A grand Anniversary

 The anniversary of those musical fellows and their ‘Live Aid’ reminds me of the action I was involved in to raise money, the legendary ‘Act Aid’. Paul Nicholas was our own Bob Geldof, and I was just adjusting a bookend when he called. ‘Is Helen there?’ he asked.

This is a trick I have employed for years. When someone rings who may have an acting job, pretend they have the right number. This does two things; alerts you to new acting opportunities and secondly, it means your competition is cut down. Obviously in this case, I cannot pretend to be ‘Helen’, and so I employed a brilliant yet devious alter ego. ‘No’ I said ‘this is her live in lover’*’Hi David, listen, there’s a thing happening I think she may be interested in’ ‘Oh yes?’ I replied ‘Yes, a bunch of us are putting together a show, a really big show, like Geldof’s done’. There was a pause. ‘David?’ said the voice down the line. ‘Geldof who?’ I asked ‘Bob, Bob Geldof’ he replied. Not being a rock and roller I’d never heard of the man at the time. My knowledge of the wild men of rock was began with Elvis and ended with Dame Shirley. ‘Are you there, David?’ came the voice again. I had to make something up quickly before he suspected anything. This is the beauty of being an actor, we can think fast on the spot. ‘sorry, let me turn this chainsaw off’ I said ‘What chainsaw?’ he asked. I made some noises out of the corner of my mouth which I though was a pretty good approximation of what a chainsaw would sound like. ‘David are you okay?’ ‘Yes, do go on, this is most fascinating’ ‘why are you talking funny? You don’t even sound like you’ ‘I am me!’ I protested. It’s one of the few things I am absolutely certain of, although at that precise moment I wasn’t me. The tension grew, the Paul dropped his ace, his mallet, the question which shattered any and all pretence. ‘What’s your surname, David?’. I made an effort. ‘I’ve forgotten’ I said, to be greeted with a dial tone.

But it was too late! I already knew about the Act Aid. I knew it was happening somewhere and I knew there’d be actors involved. All I needed now was a date and a place.

We all know about the success of Act Aid. Playing to packed rooms (when the landlords removed the chairs) up and down the land. I stand proud that the seven of us made a difference, and raised over £47!

The purpose of all this waffle is to talk about what happens when a group of actors gather together for a common purpose. You may say ‘But Tarquin, surely being in a theatre/television/radio/community centre project is where actors gather together?’ and you would be right. But when actors flock to one place to do even more good, without a script, coffee, biscuits and a nice light buffet something special happens. A kind of melding occurs, we are no longer individual entities, but blend into each other to become more than the sum of our parts; a thriving mass of complexities and complimentary personalities interwoven eternally to each other, yet the distinct individuality remains. Like trifle.

I first encountered this in the 1963 production of ‘Don’t Interfere With That!’, a witty little farce at the Cottesloe. Myself, Nana Mouskouri, Windsor Davies, Helen Mirren, Sid James and Dame Peggy were all in attendance for this thespianic feast. As we came together in that rehearsal space, it happened. Slowly, we blended into one magnificent beast, an unstoppable acting machine of unprecedented size. We had become that which is known as Act Kong. Peggy was the brain, Sid was the humour, Helen was the skin, Windsor the heart, Nana the talent and I… I was in there somewhere, mixed in like cream in a soup. The play was our Empire State building, the critics the small planes we swatted away.

It was literally an experience I won’t forget. I know many of the other cast said they won’t forget it, either. It’s a shame that none of them ever managed to get to a reunion, but actors’ lead busy lives and expecting visitors that day or reorganising their cupboards obviously take precedent.

And so it was with Act Aid. Actors do good in the world ever minute we are here, with our ceaseless desire to entertain, to rip off the bandages of social complexity and reveal the stark truth of existence, but with Act Aid we were doing even more good than usual. And we had catering.

I’ll never forget Geldof’s face when we presented him with the cheque (minus expenses).

Applications - Mastering the first impression

 

Once again I am full the brim and the saucer with apologies for a delay in posting. It has been a very busy time for me, as it is with all actors. Christmas sees a wealth of opportunity, and if you do not pounce someone else will. In fact, the whole season is based about pouncing. There are some in the ‘biz’ who are superb pouncers. One thinks of Bradley Walsh, Patterson Joseph and Pauline Quirk. If I had to name a Pounce Master it would surely be Martin Jarvis. That man will pounce even when there is nothing to pounce on.

