Applications - Mastering the first impression

 

Once again I am full the brim and the saucer with apologies for a delay in posting. It has been a very busy time for me, as it is with all actors. Christmas sees a wealth of opportunity, and if you do not pounce someone else will. In fact, the whole season is based about pouncing. There are some in the ‘biz’ who are superb pouncers. One thinks of Bradley Walsh, Patterson Joseph and Pauline Quirk. If I had to name a Pounce Master it would surely be Martin Jarvis. That man will pounce even when there is nothing to pounce on.

Pouncing is another key art actors should possess. It’s not taught in colleges and it really should have an entire term, because it is, in itself, an art. I’ve often opined to Jarvis about going on the road, maybe lecturing in the techniques he uses, but I don’t know if he picked up my voicemails.

But to watch him in action is simply sublime. Jarvis is a legend in pouncing circles. Firstly, he hears of an acting job. His ears flap and he somehow becomes larger. He’s like a pigeon, fluffing his feathers. Although he doesn’t try and clean mites out from his armpit. Then he analyses whether the job would be for him. His mind is like a computer, knowing precisely his range and capabilities, how they would fit into the vacancy. Then he looks at the money and finds all his skills fit exactly. Then letters are written, calls are made and in extreme cases, negatives are taken out of the drawer and prints anonymously sent. The job falls in his lap. It’s sheer poetry.

Bonnie Langford is another actor who has a different approach. Apparently, Ms Langford, or Bruiser Bonnie as she is known, gets her roles by a method only previously employed by the Kray twins. I remember her going for a role once, attained it and been in three episodes before the man auditioning her had even got to Outpatients.

Of course, I tend to leave such mundane tasks to my agent, Melissa, although my confidence in her and her staff has waned after I rang once and was told they thought I was dead. I was abit taken aback, but I said ‘Ah, that’s why you have not called’ which was met with ‘Uh...yeah’.

One job I did enjoy was Mr Kevin to the glove puppet Terry the Toucan. I’d got the part when Derek Griffiths rang me and told me of ‘a load of old crap’ ITV were planning. Instantly I knew I should apply. I knew Baz Molan, the producer. I’d used his toilet once when I was hiking in the Lake District and fortunately he bad forgotten. I reminded him of the time and he instantly remembered and sent me an invoice for a £30 unblocking fee. I paid and then I was in. It was the independent television answer to a fox which appeared on another channel. We got quite an audience with our witty repartee, which obviously went over the audiences’ heads because there were cuts and I ended up sat at a desk with a sock. And because of Equity laws at the time, I wasn’t allowed to even put my hand in it. Finally, it was cancelled. But it was a network show and thus propelled me into the limelight. I felt I should rest for a while though. I didn’t want to be known as ‘that man who talks to an empty sock’.

Where was I? Oh, yes.

I myself have developed a rudimentary method. Firstly, I will scan the Stage for vacancies which I may apply for. For this I need to examine the requirements of the advertisement against my age, skills and availability. I am very strict about this as there is no point applying for a role which is not a good fit. I set the barrier at 4%, and anything over that is fair game.

It is often a good idea to be original. Originally what I used to do was envisage the character I was applying to portray, and call the number as that character. Although I did ring a wrong number once and spent a fortnight in Bristol as an elephant. It is also very difficult making a coherent phone call as a fifteenth century Dutch Prince. Get to the sixth foresooth and you can bet you are talking to yourself.

Many actors send a headshot and resume, but this is not going to get you noticed. After the elephant incident, I had a number of lifesize cardboard cutouts of myself made, all holding my resume on their chest. It was a considerable investment, and one I curtailed after passing by the Shaftsbury and seeing five pairs of my own feet sticking out of their dumpster.

So now I just sent in a CV and a picture with a fifty pound note attached. I am pretty sure they are not getting there because I never hear back. Melissa, my agent, says it’s not a good idea but she is getting me nothing. Last thing she got me was a job as a After Dinner Speaker. Obviously I had the material, one doesn’t survive in this industry without collecting amusing tales of the greats, but I was upstaged by the arrival of a chocolate pudding.

Playing Historical Figures

 Historical figures are the most tricky to get right. There’s the fine nuance of character, the level of detail needed to react to the mores of their time. And the tights. I honestly think though that diligent research can help an actor discover treasures to behold.

When I was in the period sitcom ‘That’s My Croft’ it took an enormous amount of background to get my part right. I am very keen on handling my part correctly, and people have often commented that I am a supreme part handler. The comedy was based around Loch (Gordon Jackson) and Sellars (Hugh Paddick), two of the worst croft burners of the early 19^th century. I mean Loch and Sellars, not Jackson and Paddick, neither of whom, as far as I am aware, have ever burnt down a thatched cottage. I say that but I have never read their autobiographies so I am guessing.

I played Wee Jim, a torch holder who stood by with his flaming torch, awaiting his masters’ instruction to set the homes ablaze, while Gordon and Hugh administered a savage beating to the tenants. Although the show never made it to broadcast, the realism of the piece was recognised in the letter from the commissioning editor, referring to the whole episode as ‘truly terrible’.

When I was in ‘Vic and Al’, which was based on the relationship between Queen Victoria and Albert. I was footman number 5, which meant I had to hand Albert his boots during a particularly tricky scene involving a shoe horn. Of course, there were no nineteenth century footmen to ask. How did Footmen handle shoehorns? What was their attitude to shoehorns? Did shoehorns imply a class system inherent in the societal structure or were they just as common as shoes? What were they made of? Who made them? Were there different ones for different shoes? All these questions moved around my mind for eight weeks prior to our first show. That and a problem with a particularly bad tempered gull.

Now my warning; as an actor it is best to absorb than to become obsessed. I would like to apologise to all my fellow Thespians for quizzing them at dunner parties, baptisms and that wedding about shoehorns. I would also like to apologise to Jeffrey Stanley, and his family, as my eulogy was not all it should have been.

That being said there was a total lack of information about shoehorns. I simply had to get this right; the whole play rested on my convincing the audience that, as a Royal Shoehorner, I was the best in the land at that particular time in history. The last thing we needed as a visiting professor of history to stand up in the stalls, mid-performance, and point out my no doubt schoolboy errors. The audience would become restless, no longer respecting the stage, slowly anarchy and violence would follow, spilling out onto the streets growing to mass civil unrest and possibly a revolution. I simply couldn’t risk it. Disappointing an audience is the worst thing a performer can do. Ask Jim Davidson, who now has run out of people and is forced to do his act to a front room full of stuffed toys, all of whom have paid over the odds for tickets, which he paid for. The only benefit being he can write it off as a tax loss.

My search for information started, as many do, in the local library. Miss Geyser, who is the librarian there, remembered something when I entered and moved off quickly to attend to it. Fortunately, she left one of the assistants, Jonathan, to help me on my quest. I told him of my query, and he nodded. I didn’t hold out much hope of help from him; he was absolutely no assistance when I wanted information for my portrayal of Sonic the Hedgehog. Now my shoehorn research was to be hampered by his attitude. The absolute abrogation of information on shoehorns is shameful. Not one book is in either this library or any other in the area. It was nothing sort of a nightmare.

Now, all this time later, I have the time to do something about this. What is life if you can’t add something positive to the world?

To this end I have started my book on shoehorns, their history, users and uses is born. Now I have the time, I can fully dive into this fascinating world. Not only will this compendium contain all knowledge and techniques, it will have pertinent humourous anecdotes and witticisms from throughout history. Once you have read this most mighty of manuscripts, none other will surpass it. Not in this subject, anyway. It shall be the Wisden, Oxford English and Mrs Beaton of shoehornery*.

