Pantomime - a bath of fire

The pantomime went well; I must say it was a stroke of genius to make it interactive, with the audience throwing fruit. I think it made them feel very included in the theatrical family, and some of them even loitered in the foyer, out in the street and down the lane by the fire exit just to show their appreciation. Cheryl Baker and I were most pleased.

I think next year though we will encourage a more experienced writer; I didn't feel my character was properly defined in the script, and I think the audience thought I was a baddie. That's what I took from the booing anyway.

Pantomime is a particularly British thing. Everyone who is anyone in British acting has done it. Blessed, Olivier, Guilgud, Ritchie – they've all donned the tights and taken on the mantle. I well remember my first time with Dame Peggy Ashcroft. It was October 1962, and PA and I were busy rehearsing for Aladdin in Doncaster. I was a total shambles, I am not afraid to admit. My Iago lacked motivation, depth. Lack of experience and my youthful exuberance made it worse. I could not spot my errors but a thesp of Dame Peggy could see the miscellany of mistakes I was making. But, thank goodness, she saw some crumb, some tiny spark of potential in me, and took me under her wing.

“darling” she said, in those husky tones “you are going about it the wrong way”. I looked at her like a child looks in marvel at a parent who has just carved a toy train out of his own wooden leg. “Dame Peggy, please, teach me all you know about actoring, for I am keen to learn”. Firstly, I learned the word is acting. A schoolboy error. And I was not an actician, I was an actor. This merely encouraged my thirst for excellence – I needed to know more. But Dame Peggy insisted that six hours was enough for that day and I was to go away and think about things. And, should I return, she would share more of her bounteous know-how. I did indeed spend the evening thinking about things. Mostly acting related but also about tortoises, shadow puppetry and boiler maintenance. But my mind always returned to acting.

The next day, following rehearsal and a subsequent punch in the face from Jack Warner, I attended her dressing room again. “To act is to be” she said “to understand how a mind must function, one must first live in that mind”. To me now this seems so obvious, but to the callow youth sat in awe on her futon, this was a load of old mumbo jumbo. “Tell me, oh wise old hag, more of this which you speak” I said. I have to say my words did not meet with her approval. When I awoke a couple of hours later, I met up with her in outpatients. “You are ready” she said, and wordlessly lead me on the first steps of the journey which has lead me here, today.

To become a character, one must live as that character. You cannot expect to portray a person, be they fictional or real without first living as that persona. It is known as The Method. Dustin Hoffman uses it all the time. So does Al Pacino, Robert DiNiro and Yahoo Serious. Little known that Pacino actually joined the Police, worked outside the law as a maverick cop. DiNiro worked for eight months as a taxi driver, although he was tempted to carry on because of the hefty soiling fees. Yahoo Serious researched his role of the Invisible Man. As far as I know he still is. This side of the pond actors are utilising the method; Penelope Keith, Peter Bowles, Dennis Waterman all have tried their roles for real to get into character. It can work the other way as well. The man who played Bungle in the popular television series Rainbow was so inspired by the lifestyle choice of being a bear he finally went to live with real bears in woodland in Canada.

So, back to the Method; Dame Peggy extolled to me to find an 'in', a way to unlock a character, in the same way one might unlock a window from outside during a burglary. I didn't like to question this metaphor of how she knew these two things were quite so similar. I don't wish to assume anything about the great lady but she did have a remarkable amount of jewellery and electrical items on sale in her dressing room pre and post show.

I tried everything to get my Iago to 'work'. I spoke like him, I walked like him. But the neighbours started a petition and I had to stop. “React as you think Iago would react” she advised “explore him”. So, dressed in Iago, I challenged several of my neighbours with a sword that they would feel the cold edge of my steel. Dame Peggy had some sway with the local Police so fortunately that didn't go any further. “try minor things” she said “just work on it”. I was at a loss to know what she meant. “Well, everyday things. How would Iago react?”

