Publicity; it's importance and it's price

 Just got off the phone to a producer who is very interested in my taking part in “I Am A Big Noise, Recall Me To Society Pronto!”. For those who are unaware it’s a game show where a group of top of their game performers are left in a dense forest with only their guile, cunning and a 83 strong television crew to sustain them. The producer was very keen, and indicated I would probably win, saying ‘You’re probably the last one we’d want in there’. To know I am so popular with the public’s vote is very satisfying.

I am looking forward to this; it’s even bigger profile than ‘There’s Someone Hiding In That Wardrobe’ or “Captives in a Cutlery drawer”, both of which I did last year. Although being stuck in a gigantic utensil tray for five weeks with Debbie McGee was a trial in itself. She simply won’t shut up about anecdotes of her late husband, and on the sixth telling of the ‘Time That Thing He Did Didn’t Go Quite Right’ story, I am afraid I hit her on the head with a t-spoon. There was naturally a big melee about this. How could I be such a brute? However, in under two minutes she recovered her composure enough to tell the attending staff about that time Paul used a Chinese ladies’ headscarf to produce, out of seemingly nowhere, a hippopotamus, so all was well.

I speak of all this because I am keen to give you advice on promotion. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. And if you can get your name out in the public space without murdering, thieving, molesting or appearing on Question Time, then good luck to you.

One of my earliest forays into the world of publicity came in the 1960s, at the Girls A Go-Go club in London’s Soho. I had been asked to do a little comedy piece in between the dances, allowing the audience to bask in my delivery and finely nuanced oratory, and for the girls to put on another spangly bra. All I had to do was keep the patrons amused while the ladies were off stage. I initially chose a reading from Chekov’s The Lady and the Dog, but this failing to garner approval, I quickly switched to Peacock’s Crochet Castle. This also seemed to make the audience restless and unattentive, although it did improve their aim. However, I was heartened that the audience recognised my efforts by cheering as I headed out into the wings, partly because Thelma and Deirdre had come back on stage, but mostly because someone had gone to get a bottle and some petrol. Lovely Barry Cryer advised me that night, via the phone, that I should tell some jokes. Things which would make the audience laugh. I’d never done this before, and standing up, as I believe they call it, was entirely uncharted waters. But I was determined to sail these waters, to traverse the many oceans they comprise, and if at all possible avoid icebergs. I had a choice, I could spend some of my meagre fee on books of material or have Barry write some for me. I asked Barry if he could write some jokes for me and he said yes, and quoted me his fee.

The man in the bookshop showed me to the humour section and I browsed. Who would have thought there were so many books on jokes? I’ve never actually understood jokes as such, but here I was faced with what was surely the compendium of all things comedic. I made my choice and headed to the till. ‘Are you sure?’ said the man ‘Why? Is it not funny?’ I enquired. ‘This is a book on the history of Sealink, the ferry company.’ It turned out someone had put it back in the wrong place, and he quickly swapped it for Bob Monkhouse’s Big Book of Belly Laughs, and I was on my way.

That night, in my flat, I told jokes to myself. Sometimes avoiding looking at the punchline so it came as a surprise to even me. I decided that didn’t work after an hour or so and read the whole joke verbatim. With my honed actor’s memory, I committed over 123 jokes to my brain, and was fully armed to take on this audience, to really enter the fray and emerge victorious, like a warrior who has triumphed over a pride of particularly angry lions. Albeit lions with raincoats on and hats pulled down over their eyes so they are not recognised.

The girls finished their dance. Now was my time. Now I would shine. Long had I illuminated the world of acting with my emoting and fine posture, now the twin moon of drama, comedis, would also bow to my might! I shall be legend!

The Police said after it was one of the worst cases of civil unrest they had seen since Charles I had his chair removed. I’ve never known such an ungrateful audience. I’ve had bad receptions, what actor hasn’t, but it was a first to be chased halfway down Tottenham Court Road but what can only be described as a posse. The Police found me in a skip full of disguarded tailors’ dummies off Windmill street and took me to safety. They also took one of the dummies which they mistaken for Richard Wattis, which was apparently a regular thing.