Penguin have already told me they will get back to me, and Methuen are thinking about it, so the market is clearly there.

Calling my Agent

I have one of those mobile phones. It really is an invaluable tool for agents to contact me with jobs and auditions. That’s what I have been told, anyway. Whenever I am in Melissa’s officeI am impressed by  all the modern equipment, all those time saving gadgets which allow her to fully focus on her clients. Computers, calculators, staplers. I often feel I am back on the bridge of the starship Volavent. For those who never saw ‘Marooned on Mars’, I recommend it. Set in the year 2320, I play Dr David Drax, a surgeon with a dark secret. Sadly, we never found what his secret was as he was unexpectedly killed by a volcano in episode two. But such was the medical advancements in the 24^th century, he came back in episode four, although he was then played by Paul Nicholas.

Of course there was a campaign to get me back; it was nothing personal about Paul’s portrayal, but I was better. Letters were sent, petitions were signed, protests were attended. But Thames stuck to their guns. As it happened, the series only ran for nineteen years so perhaps that gave them cause to think about how they treat people. As I said to the Radio Times, their refusal to take my calls is contemptuous to say the least; they didn’t print my letter but it still stands.

As it happens, I suspect Thames’s’ attitude came back to haunt them; I am a firm believer in kismet, and it is of no comfort to me that in the intervening forty three years many of the cast are dead, unemployed, retired or presenting daytime quiz shows.

At the time I was with Dorian Porke Talent Management. Dorian was a curious mix of showman and business person, This was in the days before mobile phones, and my communication was via a telephone kiosk in Curzon Street. This of course was a problem when Dorian said he would call you back. However, Dorian would often forget and cause you to have to camp out by the phone box just to be sure you didn’t miss an opportunity. I wasn’t the only person on his books, there was Ed Bishop, Roy Dotrice, Thora Hird and Desmond from Desmond and the Deckers. In many ways we became a very small shanty town, with Thora providing us with her ‘Beaker of Broth’ as sustenance through the long winter months. She was lovely, Thora; always there with a cheery smile and home spun wisdom. Although if you got in the way of her answering that phone you’d be picking your teeth up off the pavement.

That was then, this is now. And contacting Melissa is a smooth action. I have her name saved in what I believe they call ‘call list’, although I did have a few issues entering it and unfortunately couldn’t get the keyboard out of the symbols mode. So I always have to watch out for (*&$£##! calling lest I miss out on work.

I rang (*&$£##! this morning as a matter of fact. The girl, Jackie, who works on reception said “We will call you if anything comes in”. I don’t know how she got the job. She always sounds remarkably unenthusiastic when I call. It’s almost as if she is not even checking the rosta.

I do call a little too often I am told. Once every couple of weeks is sufficient, I have been informed. I try to stick to this sort of frequency. I am terrified of calling and finding nothing, only for a big role to come in on the next call which I may miss out on. I have called three or four times in a morning, something which irked them greatly, one of which was made while I was standing by Jackie’s desk.

1960s' experimental theatre

One of the proudest moments of my career was the play ‘Kick It Jackie!’, about the 1966 World Cup Final. The play centered on the winning goal of the match, and explored the emotion and repercussions of the tournament. Myself, Kenneth Williams, John Gielgud, Sir Larry, Michael Caine, Richard Burton and Tommy Steele all featured in this seminal piece of late 60s’ experimental theatre. With dear Ralph Richardson as the ball.

The director, Sweaty Don Orange, was frustrated at first that we had not quite got the nuance of the piece, and advised us all to take an inordinate amount of drugs to really ‘feel’ our roles. Sweaty, as we called him, really did produce an ungodly amount of sweat. His clothes and any furniture he used were literally drenched in his perspiration. As his sodden hand proferred the mushrooms which were to take us to performance nirvana, he uttered a phrase I shall never forget. ‘Get ‘em down ya’.

The brew he had given us was heady indeed. Some of us, like Michael, just sat there talking about posture, but others of us experienced things hitherto undreamt-of. Kenneth Williams became convinced he was a spider, and spun an unlikely web in the corner of the rehearsal rooms and sat there waiting for theatre interns. Sir Larry and John formed a magic act and briefly became the biggest celebrities in Durham, Richard Burton only communicated by ringing bells and Tommy Steele became the Isle of Wight Ferry. I myself ‘came down’ to find myself in Marrakesh selling hand made dream catchers to tourists. Ralph burst.

Of course we all recovered our composure eventually, but the embarrassment was already there and we all decided, to a man, to go our separate ways and never speak of this again. Apart from Tommy, who I understand still makes the journey between Southampton and Fishbourne three times a day.

Using Dinner Parties as a Resource

 Dinner parties are always a joy. For the very presence of so many people, the opportunity to soak up mannerisms and character traits is simply invaluable. Also there’s vol-au-vents. The whole principle of a dinner party can be an examination of society; watching who gravitates to who, who avoids who, who isn’t being spoken to that much despite coming halfway across London in a cab which he is pretty sure took the long way just to garner a few extra quid out of him.

The most recent one was at Terry Holloway’s. Terry is a wonderful actor, but not had an awful lot of work since he was in Tiswas. But Terry is a fine example, he hasn’t let the fact no one wants him in film, theatre, television, advertising, voice overs, print media or radio get him down. Apart from that one occasion he did that hijack, of course. But that’s all water under the bridge now. With the coach.

Looking around the room there’s Trevor Eve. Trevor is a remarkable actor, and watching him is simply a masterclass in how to conduct oneself in these situations. The way he holds the glass, standing there, relaxed, listening to his conversational partner with interest. He takes a sip of wine and with a grace which comes from years of training, he picks up two vol-au-vents, placing one in his pocket. Such mastery. With him is Jim Dale, he of the Carry Ons. I myself have never watched one but apparently they are very funny. Jim does make a thing of reminding people he is the last surviving cast member, which is either something to celebrate or something suspicious. Of course, this allows him to make up all sorts of nonsense about his deceased co-stars, without contradiction, which no doubt he is drenching Trevor in now.

But all that aside, Jim is a consummate professional, and has brought a shoulder bag in which he is collecting the vol-au-vents. A bold move but one must admire the grace with which he pours them from the platter into the bag as it if is the most natural thing in the world. When he puts the bag back to his shoulder I notice a carriage clock, a picture of an old man with a rosette and a bust of Chopin have vanished from the mantle piece.

Glancing to others in the room and my eyes settle on the sublime Joanna Lumley, who has brought her own food to this gathering, and casually lifts several of the nuggets into her mouth (post dipping in sauce). She really is grace personified, using both hands to satisfy her hunger yet her wine remains unspilled, balanced as it is in her cleavage. She’s talking to Michael Palin who is politely listening whilst wiping bits of chicken nugget off his dinner jacket. Michael’s pose is one to take in. Patient, yet firm. Stoic, yet polite. Holding his wine glass in the traditional manner, although one would think he could hold it in many, many ways, having met the indigenous peoples of the world, and witnessed how they hold their glasses of Chardonnay.

In the other corner, Helen Mirren looks sublime, standing alone, aloof. Her dress a victory for womankind, clinging enticingly to every subtle curve. She holds her pint glass with a firm determination; it says to the audience ‘this is mine. Should you have designs on it, I shall be swift and brutal’. She drinks from it like a Viking warrior after a victory, letting the fine nectar pour down her cheeks and dress, a portrait in the power of women.

