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.