The papers were full of it, of course. ‘Jokes Fall Flat’ was one unkind headline. ‘McPhereson causes Right Rumpus’ was another. ‘Bad Badinage Brings Burlesque Bedlam’ said the Financial Times. Of course, I had to keep my head down; my picture was everywhere. Some people appreciated my choice of material though, I clearly remember someone calling me ‘a supreme farceur’. Just goes to show the proof of the old saying you can’t disappoint everyone.

My point of all this is it gave me a certain cache, a notoriety which is hard to get, unless you shoot a President or something. Yes, I was in hiding. Yes, I had to wear a false beard and dark glasses to go to the newsagents. And yes, before anyone says it, was did occasionally dress as a Nun. But these were all part of the game. And yes, I did dispute the accusation I should at least pay for some of the rebuilding work.

After a month or so I rang my agent. He was very verbose about the audience, using words such as ‘Terrible’ and ‘absolutely abysmal’ and I had to agree. “What were you thinking?” he said, obviously referring to my initial thoughts regarding the audience reaction.

I didn’t know what I was thinking. It was probably something along the lines of ‘I hope his lighter doesn’t work’. After a discussion on how ungrateful audiences are, the conversation mellowed and the bellowing stopped. ‘I have a job for you. It’s not a fantastic one, but it’s something’. I listened intently.

Within two days I was on the Shetland Islands in a production of ‘Jeeves in the Springtime’. I was to be Blumenfeld, not a large part but it was something to get my teeth into. During a storm one night, a plane was forced to make a landing and legendary Hollywood mogul Buddy Adler. The stars had aligned. If there was ever a chance to make it big, it was now. Impress Mr Adler and the entire world would open up to me. I was determined to be noticed. I ignored the original blocking and gave my lines at the front of the stage. I would unexpectedly turn up during other characters’ pieces, and when this was commented on by the director in none-too-friendly terms, I switched to peering through the French Windows at the back of the set, coughing occasionally so they knew I was there. Any ambitious actor would do the same, I don’t care what they said then or subsequently in so-called biographies.

As you can imagine, the post performance atmosphere was less than convivial. None of the cast would speak to me and the director was furious. In an expletive rich diatribe, he rained his opinions on me like a monsoon. The poor man spoke for over four minutes without drawing breath. Every epithet and term was employed in his pronouncements, together with a finger which prodded like a branding iron into my shoulder. I told him my reasoning and he informed me Mr Adler had not turned up because he wanted to see Dr Who on the telly. I was aghast. I asked if we could do it again when Mr Adler was in the building but this was not well received.

On leaving the Shetlands, I did once contact the director, which I know was against his wishes but I felt it only right, and asked for a letter of recommendation. I was delighted he agreed, although back in London, when I opened the envelope and read his recommendation, I found it to be entirely unsuitable and would, if acted upon, put me in considerable medical peril.

An appearance on afternoon television!

I have just got back from filming Stop! Get Ready! Cook!. What an absolutely lovely experience. And let me start by thanking the North London Fire Brigade for their prompt attendance.

Ainsley was lovely as ever, and I appeared with lovely radio stalwart, Kirsty Young and pop Legend Rick Astley. In the green room before the recording, I’d spoken to one of the stagehands who suggested I Rick Roll the man himself, and I am fortunate that I enquired further because I was under the impression it was a wrestling manoeuvre. Apparently, when you Rick Roll someone, you play them Mr Astley’s finest work, and within an hour I was playing Rick Astley’s song to the man himself, and he didn’t seem to mind. To be fair, it’s a very catchy song, and even found myself mouthing ‘I should be so lucky’ at every chorus. Mr Astley left to call his agent, and I was alone with Kirsty, I decided to try and network with her. As outlined before, it’s important to have a network of people you can contact. Even if some numbers turn out to be disconnected, pizza restaurants or, in one case, a dominatrix. That’s what you get when you work on ‘Sherlock’, and surprisingly, the result from dialling one of those numbers Martin Freeman did actually come to the phone.

