Christmas mk2

Christmas this year has been something of a damp squib. The twenty third is when I traditionally do my Xmas voyage into the town centre for present gathering, but this year I was particularly tardy in my efforts and set about my retail duties on Christmas Eve. What a swarm of locusts had this town lain waste? There was bugger all. I had to make do with what I could find. Between you are I, here are some of my presents for my actor friends.

Sir Ian McKellan – A spare rotablade for a hover mower

Dame Judi Dench – A tickle me Elmo

Sir Peter O’Toole – Hotpants

David Suchet – The 2001 Annual

Sir Michael Gambon – Value Hoummous

Robert Lindsay – A spider enclosure

Geoffrey Palmer – A talking toilet seat

Helena Bonham-Carter – swimwear

Jenny Agutter – A ticket to ride an Ostritch, should she care to visit Berlin Zoo.

Of course, not all of these are entirely suitable, and some of my recipients may suspect the gift en route, especially Robert Lindsey who had I to ring up disgusing my voice as being from British Gas asking about spiders, and Helena BC, who put the phone down when I tried a similar ploy to enquire about the size of her bosoms.

I myself require nothing this Xmas. What can you give a man who has enjoyed the work I have done this year so much? All four days of it was a sheer delight and I have to say if they choose to ring me back I shall be the first to answer the phone.

Christmas mk1

Well, Christmas has been and gone, and yet another pantomime season is over. I am never exactly sure what is the purpose of pantomime. Women dressed as men, men dressed as women and a couple of bears. That’s about it, as far as I can see.

This year saw a pitched battle in Saundersfoot between my own production, Aladdin, and the splinter group which was formed by former members of my production, also called Aladdin. I will leave it to the audiences to definitively decide whose was best, but I think it’s safe to say no one in the mutinous bunch of two faced lard arses will be walking tall away from Saundersfoot, oh no. Even the ones who weren’t arrested in the original fracas.

The problem is one of personalities. A lot of people are very protective of their names, careers and prospects, and rightly so. So when one suggests a slight change to their performance in whatever role, one does not expect to be chased down the high street – in full dame costume mind you – by an angry horde of pirates, a fairy and some bears. I say bears, it was actually Jedward but such was the public appetite for bears we were left with little option but to dress them to appease the great unwashed.

After hiding out in an Arts and Crafts shop for an hour or so (during which I was propositioned by the manager) I ventured out onto the street. Sure enough, my troop of thespians had vacated the area, and I was able to return to my hotel. After a brief exchange of views on the subject of ‘suitable attire’, I changed hotels and managed to find a bed and breakfast. It was just as well as feelings were still running high and the next poor occupant of the room was stripped, shaved, tarred, feathered and finally dropped off the end of what can only be described as a pier. Which reminds me I should write to Lesley Joseph.

Anyway, a meeting – of which I was not informed, invited to – took place and the gist of it was that I was to return my costume (for my own safety in the dead of night) to the theatre and say no more about it. This I did, although carrying a pantomime dame costume through the main thoroughfare of Saundersfoot illicited so many propositions that, had I been in the sex industry and not an actor, I should surely be able to rest comfortably on my laurels.

I have been referred to as many things in my time as an actor. As I dropped the clothes into the specially opened window, I recall a new phrase being added to my canon of nom de plumes, vis “Get him!”

Only those who suffered the natural disasters of a Tsunami can imagine the feeling as the blows reined down upon me. Fists, open slaps, boots and in some cases theatrical props including James Bowlams’ old ‘When The Boat Comes In’ cardigan were all utilised in what can only be described as a frenzy. After twenty minutes or so they began to tire and went off to the local Chinese restaurant.

When I reported their actions to Equity, I was stunned that this was a tradition called ‘The McPhereson Thrashing’. Apparently, it is seen as good luck to remove anyone with the surname McPhereson from a production and administer to them a sound and enthusiastic kicking. I then informed the representative that my name was McPhereson and this was news to me. He then – for some reason - covered the mouthpiece of the phone and when he returned he was interested in where exactly I was. Apparently Christopher Biggins is having terrible problems in the West End pulling off a Magistrate and knocking several bells out of yours truly may just provide the impetus he needs to finish the job.

