New Agent, and a new year dawns

Good morning and a yuletide heigh ho to you all.

I must apologise once again for my lack of updates. I know some of you have been trying to contact me through my agent, however, as I am no longer with Aimsbry, Lambert and Connery and they have steadfastly refused to forward any post, calls or messages to me, I have been blissfully unaware of such communications.

It was all to do with a small drinks party for Sam Mendes, during which there was a misunderstanding over a coal scuttle. I cannot say anymore.

My new agent, Danny Wool, is brilliant. The lad is always working, it seems. Although sadly it wasa  bit late in the season this year (February) to get me any panto work, the future looks bright next month with a run in Churchills’ farce, The Decorator. I know nothing about decorating, and Dan told me that perhaps, by way or research, I should redecorate his back bedroom. Naturally this was too gooder opportunity to miss, learning the trials and tribulations of decorating whilst decorating. What could be better? Few actors get to live the parts they play – giving them a true insight. I tried this once before when I got the part of ‘Spanners Moplan’, the mechanic in Minder. I would have been in more episodes, but the research I did into car engines was curtailed by the oil sump leaking through the floor to the flat below.

So what would my ‘Decorator’ be like? A rough diamond with a heart of gold? A hardy tradesman whose dark past haunts him in a series of horrifying flashbacks? Welsh? There was only one way I was going to make my choices. I was going to have to read the play.

I availed myself of a copy, even though the ignoramus at Waterstones’ misheard me and thought I said ‘farts’. After some ruffling of feathers (not literally) I eventually got a copy from Smiths.

It is here that the young man on the counter recognised me. ‘You’re Tarquin Mc…Donald?’ he said ‘McPhereson’ I replied, using the patience borne of experience. ‘My Nan thinks you are fantastic’ he said. This sort of statement can do nothing but boost an actors’ ego and make him feel, at times of low ebb, that he is not wasting his life. To bring pleasure to one person through forty years on stage and screen and radio and magazines makes it all worth while. Hopefully it is more than one patron who enjoys my talents; people are so slow to praise but so quick to complain, I find. But working on the theory that for every one complaint there are three very happy punters, I have entertained hundreds and thousands of people.

I shall now settle down to my tome.

Apologies

Once again I find myself proffering apologies and humbly offering my sincere sorrow for my lack of posts.

To explain : Being an actor sometimes means you are immersed in parts. Sometimes just to get the part. Although I have never been party to what is known in the trade as 'couch casting', I have heard stories, seen pictures and in one case been discovered observing from a wardrobe.

Many of my contemporaries have, in younger, leaner times, succumbed to the lure of the producers' whim. Gaffeny Fallows is one. Sophia Kaiser. And who would have thought the famed Sir Montague Hume could stoop so low? (I have pictures).

I am of course using pseudonyms because these people don't wish it to be known that their big break followed a lot of panting and a quiet cigarette. I myself have relied on my talent alone to get me where I am today, and it is therefore with pride I can announce ability only has landed me the lead this winter in the Abercynon Players production of Mother Goose. Oh, it may not be Tolkiens' The Habit or Jim Bond, but I have principles I stick by. I will not and have never contrived to cross the line. Tarquin McPhereson can hold his head up high.

So, to catch up.

Babby Windsor rang me up, and asked if I would like to go to Spain for six months to film a production of Don Quixote. You can guess my answer, to which lovely Babs laughed and said 'I bet you fucking would' and slammed the phone down. Hurriedly I dialled 1471 and then the 3 to continue discussions of my involvement in the project, but for some reason – BT is not what it used to be – got through to Yogish Keebab House on Fulham High Road. Knowing Babs loves a Donner with chilli sauce after a night of revelery, I asked if she was still on the premises. The answer was blunt, to the point and, in an elegant yet rhetorical way, questioned my parentage, sexual prowess and attitude to cattle.

I rang Babs at home and was curtly informed she had made no such call and more importantly, who was I to ring her up at 12.35 in the morning asking about Turkish cuisine. The call ended abruptly with a man who more or less posed the same sort of questions as the proprietor of the fast food shop, albeit with some spicier terms relating to my bowel movements.