Cooking is an art. Anyone who has been to one of my post performance dinners will know I am no stranger to a spatula. My speciality, leek, potato and tuna omelette was described by the late Katie Boyle as ‘interesting texture’. At the end of the performance, I invite the whole cast to my flat, where a feast awaits. I insist, despite the ‘No, Tarquin, you mustn’t go to any trouble’. But trouble go to I do. Obviously at the end of a wildly successful run, many of the cast have to get home to loved ones, get to their next job or simply sitting in their dressing room with the door locked, so you can’t expect everyone to attend. So it’s always a pleasant surprise when the doorbell rings.

Firstly, Ainsley asked us what sort of food we liked; This is always a tricky one. Kirsty said she liked Pâté of roasted indigenous legumes, paired with a compote of seasonal berries, served on hearty sprouted wheat bread, while Rick said he liked cheesey chips. Ainsley piped up ‘They’d be difficult to give up’ and the audience laughed. I don’t know why, but knowing I had to be ‘part of the gang’ I chimed in with ‘He should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky!’. They were looking at me like I had no trousers on, and momentarily I had to check. I may well have added an extra lucky, hence the confusion.

Ainsley then asked what ingredients we had bought along. Oh, the bounty Rick and Kirsty had purchased! Ainsley’s eyes lit up at the selection of vegetables, meats and other ephemera. It was quite an anti-climax when I displayed my box of Smash. “Is that it?” he asked and I realised I have to improvise. Years in the theatre has armed me with a quick mind to rescue situations such as this, using guile and sheer acting prowess so the audience does not realise anything amiss. “Of course not, Ainsley”, and like that I produced a packet of Polos.

After the show I was visited in my dressing room by Ainsley. He ranted and raved about my Polomash. And not in a good way. Not in the way I would like. Unless I liked my work being thrown at me and then being pinned to the chair with a fresh breathed food guru using a string of bad words. And I can’t say I do. On leaving he whirled my swivel chair, and I spun around scattering minty potato across every surface in the room, a slug of my spuds hit Ainsley in the back of the head as he sought shelter, and he left the room with some comment – I didn’t hear properly but I think it was about melon farmers.

My advice to actors starting out

There is nothing more important than acting. There. I said it. I know you could make an argument about doctors or scientists, people working against hunger and poverty, those brave souls who save others in flood or fire. But those people don’t face it six nights a week with matinees to often unappreciative audiences, many of whom only seem to know the word ‘refund’.

Firstly, an actor isn’t born. An actor is created. An actor is like a tomato plant. A parent must plant the seed. There has to be nurturing and care. otherwise you are not going to get an actor, let alone any tomatoes.

My advice to any parent is to hold a selection of text in front of your offspring as soon as possible. A Brecht, Pinter or Cooney play is best. If the baby becomes absorbed in the subtle undertones and overarching story with all its’ subnarratives, then you have an actor on your hands. If the pages come back covered in vomit and bits of rusk, then sadly your child is not theatre bound. Although there are always openings on Hollyoaks.

My own initiation, as detailed before, was when I won the role of ‘Donkey’ in the school nativity play. Although not scripted as a speaking role, I did the research and my ‘Donkey’ became the phenomenon it did. It was felt that such a moving, accurate portrayal may be a strain on my young mind, and yes, those in charge could not take the seering mirror I held up to society, and I was replaced after one performance. As usual with these sort of situations, the fact I was so good in the role was never mentioned. Typical. It is totally a mark of my profession that a honest, often brutal portrayal can make others uncomfortable; I’ve had others speechless on stage and on set with my interpretations. Other actors have been speechless, while one famous director, who has worked with Sigourney Weaver and John Hurt, was so moved he held his head in his hands after he saw me act. So overcome with emotion was he I was asked to leave the set for my own good; the great man obviously wanted to hug me so tight it would cause both injury and controversy.

