20130410

Another Award?


I’m not sure how it happened but my name has been mentioned in connection with an award. As you will know I am of modest stock, awards and plaudits rarely make my list of ambitions, and I always tell people when such matters are raised that my mantelpiece is full enough with pictures of those l love thank you, and to place an award there I would have to remove one of my ‘friends’ and replace them with a trinket.

Of course this would cause irreparable damage should said person visit my abode unexpectedly, seeing their visage has been transferred from the hallowed altar of the room to the bookcase. Conversely, though, they might be quite pleased I had segregated them for special treatment away from what they may regard as ‘the rabble’. I can’t choose anyone not of European origin, obviously, that would be making a statement which I choose not to endorse. And I don’t want to move a woman because, again, that would lead to an expression of view I abhor.  Age is also a factor, too old and they may think they are being virtually put in a home, albeit between Mrs Beeton and a rather excellent compendium of Rattigan, too young and people will think I am patronising the youth of the business. Height, weight and general demographic all have to be taken into account. And Richard Griffiths is just barely out of the building so I can’t remove him. This delicate and attention-to-detail matter is something I need to consider, and consider it well, for one wrong decision at this juncture could cost me dear. Ostracised from the acting fraternity, forced to wander the darkness, lost, broke and without the hope of a decently written grandfather or dark menacing priest being put my way. The consequences of an incorrect decision are too terrible to contemplate. I’ve seen Casualty.

I shall today call Dancy, my interior designer for some advice on my mantlepeice conundrum. A marvellous young man, who can see faults a mile off and correct them with a wave of his handkerchief.

I shouldn’t, of course, count all my chickens before they have actually laid eggs, although I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a reasonable chicken to egg ratio. Any farmer will tell you that you need yield, you need enough eggs to sell in order that your chickens are actually worthwhile your investment, otherwise you are simply wasting money on seed for them, and they are taking you for a ride. And no farmer wants to be scammed by a hen.

I think perhaps my pills are kicking in now.

20130408

The sad Passing of Henry Yimp

Receiving the news Henry Yimp had passed on a few days ago, left me bereft, bothered and banjaxed as to the meaning of life; Henry had been a stalwart of theatre, a perfectionist in his art, who once – such was his drive for utter perfection – held auditions for scenery. Henry, who had once enjoyed a joke at my expense with Leonard Rossiter, sending me up in a hot air balloon over a clay pigeon shoot. Henry, who had always enjoyed, with gusto, a game of Hide and Seek, and pretended upon discovery, that he hadn’t been playing at all. We delayed the announcement so the usual arrangements could be made.

When the news finally leaked out, I was of course called for my ‘opinion’, or as they call it ‘reaction’ by all the big news agencies. ‘The Southwark Herald”, “The Malmsbury Gazette” and one call where the emotion finally got to me and I broke down and said how much I would miss the old chap and his zest for life, although that later turned out to be Specsavers telling me my new frames were ready.

It was when the BBC called I was at my best. Primed with quotes and quips from the great man, I prepared and steeled myself for the onslaught of tough questions; “Where would this leave acting?” “How can anyone ever act again now he is gone?” and “Surely you are now the most prominent actor in your field, with old Yimp gone to meet a fiery eternity? How will you shoulder this heavy burden and remain an inspiration to young actors?”. It behoves me to say none of these questions were asked, and I think it goes to show the lack of journalistic integrity at the BBC.

The interview, conducted by someone who I presume was about six went thus;

“Sad news with the passing of Acting and Directorial legend Henry Yimp, with me on the line to speak of Mr Yimp is Taquin McPhereson.”

“Hello”.

“What will your memories be?”

“Well, my memories, Alistair, will be wonderful, rich, funny, touching, sad, enriching and in one particular case, rather arousing”

“Er, ok. You worked with him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, he was a joy to work with, and he oft said the same of me. Tarquin McPhereson is one to watch he always said. Quality in every sense of the word. If those idiots at the BBC don’t recognise talent they should all be sacked. Wise words. Wise, wise words”

“If we can get back to Mr Yimp”

“Yes, yes.”

“You knew him from the days of Ealing, did you not?”

“Yes, I did. Even then I struck him as someone who would soar, soar above the mediocre, into the stratosphere of the acting pantheon. Lythe, sprawling-“

“What was he like, as a man?”

“Oh, he was a delight. I mean, what you saw was what you got from Henry, a genuinely nice fellow. I remember him saying to me “Tarquin, you should definitely be on television in a drama about me broadcast just after my death”. Such a kind thought.”

“I”

“In fact, I was so taken with this generosity that I wrote the script that very evening, such was the inspiration he gave to me. I’ve already called Joanna Lumley”

“Tarquin McPhereson thank you very much”

“I have one about a detective ghost dog!”

You won’t be surprised to learn what with the lackadaisical and sloppy manner at the BBC, no one has yet shown the slightest interest.

And to be honest, his widow frowned at me from her pew.