Over the next couple of hours I reacted to things as Iago would have done. Including

Getting a bad haircut

Having the wrong paper delivered

An argument with someone who may well have actually been the Chinese ambassador

Enquiring about train times

Querying bills for food in restaurants

After the first two I decided it was wiser not to carry the sword. Also I stopped turning to empty shelves and using the phrase 'doesn't it boys and girls?'. It's one thing to be interactive with children, quite another to try and illicit a response from value ravioli.

The next rehearsal went swimmingly. Everyone was so impressed. “I can't believe you were acting” said one “That's the best you can do” said another. A third was so lost for words he just left the stage, throwing his script to the ground and storming out of the theatre. Some people cannot stand competition.

Wednesday rolled around and I was in my flat when the door was rapped several times but knuckles unseen. Into my abode walked Dame Peggy, accompanied by a large man in a suit and sunglasses and the director Mortimer Bitch. Apparently, during discussions, an idea had formulated and they were all quite excited about it. I was to be the first to take the method to a new level.

“We're going to make Iago the central character of Aladdin” said Bitch. “and we want you to do it” he said. I asked why the production was called Aladdin if the central character was to be Iago, pointing out this made no sense. My queries were resolved by his answer. It was simple. To the point. Precise. Eloquent. Everything that a good director should be. “Shut it, you” he said.

Iago was to be about mental illness. The Iago presented on stage was to be subtly different from the shallow husk he really was; he was to put up a front, meanwhile the inner turmoil of his depression and despair were cloaked from those he loved, protecting them but all the time sending himself into a dark abyss from which there was no escape. I was to be his angst, his pain, his malaise. Also I was to wear a different costume to give the audience the clear sign this was a different side to the man. A waiters' costume would probably work. And I should do my lines in the foyer. And if I knew how to serve tea, coffee and a variety of snacks plus balance the tills at the end of shift that would be a bonus and something I could put down on my resume. When I asked about lines he said he had so much faith in my ability to improvise, he would leave it up to me.

Sadly my part in the production lasted two days. It was October 1962, the Cuban Missile crisis meant the world was on the brink, the future of our world and every living thing on it weighed heavy and made people anxious and worried and only to quick to anger.

Dictionary.

Recently I was asked to voice an audio edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Of all the works I have had to voice, The Dic, as we call it in the business, is the biggest.

Immediately I availed myself of the tome in question. Oh, such joy! To think I hold in my hands the tool by which Shakespeare himself made his work; Byron, Shelley and Keats had ne'er ventured to use a word not in here, and Tennyson, Wilde and Wells had all delved it's darkest recesses for just the right noun, adjective or synonym to convey whatever it was they were on about. In fact, every bit of every conversation in English utilised the contents of this fine work. Even Geordie.

What made me especially happy was this was work which Nicholas Parsons had not got his hands on. Recently he has pipped me at every post, be it hosting popular panel games, talking about tweed to James Naughtie or reciting some book into the night for unsuspecting listeners.

What inflection should I put on these words though? One simply cannot traverse the finest language on the globe as if one was reading out the directions on a tube map or glancing at a recipe for a Vegetarian Lasagne or reading Book At Bedtime on Radio Four.

For instance, flipping though and stopping randomly on a page to demonstrate;

BASTARD

How should would announce this? Accent on the first or second syllable? With a voice full of joy or the seeping drip of venom? As the herald of a King or the low moan of the executioner?

Another flip through the pages and we land on

GREEDY

I dislike greed personally, so should I convey that in my oratory? Should I ejaculate the word like a seed of sound, casting it forth with all the connotations and colloquial intonations into the world caring naught for it's future? Or should I hail it? Should I give the word the gravitas and meaning, raising it to God status, that all the other words, should they come to life would look up to and seek it's counsel?

IDIOT

A derogatory term by anyones' standards. Yet is there not sympathy for the idiot? Those simpletons who we both laugh at and admire for daring to leave the house? Are we not guilty of complexing our short lives when those we call idiots live in a blissful world of innocent pleasure? Could we not simultaneously envy them yet dread to be them? And how can I put this all over in one word?

