More about awards

It is always gratifying to be awarded a plaudit or small statue in recognition of your work. Apparently. I have attended various awards ceremonies over the years, and I have always enjoyed seeing peers and friends receive accolades. Sharing in their joy is a real privilege, and it must be so comforting to know ones' efforts are not without reward. I have never kicked anyone in the shin.

When I was in BAFTA, I attended their bashes, and was very confident of walking away with 'Best Voiceover for a Documentary on Dietary Difficulties encountered by North American Vegan Inuits'. But alas, Jarvis got it. In fact, the whole evening was just people opening envelopes and saying 'Martin Jarvis'. Later, I approached Jarvis as he loaded another pallet of trophies into his hired transit van, and in a civil but firm voice, I asked him if it wasn't a little bit selfish. I have to say, as a golden voice, his reply was not as civilised as one would expect. Could this really be the same voice whose dulcet tones voiced Winnie the Pooh, Agatha Christie and the Observer Book Of Collectable Jars? The potty mouthed outburst was a tour de force of swearing, encompassing my parentage, toilet habits and unsavoury activities with a mule. I left him to it, his endorsements of my resemblance in his opinion to the expulsion of urine, ringing in my ears.

Jarvis aside, it is notoriously difficult to know what to do when you get nominated for an award. I myself am pleased my peers know me well enough to realise that gongs and plaudits mean little to me, and thus usually don't bother adding my name to the lists. It was in 1976 I got nominated for my portrayal of Glyn, the lonely washing machine in the Bold advertisment. This was a task, even for an actor of my abilities, and I studied white goods for a good while to understand them, to get into how it felt to be a washing machine with combined tumble dryer function. One day I even went so far as stuffing dirty clothes into my mouth.

In those days, there was a store called Rumbelows. This hallowed premises boasted electrical items of all hues and designs. Ovens, fridges, freezers, toasters, pedal bins and, of course of most interest to me, washing machines. Having been ejected from the launderette for... reasons, I decided the best thing to do was consult someone who knew about these machines. I spent a whole morning talking to a salesman about the display models. Their benefits and drawbacks. After three hours or so he had started to get a little short with me. I think the crux came when I asked 'do they ever feel depressed? Trapped in a relationship of master and slave, getting older, ambitions unfulfilled and dreams crumbling like oats in the wind'. 'Do you want to buy one or not, Sir?' he (in my opinion rudely) asked. Trapped by my own plan, and realising he stood between myself and the exit, I said 'Certainly I do. Sign me up, my good man'. When he went to the desk to get the papers I vaulted for the door, moving cat like past the waffle grills and weaving my way – with I have to say a degree of skill – past the open grills. But this salesman was fast. He got me via a complex vault over a toaster display and blocked my exodus. The deal was evidently on, or as he put it 'you're having the bloody thing, mate. I don't care'. We filled out the paperwork but my piste da resistance was a cash on delivery arrangement to a false name and address. I was allowed to leave the store.

It was sometime later that lovely Jon Pertwee cornered me in a BBC bar and demanded to know why he had received two washing machines, a tumble dryer and a device for heating crumpets. Apparently, having confided my deeds to Mollie Sugden, she had no sooner gleaned my information than she had rung the illustrious scarecrow and spilled the beans. Sugden was expert in extracting information. She could have been in the CIA or similar, such was her prowess. She broke you down, although she did later regret her gift when she got John Inman to explain exactly why he had quite so many hamsters.

Pertwee was aggrieved that day. Let me tell you there is nothing like an angry Pertwee. Once his wrath was invoked, there was no power on Earth which could quell his rage. Words were exchanged. Temperatures were escalated. And finally....

I seem have have strayed from my subject matter somewhat, and will return to my diatribe about awards. I just think in closing this little diversion I should thank the good people of the NHS for their prompt and professional work, and the reassurances that the hair should grow back.

Anyway, my main intention was to give you an idea of what it is like to be nominated for an award. Obviously, you will need to have a speech. The speech can be as long as you wish it to be, but be advised the record was set by Kenneth Brannagh, who managed four months. I do know several performers who were there all the way through, and I visit them as often as their Doctors will feel it beneficial.

Below is a table of things to mention and areas to stay away from

Mention	Don't Mention
Gratitude to cast and crew	The cast and crew sex orgy
Special praise for director and producer	That thing each told you about the other
Praise for the genre	You had no interest in this. Still none.
How it sheds new light on the issue	The issue is boring
Wonderful place it was made	Don't mention the diarrhea
Your longevity and ambition to get this award	About bloody time
Your fellow members' good taste	At last
The defeated other candidates are graceful	Take it. Suck it up. Suck it up good.
Thank all your friends and tutors and family	Never mention how they wanted you to be a minicab driver instead.