I was soaking up the characters and every move was noted for future use. This time will not just be educational, it will add to my acting armoury. At this point Terry closed the curtains. But I had seen enough.

The problem with becoming a television icon

 It’s always tense when you meet someone for whom you have been the voice of their product. And it is no different meeting Mike Pervis, owner of Pervis Toilets. I had been the voice of Terry the Terrible Turd for six years! Six years have just flown by! As you know, Terry is a particularly stubborn faecal emission, who refuses to go with his family. But with Perkins Patent Power Flush, he is away on his journey, every time!

It’s not the first time I have been the voice of an entire industry. In the sixties I gained employment as Wool Man, a superhero dedicated to informing people of the power of wool. Then for twenty years I was the character Johnny Brick for Sticklebricks. How well I remember the product phrase “I’m a brick, to bricks I stick, all the fun of Sticklebricks”. Of course this impinged somewhat on other work, and I was oft referred to as ‘complete brick’.

After the scandal involving Murph’s Protein Shakes, I decided to give doing a commercials a break. One doesn’t like being associated with such things; the reporters, the metaphorical and actual stain on your character and the perpetual mental images whenever anyone mentions animal husbandry.

And so we move to Pervis toilets. I first met Mike when he and I were in a Wetherspoons. Mike had just finished dunking my head into the bowl, when he suddenly stopped ‘Wait! ‘aren't I seen you on Z-Cars?’ he queried. I nodded, still gasping for breath. Three dunks later and he said ‘I’m looking for someone to voice an advertisement, you up for it?’ I nodded, barely aware of what he was saying for the lack of oxygen. “Good lad” He said and baptised my head for five seconds before leaving me gasping on the toilet floor with a calling card. “8am, Thursday. Be there” he said as he left. Not the most conventional induction into a job but far nicer than the one for Songs of Praise.

“Alright, Tarqers?” he said, striding across the foyer like he owned the place, which he did. After a handshake, we proceeded to the meeting room. There were sat my competitors, Tony Sarchet, Dave Sparky and Martin Jarvis. Jarvis and I had crossed swords many times. “Hello Tarquin!” he said “Silence” said Pervis, and cuffed Jarvis around his suspiciously damp head.

I’ve never liked cruelty to actors. It is one of the reasons I set up a charity to try and raise awareness and campaign against it. Really Serious Producers Care About Actors was a wonderful thing offering succour to actors who had suffered indignity, insult or injury. Or simply had a poor review. One of our regulars was… I best not name him, I shall use his nickname to protect his sensitivity – one of our regulars was Jimmy Corden. Although he seemed only to need our services when we had a buffet. Many actors came to us, but the problem arose with the abbreviation and within days we were awash with kittens, rabbits and a leopard.

It was then I noticed my competitors were sat on toilets. The fourth throne was labelled ‘McPhereson’ and I duly parked myself upon it’s welcoming porcelain.

Unfortunately at this point I was asked to sign an NDA. Mike is very protective of his company and procedures, as recent court cases prove, and it would not be my place to reveal any of his highly focussed company recruitment techniques. Suffice to say it took all the years of acting, all my knowledge and training, every ounce of theatrical gusto to land this role.

I felt magnificent when I was told I had got the job. I imagined it was much how Caesar felt when his armies conquered Europe. My armies were my talent, and they had served me well. But being in the brotherhood of actors, I felt sorry for my fellow performers. It wasn’t their fault my magnificent talent and personal magnetism had crushed them like a snail under a bull dozer. I did allow myself a small dance of victory whilst they had the bad news in the other room,

As Jarvis went out his previously charming demeanour vanished for a few seconds as he vowed ‘you’ll get yours. I know a wizard’. I’m not a believer in Witchcraft, but Jarvis is known to dabble. How else did he get quite so much work on 4xtra? I dismissed my worries about his supernatural powers. Curiously since then, when visiting Sainsburys, I have not been able to find my favourite coffee. Coincidence? Maybe...

And so a legend was born. Originally I was to be dressed as Terry, and be swimming about in a huge toilet, pretending to fear what was called ‘The Time Of The Flush’. The toilet itself was the size of a small municipal swimming pool, and used in the interview process. I never found out if the flush worked, but there again I never saw Dave Sparky either.

And so Terry became an animatronic creation, in much in the same way as Wallace and Gromit.

And we have continued over the past few years with Terry in various situations, all involving toilets. Obviously a limited scenario to build on, which is why lovely Miriam Margoyles was employed to play the foil, Glenda Piss.

“We’ve decided to stop Terry” said Mike. This was it. No cushioning. No couching the subject for my feelings. This was brutal. Not even any biscuits. To an actor, the end of a job is like the end of a friend; and in this case, my friend had their lives ended and I was sat here with nothing less than their murderer. I enquired why. “Because it’s crap” he said.

I knew it was crap. That was the entire premise of the campaign. The fact it was so convincing was testament to my skills. Indeed, throughout the industry I had become knows as ‘the turd’, such was my consummate performance. One nice thing was the children who recognised me in the street, although they did get the name wrong from time to time. This was no reason to cancel. I reasoned with Mike ‘We could have a TV show’ I said ‘or a movie’ I added ‘or a novelty record! I know someone on Hallam FM’. All of this was lies, of course..

Alas, it was in vane.

“We’ve got another geezer coming in” he said, opening the door. In walked Jarvis. “Hello McPhereson” he said. “Jarvis will do the new ads” said Mike. Jarvis smiled. “good to see you, old chap” Jarvis opined as he offered me his treacherous hand. I’ve never liked being stabbed in the back, I’ve met few actors who do. Apart from my friend Tom Hugenhaugh, who simply adores being betrayed and double crossed, since it gives him something to talk about at dinner parties.

I was determined to leave with my pride and dignity intact; no one likes a scene. And I did call Mike later to pay for a new window.

And so that’s the story. I haven’t seen the new ads with Jarvis. I am sure he will pour all his talent into the project and it will be absolutely adequate.

Celebrity Barbers!

 Appearing on celebrity quiz shows is always a delight. Of course, there are those who will say that such engagements are, by their nature, awful examples of employing terrible performers undertaking otherwise mundane activities for no apparent purpose save to keep them applying for jobs in Lidl. This is utter rubbish and as a regular on such programmes I can state with confidence it gives the celebrity a chance to showcase abilities which may bolster their chances of engagement. As I said to the Manager of Lidl, “we are the most precious in society, reflecting the times with live in with searing honesty”. He was obviously impressed and thanked me for coming in. Even wishing me luck as I exited the room.

There are many shows on which one can hawk your wares; celebrity baking, celebrity sewing, celebrity shoe polishing, celebrity steel foundry workers, celebrity paramedics, celebrity stuffing envelopes, celebrity head of neurological surgery at St Clements and, of course, golf.

The one I am currently appearing on is Celebrity Barbers. The premise is a simple one. People come in, are shocked that such luminaries of entertainment are at the ready with the shears, and delighted at each and every haircut we provide. Myself, Pamela Anderson, Richard Madeley, Mark Benton and Angela Rippon all donned the apron and stood by for customers. We all got on splendidly, apart from Madeley, who stood in the corner sharpening a cut throat razor and muttering about pies.

