Apologies

Once again I find myself proffering apologies and humbly offering my sincere sorrow for my lack of posts.

To explain : Being an actor sometimes means you are immersed in parts. Sometimes just to get the part. Although I have never been party to what is known in the trade as 'couch casting', I have heard stories, seen pictures and in one case been discovered observing from a wardrobe.

Many of my contemporaries have, in younger, leaner times, succumbed to the lure of the producers' whim. Gaffeny Fallows is one. Sophia Kaiser. And who would have thought the famed Sir Montague Hume could stoop so low? (I have pictures).

I am of course using pseudonyms because these people don't wish it to be known that their big break followed a lot of panting and a quiet cigarette. I myself have relied on my talent alone to get me where I am today, and it is therefore with pride I can announce ability only has landed me the lead this winter in the Abercynon Players production of Mother Goose. Oh, it may not be Tolkiens' The Habit or Jim Bond, but I have principles I stick by. I will not and have never contrived to cross the line. Tarquin McPhereson can hold his head up high.

So, to catch up.

Babby Windsor rang me up, and asked if I would like to go to Spain for six months to film a production of Don Quixote. You can guess my answer, to which lovely Babs laughed and said 'I bet you fucking would' and slammed the phone down. Hurriedly I dialled 1471 and then the 3 to continue discussions of my involvement in the project, but for some reason – BT is not what it used to be – got through to Yogish Keebab House on Fulham High Road. Knowing Babs loves a Donner with chilli sauce after a night of revelery, I asked if she was still on the premises. The answer was blunt, to the point and, in an elegant yet rhetorical way, questioned my parentage, sexual prowess and attitude to cattle.

I rang Babs at home and was curtly informed she had made no such call and more importantly, who was I to ring her up at 12.35 in the morning asking about Turkish cuisine. The call ended abruptly with a man who more or less posed the same sort of questions as the proprietor of the fast food shop, albeit with some spicier terms relating to my bowel movements.

I can take it. As an actor you develop a hard shell. People can – and do - throw insults at me and it's all water off a ducks back. It's what you do that matters, not peoples' reaction to it. Not audiences, not theatre managers or angry casting agencies. If they want to shout and stamp that's up to them. If they want to follow you down the street shouting, it's their time they are wasting. If they want to form angry fork bearing posses with the sole purpose of 'punishing' me, well, that's just the business I am proud to be in.

Critics are the worst. These people are often frustrated actors who have not made it, and therefore feel obliged somehow to hold back those whose talent casts a dark shadow. They are parasites. Their views mean nothing. They have no insight, nothing to say and no understanding of the actors' craft. On closer examination I make no apology for stating the fact these people are, in fact, scum. Of course, people will point to the copious reviews I have had, many have which have had the temerity to critisize everything from my acting, movements, speaking, gestures and prop handling to my actual suitability as an actor. Some of which were in the same review!

My arch nemesis is of course George Pope. Pope is a freelance critic, known for his savage reviews of films, television and theatre. Mention Popes' name to any actor and see the colour veritably drain from the face, the hands tremble and the cowering in the corner begin. I remember one particularly brutal comment on a Gloucester playhouse production of 'The Importance of being Earnest', which so irked the cast they, the theatre manager and several of the front of house staff were never seen again, and all that could be found was an antique parasol and a set of dentures on Western Super Mare beach. Coupled with the copius footprints leading into the sea and some scenery which was floating atop the water. It is said that for weeks after the citizens on that fair town had Wilde coming out of their taps.

Pope has had the temerity to have a go at me from time to time. It started with when I was in Z-Cars. I played Alf Cheesy, a rum cove if ever there was one. He had been caught selling ice cream from a van with not MOT certificate. As the investigation intensified and the net closed in, my character became increasingly careless. Spilling strawberry sauce and dropping cones. Then, after the gun battle and car chase he was finally caught. His fate sealed by the trapped hundreds and thousands in the crease of his trousers. At this point I had a line. The line.

The Line is something all actors hanker after yet few get to articulate. Jimmy Cagney had 'I could have been a contender!'. Humphrey Bogart had 'Of all the bars' and Kenneth Williams had 'oooooooooo'.