Pouncing is another key art actors should possess. It’s not taught in colleges and it really should have an entire term, because it is, in itself, an art. I’ve often opined to Jarvis about going on the road, maybe lecturing in the techniques he uses, but I don’t know if he picked up my voicemails.

But to watch him in action is simply sublime. Jarvis is a legend in pouncing circles. Firstly, he hears of an acting job. His ears flap and he somehow becomes larger. He’s like a pigeon, fluffing his feathers. Although he doesn’t try and clean mites out from his armpit. Then he analyses whether the job would be for him. His mind is like a computer, knowing precisely his range and capabilities, how they would fit into the vacancy. Then he looks at the money and finds all his skills fit exactly. Then letters are written, calls are made and in extreme cases, negatives are taken out of the drawer and prints anonymously sent. The job falls in his lap. It’s sheer poetry.

Bonnie Langford is another actor who has a different approach. Apparently, Ms Langford, or Bruiser Bonnie as she is known, gets her roles by a method only previously employed by the Kray twins. I remember her going for a role once, attained it and been in three episodes before the man auditioning her had even got to Outpatients.

Of course, I tend to leave such mundane tasks to my agent, Melissa, although my confidence in her and her staff has waned after I rang once and was told they thought I was dead. I was abit taken aback, but I said ‘Ah, that’s why you have not called’ which was met with ‘Uh...yeah’.

One job I did enjoy was Mr Kevin to the glove puppet Terry the Toucan. I’d got the part when Derek Griffiths rang me and told me of ‘a load of old crap’ ITV were planning. Instantly I knew I should apply. I knew Baz Molan, the producer. I’d used his toilet once when I was hiking in the Lake District and fortunately he bad forgotten. I reminded him of the time and he instantly remembered and sent me an invoice for a £30 unblocking fee. I paid and then I was in. It was the independent television answer to a fox which appeared on another channel. We got quite an audience with our witty repartee, which obviously went over the audiences’ heads because there were cuts and I ended up sat at a desk with a sock. And because of Equity laws at the time, I wasn’t allowed to even put my hand in it. Finally, it was cancelled. But it was a network show and thus propelled me into the limelight. I felt I should rest for a while though. I didn’t want to be known as ‘that man who talks to an empty sock’.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

I myself have developed a rudimentary method. Firstly, I will scan the Stage for vacancies which I may apply for. For this I need to examine the requirements of the advertisement against my age, skills and availability. I am very strict about this as there is no point applying for a role which is not a good fit. I set the barrier at 4%, and anything over that is fair game.

It is often a good idea to be original. Originally what I used to do was envisage the character I was applying to portray, and call the number as that character. Although I did ring a wrong number once and spent a fortnight in Bristol as an elephant. It is also very difficult making a coherent phone call as a fifteenth century Dutch Prince. Get to the sixth foresooth and you can bet you are talking to yourself.

Many actors send a headshot and resume, but this is not going to get you noticed. After the elephant incident, I had a number of lifesize cardboard cutouts of myself made, all holding my resume on their chest. It was a considerable investment, and one I curtailed after passing by the Shaftsbury and seeing five pairs of my own feet sticking out of their dumpster.

So now I just sent in a CV and a picture with a fifty pound note attached. I am pretty sure they are not getting there because I never hear back. Melissa, my agent, says it’s not a good idea but she is getting me nothing. Last thing she got me was a job as a After Dinner Speaker. Obviously I had the material, one doesn’t survive in this industry without collecting amusing tales of the greats, but I was upstaged by the arrival of a chocolate pudding.

Playing Historical Figures

 Historical figures are the most tricky to get right. There’s the fine nuance of character, the level of detail needed to react to the mores of their time. And the tights. I honestly think though that diligent research can help an actor discover treasures to behold.