One of the main things about accepting an award is the procedure upon announcement. Firstly, there is the surprised look. It is vital to have a genuinely surprised look. Remember, this is a pleasant surprise, and therefore horrified, terrified and receiving bad news expressions are not suitable. Think about something pleasant. Perhaps a joyful moment as a child. A first triumph in your academic life. Jarvis being swallowed by a dinosaur.

Then comes the table greet. This is something that should be handled with care. You should turn to your fellow attendees and laugh and smile and hug. Again, this should be as genuine as possible, and any acrimony or scores to settle should be briefly put to one side. This is the moment for a team victory, even though you are the person who gets the award and they pale into insignificance. Ignore for these few moments that at this moment, you could crush each and everyone of them under your boot as you would a loathsome worm. You are all equal. Even the one who thought it would be funny that day to put hot sauce in place of your tomato soup. Oh, he will pay. Do you hear me, Cocker? You will pay. But not now. No. Languish in your achievement with your brethren and hug and applaud each other. After all, revenge is a dish served cold.

Then comes the chair move and walk to the stage. This is a tricky one. The pushing out of the chair is a art form in itself. In my book, 'Chairs and how to pull them out' (Penguin 1997) I detail the procedure for this in detail, with comprehensive illustrations and formulae for all manner of seating furniture. Normally one will be sat on a straight backed chair with a small nod to lumbar support. It is best to use the hand furthest from the stage and push it back in time with the straightening of the knees. It may sound simple but it does require practice and I have seen many occasions where the chair is knocked clumsily by the awardee and flies into the face of some elderly doyen, somewhat overshadowing the reception of an award. Giving a speech while your fellow actors are trying to save the sight of a legend of theatre is not something I would wish on anyone else, drowned out as you are by shouting, screaming and the oncoming sirens of the Ambulance.

Navigating your way to the stage is another skill. One must have a firm sense of where to go, and pace is important. I like to pretend I am back in the Punjab, wending my way through traders and market sellers, ever wary of those who would pick my pockets as I journey past, or the rogues who would lure you into a darkened lane with ill-intent, promising much but in reality just undertaking not to cut your head off in exchange for money. This rarely happens during awards ceremonies but all the same I would avoid the 'Casualty' table if I were you.

One thing I do is go into the main hall before the awards ceremony. This can be tricky, as you could be mistaken for one of the set up staff, and be asked to move tables, chairs and cutlery. This sounds mundane but actually it's an excellent way of altering place mats so you get a little kick of of awkward seating. I never forget my first go at this, where I sat chuckling all evening, glancing over to the Last Of The Summer Wine table, with Sallis, Wilde, Owen and Pol Pott.

Maintaining a grip on reality.

I do enjoy a good reputation these days. Everyone knows the standard of my work and when they feel a part is not 'me' they don't bother to call me for an audition. Perhaps they feel that the cast will be awed and afeared to compete with the depth of my characterisation, thus striking them almost catatonic – unable to move or speak, standing there open mouthed and staring at the sheer realism of my portrayal. Like in Hulme that one time during a touring production of 'The Lady On The Bus'.

For those who don't know 'Lady' is a play about a group of people from all backgrounds, on a bus. There's a housewife, a miner, a financial advisor, a astronaut, a waiter and a Chinese emperor. While stuck in traffic they strike up a conversation. Suffice to say at the end of three hours lessons are learned, lives are changed, allegories are demonstrated and differences are levelled. The whole play is about the attitudes of different strata of sociological class, the perceptions and predispositions of ignorance and temporary roadworks.

I played Chuck Warrior, an ambitious financial advisor. Although not given a brief as such, when allocated the part, I made a list of things about 'Chuck'. This sort of exercise has brought me much plaudits over the years, and younger actors (under 60) should take note of this method, as it will yield fruit to the tree or bush of your performance.

CHUCK WARRIOR

• Ambitious
• Does financial advice
• Wears brown shoes (I underlined this as VERY IMPORTANT)

With this list I was able to to deduce his attitude, his personality and what drives him. Everything from eye colour to how many PPI calls he got I deduced from this list. Using economic data, trend analysis, calculous and a book of Greek Mythology, I had the character pinned down and honed.

Just to be sure I had him, I rang up several insurance companies for a quote on an Audi GT as Mr Warrior, and was pleasantly surprised that I could get it for less than £600 with a £250 excess and windscreen cover. If I could fool the good workers at Direct Line, the Apollo Theatre in Hulme would be a cinch!

It is at this point I must proffer a cursory warning. Be aware that portraying someone is entirely different from becoming them. I once appeared in 'These Woolen Balls', a play about the 1960s' Womens' Institute, and such was my acting even I was convinced I was actually the role I was playing and thus spent six months of my life post-play as a Mrs Bellingham. Since then. On my dressing room mirror I insist that I have a picture of myself with the words 'This is you' written under the face. It is very important that you remember you are an actor and you are not the person who people see in films/tv/walk-in bath commercials. I also like, during a run, to have people mention my name in conversation thus enforcing reality. Preferably in conversation with myself, although some prefer to do it in other dressing rooms and dark areas of the performance space which is fine. Often they will point, which is also helpful in keeping one remaining grounded.