PARSON

How to best convey the meaning of this word? It is after all a member of the clergy, especially a Protestant minister; pastor; rector; the holder or incumbent of a parochial benefice, especially an Anglican. An office which demands reciprocal respect and responsibility. Would be different if you added an 's' on the end.

I have invented a small colour scheme which I intend to employ throughout the dictionary. Words requiring a lighter, almost feminine touch I have highlighted in orange. Words which need an aggressive, firm delivery I have highlighted in red. Fun words green. Words I am not sure of black.

So has, Mr Nicholas high-and-mighty Parnips. Look who is narrating the audiobook version of the Dictionary. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

(black may not have been the best colour to use, in retrospect)

How to take calls.

There's a new childrens' show. I know I shouldn't say anything but I am so excited. I just had the call. Fortunately I remember most of it, so here is how I remember it.

ME : Hello? McPhereson residence?

(I always like to pretend I have a answering service. It gives people the impression that I am far too busy to answer the phone, thus making you appear 'in demand'. Which of course I am. For this purpose I have invented my own character, a Butler like voice, with his own hopes and dreams, his own interests and fears. Tip: If you try this avoid names like Jeeves or Rochester or Mrs Hudson. It becomes obvious it is you and can lead to some awkward conversations. I was once told what an awful boss I am and how the caller was surprised I hadn't molested myself yet. Needless to say I remained loyal to myself and couldn't comment. I was also offered a job with Shaun Ryder, such was the good impression I cast as my Butler and confidente 'Northumberland'.)

Caller : That you, Tarquin?

Me : No, it is myself, Mr Northumberland, his ever faithful servant and companion through many a scrape and caper.

Caller : (SIGHS) Is Tarquin there?

Me : Who shall I inform is placing this call?

Caller : Bill Obling.

Me : I shall see.

(At this point in the call I like to play some hold music. Restful melody is usually best. Anything too heavy metal like Elton John only sets them off. You can either play that or the sound of some Gulls.)

After a minute or so, put yourself through to you.

Me : Hello, Tarquin McPhereson speaking?

Caller : It's me, Bill Obling.

Me : Who?

(At this point it's often useful to make the other person repeat things, such as their name, designation etc. Unless extemely secure in themselves, it may make them question their work and worth. It's a trick I tried and perfected on my friend Richard Gren, just before they found his clothes on that beach.)

Caller : Don't dick me about, McPhereson. I have news.

Me : News?

(In my business, news is a technical term for items of fresh information which may or may not be of use and / or interest to oneself, provided by another for your consumtion, consideration and regurgitation)

Caller : We're going to make a new animated show. You know Bob The Builder?

(What actor has not heard of and seen Bob The Builder. His exploits are legendary. Although I would assume the tax people would have something to say about his preference for singing with a bulldozer as opposed to doing his accounts)

Me : Yes?

Caller : It's like Bob the Builder. But different. And we want YOU.

AT THIS POINT I HAD TO RELIQUISH THE PHONE. I DON'T REMEMBER MUCH OF THE REST OF THE CALL, AND WHEN I LOOKED AROUND THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN AND MY FLOWERS HAD WILTED.

My attempts at getting a response out of the phone was met with a constant tone. I shall ring Bill and find out more.

Owing Money

 I am again apologetic for my infrequent posts.

If I am honest I borrowed £5 off of Brian Blessed and the bloody man is virtually camped outside my flat. I am having to do things very, very quietly, lest his bionic ears pick up activity and smash down the other external wall.

