RESIGNED.

For those of you who have not read in the popular press (the Weston super Mare Argos, The Droitwich Examiner and Free Ads) I have now left the popular BBC soap opera.

I shall not bore you with the whys and wherefores of this decision. Except to say my resignation took me entirely by surprise.

The story arc was to go on for a few more months, or so I was given to believe.

My character, Eric Bryce, was a chirpy car salesman with a dark, mysterious secret.

In fact, here is the brief I was given :

Eric Bryce, is a chirpy car salesman with a dark, mysterious secret.

Backstory:

Bryce has been selling cars for forty one years, and is an expert not only on classic vehicles, but also on medieval torture devices and exotic fruit. He was married to Marion for seventeen years, before she disappeared in a mysterious boating accident at home in Halifax.

He has two children, Wailen and Myandra, who are twins. He is scared of owls.

I played Bryce with the pathos and drama the part deserved, and spent several hours on a car lot in Houndslow learning about car sales, techniques and methodology. I have six old Datsuns and a minibus with a cracked camshaft to back this up. I researched the clothes such a person would wear and went out and bought a sheepskin jacket, a musty suit and a shirt. Rarely has an actor wanted to get a part 'right' as I have for this role. I even spent a weekend with a BBC Sound effects record impersonating engines.

What do I find when I get on set. That this role has changed since the original brief and now I am expected to play a transgender car salesman with a perchant for having sex with damp laundary.

I voiced my concerns to the all too young director, who looked up from his geography homework (I am joking) and said “Dahling, you are an actor. Act”

The rumour mill has started already I see. Looking at the feedback on the soap website, the decision has been met with almost universal surprise. The words 'terrible' and 'decision' feature heavily, as do 'acting' and 'right'.

Let me tell you something now; I am not a man who is quick to anger. When Tom Conti trod on my foot outside Oddbins that Saturday, did I say a word? When Sir Paul McCartney turned me down for the part of 'mysterious man third from the left' in Give my Regards to Broad Street, did I venture a tear (I didn't, and I also didn't write those letters – where would I get the blood?), or did my stage fight turned real to the death squabble with a certain highly prized thesp ever do any real harm? (now a Dame). No. But this had the effect of making my plasma be drained, placed in a bowl and put in the microwave and made very hot indeed, with a resounding ping when optimum temperature was reached. I think there is a phrase for this but it escapes me.

I rang Equity on the morning of my departure to see where I stood. The sarcastic reply of 'why don't you try Google Maps' was not welcome. I informed them who I was, and that I had been sacked from my transgender car lot before realising I was talking to Pizza Express.

Modern technology baffles me. How these youngsters master the Hinternet or any of the myriad communication devices is a ongoing puzzle. I am still struggling with the pen with the popper thing which makes the nib disappear.

Having finished my family feast, I tried again to talk to Equity.

More bloody battles. Apparently I have not been in Equity since 1986, when my cheese commercial ('Oooo, what's that smell?') aired and no one could think of me without cheese or vice versa. There was a happy job. All I had to do was flex my nostrils and ask Dora Bryan what the smell was and she would present me with a plate of curd, the like of which Caesar himself would have been surprised by. “Oooo, what's the smell?” became a national catchphrase, t-shirts, posters and all sorts were printed, although it was replaced shortly afterwards, as many passing fads are in this transient age, by the shorter more succinct phrase 'gas'.

Apparently they are very reluctant to help you if you are not 'paid up'. Surely if you pay and nothing happens then you can sit back and wait for something to happen? If I pay for a washing machine, and have no clothes to wash one week, does the washing machine cease to exist? No. I put this logic to Damien at the enquiries desk, and was surprised my eloquence was on loudspeaker. What surprised me even more was the Damien mentioned some of my work, in what I considered to be a scornful manner. I remonstrated with him about his cheek, and asked what he had done of any worth.

Apparently Damiens' father is something big in Sky television. Damien has his own show where he hunts down celebrities and feeds them bolognaise. Instantly this struck a chord with me. What a fantastic idea. Damien is obviously a visionary and someone to watch, and I wasn't afraid to tell him so. I dislike praising people but he was so destined for great things and if I could be of any help to him at all, well, he only had to ask.

He said he would get back to me.

I love networking. Stuff you, BBC, Sky know good programming. And they might need a minibus.

Soap

One of the reasons I haven't been posting of late is the fact my diary has been full of opportunity and when the lady of opportunity knocks, well, it's a good idea to open the door and not have her peer in through the windows and have to resort to calling a locksmith, her main concern being you may be inside trapped under something heavy or involved in a tragic sex game accident.

Fortunately neither of these things had befell me and I received a call – which we will call a call and not a knock – from a charming young lady called Felicity who informed me I was up for a part in a popular BBC Soap. I expressed my surprised, and was more surprised when the answer came 'not as surprised as I was'. Obviously they thought such a talent as myself would not stoop as low as to appear in 'bubblegum' television, but they had thought wrong. Chew on, I say.

