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.

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.

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.