If they don't address me in the way I wish, I mention my name in every other sentence. (eg: “yes, I will have a coffee. Two sugars, Tarquin” or “Mmmmm, this really is delicious meringue, Miranda. Did you make it yourself Tarquin?” or “How dare you! I am Tarquin McPhereson”.

All being told I reigned supreme as Mr Warrior, though there was a brief time when I was questioned for forging and submitting a driving licence to the insurance company for a car I didn't own, and obtaining insurance with false details with intent. I am still in dispute that the Police were entitled to arrest me on stage but thankfully the audience thought it part of the play and applauded loudly. Apart from that the show went swimmingly, and went on a tour of the North West, albeit without me as I was awaiting trial.

Radio - my experiences.

With the anniversary of Radio One, I am pointed to reflect on the brief sojourn I enjoyed as a Radio Disc Jockey.

I was approached by Wesley Gould, the philanthropist, who had this idea about a radio station broadcasting popular music to the youth of Britain. Of course, I was heavily involved in a production of 'Not On My Wife' at the Cheshire ballrooms, and so was unable initially to entertain such a premise, or was until a phone call saying the whole thing had been cancelled after the first production. Unusual for a matinee, but the building had been deemed unsafe after the unrest.

The notion Gould had was this; we would be on a ship in international waters and would broadcast to the UK from international waters. It would be an eclectic mix of music and information which the kids would find interesting and informative. Adults could tune in as well of course. As could seniors. And very young people too. We had no age bars. It was literally a radio station anyone could listen to. All you needed was a radio and some ears.

Now, firstly, let me declare I have always had a thing for the sea. I cannot count the times I have been at the edge, between land and water, contemplating the meaning of it all, but it's at least three. Growing up as I did during the war, I used to imagine being one of the staunch captains, ordering the destruction of an enemy vessel, be it a warship or a submarine, capturing the survivors and then treating them to a selection of impressions and songs from the shows. On other days I would imagine being a pirate, sailing the oceans plundering and wotnot, my hold filled with prisoners and treasure, fighting authority and taking what I wanted when I wanted it and paying no heed to laws. As I grew up these ambitions became more realistic, and eventually I envisioned myself as a boson on a P. & O. Ferry.

But this was a big chance. I could really 'connect' with younger listeners. Who knows, I could inspire them, like Kennedy or Martin Luther King, my oratory on how things could be would change the world, punctuating the gap between The Animals and The Kinks. There would be statues erected to my wisdom. My name would be mentioned in Parliament.

The job of a disc jockey was to project your personality. Between those interludes of musical excellence, the DJ would have to invent something to say, and this is not as easy as it seems. After the first few shows I was told people were complaining about my constantly saying what clouds look like. But I had nothing else. I scanned the paper and then it hit me. I would involve my listeners in the crossword. The trouble came when we spent seventeen minutes on 'Focus or focal, your attention please. Use this as your guide (8)' The answer was of course Cynosure, but some people rang up with the most peculiar suggestions, several of them on the internal line, and even fewer to do with the puzzle at hand.

It was then I heard a young tyke with a gimmick. This fellow had a recording of a dog, which he would play. “Hello Albert” he would say and the dog would dutifully bark. This not only gave him a friendly air, but a device by which people could say 'He's not that bad. He has a dog'. I immediately decided this had inspired me and for my next programme I introduced Terry the Tortoise. “Hello Terry” I would say, and Terry would much some lettuce. Anyone who has worked in radio knows that a tortoise eating doesn't make compelling radio, even on Radio Three. I needed another tack.

I tried all manner of animals. Cats. Owls. Lizards. Frogs. At one point I actually had a leopard. But none of these grabbed the same intimacy as Albert the dog, and frankly the Air Ambulance people were very scathing about having a leopard on a tug boat. We never did find Adrian Dunbar.

I was running out of time. Gould was looking at the listening figures and mine were, apparently, and I use the radio jargon here, 'bloody rubbish'. Then another stroke of McPhereson genuis hit me. Why not present a list of records which are selling very well in order of the amount they are selling? I could play those records and say 'this is' and a number denoting it's retail popularity. And because people were purchasing these things, people would listen. It was a plan, audacious and new – as far as I was aware. I would call it 'Records that are selling very well near you in a reverse numerical listing arrangement'.

Sadly the idea was lost forever because as I was presenting my afternoon programme the tug fell foul of a unexploded torpedo which hit our little boat ripping it apart and destroyed the whole station. And so my career as a DJ came to a close. I did try with other broadcasters for a while but many of them – the ones who replied – said I shouldn't try to improve what I had done on the pirate station, as it was probably impossible to make it any better. High praise indeed, and I know, should I fall foul of this thespian life, I have something to fall back on.

