I have to say I was disappointed not to be included yet again in the
Honours. Years of service in theatre, film and television and I’m
not even mentioned. The countless charity events, the altruism and
generosity, never expecting anything in return. What for? Nothing,
that’s what.
You find me in a
slightly annoyed mood. Melissa, my agent, seems to be on holiday.
It’s alright for some, but when I have an issue who can I approach?
Certainly not David, her intern who is apparently looking after me. I
say looking after me but you expect someone to say ‘Hello, Tarquin
how are you?’ when you call them, not ‘Oh. You.’.
Cassandra was much better as a replacement. Now she I could talk to.
She listened silently as I spoke of issues I had with producers,
directors, other actors or the poor food provision on set. That
sounds like I complain all the time, and I really don’t. But when I
do, I like to be listened to. I was saying to a lady on the train
about this just yesterday, and she was very receptive to my qualms.
That she didn’t know who I was seemed to make it easier to confide,
and confide I did. She even asked me questions, such as ‘Where do
you get off?’. I informed her I was going all the way back to
London. I regaled her with my issues about repeat fees for Lewis,
about wardrobe giving me ill fitting moccasins and even showed her
the picture of the vase I had signed by Thora Hird when I appeared in
that sitcom about dead people. I was disappointed when I returned
from the gents to find her gone. Apparently, according to someone
sitting in the seat opposite, she had been ‘accosted by a nutter’
and decided to move carriages. I saw no ‘nutter’, but apparently
he had moved off to the toilets, so I had been lucky not to encounter
them myself.
Before she had gone
away for her Floridian odyssey, Melissa had booked me into a
Manchester soap opera called ‘Mad Lads’. The gist of this series
are a group of young men who are, for reasons which are unclear, a
bit eccentric. My role was to be Jeremiah Podge, a local plumber who
the boys harrass, eventually leading to his exodus from the series
via a canal. When Melissa had told me about this, it was to be a
recurring character, but plans had obviously changed and my role
consisted of two scenes of the ‘mad lads’ shouting abuse and one
of me floating in the canal (in which I had no dialogue). If ever
there was a part worthy of an honour, this would be a prime example.
I hope the King watches this and has a think about the sort of people
he honours. How many of them have floated in a canal for mid
afternoon television in the North West? Not many, I’ll warrant.
The actual speaking
scenes didn’t take long to film – I knew my line – but the
canal scene. I was in that water for four hours! I mean, I wasn’t
left just floating there, they did poke me with a large stick every
so often, so I didn’t feel neglected. When I emerged I was amazed.
Christopher Ecclestone was on the bank, watching. “that was some of
the best submersible acting I have seen” he said “Come on mate,
got an idea to tell you”. And lead me, soaked and covered in canal
debris, to a small cafe. Chris ordered a all-day full breakfast and a
peg for his nose. He came back and we were off. The thick mist of
negotiation.
“doing this
underwater musical” he said “bit of a change from… you know…
but it’s going to be fantastic”. Chris’s enthusiasm is
infectious. His eyes ablaze with anticipation, his mouth sealing
tight at the end of sentences but at the end of paragraphs his smile
beamed out as a man with a vision. A passion. An ambition both
achievable and awesome. That this idea could do this to this quiet,
determined man gave me pause as to the magnitude of his dream. Either
that or the cafe had forgot there were supposed to be only two
sausages. On and on he enthused, talking about Cousteau
and Louganis. The dangers involved in using a live orchestra under
the waves. The problem he was having over the lighting, not only with
the crew but with the Coroner. Finally, as he dabbed up the last part
of the sauce from the beans with the toast, he said ‘Yeah, it’s
going to be fantastic’. Then his phone went, he answered it, said
‘Oh no, not again’ and hurriedly left.
In his furore, Chris
had not only not mentioned what his production actually was, but pay
for his breakfast. I was still in costume and had no money on me.
What to do? I thought quickly. As I have stated on many occasions,
acting gives you the tools to improvise not only on stage but in real
life. I had to move quickly. No money and a suspicious cafe owner. I
ordered another breakfast. It at least bought me time.
It was on the sixth
breakfast I started to wane. No ideas had come to mind and I was
rather too full of black pudding and beans to move. Not to mention
the aroma of the canal water had cleared the previously bustling
cafe. And, with my stomach bulging like I had devoured the star of
Free Willy, I was in no condition to make a bolt for the door.
“We’re closing
soon” said the rather large man who had appeared at my table “But
it says all day breakfast. The day is not over” I pointed out. He
looked at me and mentioned something about having the place
unexpectedly fumigated. I did the only thing I could. I asked for a
telephone. I explained I needed to make a call and I couldn’t
because… I patted my still squelchy costume. Provided with the
manager’s phone I called Melissa. Bless her, despite leaving for
Florida she took the time to answer the phone. Even if she did say
‘Yes, Benedict?’ upon connecting.
I explained the
situation, and Melissa simply said ‘Not again’. Apparently Chris
had done this to several other actors. “He hangs around off set
picking off the vulnerable ones like a hawk” she said.
“Well, it’ll
come off your fee” she said. I handed the phone to the manager.
There was some conversation, and I only heard half of it. “Yes”,
“no”, “I know what you mean”, “I couldn’t stand that”,
“you have my sympathies”. All the while he was looking at me.
Then he started laughing and said “God, no. I wouldn’t wish that
on anyone” and walked off. Having heard the payment go through I
got up and made my way, rather slowly, to the door. “Leave it open”
he barked as I squeezed through.
Back at the set, I
walked past Ecclestone who was hanging around at the gate
reading/hiding behind a copy of What Bride magazine. I made my way to
wardrobe who thought I had left hours ago. “You stink” said the
small, tape measure wearing gent who I believe was called “Carl”.
A voice from behind the changing room curtain said “and so do your
clothes”. I was incensed. I strode over to the curtain and pulled
it back and there, in her bra and panties, was Vikki Michelle. Of
course, she screamed, Carl was almost instantly on the intercom to
security and there was a hoohah to end all hoohahs. It was worse than
the Hoohah which ensued when Lesley Judd thought I had stolen her
sherbert dip dab.
The Officers put me
on a train, after taking my picture several times (probably to show
off to their mates they had met a celebrity), and saw me safely on
my way, even looking through the window to make sure I was
comfortable. And this we return to the lady who listened to my
problems.
All this underlines
why, exactly, I should get something. Sir Derek got one. Sir Ian. Sir
Patrick. Why not me? I mean, it doesn’t bother me, but why won’t
they give me some sort of recognition?
I know Derek and Ian
have done things which possibly deserve a gong, but what about
Patrick? What’s he done? Pretend to be on a spaceship and say
‘number one’ a lot. You know what happens to people who pretend
to be on spaceships? They put you away! But no, he gets a knighthood.
I don’t care. I do it for the craft, not the adulation. It’s the
principle of the thing. I’d do anything to become a Sir. Even some
letters after my name would do. But it’s not a deal breaker. Who
cares? I certainly don’t. Let them boast of their awards. I can
concentrate on my work. It means nothing to me.
And what about my
outstanding charity work? I mean, I don’t mention it often, but I
do spend an inordinate amount of time working for charities. Even the
ones who don’t meet my invoices.