At last a customer entered. Bewildered at the array of talent before him, he went to leave but Mark Benton skilfully blocked the door. Pamela and Angela dragged him over to a chair, whilst I stood by with scissors in hand. ‘What will be be?’ I asked in my best barber voice. ‘j-j-just a haircut, please’. ‘Ah,’ I riposted ‘but what sort of hair cut?’.

I had spent two weeks studying all the haircuts in the world. From a Marie Antoinette type Le Pouf Sentimental to skinhead. I had read books, watched videos and on one occasion, been ordered off a bus. There was nothing I didn’t know about hair. Which of course not only helps me in this venture, but is yet another skill to add to my C.V.

Writing a CV is a vital skill whatever you do. You have to make everything sound positive. So that incident in Portsmouth, that was a robust negotiation, that complaint about a weird smell in the Grand, Sunderland, that was experience in conflict resolution and housekeeping. I leave off any and all references to Maidenhead.

The man in the chair shrugged and I went about my task. One of the features of the show is you are interviewed whilst you cut peoples’ hair, by the people in the chair. It really is a chance for the public to ‘connect’ with celebrities, to interact with those familiar faces on a personal level. And it really does provide some hilarious television moments. Or should do. Sadly this uneducated cretin had never heard of me or seen my work, but this was not going to make me angry or frustrated. There are plenty of people who haven’t seen my work. Just because this unenlightened oaf hadn’t witnessed me in full flow in a Hamlet or Dorien Grey or porridge commercial, didn’t mean he was an ignorant savage. Nothing much happened as I went about my Trichological duties.

The involvement of the paramedics who attended and had packed up the ear and left with the customer, made for a particularly gripping episode. My entreaty for a tip was met with a hail of abuse which won’t make it to air. I went and stood by Madeley who was still sharpening his razor. “I bet you can’t wait to shave someone, eh Richard?” I asked. His head slowly turned to me, his razor not missing a beat on it’s leather strap. ‘Yes… shave them...’ he said, quietly. After a couple of minutes I decided to go and stand in the other corner with Pamela.

Pamela is lovely and best known for running down beaches in a life guard uniform. But unusually, she has had no actual training as a life guard. This was most peculiar to me. How on earth did she get the job when not knowing anything about guarding life? How could she portray a woman with such weighty pressures without even the scant knowledge of saving someone? I asked her this and she smiled and said ‘Oh, Tarquin, you are so lovely’ and prodded me with a pair of curling tongs.

She was right, of course. We then had a fascinating discussion about the industry, about the horrors and the travails, the victories and the triumphs, and whether her agent had any openings on his books. “Oh, Tarquin” she said “They would eat you alive”. Well, I’d rather be eaten alive then be leftovers scraped into a food waste bucket. “Honestly, there are so many unemployed English Actors in L.A.” she continued “Ah,” I countered “With my resume I would have a head start”. She looked at me.

While we were talking Angela was laughing loudly, spinning Mark around in one of the chairs while he made delighted yet childish noises. “Faster, Ange, make it go faster” and Angela would increase her efforts to make Mark rotate, much to his delight.

“I made a sex tape” said Pamela, absently. I had no idea what a sex tape was, and assumed it was some sort of advice-type production for spicing up otherwise dull lives. “It was a way to get noticed” she said, her eyes never meeting mine for this revelation. “I also made a tape” I said. She finally looked at me in surprise. “Really?” “yes, about home turkey farming” I said. I then sallied forth and enlightened her on the methods and care involved in home wildfowl stewardship. She seemed very interested, though I did notice an increase in Madeley’s razor sharpening activities.

I was just about to impart some knowledge about pellets, when a customer entered and Pamela hurried off to deal with her. At this point Mark got out of his chair, considerably more dizzy than he thought he was, and fell over, pulling a sink off the wall which hit him on the head and knocked him out. Angela Rippon laughed like a drain; the customer seemed quite alarmed, but I was quick with the bon homme, guiding her to a chair despite her struggling. Once there, Pamela advanced and asked her what she would like. She said she would like to leave. Pamela persisted. Eventually she settled on the traditional shampoo and set.

With Benton still unconscious, it left just me and Angela unoccupied. And Madeley, of course, who was licking the razor, staring wide eyed at us both, before resuming refreshing his blade. Another woman entered, and this time we decided to give her the choice. The woman in the chair also offered advice – ‘Leave while you can!’ - but was muffled half way through by Pamela shoving her elbow in the woman’s face.

“I have a wedding at the weekend” she said, stepping over Mark Benton who was still out cold on the floor, “and I would like… is that the man from Shakespeare and Marlow?”. Angela Rippon, always fast on her feet, said ‘Yes, and I’m a legendary newsreader, Pamela is a world famous model and actress and this is Tarquin McPhereson”. I felt slighted; that she didn’t know any of my work felt like a slap across the face. “How dare you Madam, I am a national treasure!”. There ensued an argument about my career, during which the woman left and Pamela somehow set fire to to the hair of the lady in the chair.

The producer then entered and said that was probably the best we could hope for for this particular edition, and bid us all farewell. I was sad to leave Angela and Pamela, who seemed interesting people with tales to tell. Unfortunately by the time it occurred to me to get their numbers they had both left in a cab. Benton, of course, was unable to share his details, and was wheeled out on a gurney to a waiting ambulance. I was very surprised that Madeley wasn’t actually in the show, but apparently spends all his spare time in the shop staring furiously at passing members of the public through the shop window whilst honing his edge.

A busy weekend indeed!

 My train was delayed at the weekend. I was coming back from an (unsuccessful) audition for ‘Mastermind – The Musical’. I was to be Arthur, the chair that the contestants sit in. It was a simple song about being a chair, but after the first few words I was despatched. Some material just isn’t up to the standard an actor needs; and this material obviously wasn’t. First time I have had objects thrown at me during an audition! Throw them at the writer, I say!

Trains are magnificent, a way for an actor to observe the public, note their little habits and affectations, and file them away for future use. Of course, you have to be careful about it. People could get the wrong idea. Don’t just stare at the person sitting opposite or across the aisle. This is where a good mobile phone comes in. Pretend to be playing a game, whilst watching them on the screen. But you must do it with prudence; should someone look over your shoulder and discover what you are up to, it could be badly misunderstood.

The British Transport Police are a wonderful group of people. Whilst I was in the office, I learned a great deal about their job and responsibilities. Useful if I am ever in a crime drama! They were very prompt with my phone, and deleted the material in question before sending me on my way on an entirely different train.

More about Honours, Awards and other events

 I have to say I was disappointed not to be included yet again in the Honours. Years of service in theatre, film and television and I’m not even mentioned. The countless charity events, the altruism and generosity, never expecting anything in return. What for? Nothing, that’s what.

You find me in a slightly annoyed mood. Melissa, my agent, seems to be on holiday. It’s alright for some, but when I have an issue who can I approach? Certainly not David, her intern who is apparently looking after me. I say looking after me but you expect someone to say ‘Hello, Tarquin how are you?’ when you call them, not ‘Oh. You.’. Cassandra was much better as a replacement. Now she I could talk to. She listened silently as I spoke of issues I had with producers, directors, other actors or the poor food provision on set. That sounds like I complain all the time, and I really don’t. But when I do, I like to be listened to. I was saying to a lady on the train about this just yesterday, and she was very receptive to my qualms. That she didn’t know who I was seemed to make it easier to confide, and confide I did. She even asked me questions, such as ‘Where do you get off?’. I informed her I was going all the way back to London. I regaled her with my issues about repeat fees for Lewis, about wardrobe giving me ill fitting moccasins and even showed her the picture of the vase I had signed by Thora Hird when I appeared in that sitcom about dead people. I was disappointed when I returned from the gents to find her gone. Apparently, according to someone sitting in the seat opposite, she had been ‘accosted by a nutter’ and decided to move carriages. I saw no ‘nutter’, but apparently he had moved off to the toilets, so I had been lucky not to encounter them myself.