The reason for my caution is that I simply do not have the money to pay him. And the rumors I hear about when Derek Nimmo borrowed fifty pence for the fruit machine, well... the glaziers were very understanding and the social club landlord couldn't have been happier with the gratis out of court settlement, although it didn't really cover the smashed and broken stock. Nimmo himself fled to what was at that time Persia and wove baskets for several months, while Blessed scoured Europe in a fury unrivalled. Thankfully the whole business was solved when I, acting as a sort of peace maker, invited both of them to an eatery to discuss a deal. And through the brickdust, broken windows and bodies of waiting staff, an agreement was reached. And thank heavens for that; the acting profession would have suffered badly had this feud continued to spiral out of control. Heaven knows the middle east has enough problems, without an incident in the theatre world to add to their plate of problems.

Sitting here, in the dark in the corner behind the small cabinet in the fireplace, I spend a lot of time recalling incidents and anecdotes. Many of which I could not possibly relate in detail for professional reasons. The problem is moral and legal. Recently, I detailed a story of the late Dame Thora Hird. The uproar must have resembled Pompeii when the volcano erupted. I received email after email from lawyers, fans, the Panamanian Ambassador, the National Association for Parrot Owners and Fiat all of whom threatened me in one way or another. I even had a dream that Dame Thora came back from the beyond and kicked me in the cobblers, while a winged Harry Secombe hovered behind her saying 'Go on girl. Needle nardle noo'.

I wish Brian would go away, but I fear he is there for the long haul. I can hear him breathing outside the door. The furious breath of the enraged. Plus I can smell he's cooking sausages.

A lesson learned...

 Once again I must apologise for my slovenly postings. I am afraid those lovely people at the Internet company decided that I should be bereft of internet. I ask you, when you have given pleasure to so many, when you have mined yourself, when you have given all can give, when you have shared a toilet with James Cordon, shouldn't you be allowed a little leniency? Apparently not.

Even if Cordon had 'eaten something'. But no. Lucre or no Internet.

That is the trouble with the world; a love of money. I sometimes ask myself – and others – where would we be if everyone simply did things for money? I know you need money to survive, I am an actor, I am aware of that. God Lord, as a young actor I did some awful things for a bit of cash. And I mean awful. To this day I cannot face corned beef. But imagine if everyone simply did things for the hope of financial gain? There would be no street theatre, no busking and certainly no One Man Musings on at the Westminster Free Fringe, tickets still available.

I won't lie to you. Money is tight. I don't know what I am going to eat later. Last night I had a begonia. I've sold quite a few things just to keep myself going. My collection of popcorn containers. Leonard Nimoy's toenail clipping. Even my beloved Bungle the Bear costume has been hoiked. Although obviously that needed some dry cleaning.

I have to be honest and say I am starting to think there is some sort of conspiracy against me. It's not unheard of for an actor to be such a threat to his fellow craftsmen that they band together and say 'this man is a real threat to us, let's make sure he never works again'. Look at Geoffrey Hayes. Towering at the top of his game on Rainbow, those who witnessed him could not fail to be impressed by the portrayal of a shy simpleton, sharing the limelight with a hippotamous, a man in a bear costume and some weird thing with a zip for a mouth. The poorly designed décor and seemingly childish furniture didn't phase him, and he never trod over the lines of his co-stars.

Yet here we are, after expecting action movies, a romantic lead or maybe the greatest character actor the world has ever known, where is he? No one knows. All I know is the other members of the cast have also long since vanished, apart of course from George who is Chief Medical Advisor on Casualty.

As I say, it's not unheard of for whispering campaigns to scupper ones' career. I well recall a small lad coming to me one day, I won't mention his name to save his blushes, but I will use a fake name for ease of reference. David Radcliffe came to me and said 'I'm in a right state'. I inquired with him as to his dilemma. Apparently the young scamp had been offered the role of a boy wizard in some film or other. “If the film is as successful as the books, I shall be the richest, most famous kid in the world!”. Radcliffe had also got a part time job as a toilet attendant. A modest income but secure. As far as I am aware, people will always need toilets. What to do? What to do?? I sometimes wonder what would have happened had he taken my advice, how his life would have turned out more secure and perhaps happier, and which famous people he would have met in the toilets.

