One thing that has happened this year is the dearth of work for actors such as myself. You go to auditions, you attend promptly and sing/dance/comede/act your heart out only to hear the word 'next!' uttered from the darkness of the stalls. Moreso now I am afraid. As the theatre dries up work, subsidies are withdrawn or shrunk, there is less work to be spread over a wider area. Several of my contemporaries are considering leaving the profession. Dear old James Corden is working in Waitrose. Tracy-Anne Obermann is esconced in Sainsburys freezer maintenance, while Hardeep Singh Kholi is currently to be found in the adult section of Waterstones. Although whether he is actually employed there is a matter for conjecture.
Some are even branching into other areas. David Tennant, poor shrub, is working on a ten part adaptation of the history of Wimbledon Strawberries, with himself as 'King Of Wasps'. And I did hear Trevor Eve is appearing as a paving slab in Corrie. All hard times.
"But what about you, Tarqs? What are you pulling out of your hat? What's that up your sleeve?". You may well ask. And it's not my sleeve, it's my trousers. For I have finally deigned to enter the world of filth, degredation and disgust. Yes, medieval rep. My codpiece at the ready, I am playing 'Trem', a lowly blacksmith whose love for Lady Elvira is tempered in the fires of hell and largely rust proof, in the 13th century comedy 'Oo, what a palava'. It wasn't my first choice of work. I have spent months looking for work with no avail, and having redecorated my Mayfair flat four times in three months, I decided I should be 'back out there'.
Mike Styone is a fine director, only really speaking to me when he feels he has an idea which may improve the piece. "Stand there" he says, in his commanding way. "Move over a bit" he says. He did actually moot once doing the whole play with me missing, which is truely innovative, I think. He is also always working, developing new ideas. When I questioned him on motivations and text, he simply looked at me over his brioche, chewing both my ideas and the brioche slowly, as only a man with his depth of being can. Finally he knew I was right, because without a word he got up and left our table, to sit with someone from wardrobe. I know he was mentioning my input as several of them looked over and nodded at something he said. I love being part of this great organ called Theatre.
20110317
Morrow
I am afraid I have not been able to publish anything over the last three months due to a court order taken out by McBilland, the theatrical entreprenuers. Essentially, and I won't bore you with the ins and outs, but it was to do with a statement I may while dosed up on Benelyn in a pastiserie in Bolton. Suffice to say the medication, coupled with the hot toddys I had been drinking all day to asway my symptoms, caused an involuntary and premptry outburst which I initially put down to Tourettes. Of course the mysterious publication of my contract, their accounts and the name and address of the directors didn't help, along with the encouragment of where to buy rotten eggs in the area and which windows would probably be open at that address.
I cannot stress enough my regret at my actions, and an attempt to blame the makers of Benelyn for my actions fell on stony ground. But we are all great friends now, and can laugh about it. I know many of my thespian colleagues are guffawing as I speak.
I cannot stress enough my regret at my actions, and an attempt to blame the makers of Benelyn for my actions fell on stony ground. But we are all great friends now, and can laugh about it. I know many of my thespian colleagues are guffawing as I speak.
20101227
Joyous Tidyings
And may I be the last to wish you a happy Yule. Ah yes, Yule. That time when an actors' thoughts turn to Pantomime, and in my case, David Withlows' arse. I don't mean that in a derogatory way, because I have been playing Helmut the Heffalump in Withenshaw since late November. Sadly, I played the tail end of the said beast, and what a sterling performance it was. Here are some of the reviews (I have edited them for brevity)
McPhereson shines through the rear end of the Heffalump - Daily Margoles.
Rarely have I been so moved by a pantomime, especially that thing in brown (Me) - Atrich Outlook
Mcphereson gives his finest and delivers convincing Heffalump arse - Dorrick Advertiser
The thing was it wasn't all that challenging; as an actor you learn these little tricks and routines. I remember in college, the lecturer said 'we are all going to pretend to be animals this year'. We all had to decide which animal portrayed our personalities best. Young Dan Barker was a Conga eel, which involved a lot of splashing about I remember. Freda Newton was a lythe and cunning baboon. Her conviction in the part was unquestioned, although it did go a little far flinging dung at me in the canteen. And Dexter Lowe, dear Dexter, whose promise in acting and indeed life was cut short by loneliness and a tangerine, took on the mantel of a yeti. We didn't see him much after that.