Before she had gone away for her Floridian odyssey, Melissa had booked me into a Manchester soap opera called ‘Mad Lads’. The gist of this series are a group of young men who are, for reasons which are unclear, a bit eccentric. My role was to be Jeremiah Podge, a local plumber who the boys harrass, eventually leading to his exodus from the series via a canal. When Melissa had told me about this, it was to be a recurring character, but plans had obviously changed and my role consisted of two scenes of the ‘mad lads’ shouting abuse and one of me floating in the canal (in which I had no dialogue). If ever there was a part worthy of an honour, this would be a prime example. I hope the King watches this and has a think about the sort of people he honours. How many of them have floated in a canal for mid afternoon television in the North West? Not many, I’ll warrant.

The actual speaking scenes didn’t take long to film – I knew my line – but the canal scene. I was in that water for four hours! I mean, I wasn’t left just floating there, they did poke me with a large stick every so often, so I didn’t feel neglected. When I emerged I was amazed. Christopher Ecclestone was on the bank, watching. “that was some of the best submersible acting I have seen” he said “Come on mate, got an idea to tell you”. And lead me, soaked and covered in canal debris, to a small cafe. Chris ordered a all-day full breakfast and a peg for his nose. He came back and we were off. The thick mist of negotiation.

“doing this underwater musical” he said “bit of a change from… you know… but it’s going to be fantastic”. Chris’s enthusiasm is infectious. His eyes ablaze with anticipation, his mouth sealing tight at the end of sentences but at the end of paragraphs his smile beamed out as a man with a vision. A passion. An ambition both achievable and awesome. That this idea could do this to this quiet, determined man gave me pause as to the magnitude of his dream. Either that or the cafe had forgot there were supposed to be only two sausages. On and on he enthused, talking about Cousteau and Louganis. The dangers involved in using a live orchestra under the waves. The problem he was having over the lighting, not only with the crew but with the Coroner. Finally, as he dabbed up the last part of the sauce from the beans with the toast, he said ‘Yeah, it’s going to be fantastic’. Then his phone went, he answered it, said ‘Oh no, not again’ and hurriedly left.

In his furore, Chris had not only not mentioned what his production actually was, but pay for his breakfast. I was still in costume and had no money on me. What to do? I thought quickly. As I have stated on many occasions, acting gives you the tools to improvise not only on stage but in real life. I had to move quickly. No money and a suspicious cafe owner. I ordered another breakfast. It at least bought me time.

It was on the sixth breakfast I started to wane. No ideas had come to mind and I was rather too full of black pudding and beans to move. Not to mention the aroma of the canal water had cleared the previously bustling cafe. And, with my stomach bulging like I had devoured the star of Free Willy, I was in no condition to make a bolt for the door.

“We’re closing soon” said the rather large man who had appeared at my table “But it says all day breakfast. The day is not over” I pointed out. He looked at me and mentioned something about having the place unexpectedly fumigated. I did the only thing I could. I asked for a telephone. I explained I needed to make a call and I couldn’t because… I patted my still squelchy costume. Provided with the manager’s phone I called Melissa. Bless her, despite leaving for Florida she took the time to answer the phone. Even if she did say ‘Yes, Benedict?’ upon connecting.

I explained the situation, and Melissa simply said ‘Not again’. Apparently Chris had done this to several other actors. “He hangs around off set picking off the vulnerable ones like a hawk” she said.

“Well, it’ll come off your fee” she said. I handed the phone to the manager. There was some conversation, and I only heard half of it. “Yes”, “no”, “I know what you mean”, “I couldn’t stand that”, “you have my sympathies”. All the while he was looking at me. Then he started laughing and said “God, no. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone” and walked off. Having heard the payment go through I got up and made my way, rather slowly, to the door. “Leave it open” he barked as I squeezed through.

Back at the set, I walked past Ecclestone who was hanging around at the gate reading/hiding behind a copy of What Bride magazine. I made my way to wardrobe who thought I had left hours ago. “You stink” said the small, tape measure wearing gent who I believe was called “Carl”. A voice from behind the changing room curtain said “and so do your clothes”. I was incensed. I strode over to the curtain and pulled it back and there, in her bra and panties, was Vikki Michelle. Of course, she screamed, Carl was almost instantly on the intercom to security and there was a hoohah to end all hoohahs. It was worse than the Hoohah which ensued when Lesley Judd thought I had stolen her sherbert dip dab.

The Officers put me on a train, after taking my picture several times (probably to show off to their mates they had met a celebrity), and saw me safely on my way, even looking through the window to make sure I was comfortable. And this we return to the lady who listened to my problems.

All this underlines why, exactly, I should get something. Sir Derek got one. Sir Ian. Sir Patrick. Why not me? I mean, it doesn’t bother me, but why won’t they give me some sort of recognition?

I know Derek and Ian have done things which possibly deserve a gong, but what about Patrick? What’s he done? Pretend to be on a spaceship and say ‘number one’ a lot. You know what happens to people who pretend to be on spaceships? They put you away! But no, he gets a knighthood. I don’t care. I do it for the craft, not the adulation. It’s the principle of the thing. I’d do anything to become a Sir. Even some letters after my name would do. But it’s not a deal breaker. Who cares? I certainly don’t. Let them boast of their awards. I can concentrate on my work. It means nothing to me.

And what about my outstanding charity work? I mean, I don’t mention it often, but I do spend an inordinate amount of time working for charities. Even the ones who don’t meet my invoices.

Publicity; it's importance and it's price

 Just got off the phone to a producer who is very interested in my taking part in “I Am A Big Noise, Recall Me To Society Pronto!”. For those who are unaware it’s a game show where a group of top of their game performers are left in a dense forest with only their guile, cunning and a 83 strong television crew to sustain them. The producer was very keen, and indicated I would probably win, saying ‘You’re probably the last one we’d want in there’. To know I am so popular with the public’s vote is very satisfying.

I am looking forward to this; it’s even bigger profile than ‘There’s Someone Hiding In That Wardrobe’ or “Captives in a Cutlery drawer”, both of which I did last year. Although being stuck in a gigantic utensil tray for five weeks with Debbie McGee was a trial in itself. She simply won’t shut up about anecdotes of her late husband, and on the sixth telling of the ‘Time That Thing He Did Didn’t Go Quite Right’ story, I am afraid I hit her on the head with a t-spoon. There was naturally a big melee about this. How could I be such a brute? However, in under two minutes she recovered her composure enough to tell the attending staff about that time Paul used a Chinese ladies’ headscarf to produce, out of seemingly nowhere, a hippopotamus, so all was well.

I speak of all this because I am keen to give you advice on promotion. There’s no such thing as bad publicity. And if you can get your name out in the public space without murdering, thieving, molesting or appearing on Question Time, then good luck to you.

