So March comes to an end and to be honest I won’t be
displeased to see the back of it. Some sad losses this month. Brian Grout,
whose ceaseless encouragement when everyone else were doubting me was a real
set of inflatable armbands. Hannah French, who I have to say I had and on and
off friendship with, after she reprimanded me for burping at the BAFTAs. No one
would have noticed had she not heckled me. And critic Damus Lionio. I can’t say
I was particularly sorry personally to read of his passing, and I wasn’t
surprised to read the lurid details of his demise (even though I will never
look at a tangerine the same again).
I hate critics as a rule. I find them terribly ungrateful.
Some of them have never even tried to act, and I suspect if they did don the mantel
of some Jacobian rogue or errant Victorian ne’er dowell I would venture to
suggest they would flounder like they wrongly claimed I did.
Firstly, it was not my fault that the musket didn’t fire on
the night they were there. Muskets are notoriously difficult to operate and the
five minutes between my ‘Die you Dutch scum!’ declaration and my final shot
into Derek Nimmo (who may I say was an absolute dear and waited patiently for
me to kill him, and at one point breaking into a song to asway a restless audience).
And as for the indecent exposure due to wear and tear while playing Marlo in
the 1600s drama ‘Idem eadem idem vetus fabula’ I can only say I carried on, and some in the
crowd were impressed with my improvisation of where I wore my hat.
There were however lines to be drawn. These lines are
invisible but obvious to all who perform and all who watch. Criticise our work,
critique our performance but when the vendetta becomes personal…
Such was the case with Simon Rider, arts editor for the
Thames Valley Eye. Never has such a man launched such a personal attack on one
of the greatest theatrical treasures this country has ever produced, ie: Me.
His death doesn’t sorrow me in the least, although I did have to explain my
whereabouts to the Police on the night in question.
Me : I was at
the Lyric, in Henri Lamarrs’ ‘Voyage Into Damnation’, young man
Officer : Anyone
coroberate that, Sir?
Me : The
audience, you cretinous plebe.
Officer : Anyone who
knows you?
Me : The other
cast members, you blundering nincompoop.
Although he did have trouble with the cast confirming I was
anything to do with the production (a technical thing, I am sure), he did
manage to contact all four audience members and a man who sold me some ice
cream. A man who actually short changed me to the sum of thirty nine pence. I
did mention this to plod but he seemed far more interested in investigating
this ‘murder’ business. My faulty financial transaction was apparently of no
interest at all. One of the problems one finds with modern policing is this
attitude. I pointed out to the young man, who, by the way probably still had
his Geography homework to do – he really was that young – That they have a body
and a list of suspects. It’s a jigsaw for them to solve. But while they are
waiting for all those tedious tests and cutting up of the body and all that malarkey,
I am down thirty nine pence and I know the culprit. I can point him out. I know
where he works and dammit he will be there tonight. It’s an easy arrest and a
crime which no sane jury in Britain would not convict, and convict hard. An
easy case. But no, they prefer a ‘challenge’. I briefly considered vigilante
action against this foul stain on the human race, but I suspect I may have
given myself away to the Police already as harbouring a grudge and put myself
in the frame should anything happen to him. Besides, murder before a
performance puts such a crimp on ones’ emoting.
Rider was a man who made many enemies. Of which I pride
myself as King. He criticised everything I was in, everything I did, and even
had a go at me one night when I was not working about the way I ate spaghetti.
Miss him I shall not.
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