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.
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