Once again, I do need to write to Lesley Joseph.

The mask slips and other news

There is nothing more reassuring to an actor’s ego than to be recognised for a part. But then, I suppose it depends what sort of role you have played. If it’s a villainous beast of unprecedented naughtiness, then sometimes people will cuff you about the head and say ‘you and your undersea base. Shouldn’t be allowed’ and walk off. Playing the bad guy is never easy; the public sometimes cannot differentiate between the persona you portray and the person you actually are. Charles Dance was once invited to a dinner party shortly after appearing in The Golden Child. Poor Charles was mistaken for being a demon by the other guests and chased around, finally being pinned down while a visiting priest exorcised him and helped himself to the Hors d'oeuvres. Poor Charles hasn’t had a role that evil since, and to my mind he is the poorer for it.

I once spoke with Arthur Lowe, who, as Captain Mainwaring is almost embossed on the nation’s foreheads as that particular character. Chants of ‘Who Do You Think You Are Kidding Mr Hitler’ and ‘Stupid boy’ kept on interrupting the flow of his story, and eventually he told me to shut up.

When I played Fingers McFadden in ‘These walls that bind us’, I did fear that the role would taint me in the minds of the great unwashed as a convicted sheep rustler, but it didn’t happen. In fact, quite the opposite. I remember at a party held by the Producer and writer Garry Struthers, not one guest mistook me for my character. The fact I was left pretty much to my own devices to observe conversations and character interplay was actually a mark of respect, I felt, for a job well done. Even Struthers seemed to treat me as someone he could not talk to, simply pointing out the buffet on my arrival before shaking hands with Gordon Wellbeloved.

Of course the best thing to be recognised for is a heroic role. When I played Sandor, the lost Prince of Eternitia in the film ‘Gladiators of The Fifth Realm’, people did comment. The role involved a soldier who stole the Magic of Ke’logs, and the curses it brought on him, his family and those who tried to help him. In the end he saw the error of his ways and, begging for mercy, handed it back to the Prince. “Your soldier was the worst I have seen” said one friend. “Awful. I could not watch” said another. The character was obviously so convincing. Oh, and before I forget – Mr Times Theatre reviewer – He was supposed to be bad! If you had stayed until the end you would have seen him repent in a scene which many said – and I use the exact word here “harrowing”.

And so to my latest engagement, which I am thrilled about. It’s a tale by a new writer, Dave Noise, about a dying man looking back on the love of his life. It had everything. Pathos, drama, heartbreak, comedy, romance and sound effects. We record tomorrow, and - Thespis willing – listeners will savour this latest venture. It’s to be broadcast after the watershed to everyone except those on the Maternity wing.

Post Ceremony

There is a considerable rumble going on at the moment. I use the word rumble in the same way  as the kids on the street ‘There’s a rumble’, ‘I been involved in a rumble’ and ‘oi you, you lookin’ for a rumble?’. The aforementioned rumble (though I did initially mishear and thought they said ‘ramble’, something I am not opposed to. The punch in the face was not something associated with traversing the countryside) is again to do with damn awards business.

Let me make one thing crystal clear; I do not act for awards. Many directors have commented on this, saying ‘Tarquin, you’re not going to win any awards for that’ and it’s a testament to their in industry perceptions that indeed no plaudits have been forthcoming. This award, which I will hereafter refer to as ‘The award’, is a milestone in a career. It signifies my place in the business. My work is recognised by my peers, my efforts are appreciated for the Herculian endeavours they demonstrate, finally I am recognised as the award winning McPhereson. And of course there’s a buffet.