20130402

April. How much have I missed thee


And so April rolls in. I have to say I was not subjected to any Aprils’ Fools, despite Leonard next door screaming all morning for help. I have to say he didn’t fool me, and when his friends turned up dressed as paramedics and broke his door down, well, let me say gentlemen ‘effort wasted’.

One of the best times of year in the theatre is April. The sun shines, there’s a light breeze and people stroll arm in arm through the park, wanting nothing more than an matinee or evening performance of a Christie mystery; to sit in darkened awe as the story of double dealing, false alibis and dramatis extremis is played out. And if they don’t they’re not normal.

The above paragraph was taken from my notes in my class for ‘Advertising Copywriting’, something as an actor I have up until now only been a tool in. A mouth with which to service their outpourings. But the psychology behind it is breath taking. I spoke with the creative director, a young man named Alan, who, between copious visits to the toilet, spoke eloquently about the art.

“It’s like you are a bloke in the sea but you are not wet and then a someone on a passing liner throws you a lifebuoy but you don’t know you need a lifebuoy and like it’s only then you notice the water.”

I have to say it’s an analogy which was lost on me, and Alan, who appeared to have some sort of nasal condition kept disappearing and coming back with stranger and stranger allegories.

“Sometimes you think that someone is following you and you don’t want to turn around so you go the long way around but the person is still there even though you can’t see them and they have tiny friends with them now and you are not sure whether they are going that way or not and eventually you need a minicab”

To

“No one calls anyone shrimp anymore”

And rounding off with

“You can save money by being fully clothed and having a hot bath in Persil.”*

I have to say the last one doesn’t work. It’s no way to spend your afternoon and most of the evening, draped over a radiator.

But the science stands.

For instance, if I am playing a man of advanced years, laying in bed putting his teeth into a glass, I could turn to camera and say ‘And this could happen to you’. Of course, this would put the fear of God into people, there would be absolute and total pandemonium as toothpaste almost literally flies off the shelves as the great unwashed choose to protect themselves from dental decay. Such is the power. I well remember when Anthony Hopkins first sported his ‘slightly balding’ look, all of a sudden men of a certain age were combing back their hair, proud and tall they walked through the thoroughfares and passageways and alleys of their areas, without a care in the world, seeming to sneer at the ones they called ‘the hirsute’. And a great many of them didn’t engage in cannibalism, which is good.

The interesting thing about advertising is the method. First an idea is mooted; no, actually, there has to be a product, because if it all started with an idea for an advertisement, it would just be a series of ‘Wouldn’t it be great if…’ which is okay as it goes, but wouldn’t sell much. So, secondly an idea is marketed. How to present my product to the public.

There are many ways of presenting a product to an audience. But audiences are smart now. You can’t just say your product is the best and expect sales to rocket. You have to create what is known, apparently, as a need. I misheard this and thought he said knee. “I have two of those!” I said, lifting my trousers to display my popliteal for his consumption.  After what can only be described as an embarrassed silence, I lowered my trouser legs and nodded for him to continue.

Apparently even the lauded Blessed cannot sell goods on bellowing instructions alone, there has to be a need. Whereas people have to have food, water, shelter and a modicum of money (unless you are in rep), everything else is a luxury. One can tell this from the latest Dan Brown epic, where ne’er a mention is made of shagpile carpets adding a real sense of opulence to your home, to the Bible, where Jesus rarely mentioned adding additional channels to your Sky package.

The result of market research, prodding, nudging, psychological tricks and subliminal techniques have revolutionised this industry, apparently.

It is all so different from when I made the advertisments for ‘Preeps’, a small toy for children under 9. The basis was the ‘Preeps’ were a family unit, and when gathered together you could tell stories about their days – well, not you, the children. I’m not saying you wouldn’t want to, I mean after a hard day in a factory or bank or whatever it is you do, perhaps laying down with some Oriental plastic moulds and pretending they had had some sort of excitement in their lives might be quite therapeutic. I don’t know. Anyway, the Preeps were small, like eggs with faces on. And I did the voice.

            “preebs. The small family with the big adventures”

although to be fair the main adventure they had was sitting in a box most of the time. The problem with the Preeps, it seemed, was an inverse supply of Preebs to the desire to buy. Despite my best efforts, I could not seem to convince the British people they or their children needed to lay on a floor and do voices out of the corner of their mouth pretending it was a talking egg. They were not convinced, I was losing faith and I also had some rather angry letters from Educational Psychologists.

I am afraid at this time, I succumbed. The mechanism crushed me into it’s brain soup and I became a consumer, and to this day I have the largest (and to my knowledge only) collection of Preebs in the western world, which are kept in a lockup in Chelsea. So, if ever you are in need of egg related conversation, with an egg, I am very much your man.

Alan explained the whole process, at times becoming quite animated, but by take 148 we apparently had ‘everything we needed’ and it was ‘as good as we’re going to get’ so that was that.

But I learned a lot today, and I have to say I overheard Alan say much the same thing.