Working with Animals #1

One thing they always tell you in acting college these days is never to work with children or animals. To some extent I can see the logic. Animals have no theatrical training, miss their cues and poo on the stage. It’s like working with Alan Alder. 

But get it right and an animal can be as rich and moving in performance as the finest Dulwich Amateur Dramatics society can offer. 

I remember doing a Jungle Book for which, as a publicity idea, we had a real live tiger in the cast. I leapt at the opportunity. But not in the same way the tiger leapt at the first three rows, savaging and tearing asunder the flesh of the audience in a pre-show review. 

I can certainly say that a critique will always be more negative when many of the reviewers have their obituary in the same paper on the same day. But I pressed on with the show despite the screaming and ambulances, as we professionals are bid to do.

Dr Who? Not me!

It is always disappointing when, after trying ones’ best, the part is offered to someone else. It is a constant source of sadness in our profession that there are simply some things which we are not going to be able to do owing to our demographic, our interpretation of the piece or a moody and unimagintive director.

Such was my feeling yesterday, when the new Doctor was announced. I myself had tried for the role with such vigour, such determination that I felt sure that I had it – in theatrical terms – in the bag. Then, to realise that all the time I spent gadding about in a forest in a cloak - garnering considerable concern from both the public and a couple of Police officers - was for nothing, well, it bothers me greatly. Not that I don’t think Joan Winterbottom will do a bad job. I have followed her career with great interest, from the early days when she was of course younger, to the present, where is a little older. I have marvelled in her ability to say the lines, remembering the next line and, possibly most importantly for an actor, not to bump into things. Oh, the powerful emotions she evoked in that thing she was in. And the raw passion of that other thing which may have been the same thing as the first. Oh, and that comedic talent she displayed in that thing that was probably on the other side. Jean is a fine actress and I am sure all these things will be proven beyond all doubt in her new role as The Doctor. And if not she can always write a book or something.

But back to my original point, auditions can be tough. This was a particularly hard to get audition, made much harder because they would not let me audition. I turned up at Broadcasting House in Cardiff, with my speech from "Fear and Misery of the Third Reich"
by Brecht, an excerpt from the Seagull by Chekhov and the parrot sketch, only to be blocked by a burly security guard called Darren who informed me I was ‘not on the list’.

Handling ‘not on the list’ type scenarios.

This is something all actors face, and it is known as a ‘hurdle’. Basically, it is like being a racing driver in a top of the range racing car and finding, just as you are about to overtake Fernando Alonso someone has placed a pelican crossing in your way and there’s a bus load of orphans making their way across the track. You skid to try and avoid any casualties, but it’s too much and the car somersaults through the air and you land in the VIP enclosure, killing countless celebrities and Viscounts before the car bursts into an inferno from which you do not escape. It’s sort of like that. Hurdles are something all actors must over come. You could almost say you have to learn to jump over them, if the metaphor isn’t lost a little there.

Getting over the hurdles

There are as many ways of getting over hurdles as there are actors. Some take it in their stride. Others cower and cry in a corner (NOT ME), and more still avoid the hurdles by simply buttering up all and sundry with the odd gift, card etc, hoping in the long term it will pay off with a plum role.

This rarelt works of course. All you end up with is a casting director with a house full of free stuff and maybe a part in Still Open All Hours.

My own way of getting over hurdles is self-examination. I like to go home, strip down to my underpants and stare at myself in the mirror and examine what went wrong. Sometimes I reeact the audition, playing all the parts, to relive and re-experience the whole thing. I try different approaches, things I wish I had said. Although I have stopped doing that now as I got completely in character and a fight broke out and I ended up breaking a lamp over my own head.

I recommend the first part, staring at yourself in your underwear though. It is quite theraputic and you can find out quite a bit about yourself after two or three days.

Anyway, I am pleased Julie Witchenhaus has got the role. I think she will be very good. I have offered to give her a few pointers, but maybe she feels she wants to do it her way – and that way of course she can take all the credit/blame for the success/unmitigated disaster it will surely be. Mark my words, it will be on.

Spare Time

One thing I love to do when I am resting is visit people in hospital. I know – you are thinking ‘Tarquin, where do you find the time?’ Well, I don’t act all the time. Sometimes one needs to take a break from the cut and thrust of the art of Thespis and walk the path of real life. Too meet one’s public is an honour, not a chore, and it’s especially nice when they know who I am without having to tell them. I carry a CV around with me now and a couple of colour prints.

Hospitals contain all life. From the new mother and her charge, to the old fellow in the corner who is making odd gurgling noises behind a curtain. The staff are quite ameanable to my presence, and direct me to whoever they deem most deserving of my attentions. 