If there is a bit of a blacklist around yours truly I have to say I will not be best pleased. But as I say it has happened before. I once upset Harry Secombe and Dame Thora Hird so badly, apparently, they started a vendetta of hate. I'd get calls saying nothing, or 'needle nardle noo' or similar. I'd get specially knitted cardigans through the post with only one arm. Dictionaries with the words 'acting' and 'talent' cut out. A book on world hams with my face glued to every picture. Really nasty stuff. Things reached a head though when Secombe suggested a hymn on Songs Of Praise, called 'Tarquin is Really Crap'. It was then that a producer took Sir Harry aside and told him his private obsession was interfering with the professional and spiritual nature of the show, he should just stop and remove the posters from the church. Sir Harry agreed and promptly dispatched Dame Thora down to let me out of the boot of his car.

The sheer horribleness of the media people themselves was revealed to me in all its' gory detail on a job I took on on BBC Radio Cumberland. I was asked by the then afternoon DJ – who actually preferred the term 'presenter' – to come up with some wacky characters for his show. Frank Crisps was the wacky presenter. In those days every station had a wacky, off the wall character who was seemingly out of control. A maverick anarchist who pushed boundaries, kicked against the management and bucked authority. Think David Jacobs or Kenneth Kendall. I did as I was bid and came up with six funny, rounded and authentic characters.

For the next three months I heard nothing. I'd ring Crisps. I was seemingly always unlucky with my timing. He was out. He was at his daughters' graduation. He'd fallen off a chiropodist. He'd been arrested. His phone couldn't get a signal underwater. He was running from angry wasps. He was in witness protection. He'd eaten some poorly cleansed radish. Every time I rang, the story changed. Finally, after another statement concerning his involvement with NASA, I lost my temper.

Now, I am a calm man. As an actor, one has to be. You must find your centre, said my Drama School tutor Mr Grimmel. His advice. To go to a neutral place, divest yourself of your worldly items and find your centre. He even offered to help me locate my centre. Although at the time I queried his methodology (The Premier Inn, A king Size Bed, Nudity) I did indeed feel centred. I did try and contact Mr Grimmel for his countenance but it appears he is currently in prison.

“I want to speak to Crisps” I bellowed into the phone that Thursday. After a brief apology I redialled the right number. I've always found re-dialling to dampen your anger. That's why Bond, Batman and indeed Bruce Willis never get wrong numbers. The films would suffer a loss in the action packed narrative if the hero had to apologise to someone who they had just got out of the bath.

I finally spoke to Crisps. And it was a 'crisp' conversation. In short, the characters I had created were unsuitable for entertainment purposes. He mumbled something about offending people, legal regulations on broadcasters and, as if I needed reminding, this was not 1973. I agreed with him only on the it's not 1973. I could not argue with that. The man was a master in identifying the year he was in. A savant. But alas, the line was dead. Crisps had hung up. No one would hear Stuuker, the Agoraphobic Eskimo or Rutgers the Belligerent hippopotamus or Henri the French Waiter and his humorous pronunciation of the word 'soup'. I've saved those characters in my archive, so if anyone is interested...

Anyway, the poison worked itself through the BBC. The rumour I had been 'offhand' became a Chinese whisper, growing in all directions with each mumbled repetition. Soon it was that I was 'difficult to work with' or 'crap'. When the FBI came to my house to inquire something about a grassy knoll, that's when I knew it had got out of hand.

The whispers spread at an almost breathtaking rate both in volume and breadth. The BBC, ITV, Channel Four... theatre, commercials, films... I had become a pariah of the industry. Soon old friends would only meet me in disguise. I spent an hour discussing dressing room clothes hangers with Michael Gambon until I realised it actually WAS an old woman. People would only consort with me while wearing brown paper bags on their heads. I once had a dinner party and I have no idea who came. My tether was now fully extended. Action was needed otherwise I would be going down. [TARQUIN: Read this back and make sure there's no sexual double entendres. If so, take it out. I won't have that sort of thing in my passages. That's a big thing for me. I know this is a long one but I don't want to sacrifice quality. I want people to get the thrust of my position. Remember, people need to see your point, Tarqs, old chap. ].