An award is the last thing from an actors’ mind when acting. Imagine being in a part on a battlefield, your comrade – perhaps a childhood friend – is laying in front of you mortally wounded and you tend to him, knowing your words of comfort are but overheard by the grim reaper drawing ever closer. The last thing you want to think about is a sumptuous four course meal, with speeches and wine and a limosine home. No, you have to be in the moment. You have to be in that position. You have to be that death comforter.  It’s no good as Alfie moans ‘give my heart to my Dolly, tell her my last thought on this Earth was of her sweet face’, replying that you hope that limosine driver isn’t one of those eastern European fellows who seems to know no English and you don’t want to rely on a minicab to get you to the Savoy, as many of those in Saving Private Ryan seemed to.

I well remember Ben Kingsley, who, after being nominated for ‘Ghandi’, was amazed. A letter was received at the Oscars’ office, and I am sure Ben won’t mind if I quote a bit of it here.

Sirs,

I am stunned you have nominated me for Ghandi, which although was a good job from my humble point of view, didn’t warrant the notion of an award. All I did was shave my head, put on some glasses and dress in a bed sheet. Wander around for a bit. Get shot. That was it. We managed to spindle it out for a couple of hours but essentially it was a very easy piece of work and I feel I cannot accept the Oscar you have proposed I should win.

May I make the suggestion that you consider not I, although I am flattered, but my good friend Tarquin McPhereson who’s portrayal of Elmer The Badger in South Ketterings’ Amatuer Dramatic Associations’ production of Rodent Rebellion (the musical). His moving and deeply felt portrayal of Elmer had people in tears, myself included. He is a fine actor and this would surely be a great tribute to an unsung hero of our industry.

Yours sincerely,

Ben Kingsley.

Europe.

PS Don’t bother mentioning this matter to me as I consider it closed and I will pretend to not know what you are talking about, and being so good at acting, you will be convinced. So don’t. It’s definitely me, Ben Kingsley, writing this.

Ulterior Motives.

It would appear Parker Knowles himself got an award. This would explain his expeditious cuts to my own speech – he wanted the lime light for himself. Well, Mr Knowles, this will not do! I have not spent the last few decades building to this moment, working away from the public, hiding behind characters and shunning the limelight of celebrity to have my moment in the Sun eclipsed by him.

I mean, I am not bitter; he may have made a good speech. In fact, I am pretty sure he has lifted many of my stories, anecdotes and other material for his own evil ends. All I am left with, after his savage cuts, is a brief thank you and a long section about parrots.

Parker Knowles will rue that evening; for now he has enraged the Wrath of the Mcphereson. An untold, untapped power of limitless resources which knows no bounds, no lines, no mercy. I have put his name down for a call from Scottish Power.

The Ceremony

It went well, thank you for asking. The initial nerves one feels when one is confronted by an audience of one’s peers are magnified exponentially in comparison to the butterflies one experiences when faces the great unwashed. And many of them are unwashed, believe me. I am not being disrespectful to the public when I say sometimes you are up on the stage and the wafts of stale farts, beer, garlic and bodily odours are overwhelming. Like being locked in Leslie Joseph’s dressing room.

The worst thing – if there is a worst thing about accepting an award one is entitled to after many bloody years entertaining the aforementioned stinking rabble – is writing a speech which is not going to offend, upset, disclose anything that would result in shunning/prosecution, anger, annoy or insinuate. It is important to be both exciting and vague. A complex paradox indeed.

After much scribbling to adhere to these rules, I had written a speech which was as moving as it was in English. Nervous, with trembling hands, I read it back. This was to be my speech. My chance to say, in my own words my debt indebtedness to the industry which had spawned and supported me. But was it enough? Was it veiled in difficult insinuation? Did it litter it’s prose with double meanings, dark secondary narratives and thinly disguised accusations? Yes.

But I was aware that this could be my epitaph as well as my speech, particularly if Mr Blessed hears what I have to say about him. So off I trotted to Parker Knowles, my companion in my darkest hour, my Savant of wisdom, my guru who offered me nought but advice and succur in this cold, unfeeling life. He was in bed, but he dutifully arose (got out of bed, nothing like that going on, thank you) and read my speech. “It’s okay, may be a little on the long side” he said, brushing away the cobweb which had formed around him whilst he perused my manuscript.