One of my earliest forays into the world of publicity came in the 1960s, at the Girls A Go-Go club in London’s Soho. I had been asked to do a little comedy piece in between the dances, allowing the audience to bask in my delivery and finely nuanced oratory, and for the girls to put on another spangly bra. All I had to do was keep the patrons amused while the ladies were off stage. I initially chose a reading from Chekov’s The Lady and the Dog, but this failing to garner approval, I quickly switched to Peacock’s Crochet Castle. This also seemed to make the audience restless and unattentive, although it did improve their aim. However, I was heartened that the audience recognised my efforts by cheering as I headed out into the wings, partly because Thelma and Deirdre had come back on stage, but mostly because someone had gone to get a bottle and some petrol. Lovely Barry Cryer advised me that night, via the phone, that I should tell some jokes. Things which would make the audience laugh. I’d never done this before, and standing up, as I believe they call it, was entirely uncharted waters. But I was determined to sail these waters, to traverse the many oceans they comprise, and if at all possible avoid icebergs. I had a choice, I could spend some of my meagre fee on books of material or have Barry write some for me. I asked Barry if he could write some jokes for me and he said yes, and quoted me his fee.

The man in the bookshop showed me to the humour section and I browsed. Who would have thought there were so many books on jokes? I’ve never actually understood jokes as such, but here I was faced with what was surely the compendium of all things comedic. I made my choice and headed to the till. ‘Are you sure?’ said the man ‘Why? Is it not funny?’ I enquired. ‘This is a book on the history of Sealink, the ferry company.’ It turned out someone had put it back in the wrong place, and he quickly swapped it for Bob Monkhouse’s Big Book of Belly Laughs, and I was on my way.

That night, in my flat, I told jokes to myself. Sometimes avoiding looking at the punchline so it came as a surprise to even me. I decided that didn’t work after an hour or so and read the whole joke verbatim. With my honed actor’s memory, I committed over 123 jokes to my brain, and was fully armed to take on this audience, to really enter the fray and emerge victorious, like a warrior who has triumphed over a pride of particularly angry lions. Albeit lions with raincoats on and hats pulled down over their eyes so they are not recognised.

The girls finished their dance. Now was my time. Now I would shine. Long had I illuminated the world of acting with my emoting and fine posture, now the twin moon of drama, comedis, would also bow to my might! I shall be legend!

The Police said after it was one of the worst cases of civil unrest they had seen since Charles I had his chair removed. I’ve never known such an ungrateful audience. I’ve had bad receptions, what actor hasn’t, but it was a first to be chased halfway down Tottenham Court Road but what can only be described as a posse. The Police found me in a skip full of disguarded tailors’ dummies off Windmill street and took me to safety. They also took one of the dummies which they mistaken for Richard Wattis, which was apparently a regular thing.

The papers were full of it, of course. ‘Jokes Fall Flat’ was one unkind headline. ‘McPhereson causes Right Rumpus’ was another. ‘Bad Badinage Brings Burlesque Bedlam’ said the Financial Times. Of course, I had to keep my head down; my picture was everywhere. Some people appreciated my choice of material though, I clearly remember someone calling me ‘a supreme farceur’. Just goes to show the proof of the old saying you can’t disappoint everyone.

My point of all this is it gave me a certain cache, a notoriety which is hard to get, unless you shoot a President or something. Yes, I was in hiding. Yes, I had to wear a false beard and dark glasses to go to the newsagents. And yes, before anyone says it, was did occasionally dress as a Nun. But these were all part of the game. And yes, I did dispute the accusation I should at least pay for some of the rebuilding work.

After a month or so I rang my agent. He was very verbose about the audience, using words such as ‘Terrible’ and ‘absolutely abysmal’ and I had to agree. “What were you thinking?” he said, obviously referring to my initial thoughts regarding the audience reaction.

I didn’t know what I was thinking. It was probably something along the lines of ‘I hope his lighter doesn’t work’. After a discussion on how ungrateful audiences are, the conversation mellowed and the bellowing stopped. ‘I have a job for you. It’s not a fantastic one, but it’s something’. I listened intently.

Within two days I was on the Shetland Islands in a production of ‘Jeeves in the Springtime’. I was to be Blumenfeld, not a large part but it was something to get my teeth into. During a storm one night, a plane was forced to make a landing and legendary Hollywood mogul Buddy Adler. The stars had aligned. If there was ever a chance to make it big, it was now. Impress Mr Adler and the entire world would open up to me. I was determined to be noticed. I ignored the original blocking and gave my lines at the front of the stage. I would unexpectedly turn up during other characters’ pieces, and when this was commented on by the director in none-too-friendly terms, I switched to peering through the French Windows at the back of the set, coughing occasionally so they knew I was there. Any ambitious actor would do the same, I don’t care what they said then or subsequently in so-called biographies.

As you can imagine, the post performance atmosphere was less than convivial. None of the cast would speak to me and the director was furious. In an expletive rich diatribe, he rained his opinions on me like a monsoon. The poor man spoke for over four minutes without drawing breath. Every epithet and term was employed in his pronouncements, together with a finger which prodded like a branding iron into my shoulder. I told him my reasoning and he informed me Mr Adler had not turned up because he wanted to see Dr Who on the telly. I was aghast. I asked if we could do it again when Mr Adler was in the building but this was not well received.

On leaving the Shetlands, I did once contact the director, which I know was against his wishes but I felt it only right, and asked for a letter of recommendation. I was delighted he agreed, although back in London, when I opened the envelope and read his recommendation, I found it to be entirely unsuitable and would, if acted upon, put me in considerable medical peril.

An appearance on afternoon television!

I have just got back from filming Stop! Get Ready! Cook!. What an absolutely lovely experience. And let me start by thanking the North London Fire Brigade for their prompt attendance.

Ainsley was lovely as ever, and I appeared with lovely radio stalwart, Kirsty Young and pop Legend Rick Astley. In the green room before the recording, I’d spoken to one of the stagehands who suggested I Rick Roll the man himself, and I am fortunate that I enquired further because I was under the impression it was a wrestling manoeuvre. Apparently, when you Rick Roll someone, you play them Mr Astley’s finest work, and within an hour I was playing Rick Astley’s song to the man himself, and he didn’t seem to mind. To be fair, it’s a very catchy song, and even found myself mouthing ‘I should be so lucky’ at every chorus. Mr Astley left to call his agent, and I was alone with Kirsty, I decided to try and network with her. As outlined before, it’s important to have a network of people you can contact. Even if some numbers turn out to be disconnected, pizza restaurants or, in one case, a dominatrix. That’s what you get when you work on ‘Sherlock’, and surprisingly, the result from dialling one of those numbers Martin Freeman did actually come to the phone.

Cooking is an art. Anyone who has been to one of my post performance dinners will know I am no stranger to a spatula. My speciality, leek, potato and tuna omelette was described by the late Katie Boyle as ‘interesting texture’. At the end of the performance, I invite the whole cast to my flat, where a feast awaits. I insist, despite the ‘No, Tarquin, you mustn’t go to any trouble’. But trouble go to I do. Obviously at the end of a wildly successful run, many of the cast have to get home to loved ones, get to their next job or simply sitting in their dressing room with the door locked, so you can’t expect everyone to attend. So it’s always a pleasant surprise when the doorbell rings.

Firstly, Ainsley asked us what sort of food we liked; This is always a tricky one. Kirsty said she liked Pâté of roasted indigenous legumes, paired with a compote of seasonal berries, served on hearty sprouted wheat bread, while Rick said he liked cheesey chips. Ainsley piped up ‘They’d be difficult to give up’ and the audience laughed. I don’t know why, but knowing I had to be ‘part of the gang’ I chimed in with ‘He should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky!’. They were looking at me like I had no trousers on, and momentarily I had to check. I may well have added an extra lucky, hence the confusion.