I am told the patients face strict competition from each other to garner my audience. As I approach the bed, the game continues, and they pull the blankets over their face or sometimes pretend to be asleep. What japes we have. Now, I do have strict criteria of who I will and won’t visit. Prisoners – who while I feel should get medical help will only be encouraged if a celebrity such as moi comes to see them. 

And anyone who has some sort of skin ailment. Or has toilet issues. Or keeps being sick. Or has to be strapped down. Or anyone with any strange contagion. Cuts and bruises. Broken stuff. And anyone who, frankly, is on the brink of meeting God. Take my word for it, you don’t want to be at the apex of an hilarious story about a pantomime in Crewe only to find your audience has very literally died of excitement. As long as they don’t have any of those things going on I am delighted to pull up a chair and be their new buddy. 

Of course, staying healthy is vital in my line of work, and therefore I have invested in a Hazmat suit.

Dream jobs.

One of the questions I am often asked by young actors is 'How do I get my dream job?'. This is probably the most posed query, along with ' What is Joanna Lumley really like?' and 'Can I go to the toilet?'.

Dream jobs are hard to come by. Look at lovely Tony Blackburn. When he was a small lad, he dreamt of being a milkman. Up at 3, out, delivering bottles and creams and yoghurts. A merry soul with a kind smile and maybe the odd joke along his route. But fate played a cruel hand and he became a disc jockey. Which is probably just as well as no one has a milkman anymore and he would be alone, unemployed and unskilled by now and probably ending his days in a dark basement with a shotgun in his mouth. Fortunately he is on Radio Two. Which I know for a fact is on the fourth floor.

I myself have done the odd bit of 'jocking'. In 1972 David Hamilton took two weeks off to have his hair done, and I was invited to fill in. Now people do say that sitting in a comfortable room taking records out of sleeves and putting them on a record player, playing them, muttering in between some incoherent rubbish and then playing another record does not constitute hard work. But it does. I am not the only one who thought that, as the Producer, Pat Bennington agreed that the programme was 'bloody hard work'. Bennington left after the first three days citing a religious conversion, and was replaced by the more progressive Geoff Lyons. We had some fun on that show, I can tell you. People would ring in, and almost all of them could not believe what they were hearing. David came back after just six days and was amazed at what I had done. I still remember him sitting there, his head in his hands, looking at the show listening figures and wondering how he was going to equal them.

I did offer my services a couple more times but they said that once was enough, and on reflection that's true. They don't want to give their audience too much of a good thing, and then the audience gets spoiled and expects good things all the time and when the good things are not as good as the audience wants then they get all noisy and animated and demand their money back from frightened box office staff.

This did lead to a brief spell on City Radio. For those who don't know, the millionaire Hors Gorvitz started a commercial radio station, and I was on the line up. In his autobiography I am flattered to be referred to as 'someone who made us all look good'. One in the eye for those bodkins at Radio Two I think. I was to present the Overnight Express. A mixture of music and entertainment with the odd phone in. I decided not to do the average phone in, this was a chance to really push the envelope, to move things into a new arena. The subjects I covered were areas untouched by other presenters. Apostrophies. Pottery. Mowers. The show was an overwhelming success, garnering much media attention, esp after that man from Hastings said what he did about the Queen.

Charlies.

What a packed week this has been so far. I was working on cataloguing my collection of candlesticks, when the phone rang. Lo and behold it was George Barrington, who I believed to be dead but who, seeing as how it was him on the other end of the phone, wasn't. For those outside the business Barrington is an actors' dream. A director with all the passion and vision and scope and actor could possibly want, plus he had damn good caterers. I am sure if he had not made Shoreditch Showdown, he would have made a living with his canopies. Shoreditch Showdown was a classic, and was not responsible, as some would have it, in the collapse of the British Film Industry. Many the time I have rewatched this classic south London based western, about a good man battling a gang of cockney ne'erdowells lead by Dickie Attenborough. It was said to be the British High Noon on the posters until lawyers got involved.

Anyway, Barrington is doing this absolutely amazing thing. He's going to make a fourth in the Thanet Terror Trilogy. As he said, a trilogy has never had four parts, and he may well be right. Who can forget the frenzied scenes of Bloodbath in Broadstairs? Which of us can erase from our minds the Murderous Murders in Margate or the climactic and banned Deathly Deed of Death in Dumpton Park? This new segment is also set in Thanet, and is provisionally titled The Rampaging Reaper of Ramsgate. The setup is much the same. Abandoned house, visitors, escaped serial killer, blood, death, screaming girls, foolish men, gore, squelching and cleaning bills. Rumour has it the Dumpton Park installment was so frightening three cinemas sued to have their upholstery cleaned.

