While I was typing this to you, someone called...

Just received an interesting call from NASA, that’s the National Acting in Space Association, not the rocket people, although strangely it did involve the rocket people.

Apparently they are looking for someone to send into space, an acting mission. To see how Stoppard and Ayckbourn work in a zero gravity environment. Apparently the results thus far have not been good, with the performance of PSmith in the City, performed by chimps, largely consisting of throwing excrement at the loading bay window.

I am going to return their call and continue updating you with my news shortly.

Catch Up 2

The other thing sci-fi wise I have been invited to audition for in the last month was Planet Paddlesteamer, a new show for CCTV (which is Childrens’ Television, not the wretched things which watch you and send you a fine when in fact they have locked all the public conveniences so in fact I should be fining them. Besides, Waterstones? Who goes in there anymore? Pass it off as rainwater, I say.)

Planet Paddlesteamer is about a planet which is shaped like one of those Paddlesteamers you see in anything with Jane Seymour in. Apparently, she has it written into her contract that at least two speeches must contain a paddle steamer moving slowly past in the background, which did I understand provide a series of logistical problems for her stage work, poor love. There are many paddlesteamer anecdotes featuring Ms Seymour, some of which have been hushed up by the media, but I can tell you she did have the good grace to send the relatives and survivors a smashing fruit basket.

So I am up for The Captain, a haughty, seasoned salty old dog of the waterways, whose wisdom and experience is called upon in times of trouble. His metaphors are there for all to see, and for the young to digest and ruminate upon. A sample speech:

“Ah, the waves splash high against the bow, casting the foam like memories of a life misspent. See, Mr Jeavons, see how the wash dissipates so quickly, leaving but the merest hint t’were e’er here. See how the cruellest mistress, her waves and ebbs, her flows and tender tides, caressing the shore like a tender lover. Her endless bounty is never moribund, and what wonders her hitherto uncharted depths do hide from our incongruous eyes”.

Of course being set in space there are no waves, ebbs or any other damp nonsense. So it’s all allegory. It’s a beautifully written but I fear will be lost on the under 3s. But it is work.

Catch up 1

This last few weeks has been a maelstrom of activity, a veritable nightmare of fevered endeavour, a seeming thick dust cloud of action in the midst of which, I have shouted ‘Eat my dust. Swallow my filth.’

Mid August I had a call from the producer of Dr Who. Apparently they were working on a new monster, from the planet Thespian, a creature which thrives and feeds on the emotions and bad feeling it can create in a small to medium sized production company, and would I like to take part in some screen tests as Queenie Ooer, the asexual King of Thespis. A Thesplord. My hand trembled as I spoke in revered and respectful tones to the albeit it just out of short trousers producer. “Meet me in the old warehouse in Kings Cross” he said.

The covert nature of this job meant I was unable to inform anyone of where I was going and what I was up to. Dr Who is now a closely secured working environment, where only those who are supposed to be there, are there. And Lesley Joseph.

I turned up at the warehouse at the presumed time and presented my interpretation of Ooer, flaming, incensed, sad and angry, belligerent, merciful, playful and sexually alluring. Well, as sexually alluring as one can be with bubble wrap up ones nose.

After some photography and a light buffet, I was informed I was in the running and being considered. Now, let me tell you, a Dr Who baddie can lead you to great things. Look at Trevor Eve. Started off as a Puddle of Slime in Avengement of the Snork, now his CV reads like a directory of everything in the acting profession, but mostly acting. The Puddle isn’t even mentioned. Dame Maggie Smith was the Vhaal of Clwuddiayn, an alien being so terrifying, parents refused to watch and turned over to the Comedians instead. And of course Bonnie Langford.