But the bug had bitten me, supped on my blood and I was to rise like a vampire from the crypt, or in this case a donkey costume. You see, once you feel that adoration of the crowd, you will be hooked. Whether you are costumed as a medieval sorcerer or a talking pork pie, it is all acting. For instance, if a child says he did not break a window, yet the window is broken and the child is holding a deflated football, that child is not lying, he is acting. Instead of chiding the brat and contacting the parents and then the Police, one should applaud the performance, perhaps cheering and possibly encouraging his talent by demanding an encore and offering the French windows. This is how you encourage a child.

If you are a young actor and your parents are not encouraging, don’t worry. Parents worry and will say things such as ‘You can’t be an actor’, ‘What’s wrong with Accountancy?’ or ‘You’re rubbish’. My parents said all three of these except the first two and look at me. I’ve become something. I am known throughout the industry. My name is one of the few which has actually become a noun. And I know they are proud of me, even though we’ve not spoken since 1953.

So, how to prepare for the life of a actor. Well, the earlier you can start, the better. If you can start in the high chair, then do. Imagine you are King Henry VIII, angry at the Pope’s refusal to annul your first marriage, your mistress impatient yet having to remain confident to foster the unquestioning loyalty of your court, many of whom have duplicitous intent on your throne. Refuse that spoon of puréed apple, thump the little tray and demand food fit for a Monarch. You have to deal with the King of France this afternoon, for Gods’ sake! Your spoon operative will look at you and think ‘I have an actor on my hands!’ and be on the phone to Italia Conti before you’ve finished your demand to abolish the Monastries.

Volunteer for every speaking opportunity. When asked to read text to the class, assume the mantel of the role you have been asked to emote. Whether it is as one of two children with a bucket getting some liquid from a local mound or a cursed Scottish King, give it your all. Ignore the boos and the jeering and the missiles being thrown. This is your vocation; it is what God intended you to do. I have offered this advice to every pupil who has attended my ‘Junior Introduction To Acting’ class I used to do, which had reverberations in itself by almost directly causing the banning of packed lunches containing soft fruit.

Join every single amateur dramatics society you can. There were six in my area growing up, and I auditioned for every single one of them. Four of them sadly dissolved but the two which accepted me (as soon as my funds cleared) were welcoming. Now this is where organisation comes in; there is a temptation to think acting is simply saying your words and not knocking into the furniture. And yes, but the other 2% of the job is organisation.

Of course, I was born onto the stage; not literally, that would be ghastly for the audience. For others they discover the sheer joy of acting later. But whatever your age, these are my tips for success.

1. Hang around the restaurants by theatres.

This is an excellent way to meet people and network. After a heavy performance, the actors, directors, producers and all the other staff will want to relax in a convivial, friendly atmosphere or a Wetherspoons. When you see a large number of people coming in and an increase in the phrases ‘darling’, ‘lovely’ and ‘heartface creature’ filling the air, you know a cast is in the venue. Smooth yourself into their presence. Converse on general terms. If anyone asks, say you came with Trevor. Say how you love this production almost as much as you loved working with Tim Curry or Lloyd-Webber. Soon, people will flock to you. You will be accepted into the fold. If you are able, get a job in a restaurant as a waiter and you can really build the relationship whilst earning money! Pretend to be interested in their stories and tales and voila, you’ll be second detective (non-speaking) before you even serve the entrée.

2. Be nice to retail staff

When actors are between jobs, they tend to work in shops. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a shop which isn’t entirely staffed by actors. One small branch of Waitrose is entirely manned by the cast of Phantom of the Opera. Who would have thought Michael Crawford would be so good on a forklift? And to see Ms Brightman putting the tins on the shelf is sheer poetry! I myself was in Lidl the other day and none other than the hallowed David Tennant was in the bakery making ‘fresh bagels’. You never know who you will encounter, but you will recognise them either by their face, voice or name badge. Of course, some you will need none of these things, as they will preface the ‘can I help you?’ with ‘I was in Robin’s Nest’.

3. Get numbers.

Get numbers. I cannot stress this enough. Everyone you think may be of any use, get their number. You never know when any of these people will be useful. But do not make the mistake I made; make sure you put names next to the numbers. Experience dictates this is a very wise idea, otherwise you will end up accidentality sharing a romantic dinner with John Savident.