I can take it. As an actor you develop a hard shell. People can – and do - throw insults at me and it's all water off a ducks back. It's what you do that matters, not peoples' reaction to it. Not audiences, not theatre managers or angry casting agencies. If they want to shout and stamp that's up to them. If they want to follow you down the street shouting, it's their time they are wasting. If they want to form angry fork bearing posses with the sole purpose of 'punishing' me, well, that's just the business I am proud to be in.

Critics are the worst. These people are often frustrated actors who have not made it, and therefore feel obliged somehow to hold back those whose talent casts a dark shadow. They are parasites. Their views mean nothing. They have no insight, nothing to say and no understanding of the actors' craft. On closer examination I make no apology for stating the fact these people are, in fact, scum. Of course, people will point to the copious reviews I have had, many have which have had the temerity to critisize everything from my acting, movements, speaking, gestures and prop handling to my actual suitability as an actor. Some of which were in the same review!

My arch nemesis is of course George Pope. Pope is a freelance critic, known for his savage reviews of films, television and theatre. Mention Popes' name to any actor and see the colour veritably drain from the face, the hands tremble and the cowering in the corner begin. I remember one particularly brutal comment on a Gloucester playhouse production of 'The Importance of being Earnest', which so irked the cast they, the theatre manager and several of the front of house staff were never seen again, and all that could be found was an antique parasol and a set of dentures on Western Super Mare beach. Coupled with the copius footprints leading into the sea and some scenery which was floating atop the water. It is said that for weeks after the citizens on that fair town had Wilde coming out of their taps.

Pope has had the temerity to have a go at me from time to time. It started with when I was in Z-Cars. I played Alf Cheesy, a rum cove if ever there was one. He had been caught selling ice cream from a van with not MOT certificate. As the investigation intensified and the net closed in, my character became increasingly careless. Spilling strawberry sauce and dropping cones. Then, after the gun battle and car chase he was finally caught. His fate sealed by the trapped hundreds and thousands in the crease of his trousers. At this point I had a line. The line.

The Line is something all actors hanker after yet few get to articulate. Jimmy Cagney had 'I could have been a contender!'. Humphrey Bogart had 'Of all the bars' and Kenneth Williams had 'oooooooooo'.

Tips.

I thought I would give a little time to the actual schools of acting. While my clay dries.

1. Observation.
   This is one of the key tennants of acting; observing. In life we come across many situations and people who we can borrow things from; reactions, twitches, looks, walking faster, looking back, running. All these go to a formidable armoury, building a plethora of reserves with which to delight and surprise your director and your audience. I well remember this advice from Nicholas Parsons, when he was in Midsummer Nights Dream. 'I used this thing I saw a fellow do in a cafe in Gloucester in the fourth act. It was magical.' But enough of him delighting a director with his Bottom.
   Although you can do this with anyone, I have decided to focus in on one particular person, someone who has been 'absorbing' others for years. Brian Cox. This canny Scots Thespian has so many mannerisms observing him is akin to watching a particularly rare bird go about its' business. So far I have picked up tips on paranoia, looking around, pointing, calling out and using a mobile phone. Not to mention the dialect coaching of pronunciation of various terms. I hurriedly made my mental notes, and, should I ever need to audition for a part involving a man finding another man hiding in some bushes in their garden, then I have a good idea of how to emote such a situation.

Of course sometimes it's unwise to 'observe' people blatantly. This is where we actors deviate from the masses; we love to be watched (or listened to). Remember the old saying 'If an actor does a perfect performance of Hamlets' soliloquy in a forrest but there's no one around, does he get a good review?'

Pantomime - a bath of fire

The pantomime went well; I must say it was a stroke of genius to make it interactive, with the audience throwing fruit. I think it made them feel very included in the theatrical family, and some of them even loitered in the foyer, out in the street and down the lane by the fire exit just to show their appreciation. Cheryl Baker and I were most pleased.

I think next year though we will encourage a more experienced writer; I didn't feel my character was properly defined in the script, and I think the audience thought I was a baddie. That's what I took from the booing anyway.

