Once again I find myself proffering
apologies and humbly offering my sincere sorrow for my lack of posts.
To explain : Being an actor sometimes
means you are immersed in parts. Sometimes just to get the part.
Although I have never been party to what is known in the trade as
'couch casting', I have heard stories, seen pictures and in one case
been discovered observing from a wardrobe.
Many of my contemporaries have, in
younger, leaner times, succumbed to the lure of the producers' whim.
Gaffeny Fallows is one. Sophia Kaiser. And who would have thought the
famed Sir Montague Hume could stoop so low? (I have pictures).
I am of course using pseudonyms because
these people don't wish it to be known that their big break followed
a lot of panting and a quiet cigarette. I myself have relied on my
talent alone to get me where I am today, and it is therefore with
pride I can announce ability only has landed me the lead this winter
in the Abercynon Players production of Mother Goose. Oh, it may not
be Tolkiens' The Habit or Jim Bond, but I have principles I stick by.
I will not and have never contrived to cross the line. Tarquin
McPhereson can hold his head up high.
So, to catch up.
Babby Windsor rang me up, and asked if
I would like to go to Spain for six months to film a production of
Don Quixote. You can guess my answer, to which lovely Babs laughed
and said 'I bet you fucking would' and slammed the phone down.
Hurriedly I dialled 1471 and then the 3 to continue discussions of my
involvement in the project, but for some reason – BT is not what it
used to be – got through to Yogish Keebab House on Fulham High
Road. Knowing Babs loves a Donner with chilli sauce after a night of
revelery, I asked if she was still on the premises. The answer was
blunt, to the point and, in an elegant yet rhetorical way, questioned
my parentage, sexual prowess and attitude to cattle.
I rang Babs at home and was curtly
informed she had made no such call and more importantly, who was I to
ring her up at 12.35 in the morning asking about Turkish cuisine. The
call ended abruptly with a man who more or less posed the same sort
of questions as the proprietor of the fast food shop, albeit with
some spicier terms relating to my bowel movements.
I can take it. As an actor you develop
a hard shell. People can – and do - throw insults at me and it's
all water off a ducks back. It's what you do that matters, not
peoples' reaction to it. Not audiences, not theatre managers or angry
casting agencies. If they want to shout and stamp that's up to them.
If they want to follow you down the street shouting, it's their time
they are wasting. If they want to form angry fork bearing posses with
the sole purpose of 'punishing' me, well, that's just the business I
am proud to be in.
Critics are the worst. These people are
often frustrated actors who have not made it, and therefore feel
obliged somehow to hold back those whose talent casts a dark shadow.
They are parasites. Their views mean nothing. They have no insight,
nothing to say and no understanding of the actors' craft. On closer
examination I make no apology for stating the fact these people are,
in fact, scum. Of course, people will point to the copious reviews I
have had, many have which have had the temerity to critisize
everything from my acting, movements, speaking, gestures and prop
handling to my actual suitability as an actor. Some of which were in
the same review!
My arch nemesis is of course George
Pope. Pope is a freelance critic, known for his savage reviews of
films, television and theatre. Mention Popes' name to any actor and
see the colour veritably drain from the face, the hands tremble and
the cowering in the corner begin. I remember one particularly brutal
comment on a Gloucester playhouse production of 'The Importance of
being Earnest', which so irked the cast they, the theatre manager and
several of the front of house staff were never seen again, and all
that could be found was an antique parasol and a set of dentures on
Western Super Mare beach. Coupled with the copius footprints leading
into the sea and some scenery which was floating atop the water. It
is said that for weeks after the citizens on that fair town had Wilde
coming out of their taps.
Pope has had the temerity to have a go
at me from time to time. It started with when I was in Z-Cars. I
played Alf Cheesy, a rum cove if ever there was one. He had been
caught selling ice cream from a van with not MOT certificate. As the
investigation intensified and the net closed in, my character became
increasingly careless. Spilling strawberry sauce and dropping cones.
Then, after the gun battle and car chase he was finally caught. His
fate sealed by the trapped hundreds and thousands in the crease of
his trousers. At this point I had a line. The line.
The Line is something all actors hanker
after yet few get to articulate. Jimmy Cagney had 'I could have been
a contender!'. Humphrey Bogart had 'Of all the bars' and Kenneth
Williams had 'oooooooooo'.
