Mysterious NuBold

One is often asked, as one is something of a local celebrity, to attend functions, seminars, lectures. To give an almost papal blessing by opening supermarkets, theatres, sports facilities and museums. Such is the honour which befell myself when I was asked to do the Tombola at St Marigold's.

St Marigold's is one of the most wonderful diocese in the country, boasting over fifteen hundred people in the small Lincolnshire village, and those that had heard of me turned up to see me spin the old tumbler. I hate large crowds anyway.

It was something of an honour for me to pull out from the barrel the name of the person who has won the Vosene gift basket. Mr Harrington was delighted and gave a small speech, during which he mentioned my good self, although I had to correct him that I was not in fact Ms Windsor.

Calls - a Tarquin in demand

I have this morning received a call from a 'Lawrence', one of the myriad number of interns employed by Sharon, who seemed to be under the impression I was scheduled for an audition this morning. I dislike when agents schedule you to do something and don't tell you. It makes turning up difficult.

As an actor, and I don't know about other actors but I find this to be the case, I need time to think and consider how I will approach any part. For the role of 'man eating toast' in the Rowntree Jam commercial, for example, I spent a week eating nothing but toast. While doing this, I considered what sort of man I was. Was I married? Was I a professional man or one of the workers? How did I relate to my friends? What car did I drive? What was my relationship to my Mother like? How did I react when the cuts to live theatre in the provinces were announced? All these things were, to me, vital if I was to cram in as much pathos, character and meaning as Rowntree has crammed in real apricots.

You may think a lot of this work is wasted; oh no, I reply, waving a correcting but none-the-less stern finger in your direction, it is a vital and living necessity that I portray something like this to the best I can, breathing in realism to every gesture, conveying the meaning of life to this man to the wider public through the medium of eating toast. They would know his joy, his pain, his very soul, exposed for all to see and savour, the essence of the human condition. Through this medium, and using me as a conduit, he would be revealed to the world.

I attended this particular audition with a 108-page dossier of information on the man, his likes for Chopin and the Chemical Brothers, his passion for Bolton Wanderers, the hidden rage which lies behind all unharnessed talent. The director, who couldn't have been older that seven, tossed my information to one side 'You're only here to eat some toast' he said, not realising he'd missed out on my accounts of the man's jury service where he always thought an innocent man had gone to prison, completely negating the tale of the trouble he'd had with local kids trampling over his tomatoes and the ineffectual response of the local Police. The trials and tribulations of his planning permission application for that new patio. He missed all that. “Just eat the bloody toast, McPhereson” said the prepubescent plebe, and eat I jolly well did. Of course, my diet of six loaves of bread every two hours for a fortnight had given me something of a wheat intolerance, but I soldiered on. I tried to imagine I was one of our brave lads during the first world war, trapped in a filthy trench, facing the Somme and the Germans, knowing their new machine gun was waiting to launch the bullet which would end my life. Only replacing the Germans, the Somme and the gun with some toast and the prospect of slight indigestion.

In all my research I had forgotten to actually decide which sort of jam this man would prefer. I was shocked to find I had been dished up raspberry. “Raspberry?” I pondered, incredulously. “This man would not eat raspberry! He is a strawberry man. Strawberry is his perchant, his raison d'etre. His toast camouflage.” A heated argument ensued in which I stated that to do this character credit and give him any credibility at all, it would have to be strawberry or the whole thing would fall down and the whole of Britain would be laughing at our incompetence and unrealistic portrayal, and he put his point that I either did it or piss off.

I ate the jam, but with every mouthful I slowly and surely sank into a deep and loathful mire of despair.

They never called me back.

Lawrence seemed insistent that I had been told but checking my diary I found nothing to indicate such an engagement. Apparently I was to be a henchman in the new Bond film 'Snookerhips'. Or at least audition for one.

Of course, this all comes at a time for me that has been difficult. I have trouble keeping this blog going, partly because of the lack of suitable acting work for someone of my type, but mainly because I had the electricity cut off. And this after I offered to make their commercials for them. I had it all laid out.

Enter King Richard

“Foresooth, doest this bill of electric accurate my usage reflect? To mine knowledge, this seemeth a bit steep. The morrow I shall go and verily gather knowledge of other competitive tariffs in this the so called sector of domesticity”

It goes on to a battle between the Royalists who support Richard whose throne and future is thrown into doubt also in his quest to obtain a better unit base rate for his consumption of power and British Gas.

They didn't even reply. Is this to be the way of things? When I have a conversation with lovely Dame Judi or charming Charlie Dance or even Pongo Hopkins I expect a reply to my words, not an empty void of silence. But these are professionals; these are people who take parts of other people, mannerisms, affectations and in Hopkins case innerds, and turn them into something people can really appreciate. I dare say if there were a few more of them employed by British Gas I would have no problem communicating my financial problems to their customer services.

I envisage the conversation to go thus:

“Hello, thank you for calling British Gas, this is Sir Anthony Hopkins speaking, can I have your account number please”

There then would follow a conversation peppered with anecdotes, trivialities of acting gossip, snippets of information about upcoming productions he may or may not be involved in, all the while sorting out a better payment plan. And of course, should he be in a bad mood, he could use his Hannibal Lecturn character in awkward calls

“I think you people are blood suckers. You have screwed up my direct debit, taking 120 when you said it would be 80 and this has given me a shit load of bank charges, what are you going to do about it, eh?”

“Do you remember, when you were a small boy, you had a owl. And the owl would stare at you, night and day. Where ever you were in the house? And when you grew the owl grew until one day the owl was not there, and that was the day the Priest came to your room...”

“I am so sorry”

“Sorry isn't good enough. Remember... I have your account details on screen. Sleep well.”

That would be a change indeed. Of course, I am in no way suggesting British Gas should start actually eating their customers, although if the notion is raised in future years I would like some sort of recognition.

October

I again am forced to apologise for my tardy postings.

Being an actor, one is forced into a set of circumstances; auditions, applying for auditions, doing auditions, asking the director what it is exactly they want, arguing that the vision they have is not one you share, waiting the call back, hanging around the theatre, finding out where the director lives, finally accosting them in Waitrose dressed as the part you auditioned for (in this case a transexual Viking) and then all the legal and custodial events I shall not bore you with.

It really is rude of people not to do the simply thing of letting one know whether one will be able to afford to eat. You pick up the phone, you call me, and tell me “Sorry, Tarquin, we cannot see you are Eugene this time”. I can take it. I'm not a monster. Contrary to what Mssrs Aldkirk and Weston have claimed, I am professional enough to accept defeat.

I must say though the mafia had a good thing of placing a severed horse's head on the pillow next to their intended victim. I couldn't actually find a horse, and I did feel somewhat odd harming an animal just to make a point, so my decision was right, I think, to use sprouts.

Voodoo is also something which I have found to be ineffective, and I have now disposed of all my dolls and pins.