I, of course, was in a quandary. I mean, a personality as complex and intertwined as mine would be difficult to equate or replicate with an animal. What beast would one second be a bursting volcano of activity, the next a plumb the cavernous depths of depression and solitude whilst maintaining the outward illusion of showmanship? What in all of Gods' creation could duplicate my drives, my intellect, my full and frank range of emotion and expression that made acting not only my vocation, but my birth right? It was with some thought therefore that I settled on being a herring. This noble fish evoked all the right emotions, although I must admit breakfast became something of a cross between a guilt trip and cannibalism.
Oh, the phone. I shall return.
Well, that was indeed interesting. A call from Derek Abuharb, informing me the heffalump has be rescripted to attract a disability interest, and will no longer require back legs (ie me). I argued the point with Derek, but I have to say this is an intriguing idea. The thought of the disabled heffalump, not my imminent unemployment. I mentioned that I was under contract and under the terms of said contract, subsection three, paragraph nine, clause s
The performer will be required to appear until the performance terminates its' run, save for any scandal, besmirchment or publication of any materials which could be construed as being detrimental to the production as described in article 3. The management shall not terminate the performers' contract without due and impartial reviewing of material facts prior to the decision being reached.
His reply was 'like your kneecaps, do you?'. I do indeed value my kneecaps, and although the novelty value of making them work - as he described it - in interesting new ways would be something I could put in spotlight, I was keener to maintain the current traditional arrangement.
As luck would have it, no sooner had my conversation ended with Derek than the phone rang again. It was the National Theatre of Omsk, who had read the Dorrick Advertiser while looking for a replacement hob, and seen my review. They were mad keen to employ me in "Vladmir - The Tale Of The Wolf Bear" which is apparently a work by the dissident Russian playwrite Uri Tshitsaq. What tempting morsels could I prize from this literary oyster? Then, having put the phone down again it rang once more. Rene Bellski, who is one director I have always wanted to work with was on the other end.
"Hey McFearsom <sic> How'd you like to be the next big thing?" I have no idea what the history of big things is. But apparently I am placed penultimately in the queue. "We got a project which is so far up your alley, it's up your alley" went on Bellski. On my enquiry as to what his reply was "You are a tough, west Los Angeles Dentist who investigates murders. Crime and Cavities". The rest of the conversation is a blur as I think - and I am putting this politely for my younger readers - I may have had an orgasm. I do however remember certain key words 'murder, money, expenses, hotel and Paris Hilton'. Trembling I said I would check with my agent and get back to him. No sooner had the handset returned to the cradle than the phone gave it's oh-so-familiar sound and it was Avaton Lazor on the phone. Would I do a voice over for Preedle Nappies?
Choices choices.
McPhereson shines through the rear end of the Heffalump - Daily Margoles.
Rarely have I been so moved by a pantomime, especially that thing in brown (Me) - Atrich Outlook
Mcphereson gives his finest and delivers convincing Heffalump arse - Dorrick Advertiser
The thing was it wasn't all that challenging; as an actor you learn these little tricks and routines. I remember in college, the lecturer said 'we are all going to pretend to be animals this year'. We all had to decide which animal portrayed our personalities best. Young Dan Barker was a Conga eel, which involved a lot of splashing about I remember. Freda Newton was a lythe and cunning baboon. Her conviction in the part was unquestioned, although it did go a little far flinging dung at me in the canteen. And Dexter Lowe, dear Dexter, whose promise in acting and indeed life was cut short by loneliness and a tangerine, took on the mantel of a yeti. We didn't see him much after that.
I, of course, was in a quandary. I mean, a personality as complex and intertwined as mine would be difficult to equate or replicate with an animal. What beast would one second be a bursting volcano of activity, the next a plumb the cavernous depths of depression and solitude whilst maintaining the outward illusion of showmanship? What in all of Gods' creation could duplicate my drives, my intellect, my full and frank range of emotion and expression that made acting not only my vocation, but my birth right? It was with some thought therefore that I settled on being a herring. This noble fish evoked all the right emotions, although I must admit breakfast became something of a cross between a guilt trip and cannibalism.
Oh, the phone. I shall return.