Ainsley then asked what ingredients we had bought along. Oh, the bounty Rick and Kirsty had purchased! Ainsley’s eyes lit up at the selection of vegetables, meats and other ephemera. It was quite an anti-climax when I displayed my box of Smash. “Is that it?” he asked and I realised I have to improvise. Years in the theatre has armed me with a quick mind to rescue situations such as this, using guile and sheer acting prowess so the audience does not realise anything amiss. “Of course not, Ainsley”, and like that I produced a packet of Polos.

After the show I was visited in my dressing room by Ainsley. He ranted and raved about my Polomash. And not in a good way. Not in the way I would like. Unless I liked my work being thrown at me and then being pinned to the chair with a fresh breathed food guru using a string of bad words. And I can’t say I do. On leaving he whirled my swivel chair, and I spun around scattering minty potato across every surface in the room, a slug of my spuds hit Ainsley in the back of the head as he sought shelter, and he left the room with some comment – I didn’t hear properly but I think it was about melon farmers.

My advice to actors starting out

There is nothing more important than acting. There. I said it. I know you could make an argument about doctors or scientists, people working against hunger and poverty, those brave souls who save others in flood or fire. But those people don’t face it six nights a week with matinees to often unappreciative audiences, many of whom only seem to know the word ‘refund’.

Firstly, an actor isn’t born. An actor is created. An actor is like a tomato plant. A parent must plant the seed. There has to be nurturing and care. otherwise you are not going to get an actor, let alone any tomatoes.

My advice to any parent is to hold a selection of text in front of your offspring as soon as possible. A Brecht, Pinter or Cooney play is best. If the baby becomes absorbed in the subtle undertones and overarching story with all its’ subnarratives, then you have an actor on your hands. If the pages come back covered in vomit and bits of rusk, then sadly your child is not theatre bound. Although there are always openings on Hollyoaks.

My own initiation, as detailed before, was when I won the role of ‘Donkey’ in the school nativity play. Although not scripted as a speaking role, I did the research and my ‘Donkey’ became the phenomenon it did. It was felt that such a moving, accurate portrayal may be a strain on my young mind, and yes, those in charge could not take the seering mirror I held up to society, and I was replaced after one performance. As usual with these sort of situations, the fact I was so good in the role was never mentioned. Typical. It is totally a mark of my profession that a honest, often brutal portrayal can make others uncomfortable; I’ve had others speechless on stage and on set with my interpretations. Other actors have been speechless, while one famous director, who has worked with Sigourney Weaver and John Hurt, was so moved he held his head in his hands after he saw me act. So overcome with emotion was he I was asked to leave the set for my own good; the great man obviously wanted to hug me so tight it would cause both injury and controversy.

But the bug had bitten me, supped on my blood and I was to rise like a vampire from the crypt, or in this case a donkey costume. You see, once you feel that adoration of the crowd, you will be hooked. Whether you are costumed as a medieval sorcerer or a talking pork pie, it is all acting. For instance, if a child says he did not break a window, yet the window is broken and the child is holding a deflated football, that child is not lying, he is acting. Instead of chiding the brat and contacting the parents and then the Police, one should applaud the performance, perhaps cheering and possibly encouraging his talent by demanding an encore and offering the French windows. This is how you encourage a child.

If you are a young actor and your parents are not encouraging, don’t worry. Parents worry and will say things such as ‘You can’t be an actor’, ‘What’s wrong with Accountancy?’ or ‘You’re rubbish’. My parents said all three of these except the first two and look at me. I’ve become something. I am known throughout the industry. My name is one of the few which has actually become a noun. And I know they are proud of me, even though we’ve not spoken since 1953.

So, how to prepare for the life of a actor. Well, the earlier you can start, the better. If you can start in the high chair, then do. Imagine you are King Henry VIII, angry at the Pope’s refusal to annul your first marriage, your mistress impatient yet having to remain confident to foster the unquestioning loyalty of your court, many of whom have duplicitous intent on your throne. Refuse that spoon of puréed apple, thump the little tray and demand food fit for a Monarch. You have to deal with the King of France this afternoon, for Gods’ sake! Your spoon operative will look at you and think ‘I have an actor on my hands!’ and be on the phone to Italia Conti before you’ve finished your demand to abolish the Monastries.

Volunteer for every speaking opportunity. When asked to read text to the class, assume the mantel of the role you have been asked to emote. Whether it is as one of two children with a bucket getting some liquid from a local mound or a cursed Scottish King, give it your all. Ignore the boos and the jeering and the missiles being thrown. This is your vocation; it is what God intended you to do. I have offered this advice to every pupil who has attended my ‘Junior Introduction To Acting’ class I used to do, which had reverberations in itself by almost directly causing the banning of packed lunches containing soft fruit.

Join every single amateur dramatics society you can. There were six in my area growing up, and I auditioned for every single one of them. Four of them sadly dissolved but the two which accepted me (as soon as my funds cleared) were welcoming. Now this is where organisation comes in; there is a temptation to think acting is simply saying your words and not knocking into the furniture. And yes, but the other 2% of the job is organisation.

Of course, I was born onto the stage; not literally, that would be ghastly for the audience. For others they discover the sheer joy of acting later. But whatever your age, these are my tips for success.

1. Hang around the restaurants by theatres.

This is an excellent way to meet people and network. After a heavy performance, the actors, directors, producers and all the other staff will want to relax in a convivial, friendly atmosphere or a Wetherspoons. When you see a large number of people coming in and an increase in the phrases ‘darling’, ‘lovely’ and ‘heartface creature’ filling the air, you know a cast is in the venue. Smooth yourself into their presence. Converse on general terms. If anyone asks, say you came with Trevor. Say how you love this production almost as much as you loved working with Tim Curry or Lloyd-Webber. Soon, people will flock to you. You will be accepted into the fold. If you are able, get a job in a restaurant as a waiter and you can really build the relationship whilst earning money! Pretend to be interested in their stories and tales and voila, you’ll be second detective (non-speaking) before you even serve the entrée.

2. Be nice to retail staff

When actors are between jobs, they tend to work in shops. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a shop which isn’t entirely staffed by actors. One small branch of Waitrose is entirely manned by the cast of Phantom of the Opera. Who would have thought Michael Crawford would be so good on a forklift? And to see Ms Brightman putting the tins on the shelf is sheer poetry! I myself was in Lidl the other day and none other than the hallowed David Tennant was in the bakery making ‘fresh bagels’. You never know who you will encounter, but you will recognise them either by their face, voice or name badge. Of course, some you will need none of these things, as they will preface the ‘can I help you?’ with ‘I was in Robin’s Nest’.

3. Get numbers.

Get numbers. I cannot stress this enough. Everyone you think may be of any use, get their number. You never know when any of these people will be useful. But do not make the mistake I made; make sure you put names next to the numbers. Experience dictates this is a very wise idea, otherwise you will end up accidentality sharing a romantic dinner with John Savident.

4. Find out where filming is happening in your area.

Often, there will be filming going on, in the same way you are never more then four yards from a rat. Not that I am comparing filming company staff with vermin. Although there was a small operation in South Shields. I won’t go into details, but they were awful people. Anyway, ingratiate yourself with the film people, hang around, offer to do things. Even if they tell you to go away, show tenacity. It will pay off. Follow people about. Ask questions. Walk into shot. Only ever quit when the Police arrive. I myself have done this and it resulted in a nice little speaking part on the evening news.