I make my return as the infamous Dr Taplowe, trying to find his escaped patient, Mathias Wand, before Mr Wand gets his murderous urge. Connoisseurs of the oeuvre will know Wand was played by the brilliant Charles Hawtrey. Charles was a remarkable actor, with a rare give of being able to inflate his body to over six times it's natural size. In fact I break no confidence that the slight figure you saw in may lighter vehicles hid behind it a towering inferno of power. I recall seeing him and Chuck Norris on location queing. Norris had pushed in front of Hawtrey, and Charles didn't like it. An argument broke out, people moved away. The caterer closed his shutters. Actors and crew drove home at speed. Finally, Hawtrey took off his glasses. When this happened, you knew there were going to be ructions. Drawing himself up to his full 8ft height and puffing himself out as much as he could, Hawtrey and Norris went at it, Mano on Mano. Fists, kicks, punches, knees everything was a flurry of speed until Norris lay on the floor, gasping for mercy. Hawtrey put his foot on Norris' windpipe when Terry Thomas put his hand on Hawtrey's shoulder and said 'Leave it, Charlie, bounder isn't worth it. He's a shower'. They went to the Fish and Mondays for a drink, leaving Norris writhing in the filth overnight. This is why you never see Norris and Hawtrey in the same films.

Advertising and the Actor

Just come off the phone from talking to a certain computer manufacturer. You see, acting isn't only about walking about, speaking your lines and not bumping into things. It's about creating. It's about being open to the muse and giving it form, breathing life into the ideas and concepts that are floating around. And if posssible flogging them to someone.

I well remember Sir Ian McKellan, during fallow periods when work was thin, devising a new advertising scheme for detergent. Long into the night he laboured. Should it be a housewife? Should the lead character be a single man? Should it be a super hero bubble, searching for dirt in a cape? Sir Ian disappeared for a few months and then – in a shock reappearance in the Duck and Sniffers – he appeared triumphant. The pitch itself was brief. Sir Ian was to play the main part, a beleaguered man tortured by a mysterious stain on his codpiece. Try as he might he cannot remove it without Stainaway. Sir Ian demonstrated his characters dilemma by furiously rubbing his codpiece, waving it about and moaning too all and sundry before being asked to leave by a somewhat luddite landlord. I caught up with him in the street and after dusting himself down and getting up Sir Ian explained the whole concept. It was to be set in 15^th Century Italy, and this Duke of Naples had an important meeting with the Pope but had spaghetti stains on his best outfit and therefore was in a quandary about the attention he paid to his personal grooming in front of the Pontif. Many courtiers suggested remedies, but none seemed to fit and with each paltry and superfluous suggestion a courtier met with the blade of the executioners axe. Even his sisters were not immune to his wrath and on the scaffold one gave a heartfelt and well written speech about brotherly love, the joy of life and the importance of bibs. Finally a wizard appears with the detergent and removes the offending stain and is rewarded with keeping his head in the traditional position. And so the Duke finally meets the Pontif, who compliments him on the cleanliness of his codpiece, and awards him six castles and a Earldom.

The actual advertisment was somewhat over the allotted twenty eight seconds, running at roughly three and three quarter hours (minus the music but including interlude).

Sir Alec Guinness once confided in me he wanted to promote Cream Eggs. He had this idea that he doing a Hamlet, and would be in the middle of his oratory, when his stomach would rumble and he would squat down and produce a Cream Egg. The rest of the cast would then abandon their roles and tuck into his newly laid egg. This was - amazingly - turned down. As was Derek Jacobi's Zanussi washing machine idea, David Suchet's DFS Sale and Helen Mirren's Volvo (though the last one may be down to a spelling error in the proposal).

Letters, Bills and The Bill

This morning I received by way of the postman (who was in Eastenders) a letter from British Gas. I know, the part you are intrigued by – my erstwhile eastendian mail deliverance officer towit the indentity of. Well, after a brief discussion which started with him denying what we both knew quite fervantly to an admission of the facts (and the swearing inbetween) I was sworn by said postie not to divulge his name for professional reasons. But I did praise his later work as a gangland documentary maker.

The letter, such as it was, was regarding an underpayment I am 'supposed' to have made regarding my consumption of gas and electricity. I of course dispute this, and it is here that acting comes into it's own. Whereas an ordinary person would not have the tools to make a case with such a powerful foe, an actor is ideally placed to maximise human emotion and reaction to a point where a considerable saving can be reached. I remember seeing darling Thora Hurd once get an entire cruet set from Harrods by simply wailing loudly whilst spinning on the floor knocking things over. As we left, cellars and dispensers in hand, we laughed at how we had outwitted the humble assistant, her manager and the security people and nabbed what Thora called 'A tidy haul'. While I think about this I also recall the lovely late Alan Rickman getting a two for one discount in the Harvester simply by manipulating his eyebrows in a sinister way. He did in fact in the end pay for two though because he had another portion on the same terms. I miss Alan greatly, I can't believe it has been so long since I saw him, and longer since one of those three a.m. Phone calls (he changed his number).