Well, that was indeed interesting. A call from Derek Abuharb, informing me the heffalump has be rescripted to attract a disability interest, and will no longer require back legs (ie me). I argued the point with Derek, but I have to say this is an intriguing idea. The thought of the disabled heffalump, not my imminent unemployment. I mentioned that I was under contract and under the terms of said contract, subsection three, paragraph nine, clause s
The performer will be required to appear until the performance terminates its' run, save for any scandal, besmirchment or publication of any materials which could be construed as being detrimental to the production as described in article 3. The management shall not terminate the performers' contract without due and impartial reviewing of material facts prior to the decision being reached.
His reply was 'like your kneecaps, do you?'. I do indeed value my kneecaps, and although the novelty value of making them work - as he described it - in interesting new ways would be something I could put in spotlight, I was keener to maintain the current traditional arrangement.
As luck would have it, no sooner had my conversation ended with Derek than the phone rang again. It was the National Theatre of Omsk, who had read the Dorrick Advertiser while looking for a replacement hob, and seen my review. They were mad keen to employ me in "Vladmir - The Tale Of The Wolf Bear" which is apparently a work by the dissident Russian playwrite Uri Tshitsaq. What tempting morsels could I prize from this literary oyster? Then, having put the phone down again it rang once more. Rene Bellski, who is one director I have always wanted to work with was on the other end.
"Hey McFearsom <sic> How'd you like to be the next big thing?" I have no idea what the history of big things is. But apparently I am placed penultimately in the queue. "We got a project which is so far up your alley, it's up your alley" went on Bellski. On my enquiry as to what his reply was "You are a tough, west Los Angeles Dentist who investigates murders. Crime and Cavities". The rest of the conversation is a blur as I think - and I am putting this politely for my younger readers - I may have had an orgasm. I do however remember certain key words 'murder, money, expenses, hotel and Paris Hilton'. Trembling I said I would check with my agent and get back to him. No sooner had the handset returned to the cradle than the phone gave it's oh-so-familiar sound and it was Avaton Lazor on the phone. Would I do a voice over for Preedle Nappies?
Choices choices.
20100926
Big League
I have just had a call from Sandy, my agent. The Gent series don't want me back.
for those who don't know, the Gent is a series very much in the style of The Saint, except it's a Gent, not a Saint. Played by Peter Bowles, it is a heavy action series, as he, the only survivor of a crack squad of US Marines sent into Saigon, battles injustices and his own psychosis, while settling scores in the dark shadows of Dulwich.
I played Montmerency Quintet, his butler and confidante, the only man alive who knows The Gents' weakness, past and underwear habits. The reason I am being 'disposed of' are listed as follows
Rubbish. I always conducted myself with professionalism and dedication. Yes, I was late on occassion but that was entirely due to traffic. And at no point did I intend to bruise Mr Bowles, and even if I did, I'm sure they could cover it up with makeup.
I don't care. I can do without them. I have a role as a detective/ringmaster in Circus of Crime, a gritty, gory drama for ITV with Su Pollard as the love interest.
for those who don't know, the Gent is a series very much in the style of The Saint, except it's a Gent, not a Saint. Played by Peter Bowles, it is a heavy action series, as he, the only survivor of a crack squad of US Marines sent into Saigon, battles injustices and his own psychosis, while settling scores in the dark shadows of Dulwich.
I played Montmerency Quintet, his butler and confidante, the only man alive who knows The Gents' weakness, past and underwear habits. The reason I am being 'disposed of' are listed as follows
- I am told I was a problem on set.
Rubbish. I always conducted myself with professionalism and dedication. Yes, I was late on occassion but that was entirely due to traffic. And at no point did I intend to bruise Mr Bowles, and even if I did, I'm sure they could cover it up with makeup.
- I was always complaining about my lines
- I ran over the director
- I dropped my trousers and said to the make up girl 'Ever tried touching up one of these?'
I don't care. I can do without them. I have a role as a detective/ringmaster in Circus of Crime, a gritty, gory drama for ITV with Su Pollard as the love interest.
I have cheese
The Cheese people have rung. In short, I went for a test to become 'Cheery Cheeky Cheese', the friend of Frankie Flannel, the American cartoon creation of Delaware Animation Studios. The cheese is a friendly fellow, always advising Frankie not to do things, which Frankie does, with hilarious results.
