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.
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