Desperate men do desperate things. I've seen Countdown. I had to come up with a plan, a notion, a scheme so acute that it would restore me to the public consciousness and ruin Mr Crisps.

As the sun came up on the fifth day and I lay on the rooftop opposite his house, the crosshairs of my telescopic sight focussed on his window, I prepared myself. The previous month had been spent reading SAS manuals, survival manuals and fruitless searches of the Argos catalogue. Today may be the day when Lee Harvey Oswald is shaded by Tarquin McPhereson. Albeit on a smaller scale.

Killing a BBC presenter is something I think everyone in the entertainment Universe aspires to. Certainly if the catering is anything to go by.

I imagined the furore that would follow my actions. The media speculation. The pundits. The psychologists. The theatre critics. Those who had seen my work speaking of my talent as an actor. Praise from colleagues. Backstabbing. I began to wonder if the consequence of this was to be as bad as the review of my appearance in Mother Goose in Swanage.

It was then I had a visitation from beyond. The spirit of New Avengers hard man Gareth Hunt appeared next to me. Unlike myself though, he had not read the SAS manual and therefore his face was unsmeared with excrement. “Hello luv” he said. “What's all this then?”

I explained to him my situation and he listened intently. After I had finished Gareth explained to me the err of my ways. The karmic wheel. How things came back through the ripple of the Universe to those who had done deeds, things in kind. Did I really want the wrath of the Universe bestowed upon me? Also he mentioned a rather sneaky recipe for lemon chutney.

“I'll leave the decision to you, sweetheart, but in my opinion, you would look fantastic in our celestial production of Mother Goose.” “You have theatre in heaven?” I asked. He told me they did and if I wanted any chance of a starring role I should not go through with my intentions. “You don't want to go to the other place” he said, darkly “that's all Radio Four panel games”.

The moment had passed. Hunt faded into the ether and I was once again alone. He was right. This was ridiculous. I couldn't go through with this. I didn't want to be remembered as a killer. A killer performer, yes. A performer killer, no. I was bigger than that. I could rise about and survive the bad mouthing, lies, slander and photographs. Also I only had the telescopic sight, I had completely forgotten about the actual gun.

So... there is a lesson there. I hope you picked up on it. I seem to have rambled on somewhat, but I am sure there's some sort of message. If it was jumbled it's probably due to some strong cheese I have been eating. At least I thought it was cheese.

Shock, horror, probe and Radio 4

 I want to say I will never patronise World of Leather ever again. When one is asked to do a voice over one does not expect to see the final cut of the commercial aired with Graham Nortons' voice booming out ones' words instead. I was fuming, and I am afraid I rather let rip in the Croydon World of Leather as opposed to the rather more professional venting of spleen via telephone to head office. I had just come from a 'Laughing Cow' cheese commercial, and such was my rage I had not taken off the horns or udders. As I bellowed in the store about Norton, Cheese, voiceovers, the Mafia and other things some men turned up and I don't remember much else until outpatients.

I have been asked to go on Desert Island Discs! Naturally the girl was nervous calling me, and referred to me several times as 'Barbara', but this is to be expected when dealing with someone who is so often referred to as 'legendary'.

But what music to take to this desolate isle? What musical comfort would remind me of glories past, of battles victorious or that review in the Beaulieu Argus?

One band I would simply have to take with me is the Beatles. Having heard all five of their songs it is difficult to make a choice; could it be the plea for assistance in 'Help'? The issues with working a late shift and going onto probably unpaid overtime of 'Hard Days' Night'? The tribute to carpentry that is Norwegian Wood or the Twist and Shout song, which is obviously a reference to an inexperienced Chiropractor? The choice eludes me currently.