Satisfied my place in the pantheon of Who adversaries was secure, I retired to the Pug and Poodle, a famous Kings Cross actors’ watering hole. As I walked in, my confidence plummeted. The entire bar was full of other noteries with the same ambition. Ben Kingsley, Timothy West, Ian Lavender, Brian Blessed, Anthony Hopkins, Pierce Brosnan and Lembit Opik, all with bubble wrap filled nostrils. I am afraid my anger got the better of me, and there was a small melee. The papers of course picked up on it, and it got blown out of all proportion and you may have read of the Kings Cross Riot From Hell. Although it was actually just a spilled daiquiri.

Dispelling the Myth

One of the worst things about acting is that people consider you will do anything for money. This could not be further from the truth. I myself am very, very picky about my work, and limit myself to leading man, romantic lead, supporting roles, tv cameos, tv main roles, extra work, radio, commercials, product endorsement, voice overs, charactorisation, character voices, webcasts, chat shows, panel games, opening supermarkets, judging vegetables, judging cat, dog, horse and reptile shows, opening fairs, book signings, reality television, writing, appearing at literary festivals, doing childrens' travelling theatre, hosting radio discussion shows, writing scripts, promoting my new range of dietary products, the shopping channel and of course hand shadows.

It is with great pride then I notice the SciFi channel are repeating 'USF Collosus', the sci-fi series I made some years hence with Windsor Davies. I played Captain Trent Tugbote, a rough and ready captain exploring the depths of space with his intrepid crew, which included Davies as First Officer Llew, an alien from the planet Kharki. There was a scottish engineer, Mr McTavish, and a Doctor we called 'The Spine'. Although his real name was Eric. Now, some of you are thinking 'this is just a Star Trek rip off'. You would be wrong. It was a different from Star Trek as it is possible to be. For a start, our mission was seven years, and there were no pointy ears. Windsor did have a gelatinous moustache, but I am not sure that was down to make up or the soup at lunch. Plus, our space ship resembled a plate, balanced on a pile of old tyres, painted green with a tv ariel coming out the top. Which in fact, it was. We explored planets, not worlds. We didn't seek out new life or civilisations, but we did stumble across a few inhabited worlds which seems to have a social structure. Plus our teleport technology consisted of a curtain and a big ladder.

We didn't have Phasers, we had Phosers, and they could be set to Stun, Stun some more or Gobsmack. But never kill. And Windors' character didn't have a tricorder. He had a quadcorder, which could detect aliens with ten miles, analise whatever world we were on for dangerous gases and toxins, and most importantly, get Radio 5 live.

So completely different.

Hacking

I was shocked in Carphone warehouse to discover that I had been hacked. The papers deal in minor celebs such as McCartney, Morgan and Cameron. I myself considered myself to be above this sort of thing. Who would want to listen to a lot of winging from an old actor, his agent and British Gas? How wrong I was. To think someone may have listened in to my negotiations over that cactus with the garden centre. That someone would have accessed the intimate details of my caravan rental agreement. A third party may have eavesdropped on my delicate and deeply personal chiropody problems.

While all this didn't make the front pages, and I was not besieged by hordes of reporters, it still invades my privacy. One wonders what else they had been reading? My mail? My email? My Internet? God forbid they had found my todo list, which has comments about people in the industry, many of which make more than a passing reference to medieval torture.

Private lessons

I have to say I have had to curtail my educational services. Although I felt my contribution to young actors was something worth doing, and passing my wealth of experience onto a new generation gave me a sense of pride and self-fulfillment rare in these troubled times, I have had to end it. Also my silverware went missing.

One young man was particularly talented, and as we sprinted through the Bard, gave shape to farce and explored the world of existential theatre I did feel he was going to have an issue tackling Dickens. and that he did. I tried him with my Pickwick and he made a complete hash of it. I am afraid I lost my temper. There are few things which oil my anger stick, but this was one of them. "Take thee from this place" I shouted "and lest thou ever darken this portal again, be thy aware my wrath awaits undiminished by the passing solar epoch". He asked me what the f*** I was talking about, which just goes to show.

Classes

As you may be aware, the ad I placed was probably not worded correctly, and I had to change it after it started appearing in phone boxes all over London.