When I was in the period sitcom ‘That’s My Croft’ it took an enormous amount of background to get my part right. I am very keen on handling my part correctly, and people have often commented that I am a supreme part handler. The comedy was based around Loch (Gordon Jackson) and Sellars (Hugh Paddick), two of the worst croft burners of the early 19^th century. I mean Loch and Sellars, not Jackson and Paddick, neither of whom, as far as I am aware, have ever burnt down a thatched cottage. I say that but I have never read their autobiographies so I am guessing.

I played Wee Jim, a torch holder who stood by with his flaming torch, awaiting his masters’ instruction to set the homes ablaze, while Gordon and Hugh administered a savage beating to the tenants. Although the show never made it to broadcast, the realism of the piece was recognised in the letter from the commissioning editor, referring to the whole episode as ‘truly terrible’.

When I was in ‘Vic and Al’, which was based on the relationship between Queen Victoria and Albert. I was footman number 5, which meant I had to hand Albert his boots during a particularly tricky scene involving a shoe horn. Of course, there were no nineteenth century footmen to ask. How did Footmen handle shoehorns? What was their attitude to shoehorns? Did shoehorns imply a class system inherent in the societal structure or were they just as common as shoes? What were they made of? Who made them? Were there different ones for different shoes? All these questions moved around my mind for eight weeks prior to our first show. That and a problem with a particularly bad tempered gull.

Now my warning; as an actor it is best to absorb than to become obsessed. I would like to apologise to all my fellow Thespians for quizzing them at dunner parties, baptisms and that wedding about shoehorns. I would also like to apologise to Jeffrey Stanley, and his family, as my eulogy was not all it should have been.

That being said there was a total lack of information about shoehorns. I simply had to get this right; the whole play rested on my convincing the audience that, as a Royal Shoehorner, I was the best in the land at that particular time in history. The last thing we needed as a visiting professor of history to stand up in the stalls, mid-performance, and point out my no doubt schoolboy errors. The audience would become restless, no longer respecting the stage, slowly anarchy and violence would follow, spilling out onto the streets growing to mass civil unrest and possibly a revolution. I simply couldn’t risk it. Disappointing an audience is the worst thing a performer can do. Ask Jim Davidson, who now has run out of people and is forced to do his act to a front room full of stuffed toys, all of whom have paid over the odds for tickets, which he paid for. The only benefit being he can write it off as a tax loss.

My search for information started, as many do, in the local library. Miss Geyser, who is the librarian there, remembered something when I entered and moved off quickly to attend to it. Fortunately, she left one of the assistants, Jonathan, to help me on my quest. I told him of my query, and he nodded. I didn’t hold out much hope of help from him; he was absolutely no assistance when I wanted information for my portrayal of Sonic the Hedgehog. Now my shoehorn research was to be hampered by his attitude. The absolute abrogation of information on shoehorns is shameful. Not one book is in either this library or any other in the area. It was nothing sort of a nightmare.

Now, all this time later, I have the time to do something about this. What is life if you can’t add something positive to the world?

To this end I have started my book on shoehorns, their history, users and uses is born. Now I have the time, I can fully dive into this fascinating world. Not only will this compendium contain all knowledge and techniques, it will have pertinent humourous anecdotes and witticisms from throughout history. Once you have read this most mighty of manuscripts, none other will surpass it. Not in this subject, anyway. It shall be the Wisden, Oxford English and Mrs Beaton of shoehornery*.

Penguin have already told me they will get back to me, and Methuen are thinking about it, so the market is clearly there.

Calling my Agent

I have one of those mobile phones. It really is an invaluable tool for agents to contact me with jobs and auditions. That’s what I have been told, anyway. Whenever I am in Melissa’s officeI am impressed by  all the modern equipment, all those time saving gadgets which allow her to fully focus on her clients. Computers, calculators, staplers. I often feel I am back on the bridge of the starship Volavent. For those who never saw ‘Marooned on Mars’, I recommend it. Set in the year 2320, I play Dr David Drax, a surgeon with a dark secret. Sadly, we never found what his secret was as he was unexpectedly killed by a volcano in episode two. But such was the medical advancements in the 24^th century, he came back in episode four, although he was then played by Paul Nicholas.

