’t need people telling me how fantastic and talented and nice I am. But it would be nice. I don’t need it but sometimes it would be nice. Last Wednesday it would have been nice.

I don’t care. In fact, if you did send me something, I wish you had not have bothered. It’s a waste of money and a waste of your time, frankly. No matter how appealing your figure, how fulsome and lythe your body, how charming your manner or how bright your smile, it doesn’t matter, it makes no difference. I am married to my work. I am in a relationship with my work. I need no other party. I don’t need your adoration or professions of undying love. Keep them.

Nothing.

Valentines' Day. Alone.

--> As Valentines' Day draws ever closer, one is reminded of those times when the amour was strong, when the attraction was overwhelming, long before notes were left underneath a set of keys in an empty flat.

As an actor, I have always loved the idea of Valentines and all the accompanying pomp. The card from an admirer, the flowers, the chocolates and of course, the wild, unbridled passion, which, during the first three in the list, hangs there like some dastardly lingerie wearing carrot.

It has been sometime since my wife, Eleri, left me for the man who, it has to be said, is not a patch on her husband. But that is not my opinion, take the swath of letters (unpublished) the local paper have received from people who know me berating her decision. All anonymous, naturally, but all of a similar tone, that happiness would not be hers, that I was (in the writers' opinion) better off without her strumpet ways and frankly who could blame me for taking terrible and merciless revenge sometime in the distant future.

It is difficult when a relationship breaks down to such an extent that one party is left bereft of the feeling of trust and love, but one must move on. When one is wronged to such a massive extent by someone with the morals of an alley cat on heat, one must drop the pretence of hoping for revenge, for natural justice or a coerced version, and move on. One may regret the decision to put dogs' mess through their letterbox, burn all their pictures or sign them up to a variety of weird porn magazines (you can find the addresses of these easily from any suitable provider). But one must, at some point move on.

Sitting outside their house day after day as well is not recommended, even if you have a car it still looks suspicious. So don't let it blight you. Move on I say, and I am not just quoting the officer of the law there.

So, Valentines' Day, a day when my own personal circumstance is different from other peoples, in that I am alone, in my flat. Either side of my walls parties and Barry White can be heard, a cheeky feminine giggle, the odd lash. Romance is in the air. Except for me.

Not that you should feel sorry for me, oh no. I have my works of Shakespeare, my complete poets of the 18^th century and my half woven dog basket to occupy my time. Plus there is a rising suspicion that something might be stuck in my u-bend, so my life is not completely lacking in adventure.

Harking back to my distant teenage years, when I was a mere slip of an actor, who couldn't emote to save his life, I remember my first dalliance with the fair sex.

An excerpt from my diary of the time

May 23

Met Kerry after school chess club and went to shady glade. What treasures lie under those garments to explore! Her soft lips meeting mine, and an exchange of what I can only call spittle. The intoxicating scent of her hair, the soft touch of her skin, the sparkle of cheek and anitcipation of forbidden pleasure in her eyes.

There followed several more assignations like this over the intervening years. Including one which is particularly imprinted on my mind.

Aug 6

Lost track of time in Poona during a run of Little 'Ampton. Awakening to find my troupe gone, I was alone and adorned only in silken towelling. Then entered the Goddess. The most beautiful woman – apart from Mama of course – that I had ever seen. The shimmering veils leaving so little to the imagination and causing much stirring in 'little tarquin', she made her way to the bed.

I do not wish to go further with this story, suffice to say a good time with several encores was had by all, as, later, was penicillin. I was going to complain but seeing as how I had not obtained a receipt I didn't have a leg to stand on, legally.

When I returned to the troupe house, they all seemed to know what has transpired between myself and the lovely Betsy, mostly from the (now gone) male bravado of boasting and telling but also from the 8mm film someone had thoughtfully made of the whole event.

From then on, on that tour, I was referred to in the local dialect as 'bendy one'.

So don't you worry about me on Valentines' Day. I have more than enough to keep me occupied.

Quiet

February is a quiet month for actors. Ask any actor. The pantomime season and finished, and there's virtually no industrial training films to get ones teeth into.

Long dead are the days when I would be required to demonstrate for industrial workers the safe way to use a pedal bin, the most injury free (statistically) way of sitting in a chair, how to use a biro without risking your knees... under these constrained times, many companies are working these issues out for themselves.

Also the repealing of much of the Health and Safety legislation means industrial safety films are a thing of the past, anyway. There are many horror stories I read on the Internet of awful accidents, injuries and deaths as a possible direct result of me not being employed to tell worker about not stapling their testicles to HGV vehicles or flinging broken glass in colleagues sandwiches.