Of course, one would like to show off one is not a total hippy drop out, and that one has another side apart from the one which is down with the kids on groovy street. I would have to pick a classical piece. One which has gravitas, volume, a melodic and chordal structure which reaches into ones' very soul and touches ones mind, heart and spirit in a way few things can. The theme from Jaws.

Some people think though that one should use this platform to air ones views. I remember in the sixties, protesting with all the beautiful people about rights, peace and love. Indeed, during this time I experimented with mind altering drugs, which adjusted your perception of reality and the world and opened your mind up to new and exciting possibilities. Bright colours, beautiful feelings of love and experiencing heightened awareness of alternate realities. For a while I thought I was a stretch of the M6. I turn my head left I saw the town of Warrington, right and the outskirts of Manchester. It only came to an end when Robert Vaughan told me I was to be resurfaced from Holmes Chapel to Knutsford.

What song would encapsulate my beliefs? Would be my mantra through these turbulent times? The names of the immortals of the time – most of which I have forgotten now - raced through my mind. Should I select protest or eternal issue? Would it be a gentle refrain or a no holds barred demand for change? How do I feel about tamborines?

You'll have to listen to the whole programme to get the full girth of my choices. I can safely say you will not be disappointed. Anecdotes about acting, the theatre and famous people, coupled in with – and this may sound arrogant to some – the greatest selection of music ever made by any person ever.

Hair and there and back again.

 I have been quiet for the last few weeks, and with good reason.

It is not my place to voice protest on matters legal, but I have to say my experimental theatre company is no more. I cannot go into details, but it will have to suffice to say Brighton Sea World, Dairy Lee Cheeses and the makers of Sellotape have caused my silence this last few weeks.

The production of Neptune, Lord Of The Sea (an impromptu work by the writer Milton Vomain) was, ill thought out in retrospect, casting as it did three sea lions in the main roles of Henry, Vanessa and Lord Kitchener. They had little respect for artistic direction, save for when a tuna fish was offered on a stick. It was like working with Sarah Jessica Parker. By the third act people were leaving, some were wretching and others were giving statements to the Police.

Authoritarian regimes such as the one we currently live in delight in stifling new and dangerous work. Take for instance my great friend Peter Rojay, whose seminal (and as it turned out final) work 'Oblivion Spaghetti' got almost no coverage at all. Simona Clows' answer to the much-hyped Vagina monologues 'Shouting titties' was closed down during the intermission and Rachael Bovertons' drama about womens' boxing, 'Fisting Females', met with entirely an unappreciative audience.

But enough of that. Onto pastures new. A phone call this morning from Aldersons' Hair Pastry, who make what is apparently the worlds' only hair based pudding. This product is, according to the website and literature, amazing. A bald man can expect results in under three days of use, by simply wearing their pudding on his head. The pictures they sent merely served to back up the claim, with a man sporting a rather fetching merange. Now, I know a merange is not strictly a pudding, it's more a sweet dessert, but, according to the people who know these things, 'who cares'.

The invention itself dates back some 3 months, when, after a particularly heavy works do, the inventor discovered that if he wore pudding on any part of his anatomy, it would immediately burst forth the most luxurious pelt of hair. It is true that he was particularly bushy to begin with, but this is just coincidence. Soon, the wheels were in motion, plans were made, Dragons invested, and the whole world awaited the publicity.

One of the good things about hair products is that they don't require any sort of rigorous testing by those awful science-types. They botch about with things with their test tubes and bunsen burners and make all sorts of claims which have no bearing on the actual product. Either it's not a proper product or it's just a con or it's killed most of the test group. They always have some sort of quibble. It's this sort of paltry bickering which has destroyed many careers, I feel sure. Just because something is poorly made or spontaneously combusts when not in a complete inert vacuum doesn't make it a bad product. It just makes it differently good.