Of course there was a campaign to get me back; it was nothing personal about Paul’s portrayal, but I was better. Letters were sent, petitions were signed, protests were attended. But Thames stuck to their guns. As it happened, the series only ran for nineteen years so perhaps that gave them cause to think about how they treat people. As I said to the Radio Times, their refusal to take my calls is contemptuous to say the least; they didn’t print my letter but it still stands.

As it happens, I suspect Thames’s’ attitude came back to haunt them; I am a firm believer in kismet, and it is of no comfort to me that in the intervening forty three years many of the cast are dead, unemployed, retired or presenting daytime quiz shows.

At the time I was with Dorian Porke Talent Management. Dorian was a curious mix of showman and business person, This was in the days before mobile phones, and my communication was via a telephone kiosk in Curzon Street. This of course was a problem when Dorian said he would call you back. However, Dorian would often forget and cause you to have to camp out by the phone box just to be sure you didn’t miss an opportunity. I wasn’t the only person on his books, there was Ed Bishop, Roy Dotrice, Thora Hird and Desmond from Desmond and the Deckers. In many ways we became a very small shanty town, with Thora providing us with her ‘Beaker of Broth’ as sustenance through the long winter months. She was lovely, Thora; always there with a cheery smile and home spun wisdom. Although if you got in the way of her answering that phone you’d be picking your teeth up off the pavement.

That was then, this is now. And contacting Melissa is a smooth action. I have her name saved in what I believe they call ‘call list’, although I did have a few issues entering it and unfortunately couldn’t get the keyboard out of the symbols mode. So I always have to watch out for (*&$£##! calling lest I miss out on work.

I rang (*&$£##! this morning as a matter of fact. The girl, Jackie, who works on reception said “We will call you if anything comes in”. I don’t know how she got the job. She always sounds remarkably unenthusiastic when I call. It’s almost as if she is not even checking the rosta.

I do call a little too often I am told. Once every couple of weeks is sufficient, I have been informed. I try to stick to this sort of frequency. I am terrified of calling and finding nothing, only for a big role to come in on the next call which I may miss out on. I have called three or four times in a morning, something which irked them greatly, one of which was made while I was standing by Jackie’s desk.

1960s' experimental theatre

One of the proudest moments of my career was the play ‘Kick It Jackie!’, about the 1966 World Cup Final. The play centered on the winning goal of the match, and explored the emotion and repercussions of the tournament. Myself, Kenneth Williams, John Gielgud, Sir Larry, Michael Caine, Richard Burton and Tommy Steele all featured in this seminal piece of late 60s’ experimental theatre. With dear Ralph Richardson as the ball.

The director, Sweaty Don Orange, was frustrated at first that we had not quite got the nuance of the piece, and advised us all to take an inordinate amount of drugs to really ‘feel’ our roles. Sweaty, as we called him, really did produce an ungodly amount of sweat. His clothes and any furniture he used were literally drenched in his perspiration. As his sodden hand proferred the mushrooms which were to take us to performance nirvana, he uttered a phrase I shall never forget. ‘Get ‘em down ya’.

The brew he had given us was heady indeed. Some of us, like Michael, just sat there talking about posture, but others of us experienced things hitherto undreamt-of. Kenneth Williams became convinced he was a spider, and spun an unlikely web in the corner of the rehearsal rooms and sat there waiting for theatre interns. Sir Larry and John formed a magic act and briefly became the biggest celebrities in Durham, Richard Burton only communicated by ringing bells and Tommy Steele became the Isle of Wight Ferry. I myself ‘came down’ to find myself in Marrakesh selling hand made dream catchers to tourists. Ralph burst.

Of course we all recovered our composure eventually, but the embarrassment was already there and we all decided, to a man, to go our separate ways and never speak of this again. Apart from Tommy, who I understand still makes the journey between Southampton and Fishbourne three times a day.

Using Dinner Parties as a Resource

 Dinner parties are always a joy. For the very presence of so many people, the opportunity to soak up mannerisms and character traits is simply invaluable. Also there’s vol-au-vents. The whole principle of a dinner party can be an examination of society; watching who gravitates to who, who avoids who, who isn’t being spoken to that much despite coming halfway across London in a cab which he is pretty sure took the long way just to garner a few extra quid out of him.

