Soap

One of the reasons I haven't been posting of late is the fact my diary has been full of opportunity and when the lady of opportunity knocks, well, it's a good idea to open the door and not have her peer in through the windows and have to resort to calling a locksmith, her main concern being you may be inside trapped under something heavy or involved in a tragic sex game accident.

Fortunately neither of these things had befell me and I received a call – which we will call a call and not a knock – from a charming young lady called Felicity who informed me I was up for a part in a popular BBC Soap. I expressed my surprised, and was more surprised when the answer came 'not as surprised as I was'. Obviously they thought such a talent as myself would not stoop as low as to appear in 'bubblegum' television, but they had thought wrong. Chew on, I say.

Arriving at BBC Elstree, I was amazed by the security. Bag searches, frisks, pat downs and various documentation produced, examined, scanned and handed back. Sitting on my own in a paper suit in the gate keepers office, it was eventually confirmed no bomb, weapon or disruptive device was about my person (by methods to gruesome to describe here) and I was granted admittance to the hallows.

Elstree is a remarkable place. If ever there was a world of make believe, where anything is possible, where you can walk from a 16^th century street to the bridge of a majestic star ship in a few paces without borrowing Keith Richards' talcum powder, this is it.

All the greats have at one time or another worked here. Olivier. Sellers. Hull. It is difficult not to be in awe of the corridors; of the seats; of the canteen where in days gone by the legendary sat down to some spaghetti or complained about sitting next to Peter Purves. I shouldn't say anything really but Purves is, as we call in the trade, an elbow.

What it is is this; Purves likes his grub, and, like some dimple chinned traction engine, won't let anyone come between it and him. One recalls the story, blood thirsty and violent though it is, of the green salad incident. Or the beans on toast outrage. Or the coverage of the now legendary carnage which was the lasagne. Purves' elbows have been known to work at speeds unbeknownst to man and science, and for a while he had to do without them as Area 51 confiscated them to study their propulsion for military use. Of course, the idea was abandoned when it was discovered the only way to get the planes to fly to that speed was to have a bowl of potato salad moving slightly faster in front of them. And idea which, obviously, was rejected.

And so I reach my makeup room. Here I am to be doused in the finest powders, inks, paint and pencil to become my role, that of Henry Bule, car salesman. A cheeky chappie indeed, with a colourful past and a perchant for murder. I shouldn't really but Bules' story arc is thus;

Arrives ; Sets up car lot ; fights ; has affair ; marries ; has another affair ; has a party at which things are revealed ; has a breakdown ; buys a sausage machine ; has affair ; has affair ; has affair ; has a pint ; has another affair before being mown down by the town hardman in a motor scooter.

All in all it should be a thrilling episode.