4. Find out where filming is happening in your area.

Often, there will be filming going on, in the same way you are never more then four yards from a rat. Not that I am comparing filming company staff with vermin. Although there was a small operation in South Shields. I won’t go into details, but they were awful people. Anyway, ingratiate yourself with the film people, hang around, offer to do things. Even if they tell you to go away, show tenacity. It will pay off. Follow people about. Ask questions. Walk into shot. Only ever quit when the Police arrive. I myself have done this and it resulted in a nice little speaking part on the evening news.

5. See if any of your family are in the business or own a production company

Perhaps you have a brother, son, father, mother, sister or elderly dowager aunt who owns a production company. Show your family tenacity of intent by asking ‘do you have a production company?’. If the answer is no, then you have tried and perhaps you are to become estranged. If the answer is yes, abandon all the other relatives and focus all your attention on the relation who said ‘yes, yes I have’. Make yourself invaluable. Bump into them ‘accidentally’, in the supermarket, in the dry cleaners, in the sauna. Be around when their car won’t start one morning, there to provide advice about rumours which have mysteriously started or willing to take a look around when late at night they spot a prowler behind a hedge. Soon you will be invaluable to them, and they will say ‘I am casting a new vehicle for Sir Ian McKellan/Lou Ferrigno/Jimmy Carr*, but as you have been my saviour the last few months, why don’t you do it instead?’ and Bob is very much one of your parents siblings. That Readers Choice award is almost yours.

*Although I mention these fine performers in this context, they are excellent at what they do and I have no wish to see Sir Ian or Lou lose a job. Their wrath could well be much worse than any job is worth. A young actor, who I won’t name, but let’s just call him Benedict, once trounced Sir Ian for a acting job. Sir Ian was, of course, gracious, but under the veneer he was a seething mass of recrimination, the spirits of envy writhed and jostled deep inside. The best way to picture the inner turmoil is to imagine the cast of Casualty at the lunch wagon. Sir Ian then spent the next six months plotting terrible, terrible revenge. Lo and behold, just fourteen and a half years later, Benedict stubbed his toe getting into a chair in makeup. Such is the power of Thespis. I often thought actors have a supernatural power, a seemingly imperceptible force compelling people and objects alike, bending them to a performer’s implacable will. It certainly would explain the viewing figures for Mrs Brown’s Boys.

6. The Casting Couch

This is by far the oldest and most unpleasant way of getting acting jobs. There is nothing lower than offering yourself (except doing a Poe in Torquay) to some producer/director/props manager in a dingy room with the hope your ‘performance’ will get you somewhere. But beware! It is not only couches which are notorious for this. I have heard of casting benches, desks, coffee tables and in one case an armoire. My advice is if you absolutely have to, make sure you have at least three witnesses or a legally binding document to make your your engagement actually leads to an engagement, and not just a We Buy Any Car commercial.

7. Set up your own productions

This is by far the most risky. Writing and performing your own plays is always the most challenging. I well remember writing ‘Whiskey at Sunset’, the long hours slaving over the manuscript, then hiring a venue above a local hostelry, the six weeks of hard rehearsal and re-writes before performance to a packed snug of three members of the Women’s Guild and a confused patron who was looking for the gents. Occasionally looking up from their knitting, two that were awake sat mesmerised by my portrayal of a man who, having returned from the office, was faced with the dilemma of where exactly to put his feet up. One of them, as luck would have it, had a brother who had a gardener whose sister’s neighbour knew a dog walker whose son’s daughter’s husband occasionally did some temp work for a company which had a man who used to work at ITV. I held out high hopes, but ultimately, after eight months, realised they were not going to ring.

So there you have it. My seven routes to acting notoriety. I cannot say they will work for you or have specific levels of success. I only followed one, but I don’t want to influence your decision which one to undertake, and it may cost you a little to use my route to fame as I had to pay for cleaning the upholstery. So there you have it. Shortcuts to glory. A tunnel from which you emerge into the bright, shining world of acting, like a mole emerging into the sun from a hole. If only there were a phrase to sum this up.