The most recent one was at Terry Holloway’s. Terry is a wonderful actor, but not had an awful lot of work since he was in Tiswas. But Terry is a fine example, he hasn’t let the fact no one wants him in film, theatre, television, advertising, voice overs, print media or radio get him down. Apart from that one occasion he did that hijack, of course. But that’s all water under the bridge now. With the coach.

Looking around the room there’s Trevor Eve. Trevor is a remarkable actor, and watching him is simply a masterclass in how to conduct oneself in these situations. The way he holds the glass, standing there, relaxed, listening to his conversational partner with interest. He takes a sip of wine and with a grace which comes from years of training, he picks up two vol-au-vents, placing one in his pocket. Such mastery. With him is Jim Dale, he of the Carry Ons. I myself have never watched one but apparently they are very funny. Jim does make a thing of reminding people he is the last surviving cast member, which is either something to celebrate or something suspicious. Of course, this allows him to make up all sorts of nonsense about his deceased co-stars, without contradiction, which no doubt he is drenching Trevor in now.

But all that aside, Jim is a consummate professional, and has brought a shoulder bag in which he is collecting the vol-au-vents. A bold move but one must admire the grace with which he pours them from the platter into the bag as it if is the most natural thing in the world. When he puts the bag back to his shoulder I notice a carriage clock, a picture of an old man with a rosette and a bust of Chopin have vanished from the mantle piece.

Glancing to others in the room and my eyes settle on the sublime Joanna Lumley, who has brought her own food to this gathering, and casually lifts several of the nuggets into her mouth (post dipping in sauce). She really is grace personified, using both hands to satisfy her hunger yet her wine remains unspilled, balanced as it is in her cleavage. She’s talking to Michael Palin who is politely listening whilst wiping bits of chicken nugget off his dinner jacket. Michael’s pose is one to take in. Patient, yet firm. Stoic, yet polite. Holding his wine glass in the traditional manner, although one would think he could hold it in many, many ways, having met the indigenous peoples of the world, and witnessed how they hold their glasses of Chardonnay.

In the other corner, Helen Mirren looks sublime, standing alone, aloof. Her dress a victory for womankind, clinging enticingly to every subtle curve. She holds her pint glass with a firm determination; it says to the audience ‘this is mine. Should you have designs on it, I shall be swift and brutal’. She drinks from it like a Viking warrior after a victory, letting the fine nectar pour down her cheeks and dress, a portrait in the power of women.

I was soaking up the characters and every move was noted for future use. This time will not just be educational, it will add to my acting armoury. At this point Terry closed the curtains. But I had seen enough.

The problem with becoming a television icon

 It’s always tense when you meet someone for whom you have been the voice of their product. And it is no different meeting Mike Pervis, owner of Pervis Toilets. I had been the voice of Terry the Terrible Turd for six years! Six years have just flown by! As you know, Terry is a particularly stubborn faecal emission, who refuses to go with his family. But with Perkins Patent Power Flush, he is away on his journey, every time!

It’s not the first time I have been the voice of an entire industry. In the sixties I gained employment as Wool Man, a superhero dedicated to informing people of the power of wool. Then for twenty years I was the character Johnny Brick for Sticklebricks. How well I remember the product phrase “I’m a brick, to bricks I stick, all the fun of Sticklebricks”. Of course this impinged somewhat on other work, and I was oft referred to as ‘complete brick’.

After the scandal involving Murph’s Protein Shakes, I decided to give doing a commercials a break. One doesn’t like being associated with such things; the reporters, the metaphorical and actual stain on your character and the perpetual mental images whenever anyone mentions animal husbandry.

And so we move to Pervis toilets. I first met Mike when he and I were in a Wetherspoons. Mike had just finished dunking my head into the bowl, when he suddenly stopped ‘Wait! ‘aren't I seen you on Z-Cars?’ he queried. I nodded, still gasping for breath. Three dunks later and he said ‘I’m looking for someone to voice an advertisement, you up for it?’ I nodded, barely aware of what he was saying for the lack of oxygen. “Good lad” He said and baptised my head for five seconds before leaving me gasping on the toilet floor with a calling card. “8am, Thursday. Be there” he said as he left. Not the most conventional induction into a job but far nicer than the one for Songs of Praise.