There's also the fact that to get anything done, not only in theatre but in other spheres, you have to know the right people. If you don't have the connections, forget it. For example, when Lord Of The Rings was being cast in New Zealand, I was very anxious to get in on the action. I don't know much about Tolkien, but I was fully prepared to be the Lord or at a push one of the Rings. Not even a reply. How about Hancock, the reluctant hero? Nothing. I even applied to be an extra in The Archers, but my offer fell on deaf ears.

But I have come up with some ideas which could have made me. Take the iPod. When the music player first hit the market, I was the only person who, with a little thought, decided there was a market for a head cleaner. Electric cars were mooted, who was it who declared to have a viable extension lead? Yours truly. Fish in a cup. Marzipan which tasted like cheese. Self-wearing shoes. A device which combed your hair while you sleep. All mine. All never to be invested or shown the slightest interest in. Although again, to be fair, the last one was just a man called Derek.

I sometimes think, as a society, we would be much better if we didn't give so much to our friends. Which is why I have none. Not one. And it's deliberate. Oh, the people I know know me well enough to know I don't need anyone. I am entirely self-reliant and that's the way I think more people should be. They respect that by never calling, remembering Christmas or birthdays and crossing the street when they see me. Some have respected me so much they have left the country. It hasn't always been that way.

When I was ten I had a friend, Brian Clue. We spent most of our time together, doing the things all boys do at that age. Gadding about in dresses and impersonating farm animals.Brian was particuarly good at doing a 'speckled Faced Sheep'. I myself excelled at 'Dairy Shorthorn', and between us we provided the sound effects for many a play which required such animals. Our partnership fermented, developed from animal sounds to writing. We wrote searing indictments on society and the justice system, also sitcoms. We would sit in Brians' Fathers' Study and hammer out a plot for a judge who is compromised by a liason with a younger man; torn between his duty and his passion. Or three men stuck with a baby for a weekend.

But then Brian discovered girls. I suspect they were attracted initially because of his livestock mimicry. After all, every tom, Dick or Harry had a guitar. Only Brian could convincingly disturb a Shepherd. Anyway, excuses started coming thick and fast. Brian could no longer wrestle with the contraventions to the British Justice system, he would no longer be willing to give more than a fleeting thought to a single Mother forced into dangerous work through economic need, and he certainly didn't have much time left over for considering Three Gents and an Infant. And it showed. Work would come back, and written instead of a startlingly sharp speech about the futility of the common man against the system, it would say 'Brian Loves Harriet'. I couldn't stretch that out for 90 minutes plus intermission. Something had to give.

I cornered him outside the back of a record shop by the bins. I demanded to know what was going on. He told me he and Harriet were together now and if I didn't like it, I knew what I could do. I didn't know what I could do. But he insisted I did. I think the gist was 'go away'. I did indeed, go away. But I wasn't about to be defeated by a girl.

I sat up for three nights plotting and scheming. Papers, maps and ideas lay strewn around me. I didn't wash, I didn't eat, I didn't drink, I focussed my entire mind and body on revenge. I'd read somewhere if you focus every sinew of your being, what you want will come to pass. And I focussed like mad until my pants really started to chaff. I assumed that was the cut off point. Which, given the state of my pants, was ironic.

My plan for revenge on this harridan, this psiren, this femme fatale was complete. Never before nor since have I dedicated so much of my energies into a revenge plot. But I poured them into this one. Revenge is a waste of time, but the satisfaction I felt was so delicious. When I emerged from my room, my Father simply inquired if I had finished masturbating.

Brian spoke to me rarely after that. When I say rarely, I mean not at all. The FBI had managed to prove Harriet had not been on the grassy knoll in Dallas in 1963, and she'd not been selling hooky moon rocks to diplomats. If anything I had made their relationship stronger. But was I getting any thanks? No.

So anyway, the Hair Pastry people want me to be the new voice of Hair Pastry. Let me put you right; I do not do this because I use Hair Pastry, but I believe in the product. I have seen the good it can do, and so has my bank manager.

I look forward to this new venture.