Pantomime is a particularly British thing. Everyone who is anyone in British acting has done it. Blessed, Olivier, Guilgud, Ritchie – they've all donned the tights and taken on the mantle. I well remember my first time with Dame Peggy Ashcroft. It was October 1962, and PA and I were busy rehearsing for Aladdin in Doncaster. I was a total shambles, I am not afraid to admit. My Iago lacked motivation, depth. Lack of experience and my youthful exuberance made it worse. I could not spot my errors but a thesp of Dame Peggy could see the miscellany of mistakes I was making. But, thank goodness, she saw some crumb, some tiny spark of potential in me, and took me under her wing.

“darling” she said, in those husky tones “you are going about it the wrong way”. I looked at her like a child looks in marvel at a parent who has just carved a toy train out of his own wooden leg. “Dame Peggy, please, teach me all you know about actoring, for I am keen to learn”. Firstly, I learned the word is acting. A schoolboy error. And I was not an actician, I was an actor. This merely encouraged my thirst for excellence – I needed to know more. But Dame Peggy insisted that six hours was enough for that day and I was to go away and think about things. And, should I return, she would share more of her bounteous know-how. I did indeed spend the evening thinking about things. Mostly acting related but also about tortoises, shadow puppetry and boiler maintenance. But my mind always returned to acting.

The next day, following rehearsal and a subsequent punch in the face from Jack Warner, I attended her dressing room again. “To act is to be” she said “to understand how a mind must function, one must first live in that mind”. To me now this seems so obvious, but to the callow youth sat in awe on her futon, this was a load of old mumbo jumbo. “Tell me, oh wise old hag, more of this which you speak” I said. I have to say my words did not meet with her approval. When I awoke a couple of hours later, I met up with her in outpatients. “You are ready” she said, and wordlessly lead me on the first steps of the journey which has lead me here, today.

To become a character, one must live as that character. You cannot expect to portray a person, be they fictional or real without first living as that persona. It is known as The Method. Dustin Hoffman uses it all the time. So does Al Pacino, Robert DiNiro and Yahoo Serious. Little known that Pacino actually joined the Police, worked outside the law as a maverick cop. DiNiro worked for eight months as a taxi driver, although he was tempted to carry on because of the hefty soiling fees. Yahoo Serious researched his role of the Invisible Man. As far as I know he still is. This side of the pond actors are utilising the method; Penelope Keith, Peter Bowles, Dennis Waterman all have tried their roles for real to get into character. It can work the other way as well. The man who played Bungle in the popular television series Rainbow was so inspired by the lifestyle choice of being a bear he finally went to live with real bears in woodland in Canada.

So, back to the Method; Dame Peggy extolled to me to find an 'in', a way to unlock a character, in the same way one might unlock a window from outside during a burglary. I didn't like to question this metaphor of how she knew these two things were quite so similar. I don't wish to assume anything about the great lady but she did have a remarkable amount of jewellery and electrical items on sale in her dressing room pre and post show.

I tried everything to get my Iago to 'work'. I spoke like him, I walked like him. But the neighbours started a petition and I had to stop. “React as you think Iago would react” she advised “explore him”. So, dressed in Iago, I challenged several of my neighbours with a sword that they would feel the cold edge of my steel. Dame Peggy had some sway with the local Police so fortunately that didn't go any further. “try minor things” she said “just work on it”. I was at a loss to know what she meant. “Well, everyday things. How would Iago react?”

Over the next couple of hours I reacted to things as Iago would have done. Including

Getting a bad haircut

Having the wrong paper delivered

An argument with someone who may well have actually been the Chinese ambassador

Enquiring about train times

Querying bills for food in restaurants

After the first two I decided it was wiser not to carry the sword. Also I stopped turning to empty shelves and using the phrase 'doesn't it boys and girls?'. It's one thing to be interactive with children, quite another to try and illicit a response from value ravioli.

The next rehearsal went swimmingly. Everyone was so impressed. “I can't believe you were acting” said one “That's the best you can do” said another. A third was so lost for words he just left the stage, throwing his script to the ground and storming out of the theatre. Some people cannot stand competition.

Wednesday rolled around and I was in my flat when the door was rapped several times but knuckles unseen. Into my abode walked Dame Peggy, accompanied by a large man in a suit and sunglasses and the director Mortimer Bitch. Apparently, during discussions, an idea had formulated and they were all quite excited about it. I was to be the first to take the method to a new level.