Back to British Gas. I have always found electricity to be a mysterious thing. You can't see it, smell it, feel it but it's there. A lot like the acting in Hollyoaks. I sometimes think it would be good to do a series on BBC 2 about things which have no substance, and when I have put this idea forward I am flattered people consider me to be the ideal presenter. I rang their customer helpline, which is euphemistically called 'Customer Services'. The voiceover telling me my call is important I find impertinent, given as how they have anticipated I and my fellow 'customers' would be on hold and therefore commissioned a voiceover to underline just how important we are. She interrupts the Vivaldi with such rudeness had she been at one of my shows I would surely have had her removed before she'd even thought about advising me that I may find solace and solution in the website they so ably provide. I am put off by computers and this Internal Web because of a mistype I once made for Hotmail. This was not the sort of service I desired, and there was many a blush in the library that day, I can tell you.

There is nothing wrong with things being online. I am not adverse to technology. I have a microwave. But I fear many jobs will eventually be replaced by these Al Gore rhythms. I have no idea what they are but I think eventually they will replace live theatre. It will be people sat at home, watching actors sat in their homes doing performances, mark my words. And they lose the essential thing that the theatre is all about. The only plus side as far as I can make out is that the audience will have to clear up their own rotting fruit from behind the screen. But that is of little comfort. Actors need the approval and adoration of their audiences there, in the flesh. We can't rely on tape recordings of tumultuous applause to be triggered to make us feel good. We're not all Michael Winner. We need people to adore us in person, and if possible tell all their friends to come and adore us too, be it matinee or evening performance.

I'll tell you who is good with these computery things though; Biggins. He is a master with them. They are like second nature. To watch those podgy fingers dance a ballet over the keyboard is a joy to watch. He did offer to let me have a go on his laptop, but I totally misunderstood him and we don't talk much now.

Still on hold...

I often think of the times yonder when there was a shop you could go into for such things. You would speak to Terry or Elaine or Yvette and they would listen to your problem and sort it out. It was more personal then, and the gamut of angry or frustrated customers in the showroom would give you so much material for a performance. A glance here. A frustrated thump on a Tumble dryer there. If you were lucky there would be a right to-do and Police would attend and there was all the ingredients for a character piece in the Bill. I miss The Bill. As people may remember, I was Denny Snorkels, a local vicar trying to reintegrate recently released thugs, druggies and murderers into the area with little or no success. The character was sad and lonely and unfulfilled, and I was sadder and lonelier and even more unfulfilled when he was found dead in a Dumpster in only his second episode. I did suggest a spin off, Snorkels of the Dead, where he comes back Jesus-like to continue his work saving lost souls. I told the producer and the Welsh bloke with the big nose and both said they needed to think about it, I haven't heard anything since so fingers crossed. The Bill were a rum lot, really. Very dedicated to their work. When I was leaving, I suggested perhaps we should all go out and have a few drinks and a Chinese to celebrate new opportunities for me, but no one had even thought of this, such was their focus on the show. What could have been a leaving party to really remember ended up as White Lightening and a packet of pringles whilst gazing at Ceefax through a Rumblelows window.

Still on hold....

Now I think about it there was no real investigation into Snorkels demise. I think one of the DCIs mentioned it but I don't think they really looked into it. Now that is a plot hole. Maybe I should call them and mention it.

Easter

Well, another easter has been and gone and let me tell you in acting circles there is no greater time than Easter. Apart from Christmas. And Autumn. And summertime spectaculars. And Winter Wonderland engagements. But apart from all that – and halloween – apart from all that Easter is the number one time to get together with acting brethren and – and Pancake day – relate stories of your exploits in the world of Thespis. And Michaelmas.

To me, Easter holds a special place. For it was Easter when my Nanny, Bess, took me to the theatre for the first time. I was four and, as most four year olds are, very excitable. I remember the smell of the West End, the lights, the action. Oh, the heady days of childhood wonder. It was here I first used a public lavatory.

Nanny Bess has taken me to London because my parents apparently had something to sort out. To this day I do not know what it was but I do know Nanny Bess left our house shortly upon our return.

London was a magnificent place in those days, full of promise and tweed. Before we went to the theatre, we went to see Oxford Street. If there is somewhere which seeped what London was in those days, it was Oxford Street, and I drenched myself in the colourful characters. There was the bus drivers, angry and impatient. The angry taxi drivers shouting as we crossed the roads. The builders always ready with a comment about Nanny Bess which young ears should really never hear and the restrained tutting of ladies as they went by. I was pleased to see Nanny Bess was welcomed to the capital with a picture on the front of the Standard, although I cannot remember what the headline was, I do recall her shyly hurrying away.

