Christmas for Actors

Christmas is of course a time for actors. Firstly there’s all the books actors publish. This year for example, John Gordon Sinclair has brought out a book about his favourite puddings, Jeremy Irons has a tome detailing what he likes to do with balsa wood and Derek Jacobi has a compendium of hilarious stories involving togas. Of course, they would not be able to offer such riches to the public if they were working, but one has to take the filthy lucre when one is offered. My book, which I am working on between engagements, is called ‘Mysteries of Coventry’. I am afraid it doesn’t do the strange and mysterious in the City justice, given the mere three thousand pages, but my editor assures me it’s thoroughly absorbent material.

Writing is a tremendous outlet for an actor. It allows us to get under the hood of a project, to poke around at the distributor and carburettor, to fiddle with the intricacies of the radiator cap. Normally we are but the driver, heading on a predetermined route, but actually writing allows us to prod and examine the engine of a story, to get our hands dirty, bang our heads on the bonnet when standing up and finally calling in the AA.

Of course, many actors use Christmas to tell the public a little bit more about themselves, as if detailing the tough time they had in school somehow excuses them for the awful acting they subject us to later. audiences are going to say ‘We can’t say this sitcom based in a department store is bad, he was assaulted with a hot crumpet between geography and double maths. But I do like his moustache.’. Audiences simply don’t work like that. Sad for us, but they prefer an actor to be good, as opposed to bad, and this is where many of the pleas for clemency fall flat.

Of course, being ‘in the biz’ means I am privy to a lot of scandal, and I have to be careful about it. I don’t want to get a reputation as a blabber mouth. No, the number of famous actors who confided in me deeds and doings which would surely cause consternation should they leak to the cheaper end of the press for a cash payment of, say, £30,000 is legion. My loyalty to fellow thesps and their confidences is rock solid, and should I be approached in the Duck and Cucumber on a Friday night around ten past eight I shall prove that. Unless it’s a bank holiday in which case probably a Thursday.

Of course, books are not the only form of re-enumeration for otherwise inactive performers

. ‘The Devil Writes Sitcoms For Idle hands’ is the saying in our profession. There are personal appearances. I well remember seeing Martin Shaw doing a signing session a few years ago. This is a marvellous way of getting a few quid just for scribbling your name. He was outside Superdrug signing shampoos, paracetamol and prophylactics, before some prole came and moved him on, but not before he’d unwittingly signed a contact to do another series of Judge John Deed. Benedict Cumberbatch was another one I spied with the pen applying his moniker to things. When I say pen I mean spray can and when I say things I mean the wall outside the BBC.

Hanging around outside the BBC around Christmas time used to be a tremendous business decision. Directors and producers would go in, some would notice you, you’d stand in front of them and as if on cue you would do your audition piece. Of course now it’s a lot less dangerous as most of them are not in their cars. Lovely Stratford Johns was a pro at this, stopping a producer and doing an entire vaudeville tribute, and if there was no joy from said producer he sponged down their windows and asked for a fiver. Of course you would always do it to the front of the building, the rear was the territory of Ross Kemp, who demanded a fee just to be there. Any work which was offered as a result of being at the back of TV Centre Kemp took from the performer, laughing as he grabbed their script and pushed them into traffic. It backfired one year though when he accidentality was contracted to play what is widely considered to be the worst Miss Marple ever.

Another way of getting a bit of work over Xmas is to put it about you have something horrendous. And by horrendous I am not talking about a six week engagement in a Ray Cooney in Newquay. I mean either a malady or personal situation which would highlight to the hoi polloi that even though you are successful, famous, desperately talented and lauded by friends and foes alike, tragedy can strike you as readily as anyone else. If you choose a illness, it should be something no-infectious. Peter Ustinov once claimed to have something to garner a bit of attention, but the only attention he got was two men in hazmat suits ushering him into a van. No, if you are going to say bedevilment has befallen you, think it through. And carefully. If you have to, make something up. I remember a lovely actor, who will remain nameless, who had not really worked since the Goon Show. ‘Harry,’ I said ‘the best way to get back in front of people is to be in the papers and the best way of doing that is to tell them something’. He did, and less than twenty five years later he was heading Songs of Praise. Of course, those steeped in show business lore will know of whom I speak, but to the vast swathes of the British public, it shall remain an enigma.

My own discovery of this method of self-promotion came when I was experiencing a particularly fallow period. I had taken a job washing plates at Ivory Street Tandoori Restaurant. Mr Balouff, the owner, had recognised me from my Tonka Toy commercial, and been full of praise at the interview. And despite the comment in the references from Martin Jarvis, had taken me on. (I used to use Jarvis for references, but stopped in the mid 70s when I was looking to get some work in a zoo and he kindly told them – in confidence – that I should not be left alone with the llamas). This particular reference stated that I should only be hired if Mr Balouff was prepared to walk into the kitchen unexpectedly and see me dipping my buttocks in the porridge. As it happens it’s rare for a Tandoori restaurant to serve porridge. So it didn’t bother Mr Balouff. What did bother him is when Russell T. Davies was enjoying a meal and I took my leave from the sink to perform my Hamlet/Odd Couple/Songs from the Shows/Impressions at his table. Davies looked on as I auditioned for him. All the time my pulse raced, what role would he give me? How much work would I garner as a result? Finishing on a tap dance (slightly out of place on a shagpile carpet) I awaited his verdict.

Unemployment is a terrible thing but something one is used to as an actor. Having decided the career progression available in Mr Balouff’s eatery was not one I wished to pursue, we agreed it was holding me back from other more socially suitable work.