Oliver Meeke

Tremendously sad to see the death of Oliver Meeke this week. To think it was only 50 years ago we were on the set of the ‘Oh Go On’ film ‘Oh Go On Give Us a Quick Cuppa Tea’, the eighth in the series of ‘Go On’ films. There were 108 in total, all written by the tremendously hardworking Ric Tickel. Tickel went onto such triumphs as ‘Whoops! Where’s my genitals?”, “Up Your Bottom!” and Panorama.

Of course there were the standard reunions and anniversaries, many of which I missed due to other commitments (dentist, Florist and for some reason a gynaecologist). The films had a charm of their own ; an allegory for a more innocent time, a heroic tribute to an earlier era. Not as some people called them ‘crap’.

The Go On films were tremendously popular. Meeke had a laugh which defined the films. Combining a raspy gaffaw with a cheeky bass note and chirpy chuckle, it was a trademark of his own and kept audiences amused and educational psychologists in work. His face too was instantly recognisable, well defined features which could at once portray grief, mirth, triumph, despair, envy, rage, and an allergy to mayonnaise.

But Meeke was so much more than that. He frequently gave to charity; he once told me off set that more single mothers depended on him than he cared to count.

But off screen his life was a tapestry of human experience. A former eel farmer, he came to this country with nothing but the clothes he stood up in and a trunk full of stolen money. From there he worked his way up from Double Glazing salesman, gravel supplier and window repairman to the lofty position of Head of Goals at Fulham football club. Then he left there and decided to fulfil his ambition to be an actor. I remember him coming to me and asking me how I acted. “I want to act” he opined in that unique way. How fitting he should want to find his own technique, his own centre, his own rhythm. “I don’t want to be like you” he said. Of course! Each actor finds his own way, his own interpretation. His own speed of motion. A line delivered by myself maybe delivered completely differently by one of the so-called greats.

For example, a line as innocuous as

            “A punnet of strawberries please”

Could be delivered in a variety of ways. As mysterious, as loving, as threatening. A line like that could indicate malice. In contextural terms it could indicate villainy, perhaps an errant Lord planning a crime, a serial killer whose trademark is a strawberry left at the scene or someone who simply likes strawberries.

A piece of text wrote thus;

            “Your change”

A line full of potential. What change is this? Metaphysical? Biological? The result of some bizarre imperative? some anomaly hitherto unknown to man but through the effort of the protagonist revealed to be a universal truth resulting in a super power beyond the dreams of men? From a Snickers?

That long path to Thespis Excellence was frought with danger. Drying, corpsing, prop failure & appearing with Bobby Davro all waiting to befall the unsuspecting artist. Acting, I told Meeke, was an exploration of the self, a delve into all we are and all we can be. An awakening of the dormant and an exposure of the soul. Plus the wigs itch.

I imparted my knowledge to him. Performed ad hoc passages. Demonstrated my craft. In that flat I exposed all that it was to act. All that I knew. For him to cherry pick what was useful. After quarter of an hour he said that was fine and good and he had it now and was grateful and borrowed £20 to go down the Furrier’s Arms.

Once he had departed I went to my window to wave to him. To my shock several other actors were outside. Blessed, Guinness, Sellers, Connery and Mike and Bernie Winters. Off they went in a most jovial gait to the pub, leaving moi alone, considering his position and his worth and most importantly perhaps, knowing in his heart he will ne’er see his £20 again.

On set all was good. The Go On films were a success for all of us. Betty Mince had her adverts. Tom Gruelbakker had his deal promoting cars. Lovely Michael Gussett was hardly off the screen with his endorsements from everything from yoghurt to surgical trusses. And of course Meeke had his own sitcom, ‘You Foreign Bastards’, about a man who lived next to some foreigners. This was followed by “You Foreign Bastards of a different hue” and “God, am I surrounded by these people”. Probably three of the greatest sitcoms of their age, although the riots which followed every single screening were, and I continue to insist this, coincidental.

The end of the 70s saw the end of the Go On films. The humour had become dated and a several of the cast members had died (two through the catering) so maybe it was best to put the series gently to sleep.

Meeke then was Hollywood bound; the British sense of humour and timing has always been a draw for American audiences, and with his eyebrows he was a sure fire puller. Film after film after award after award followed. The man soared like an Eagle. Year after year his name became bigger, bolder and instantly associated with a hit. By merely mentioning his name you could make money. His name was on everything. Whiskey, diving boards, resuscitation equipment.

Then it all went wrong. Like so many at the top of his game, enough is never enough. Personally I knew Meeke to like either men or women. I don’t think this was a secret. But to be caught in his car on a Los Angeles boulevard performing a sexual act on a stuffed goose. It was too much. Although defence attorneys tried to claim it was consensual, his name had been tarnished beyond repair and doors slammed in his face. And not just taxidermists. The film industry too. Television didn’t want to risk it, radio couldn’t take the chance and even newspapers would take his recipes.

He was finished.

He returned to Britain a broken man, but a wiser one, and it was about this time he met his soon-to-be wife Melissa. Meeting as they did during an incident at the Natural History Museum, she swept him off his feet and, in his words ‘handcuffed my heart as well’.

Following his release from Rehab, the two were married in a private, personal ceremony with just four thousand people attending. Apparently. I couldn’t go anyway, I was having my shoe repaired.

And now this. Meeke no more. I can imagine him now, looking down on me. “McPhereson. It is your duty to uphold the baton” he would be saying, with no real intention of making a pun on my part time job in Subways. “Uphold the baton of what it is to be a British Actor” he would be saying. And I just wish producers could hear him. “You should be on telly in your own series. Look at some of the rubbish they have on now. You’re miles better than that lot” he would be saying “Stupid bloody BBC, bet they haven’t rung you back have they? You want me to have a word with God? Smite their Media City with Gonorrhea

 and scurvy? I can make him reign fire on them or even flood the whole land and kill those who ignore your great talent”. I smile when I think of him saying that. But no, Oliver. No. I shall persevere. I don’t need help or the destruction of Manchester just to get my own show.

“BBC? More like Bunch of twats!” his ethereal spirit is probably shouting.

Rest in Peace, Oliver. Rest in Peace.