“Alright, Tarqers?” he said, striding across the foyer like he owned the place, which he did. After a handshake, we proceeded to the meeting room. There were sat my competitors, Tony Sarchet, Dave Sparky and Martin Jarvis. Jarvis and I had crossed swords many times. “Hello Tarquin!” he said “Silence” said Pervis, and cuffed Jarvis around his suspiciously damp head.

I’ve never liked cruelty to actors. It is one of the reasons I set up a charity to try and raise awareness and campaign against it. Really Serious Producers Care About Actors was a wonderful thing offering succour to actors who had suffered indignity, insult or injury. Or simply had a poor review. One of our regulars was… I best not name him, I shall use his nickname to protect his sensitivity – one of our regulars was Jimmy Corden. Although he seemed only to need our services when we had a buffet. Many actors came to us, but the problem arose with the abbreviation and within days we were awash with kittens, rabbits and a leopard.

It was then I noticed my competitors were sat on toilets. The fourth throne was labelled ‘McPhereson’ and I duly parked myself upon it’s welcoming porcelain.

Unfortunately at this point I was asked to sign an NDA. Mike is very protective of his company and procedures, as recent court cases prove, and it would not be my place to reveal any of his highly focussed company recruitment techniques. Suffice to say it took all the years of acting, all my knowledge and training, every ounce of theatrical gusto to land this role.

I felt magnificent when I was told I had got the job. I imagined it was much how Caesar felt when his armies conquered Europe. My armies were my talent, and they had served me well. But being in the brotherhood of actors, I felt sorry for my fellow performers. It wasn’t their fault my magnificent talent and personal magnetism had crushed them like a snail under a bull dozer. I did allow myself a small dance of victory whilst they had the bad news in the other room,

As Jarvis went out his previously charming demeanour vanished for a few seconds as he vowed ‘you’ll get yours. I know a wizard’. I’m not a believer in Witchcraft, but Jarvis is known to dabble. How else did he get quite so much work on 4xtra? I dismissed my worries about his supernatural powers. Curiously since then, when visiting Sainsburys, I have not been able to find my favourite coffee. Coincidence? Maybe...

And so a legend was born. Originally I was to be dressed as Terry, and be swimming about in a huge toilet, pretending to fear what was called ‘The Time Of The Flush’. The toilet itself was the size of a small municipal swimming pool, and used in the interview process. I never found out if the flush worked, but there again I never saw Dave Sparky either.

And so Terry became an animatronic creation, in much in the same way as Wallace and Gromit.

And we have continued over the past few years with Terry in various situations, all involving toilets. Obviously a limited scenario to build on, which is why lovely Miriam Margoyles was employed to play the foil, Glenda Piss.

“We’ve decided to stop Terry” said Mike. This was it. No cushioning. No couching the subject for my feelings. This was brutal. Not even any biscuits. To an actor, the end of a job is like the end of a friend; and in this case, my friend had their lives ended and I was sat here with nothing less than their murderer. I enquired why. “Because it’s crap” he said.

I knew it was crap. That was the entire premise of the campaign. The fact it was so convincing was testament to my skills. Indeed, throughout the industry I had become knows as ‘the turd’, such was my consummate performance. One nice thing was the children who recognised me in the street, although they did get the name wrong from time to time. This was no reason to cancel. I reasoned with Mike ‘We could have a TV show’ I said ‘or a movie’ I added ‘or a novelty record! I know someone on Hallam FM’. All of this was lies, of course..

Alas, it was in vane.

“We’ve got another geezer coming in” he said, opening the door. In walked Jarvis. “Hello McPhereson” he said. “Jarvis will do the new ads” said Mike. Jarvis smiled. “good to see you, old chap” Jarvis opined as he offered me his treacherous hand. I’ve never liked being stabbed in the back, I’ve met few actors who do. Apart from my friend Tom Hugenhaugh, who simply adores being betrayed and double crossed, since it gives him something to talk about at dinner parties.

I was determined to leave with my pride and dignity intact; no one likes a scene. And I did call Mike later to pay for a new window.

And so that’s the story. I haven’t seen the new ads with Jarvis. I am sure he will pour all his talent into the project and it will be absolutely adequate.