“We're going to make Iago the central character of Aladdin” said Bitch. “and we want you to do it” he said. I asked why the production was called Aladdin if the central character was to be Iago, pointing out this made no sense. My queries were resolved by his answer. It was simple. To the point. Precise. Eloquent. Everything that a good director should be. “Shut it, you” he said.

Iago was to be about mental illness. The Iago presented on stage was to be subtly different from the shallow husk he really was; he was to put up a front, meanwhile the inner turmoil of his depression and despair were cloaked from those he loved, protecting them but all the time sending himself into a dark abyss from which there was no escape. I was to be his angst, his pain, his malaise. Also I was to wear a different costume to give the audience the clear sign this was a different side to the man. A waiters' costume would probably work. And I should do my lines in the foyer. And if I knew how to serve tea, coffee and a variety of snacks plus balance the tills at the end of shift that would be a bonus and something I could put down on my resume. When I asked about lines he said he had so much faith in my ability to improvise, he would leave it up to me.

Sadly my part in the production lasted two days. It was October 1962, the Cuban Missile crisis meant the world was on the brink, the future of our world and every living thing on it weighed heavy and made people anxious and worried and only to quick to anger.

Dictionary.

Recently I was asked to voice an audio edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. Of all the works I have had to voice, The Dic, as we call it in the business, is the biggest.

Immediately I availed myself of the tome in question. Oh, such joy! To think I hold in my hands the tool by which Shakespeare himself made his work; Byron, Shelley and Keats had ne'er ventured to use a word not in here, and Tennyson, Wilde and Wells had all delved it's darkest recesses for just the right noun, adjective or synonym to convey whatever it was they were on about. In fact, every bit of every conversation in English utilised the contents of this fine work. Even Geordie.

What made me especially happy was this was work which Nicholas Parsons had not got his hands on. Recently he has pipped me at every post, be it hosting popular panel games, talking about tweed to James Naughtie or reciting some book into the night for unsuspecting listeners.

What inflection should I put on these words though? One simply cannot traverse the finest language on the globe as if one was reading out the directions on a tube map or glancing at a recipe for a Vegetarian Lasagne or reading Book At Bedtime on Radio Four.

For instance, flipping though and stopping randomly on a page to demonstrate;

BASTARD

How should would announce this? Accent on the first or second syllable? With a voice full of joy or the seeping drip of venom? As the herald of a King or the low moan of the executioner?

Another flip through the pages and we land on

GREEDY

I dislike greed personally, so should I convey that in my oratory? Should I ejaculate the word like a seed of sound, casting it forth with all the connotations and colloquial intonations into the world caring naught for it's future? Or should I hail it? Should I give the word the gravitas and meaning, raising it to God status, that all the other words, should they come to life would look up to and seek it's counsel?

IDIOT

A derogatory term by anyones' standards. Yet is there not sympathy for the idiot? Those simpletons who we both laugh at and admire for daring to leave the house? Are we not guilty of complexing our short lives when those we call idiots live in a blissful world of innocent pleasure? Could we not simultaneously envy them yet dread to be them? And how can I put this all over in one word?

PARSON

How to best convey the meaning of this word? It is after all a member of the clergy, especially a Protestant minister; pastor; rector; the holder or incumbent of a parochial benefice, especially an Anglican. An office which demands reciprocal respect and responsibility. Would be different if you added an 's' on the end.

I have invented a small colour scheme which I intend to employ throughout the dictionary. Words requiring a lighter, almost feminine touch I have highlighted in orange. Words which need an aggressive, firm delivery I have highlighted in red. Fun words green. Words I am not sure of black.

So has, Mr Nicholas high-and-mighty Parnips. Look who is narrating the audiobook version of the Dictionary. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

(black may not have been the best colour to use, in retrospect)

How to take calls.

There's a new childrens' show. I know I shouldn't say anything but I am so excited. I just had the call. Fortunately I remember most of it, so here is how I remember it.

ME : Hello? McPhereson residence?