I have been shortlisted as mine was apparently the sort of face the could imagine being inside the Cheese costume. I cannot wait for the second audition. The first one was tense, but I did meet my old friend Peter Davidson there. Peter speaks with a strange falsetto since Dr Who, partly because he's trying to break out of that slightly uncomfortable, nervous stereotype he is so often cast as, but mostly because he banged his testicles on the Tardis console quite severely.
I have been shortlisted as mine was apparently the sort of face the could imagine being inside the Cheese costume. I cannot wait for the second audition. The first one was tense, but I did meet my old friend Peter Davidson there. Peter speaks with a strange falsetto since Dr Who, partly because he's trying to break out of that slightly uncomfortable, nervous stereotype he is so often cast as, but mostly because he banged his testicles on the Tardis console quite severely.
Piccadilly et al
And so the day arrived. My planning and rehearsals and practice. I got changed in a newspaper vendors booth, which surprised me and him. After all, it's not many sellers who have a world class actor disrobe and place a flan on his head.
Then onto Piccadilly itself. Oh, the rush. The uninhibited exhibitionism I felt I cannot convey in words. Imagine being on a Rollercoaster while eating a roast beef platter. That was the feeling. Although the potatoes probably weren't done the way I like them. I think if you cook them in a garlic butter instead of a standard fat mixture, you get a more flavoursome result. You try telling the so-called Chefs that in these places and they get all hoity-toity about it. I've been cooking my potatoes like that for years, and apart from one incident of Berri Berri with no ill effects.
It was about now I was arrested. I have to say there's a lot written about a Police state, and I didn't agree with them or believe in such a thing, but the actual monstrosity of being manhandled into a van, naked, my flan laying crushed on the floor seemed to indicate otherwise. Savagery. The Illuminati. You wouldn't have got this treatment in Columbo.
Upon reciept of my one phone call I called 'Tatchelliski' and told him my predicament. Which was met by howls of laughter and not the supportive swing into action I had expected. It was then I smelled something of a rat. He sounded exactly like Charles Dance. "You stupid cock!" said Dance, yielding to his native cockney tones "We was yanking your chain". The line went dead.
The papers of course had a field day. In my haste to get the characterisation right, I had forgotten to have anything to actually say what cause I was supporting, and very little chance to articulate it because the Filth arrived. I would like to say I was not sexually liasing with a flan in anyway whatsoever.
This is not the first time Dance has stitched me up, as he would put it, 'like a kipper'.
Then onto Piccadilly itself. Oh, the rush. The uninhibited exhibitionism I felt I cannot convey in words. Imagine being on a Rollercoaster while eating a roast beef platter. That was the feeling. Although the potatoes probably weren't done the way I like them. I think if you cook them in a garlic butter instead of a standard fat mixture, you get a more flavoursome result. You try telling the so-called Chefs that in these places and they get all hoity-toity about it. I've been cooking my potatoes like that for years, and apart from one incident of Berri Berri with no ill effects.
It was about now I was arrested. I have to say there's a lot written about a Police state, and I didn't agree with them or believe in such a thing, but the actual monstrosity of being manhandled into a van, naked, my flan laying crushed on the floor seemed to indicate otherwise. Savagery. The Illuminati. You wouldn't have got this treatment in Columbo.
Upon reciept of my one phone call I called 'Tatchelliski' and told him my predicament. Which was met by howls of laughter and not the supportive swing into action I had expected. It was then I smelled something of a rat. He sounded exactly like Charles Dance. "You stupid cock!" said Dance, yielding to his native cockney tones "We was yanking your chain". The line went dead.
The papers of course had a field day. In my haste to get the characterisation right, I had forgotten to have anything to actually say what cause I was supporting, and very little chance to articulate it because the Filth arrived. I would like to say I was not sexually liasing with a flan in anyway whatsoever.
This is not the first time Dance has stitched me up, as he would put it, 'like a kipper'.
Ah ha.
It has been sometime since I posted, and for good reason. I have to say my experiences have been less than good.
Three weeks ago, I recieved a telephone call, asking me if I would appear in a series of televisual advertisments for the Gay cause. I am not gay myself, but I have many gay friends. Some of whom I suspect are gay, some of whom are openly gay, and one another who seems to be a self-elected recruitment officer. Some of their music is a little much tho. it's so loud.