Arriving at BBC Elstree, I was amazed by the security. Bag searches, frisks, pat downs and various documentation produced, examined, scanned and handed back. Sitting on my own in a paper suit in the gate keepers office, it was eventually confirmed no bomb, weapon or disruptive device was about my person (by methods to gruesome to describe here) and I was granted admittance to the hallows.

Elstree is a remarkable place. If ever there was a world of make believe, where anything is possible, where you can walk from a 16^th century street to the bridge of a majestic star ship in a few paces without borrowing Keith Richards' talcum powder, this is it.

All the greats have at one time or another worked here. Olivier. Sellers. Hull. It is difficult not to be in awe of the corridors; of the seats; of the canteen where in days gone by the legendary sat down to some spaghetti or complained about sitting next to Peter Purves. I shouldn't say anything really but Purves is, as we call in the trade, an elbow.

What it is is this; Purves likes his grub, and, like some dimple chinned traction engine, won't let anyone come between it and him. One recalls the story, blood thirsty and violent though it is, of the green salad incident. Or the beans on toast outrage. Or the coverage of the now legendary carnage which was the lasagne. Purves' elbows have been known to work at speeds unbeknownst to man and science, and for a while he had to do without them as Area 51 confiscated them to study their propulsion for military use. Of course, the idea was abandoned when it was discovered the only way to get the planes to fly to that speed was to have a bowl of potato salad moving slightly faster in front of them. And idea which, obviously, was rejected.

And so I reach my makeup room. Here I am to be doused in the finest powders, inks, paint and pencil to become my role, that of Henry Bule, car salesman. A cheeky chappie indeed, with a colourful past and a perchant for murder. I shouldn't really but Bules' story arc is thus;

Arrives ; Sets up car lot ; fights ; has affair ; marries ; has another affair ; has a party at which things are revealed ; has a breakdown ; buys a sausage machine ; has affair ; has affair ; has affair ; has a pint ; has another affair before being mown down by the town hardman in a motor scooter.

All in all it should be a thrilling episode.

Review 2012 - June / July

JUNE

Nothing much happened in June. I attended auditions, meetings and organised one protest, but nought was to be gained this month. Acting I find is sometimes like that. Sometimes there is nothing to be done. Indeed, some people have made fortunes from doing nothing and yet quintessentially still pushing forth the message that there is all to do.

Look at some of the great actors of our time for examples of those who can do absolutely nothing.

<INSERT LIST HERE OF GREAT NAMES>, Ricky Tomlinson.

All of the above can make a scene just by being in it. My friend the late Jasper Pugh was another one. He could light up a set just by being on it. His performance as Roger in the 30s farce 'Pants and Princesses' was sterling and it was he audiences flocked to see, even though he was cast as a pair of curtains. Jasper even managed to light up his own funeral with his presence, and many people told me at the time they would not have been there had it not been him in the casket. Yet still I had to offer one or two patrons refunds! There really is no pleasing some people.

JULY

And the Olympics is upon us! Sport, sport, sport! Sport of all hues and effort, all disciplines and skills, and not one of them with a sensible line of dialogue or subtle interplay.

What I wanted from the Olympics (and I venture to suggest what many others desired) was some good, meaty theatre. Oh, it's all very well being able to throw a stick or jump in the air but can these people convey the emotion of a drug addicted single mother living on a housing estate with a son who steals cars and a daughter on the game while the husband runs up an ever increasing number of gambling debts? I don't think so! No, they are more concerned with who can land in the sand the furthest away from where they lost contact with the Earth. Who can get the highest up a pole. Who can leap over a series of rather inadequate fences presumably housing the smallest gardens in the world.

On the subject of theatre I wrote to Lord Coe about this.

Dear Lord Coe,

Sir, I am concerned the accent on sport is too much for the forthcoming games, of which I understand you are the Boss. I would like you to consider putting contemporary theatre at the heart of the Olympics. For instance, if, say, during a Netball match the British team could break off and do a three act play about the mining industry in the 1980s. Or perhaps the swimmers may like to pause their thrashing about to perform a production concerning a family in disarray after the loss of a favourite Uncle. Or the Cycling team could dismount to present a thoughtful insight in 4 moving and emotional parts. into the Black Death.

This would not only bolster our image as a world power in dramatic terms, but would also give a valuable insight to the many, many tourists of our history and culture. The other athletes could just hang around for a bit and buy some souvenirs.

My letter went unanswered, as so many to Lord Coe do.

And so, outside the Olympic Village I set up a Shakespearean One Man Show, not only performing the greatest works of our bard, but also Stoppard, Dickens, Johnson, Wilde and Shaw. A tour de force which would give many of the visitors to our shores a taster of our noble dramatic art. But sadly many of them seemed more interested in my burgers.

Eventually, with a tired heart and a dented enthusiasm I closed up my burger bar for the last time, well before the games had finished, and made my way home. I wasn't sure what to do about the makeshift latrine, or indeed the deaths. 

Mum rang.

Review 2012 - April / May

APRIL

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 1^st 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.

Review - 2012 March - part two

<continued...>

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,