Greetings. After such a long time I am finding myself back in front of the terminal, blathering as one does into the ether. Much like being on Eastenders, but without the inevitable murder or request for a ‘cuppa’.
Let me fill you in on what has been happening the good many months since I last posted.
Well, before all this happened I was approached by a impresario, who had seen my previous work and, in their words, ‘was very impressed considering what they had heard’. I didn’t venture to investigate what or from whom they had heard, suffice to say it wasn’t about the incident the Plymouth Grand Theatre, or we probably would not have had the conversation.
‘You would be ideal for my new musical’ said the much lauded Lord ‘it’s like my previous one, but about ghost dogs’. This sounded very interesting to me; I had never had the opportunity to play a dog before, let alone a ghostly one. Indeed, my experience of playing in paranormal scenarios was limited to a stint in Blythe Spirit at the Shaftsbury. I played Orlando, a mysterious shade who had met his end after getting his toe stuck in the plughole at The Harrow Swimming Baths. The part was eventually pruned from the final touring show, as the script required me to wear an enormous toe costume, and anyone who is in the know will be aware that is difficult to get into the boot of a Maestro. I still have the costume at home, and occasionally wear it to answer the door to religious people and salesmen.
And so I was asked to attend an audition. Obviously this was just a formality, said the double barrelled genius, and the part was mine for the accepting. I am always cautious of these type of engagements which are proffered with such certainty. I well remember being called up late one Saturday afternoon by a frantic BBC producer, who informed me that there had been an incident in rehearsals for Billy Smarts Big Top Big Fun Bank Holiday Circus Special. In those days, Bank Holidays always had a circus special for some reason, I never fathomed as to why Circuses were so integral to the holidays, just in the way I never managed – despite investigation – to find out who advised Mr Smart on his fashion sense. I do like to think though his striped, paisley, polka dot ensemble did pave the way for substantial revision of the Mental Health legislation.
Apparently the man in the cannon – a staple act – had misjudged the amount of gun powder required to project him from cannon to net, and subsequently was somewhere near the Soyuz space capsule, and could I, as a actor of note and therefore a ‘pull’, stand in. Jarvis, Olivier, Guilgud and Wisdom had all declined. How reassuring to be the last hope, the one who saves the day! Again, not wanting to seem to eager, I consulted my then-psychic, Madame Picklehammer. I those days I would not make a move without her counsel, and when I went against it it always worked out badly.; excrement on the front door, graffiti, that sort of thing. I explained to her the proposal and she listened intently. ‘Oooooo’ she said – she often made those sorts of noises when the other side was imparting information ‘I see a terrible misfortune. Death, death, death awaits those who do as you are intending’. I asked what she meant by this but the line went silent and then more ‘Ooooooo’s until, eventually she fell into a deep psychic trance, interspersed with snoring. So I rang back the BBC with the sad news I could not fulfil their vacancy, and they said not to worry as lovely Derek Nimmo had stepped in. As I watched that night, the excitement of a explosive-propelled man hurtling across the tent mid anecdote, I felt a warm singe of pride, and wasted no time in visiting him in hospital when he regained consciousness.
So the audition was a simple one. As I believed in method acting, it was difficult to become a ‘ghost dog’. How was I to portray this unfortunate canine? Where would I go to learn the ways of the relative of the wolf? Firstly, the best place to learn about animals.. I reasoned to see animals in the raw, to know their wants, hopes, fears and triumphs, their loves and losses, was the vets. So an appointment was made, although the first woman I rang did get a bit shirty with me that I had no animal. The next, well, I pretended to be a Bassett hound, panting into the receiver. This was also met with disdain. The third vets, Orton and Travette, were very good. They took my details and that of Roman, my imaginary dog. Then came the deal breaking question; what is wrong with Roman? This is where improvisation training kicks in. Those heady days of being a lampshade, mower or Austin Cabriolet paid off. ‘He’s got the runs’ I said, hurriedly. There was a pause on the line which I filled by turning the reciever away from my face and making barking noises, which I countered with ‘get down, get down Roman’. It was a most convincing performance, even if I do say so myself. The appointment made, two thirty, and I had to do this right. I needed something to base my portrayal on. The rest of the morning was spent scuttling around the place, sniffing things, jumping on chairs. Yes, I was beginning to understand what it means to be a dog. After some preparatory howling and, after neighbourly complaints, a snooze on the rug. I was ready for action.
The veterinary practice was every bit as efficient and observant as it should be, and took comparatively little time in establishing I had no dog with me. I had toyed with the notion of going in as Roman, but an event in the butchers with some sausages had really put a crimp in that idea. I explained the dilemma I had and the vet told me some advice which he thought I may find useful. For various reasons I cannot divulge the advice, but suffice to say I left there with a good notion of what, and what not, to do as a dog. Although obviously a busy practice, a few of the staff and a couple of patients watched me leave. It is always gratifying to be recognised, but they respected my privacy and reneged from wanting autographs.
Later that evening, after the Social Services people had left, I set about wandering about the house, aimlessly sniffing and licking things, eventually curling up on my spare bed. Then, around 1a.m. I awoke with a terrible revelation; I knew how a dog would behave in life, but what difference would being a ghost dog make? I tried to make my howling more ghostlike, but was discouraged by the banging on the wall from next door.
No, they would have to take me as I am. A fully fledged dog. The spectral aspect would have to be implied in my performance. Tomorrow would be the day I audition, and tomorrow it would be clear whether my research and practice had been enough.
Walking home from the audition I considered many things; had I done well? Did I encapsulate the part fully, giving the very real illusion that I was nothing more than a dog, and yet expressing that was everything? Had I gone too far mauling one of the interviewers? Only time would tell.
