I shall not bore you with the whys and
wherefores of this decision. Except to say my resignation took me
entirely by surprise.
The story arc was to go on for a few
more months, or so I was given to believe.
My character, Eric Bryce, was a chirpy
car salesman with a dark, mysterious secret.
In fact, here is the brief I was given
:
Eric Bryce, is a chirpy car salesman
with a dark, mysterious secret.
Backstory:
Bryce has been selling cars for
forty one years, and is an expert not only on classic vehicles, but
also on medieval torture devices and exotic fruit. He was married to
Marion for seventeen years, before she disappeared in a mysterious
boating accident at home in Halifax.
He has two children, Wailen and
Myandra, who are twins. He is scared of owls.
I played Bryce with
the pathos and drama the part deserved, and spent several hours on a
car lot in Houndslow learning about car sales, techniques and
methodology. I have six old Datsuns and a minibus with a cracked
camshaft to back this up. I researched the clothes such a person
would wear and went out and bought a sheepskin jacket, a musty suit
and a shirt. Rarely has an actor wanted to get a part 'right' as I
have for this role. I even spent a weekend with a BBC Sound effects
record impersonating engines.
What do I find when
I get on set. That this role has changed since the original brief and
now I am expected to play a transgender car salesman with a perchant
for having sex with damp laundary.
I voiced my
concerns to the all too young director, who looked up from his
geography homework (I am joking) and said “Dahling, you are an
actor. Act”
The rumour mill has
started already I see. Looking at the feedback on the soap website,
the decision has been met with almost universal surprise. The words
'terrible' and 'decision' feature heavily, as do 'acting' and
'right'.
Let me tell you
something now; I am not a man who is quick to anger. When Tom Conti
trod on my foot outside Oddbins that Saturday, did I say a word? When
Sir Paul McCartney turned me down for the part of 'mysterious man
third from the left' in Give my Regards to Broad Street, did I
venture a tear (I didn't, and I also didn't write those letters –
where would I get the blood?), or did my stage fight turned real to
the death squabble with a certain highly prized thesp ever do any
real harm? (now a Dame). No. But this had the effect of making my
plasma be drained, placed in a bowl and put in the microwave and made
very hot indeed, with a resounding ping when optimum temperature was
reached. I think there is a phrase for this but it escapes me.
I rang Equity on
the morning of my departure to see where I stood. The sarcastic reply
of 'why don't you try Google Maps' was not welcome. I informed them
who I was, and that I had been sacked from my transgender car lot
before realising I was talking to Pizza Express.
Modern technology
baffles me. How these youngsters master the Hinternet or any of the
myriad communication devices is a ongoing puzzle. I am still
struggling with the pen with the popper thing which makes the nib
disappear.
Having finished my
family feast, I tried again to talk to Equity.
More bloody
battles. Apparently I have not been in Equity since 1986, when my
cheese commercial ('Oooo, what's that smell?') aired and no one could
think of me without cheese or vice versa. There was a happy job. All
I had to do was flex my nostrils and ask Dora Bryan what the smell
was and she would present me with a plate of curd, the like of which
Caesar himself would have been surprised by. “Oooo, what's the
smell?” became a national catchphrase, t-shirts, posters and all
sorts were printed, although it was replaced shortly afterwards, as
many passing fads are in this transient age, by the shorter more
succinct phrase 'gas'.
Apparently they are
very reluctant to help you if you are not 'paid up'. Surely if you
pay and nothing happens then you can sit back and wait for something
to happen? If I pay for a washing machine, and have no clothes to
wash one week, does the washing machine cease to exist? No. I put
this logic to Damien at the enquiries desk, and was surprised my
eloquence was on loudspeaker. What surprised me even more was the
Damien mentioned some of my work, in what I considered to be a
scornful manner. I remonstrated with him about his cheek, and asked
what he had done of any worth.
Apparently Damiens'
father is something big in Sky television. Damien has his own show
where he hunts down celebrities and feeds them bolognaise. Instantly
this struck a chord with me. What a fantastic idea. Damien is
obviously a visionary and someone to watch, and I wasn't afraid to
tell him so. I dislike praising people but he was so destined for
great things and if I could be of any help to him at all, well, he
only had to ask.
He said he would
get back to me.
I love networking.
Stuff you, BBC, Sky know good programming. And they might need a
minibus.
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