In short, he recommended the following deletions/addendums:

The story about Jacques Cousteau could go. Although you can’t libel the dead, the Octopus may still seek legal redress.

My anecdote about Lenny Henry would have to be cut. There was simply no way that was even physically possible.

Canterbury was not demolished.

Delia Smith had never, as far as can be determined, been to public school and similarly had little experience of ‘taking a hot muffin’.

Costumiers REDACTED

The resemblance in behaviour, smell and acting ability of redacted makes her likely to be more suited to Brighton Sea World than The Shaftsbury, albeit it with her wooden leg and charity work.

Hospital records indicate otherwise in my case notes.

This cut my speech down from a manageable, entertaining seven and three quarter hours to fifteen seconds, although if I spoke really slowly I could probably spin it out a bit.

Awards and All

I was surprised last Thursday by the arrival of an invitation to the Actors Awards. Not that I should have been. I have been a practising actor for many years, and my ability was obviously so convincing that they had completely missed my presence in the profession.

Some times acting is like that. I remember the shock rippling through the audience when Leonard Nimoy appeared at Basingstoke in 'Oscar and the Peach', many people said 'where are his ears?'. His ears, of course, were located on the side of his head but the reference to his greatest role and his convincing portrayal of said character obviously made for comment. In the series, the name of which escapes me, he adorned himself with some plastic pointy ones, a fact which some people could not adjust to. "Who is doing all the science bits for Captain Shatner?" people would chime. So convinced were his fans that he was from the future some even went so far as to accost him for a make shift trial. I put a stop to that as soon as the so-called judge put on the black cap. And well I did! Executing an actor mid-run can really put a damper on a production.

So the awards are tonight, and it is strictly black tie. I have no idea whether I have won or not, but my mere invitation after many a solitary year does indicate some sort of recognition. What, though, could they be congratulating me on? My role as Murph, the sarcastic Irish navvy officer? Lord Felch in "Felch In Trouble"? The second face vommiting up Marmite in the commercial (for which, incidently, I am still arguing that throwing up is a special skill and thus deserves a little extra). I wasn't supposed to throw up, in fact, I was supposed to say 'yum' but I was so immersed in my charaterisation that I lost all sense of the narrative and did what the character - called 'man' would do. They broadcast it with Rodney Bewes in the end.

I have spent the days since my invite concentrating on writing my speech. Who to thank? Who to miss out? Who to credit when the obvious person to credit is the one holding the award (me). But I cannot talk about me all the time. I have selected a letter, chosen at random, from one of the hundreds I recieve. Let me run it past you.

Dear Mr McPhereson,


Saw you at the National many years ago and you really made your mark on me. There's a actor with panache, style. Not like those other actors you were with. They were in the shade compared to you. You were the most convincing, let me tell you that. 

When I am in the steel manufacturing business making steel, there is little or no opportunity for a working chap such as myself to indulge himself in culture and learning, and this is a calimony which really causes me and my working compatriots great consternation.


It should have been your name outside on the posters, not Briars, Hopkins, Irons and West. No, you should have been included. You are certainly one to watch and I hope you win an award. If you do feel free to read this letter out.


Yours,


Fred Smith.

Marvellous. Or this, from the Welsh Valleys


Dear Mr McPhereson Boy,


Oh, you did us proud you did boy. Your appearance in that drama I saw the other night was one highlight of theatrical avalonia I shall not forget in a hurry boy. I would be remiss if I didn't write and tell you how good you were, better than all the others put in a box and dumped out at sea (which can be arranged, I have friends in Merther).


When I am in the mining business mining, there is little or no opportunity for a working chap such as myself to indulge himself in culture and learning, and this is a calimony which really causes me and my working compatriots great consternation, I will tell you that, boy.

Good luck to you and if you ever down this way call in to my house and we shall have tea and Welsh rabbits.


Yours




Ivor Smith.

Charming, and one of hundreds I have received. I best get back to writing my speech. I shall let you know the full extent of my presentation when I am happy with it.