5. See if any of your family are in the business or own a production company

Perhaps you have a brother, son, father, mother, sister or elderly dowager aunt who owns a production company. Show your family tenacity of intent by asking ‘do you have a production company?’. If the answer is no, then you have tried and perhaps you are to become estranged. If the answer is yes, abandon all the other relatives and focus all your attention on the relation who said ‘yes, yes I have’. Make yourself invaluable. Bump into them ‘accidentally’, in the supermarket, in the dry cleaners, in the sauna. Be around when their car won’t start one morning, there to provide advice about rumours which have mysteriously started or willing to take a look around when late at night they spot a prowler behind a hedge. Soon you will be invaluable to them, and they will say ‘I am casting a new vehicle for Sir Ian McKellan/Lou Ferrigno/Jimmy Carr*, but as you have been my saviour the last few months, why don’t you do it instead?’ and Bob is very much one of your parents siblings. That Readers Choice award is almost yours.

*Although I mention these fine performers in this context, they are excellent at what they do and I have no wish to see Sir Ian or Lou lose a job. Their wrath could well be much worse than any job is worth. A young actor, who I won’t name, but let’s just call him Benedict, once trounced Sir Ian for a acting job. Sir Ian was, of course, gracious, but under the veneer he was a seething mass of recrimination, the spirits of envy writhed and jostled deep inside. The best way to picture the inner turmoil is to imagine the cast of Casualty at the lunch wagon. Sir Ian then spent the next six months plotting terrible, terrible revenge. Lo and behold, just fourteen and a half years later, Benedict stubbed his toe getting into a chair in makeup. Such is the power of Thespis. I often thought actors have a supernatural power, a seemingly imperceptible force compelling people and objects alike, bending them to a performer’s implacable will. It certainly would explain the viewing figures for Mrs Brown’s Boys.

6. The Casting Couch

This is by far the oldest and most unpleasant way of getting acting jobs. There is nothing lower than offering yourself (except doing a Poe in Torquay) to some producer/director/props manager in a dingy room with the hope your ‘performance’ will get you somewhere. But beware! It is not only couches which are notorious for this. I have heard of casting benches, desks, coffee tables and in one case an armoire. My advice is if you absolutely have to, make sure you have at least three witnesses or a legally binding document to make your your engagement actually leads to an engagement, and not just a We Buy Any Car commercial.

7. Set up your own productions

This is by far the most risky. Writing and performing your own plays is always the most challenging. I well remember writing ‘Whiskey at Sunset’, the long hours slaving over the manuscript, then hiring a venue above a local hostelry, the six weeks of hard rehearsal and re-writes before performance to a packed snug of three members of the Women’s Guild and a confused patron who was looking for the gents. Occasionally looking up from their knitting, two that were awake sat mesmerised by my portrayal of a man who, having returned from the office, was faced with the dilemma of where exactly to put his feet up. One of them, as luck would have it, had a brother who had a gardener whose sister’s neighbour knew a dog walker whose son’s daughter’s husband occasionally did some temp work for a company which had a man who used to work at ITV. I held out high hopes, but ultimately, after eight months, realised they were not going to ring.

So there you have it. My seven routes to acting notoriety. I cannot say they will work for you or have specific levels of success. I only followed one, but I don’t want to influence your decision which one to undertake, and it may cost you a little to use my route to fame as I had to pay for cleaning the upholstery. So there you have it. Shortcuts to glory. A tunnel from which you emerge into the bright, shining world of acting, like a mole emerging into the sun from a hole. If only there were a phrase to sum this up.

A brief thought on pranks

 Pranks are very important in the acting world. They provide a welcome relief from the absolute seriousness of the work; some people say our work is not serious. But it is. It is serious and deadly. In fact I can’t think of one solitary occupation which is more dangerous than acting. Bomb disposers, surgeons, fire fighters and the Army may well have casualties and fatalities, but few of those can face a hostile audience in Stockport on a rainy Thursday, the horror of a prop, integral to the plot, which is not where it’s supposed to be or a bad review in The Stage. 

For example, I once was in a 70s’ farce called ‘The Missus is a Aspidistra’ with June Whitfield as the Missus. There was a scene where I had to water June whilst talking about a fellow in the office, it was quite a detailed bit of exposition. But terror! No watering can was on the stage! Panic, Tarquin, Panic! This is where acting is such a weapon, such an awesome ability to possess, it is simply a crime not to utilise it. I improvised.

While I would not like to say how I managed this situation, the management of the theatre obviously saw me as a threat and let me go as soon as I got off the stage, citing health and safety, hygiene and the obscene publications act.

A good actor will take any job.

 

I received a call recently from my new representative, Amy. Amy takes over from Gavin who takes over from Matt who took over from Gabrielle who replaced Mindy. Tha agenc I am with at the moment has a good promotional record; certainly many of the previous managers have moved on and pleasant though Amy was, I did feel it a bit weird she kept addressing me as ‘Mr Havers’.

She was mentioning to me an opportunity in a film in New Orleans, where the role to be considered was a charismatic Englishman. A role suited to myself and Mr Havers. Of course it would be unprofessional for me to accept this role, it would go against every fibre of morality and integrity I have. I would be taking the food from Nigel Havers’ mouth!

Then she mentioned the fee. Nigel Havers eats very well anyway. And as she had gone to such trouble booking a hotel and hospitality it would have been totally ungrateful not to comply with her arrangements. Almost an act of disloyalty. I could not bring myself to manufacture such a situation. She may never call again. Lord knows she hadn’t called before.

Of course, there will be people who will say my pretending to be Havers is a tremendous act. But am I not an actor? Is not the role of Havers a role someone is destined at some point to play? A biopic or musical based on Havers and the shows he has been in, whatever they were. It would be an insult to him to refuse this role.

The part I was selected for needed a medical; this was no problem. I was to see Dr Noys, who deals with this sort of thing. Fortunately, Noys was not the sort of man who watches a ‘Nigel Havers Big Time Big Top Summertime Special’ or whatever it is he’s been in, so no suspicions were aroused.

After the preliminary examination, and certain questions regarding a rash mentioned on the notes, Dr Noys asked me to strip off. I am not ashamed of my body; as an actor I cannot afford to be. I remember a tender and emotional love scene with myself and lovely Joan Simms. Our bodies writhed in a ballet of fleshy passion, lost in ourselves and each other, hands grabbing, exploring, tongues entwined in between breathy, erotic gasps. It was the best washing up liquid commercial they ever made. Sadly it never made it to air, apart from in a certain cinema in Soho.

As the doctor probed, measured, weighed, felt and massaged he asked me a number of questions which revealed a little more about Havers than I wanted to know. I am not about to go into details for reasons of professional courtesy, but I have never engaged in that sort of thing. It’s even frowned on in Abergavenny.

At the end of the physical he handed me a number for a decent Trichologist, as mine was obviously not up to the job. As I exited his room, Havers was in the waiting area. He challenged me about my impersonation him. Obviously I stood my ground and pretended he wasn’t there. Finally, Havers lost his rag. A scuffle broke out. Rolling about on the floor we battled for supremacy, neither of us noticing the swiss army knife of actors, Hugh Bonneville step over us and into the office. First we knew about it was when we looked up mid skirmish to see the door shut, each of us clutching a large chunk of the others hair.

We arose, dusted ourselves down, applied some sellotape to the pulled follicles. We exchanged pleasantries and promised to send each other small tokens and gifts by way of apology. We exited the premises a good ten minutes before the Police arrived.