The theatre we attended was the Shaftsbury, a place where subsequently I have attempted to work many times. The welcoming foyer and doorman have long since gone, but if you close your eyes you can still hear the sounds of merry theatres goers within. And sometimes you can almost still smell the doorman.

We bought peanuts (you were allowed to buy peanuts in those days) and sat in the Gods, watching the action. It was an Ibsen play 'Olaf Liljekrans'. As you can imagine, watching a 19^th century in the original Norwegian didn't long entrance the youthful me, and it wasn't long before I was attempting to flood the stage with ill-aimed peanuts. This lead, I am somewhat ashamed to say to the first and last time I have been forcibly ejected from a Theatre (if you don't include Mother Goose in Southend in 2006. I still say I should have got that part. Damn you, Jacobi!). But the bug was definitely there. For acting, not for being ejected. Although God knows some people have made a big name for themselves being thrown out of entertainment venues of all types. But not me. I like to be in there, on stage, all eyes on me, and if possible, being supposed to be there.

The bug was in me and I immediately pestered my parents to send me to stage school. I wanted to act, to give pleasure. My Father said I gave pleasure whenever I entered another room, so it was obviously something I was destined to do. I was enrolled in Bernie Dintes' Dramatic Academy. One of the advantages of this form of education was that it was self-supporting. We, the students, made saucepans for fourteen hours a day and then would put on a show in what remained of the day (as long as we kept the noise down). Musicals, drama, comedies, they flowed through us in those heady shows like the sauces which were put in the pans we were making. We didn't pay enough attention in the smelting process and thus the school closed down.

Another post

 What a fantastic few months this has been. Work came in at a tremendous rate. And it was an offer to be part of that most lucrative of genres: The adaptation of a book into film form. An adaptation I hear you say? Tolkien had it done with lord of the Rings, Dumar with the Muskateers and C.S.Lewis with his Lions and wardrobes. Well, this was the same sort premise but instead of Lords, Rings, Swords and oversized cupboards, this was a film based on a series of books which promise the rare combination of adventure, intrigue and some more adventure. I refer of course to the big screen version of Delia Smiths' Cooking For The Family.

But how, I hear you ask, could they adapt what is essentially a set of recipe ideas into a (I believe this is the term) blockbuster summer sizzler? This is where the genius of the idea comes in. All the ingredients have an adventure, a journey, overcoming great obstacles and challenges to be included in the recipe. I play Denny, a socially awkward potato cake. Denny's story from his humble origins to his ambition to be draped in sauces and folded into a makeshift sandwich echo many struggles. Look at Billy Elliot. That was more or less Denny's Story, but with a heavier accent on potatoes than in the ballet ridden drama.

It was the first time I have been asked to portray a vegetable. It is always difficult enough to portray my fellow humans, but vegetables? That was a challenge I could not pass up, not least because it would clear my rent. When I told Mrs Ovald, my landlady, about it, she seemed unimpressed. Although this could be because my diction was not all it should have been owing to the headlock her son had me in. After showing her the contract I was a:allowed to stay another six months and b:allowed to breathe.

Preparing to play a vegetable is something I think my fellow actors could benefit from. There is no text, no real guidelines so it is a rare chance to start with a blank canvas – or empty plate you might say!

Firstly, one must study ones' subject. In this case, the humble spud. Where does it come from? Well, it comes from the ground. Humble origins are a clue to it's ambition. When the potato first emerges from it's muddy womb, what future does it visualise? Remember, this is a character without the guidance of parents, so it starts off totally alone. It was difficult actually having had parents (both dead) to imagine how it would be not to have parents, although this was made somewhat easier by the death of Mother and Pappa. How I wish they could share in this moment of triumph. What would I not give to be telling them all about it through their letterbox. I decided on some field work (forgive the pun) and went to work on a farm.

Farming is hard, as anyone who has been in the Archers will tell you. There's all sorts of rules, regulations, equipment and muck all over the place, and that's a radio programme so God knows what farms are really like. The farm I tried first was O'Briens Farm. Gladden O'Brien was a no-nonsense farmer. I explained to him my plight, about being a potato cake and suchlike, and, after making me a cup of tea he went to (what I assumed) get some paperwork. What he was in fact doing was ringing Social Services. After explaining it to the Ambulance people and the two officers, I was allowed on my way.

I decided I would be better off buying some potatoes and studying them. But what sort? King Edwards? The other ones? It's all so confusing. I went to Angus, my local grocer and bought a single potato. He made some crack about having friends in but I paid him and left without riposte. I placed it on the table at home and stared at it. How did it feel? What was it's purpose in life? If it could speak, what would it say? As any actor would, I concentrated all my knowledge into those five hours, ignoring doorbells, the phone or the sirens outside. I wanted to understand the experience.

At some point I fell asleep. I am unsure when, but the dream I had revealed all I needed to know.