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.