(I always like to pretend I have a answering service. It gives people the impression that I am far too busy to answer the phone, thus making you appear 'in demand'. Which of course I am. For this purpose I have invented my own character, a Butler like voice, with his own hopes and dreams, his own interests and fears. Tip: If you try this avoid names like Jeeves or Rochester or Mrs Hudson. It becomes obvious it is you and can lead to some awkward conversations. I was once told what an awful boss I am and how the caller was surprised I hadn't molested myself yet. Needless to say I remained loyal to myself and couldn't comment. I was also offered a job with Shaun Ryder, such was the good impression I cast as my Butler and confidente 'Northumberland'.)

Caller : That you, Tarquin?

Me : No, it is myself, Mr Northumberland, his ever faithful servant and companion through many a scrape and caper.

Caller : (SIGHS) Is Tarquin there?

Me : Who shall I inform is placing this call?

Caller : Bill Obling.

Me : I shall see.

(At this point in the call I like to play some hold music. Restful melody is usually best. Anything too heavy metal like Elton John only sets them off. You can either play that or the sound of some Gulls.)

After a minute or so, put yourself through to you.

Me : Hello, Tarquin McPhereson speaking?

Caller : It's me, Bill Obling.

Me : Who?

(At this point it's often useful to make the other person repeat things, such as their name, designation etc. Unless extemely secure in themselves, it may make them question their work and worth. It's a trick I tried and perfected on my friend Richard Gren, just before they found his clothes on that beach.)

Caller : Don't dick me about, McPhereson. I have news.

Me : News?

(In my business, news is a technical term for items of fresh information which may or may not be of use and / or interest to oneself, provided by another for your consumtion, consideration and regurgitation)

Caller : We're going to make a new animated show. You know Bob The Builder?

(What actor has not heard of and seen Bob The Builder. His exploits are legendary. Although I would assume the tax people would have something to say about his preference for singing with a bulldozer as opposed to doing his accounts)

Me : Yes?

Caller : It's like Bob the Builder. But different. And we want YOU.

AT THIS POINT I HAD TO RELIQUISH THE PHONE. I DON'T REMEMBER MUCH OF THE REST OF THE CALL, AND WHEN I LOOKED AROUND THE SUN HAD GONE DOWN AND MY FLOWERS HAD WILTED.

My attempts at getting a response out of the phone was met with a constant tone. I shall ring Bill and find out more.

Owing Money

 I am again apologetic for my infrequent posts.

If I am honest I borrowed £5 off of Brian Blessed and the bloody man is virtually camped outside my flat. I am having to do things very, very quietly, lest his bionic ears pick up activity and smash down the other external wall.

The reason for my caution is that I simply do not have the money to pay him. And the rumors I hear about when Derek Nimmo borrowed fifty pence for the fruit machine, well... the glaziers were very understanding and the social club landlord couldn't have been happier with the gratis out of court settlement, although it didn't really cover the smashed and broken stock. Nimmo himself fled to what was at that time Persia and wove baskets for several months, while Blessed scoured Europe in a fury unrivalled. Thankfully the whole business was solved when I, acting as a sort of peace maker, invited both of them to an eatery to discuss a deal. And through the brickdust, broken windows and bodies of waiting staff, an agreement was reached. And thank heavens for that; the acting profession would have suffered badly had this feud continued to spiral out of control. Heaven knows the middle east has enough problems, without an incident in the theatre world to add to their plate of problems.

Sitting here, in the dark in the corner behind the small cabinet in the fireplace, I spend a lot of time recalling incidents and anecdotes. Many of which I could not possibly relate in detail for professional reasons. The problem is moral and legal. Recently, I detailed a story of the late Dame Thora Hird. The uproar must have resembled Pompeii when the volcano erupted. I received email after email from lawyers, fans, the Panamanian Ambassador, the National Association for Parrot Owners and Fiat all of whom threatened me in one way or another. I even had a dream that Dame Thora came back from the beyond and kicked me in the cobblers, while a winged Harry Secombe hovered behind her saying 'Go on girl. Needle nardle noo'.

I wish Brian would go away, but I fear he is there for the long haul. I can hear him breathing outside the door. The furious breath of the enraged. Plus I can smell he's cooking sausages.