"We need you" said the voice at the other end of the phone, whose name I cannot mention (though I will use a non-de-plum) "What is it, Mr Tatchelleski?" I asked. He went on to explain they needed a man of my build, stature and name to appear at a protest for equal rights. I am a firm believer in equal rights, whether you are male, female, straight, gay, black, white or Welsh.
Older readers may remember I was a big tool in the movement for Vaccination for Voice Over Artistes, something even today I feel passionately about. What could be more important than informing people that the lady loves milk tray, or that your whites could indeed be a shade whiter or even that the new Nissan is about a quarter of an inch higher than the old one thus justifying the eight grand extra on the price? I was also a founder member of the Society For The Liberation of the Caged Tiger, although that was discontinued after several incidents of supporters being eaten. And so I am no stranger to political controversy. I also stood for office in Dagenham East some years back, garnering over 8 votes.
"What is it, Mr Tatchelleski?" "We need someone to stand up and be a mascot for our cause. Someone to do something to get attention. We need you naked, wandering around Picadilly Circus with a flan on your head". It was a challenge. It was acting and art in a symbiotic relationship which would allow me the freedom of expression so rarely enjoyed. "I'll do it!" I said. Although I had no idea where to buy a flan at such short notice.
Over the next ten days I played with flans and poses in front of the mirror. Coy with Coucous, coquettish with Apricots, Bold and Brazen with loganberry. It became an obsession. Should I be a stout defender of the cause? Should I shove this message into the conciousness of the great unwashed? Should I stand proud and unashamed? Where can you get mango in September?
My cleaner, Mrs Everidge called. I was not to be distracted. "You'll have to tolerate my nakedness and vacuum around me" I told her "I am working on something". Old Pro that she is, she vacuumed around me while I experimented in a Chekov aspect with a merange. Visitors came and went. It was a blur. My agent. My best friend and his wedding guests. Some people from Social Services. All their protestations simply reinforced my belief I was on the right track. Despite the injections.
Three weeks ago, I recieved a telephone call, asking me if I would appear in a series of televisual advertisments for the Gay cause. I am not gay myself, but I have many gay friends. Some of whom I suspect are gay, some of whom are openly gay, and one another who seems to be a self-elected recruitment officer. Some of their music is a little much tho. it's so loud.
"We need you" said the voice at the other end of the phone, whose name I cannot mention (though I will use a non-de-plum) "What is it, Mr Tatchelleski?" I asked. He went on to explain they needed a man of my build, stature and name to appear at a protest for equal rights. I am a firm believer in equal rights, whether you are male, female, straight, gay, black, white or Welsh.
Older readers may remember I was a big tool in the movement for Vaccination for Voice Over Artistes, something even today I feel passionately about. What could be more important than informing people that the lady loves milk tray, or that your whites could indeed be a shade whiter or even that the new Nissan is about a quarter of an inch higher than the old one thus justifying the eight grand extra on the price? I was also a founder member of the Society For The Liberation of the Caged Tiger, although that was discontinued after several incidents of supporters being eaten. And so I am no stranger to political controversy. I also stood for office in Dagenham East some years back, garnering over 8 votes.
"What is it, Mr Tatchelleski?" "We need someone to stand up and be a mascot for our cause. Someone to do something to get attention. We need you naked, wandering around Picadilly Circus with a flan on your head". It was a challenge. It was acting and art in a symbiotic relationship which would allow me the freedom of expression so rarely enjoyed. "I'll do it!" I said. Although I had no idea where to buy a flan at such short notice.
Over the next ten days I played with flans and poses in front of the mirror. Coy with Coucous, coquettish with Apricots, Bold and Brazen with loganberry. It became an obsession. Should I be a stout defender of the cause? Should I shove this message into the conciousness of the great unwashed? Should I stand proud and unashamed? Where can you get mango in September?
My cleaner, Mrs Everidge called. I was not to be distracted. "You'll have to tolerate my nakedness and vacuum around me" I told her "I am working on something". Old Pro that she is, she vacuumed around me while I experimented in a Chekov aspect with a merange. Visitors came and went. It was a blur. My agent. My best friend and his wedding guests. Some people from Social Services. All their protestations simply reinforced my belief I was on the right track. Despite the injections.
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