October

I again am forced to apologise for my tardy postings.

Being an actor, one is forced into a set of circumstances; auditions, applying for auditions, doing auditions, asking the director what it is exactly they want, arguing that the vision they have is not one you share, waiting the call back, hanging around the theatre, finding out where the director lives, finally accosting them in Waitrose dressed as the part you auditioned for (in this case a transexual Viking) and then all the legal and custodial events I shall not bore you with.

It really is rude of people not to do the simply thing of letting one know whether one will be able to afford to eat. You pick up the phone, you call me, and tell me “Sorry, Tarquin, we cannot see you are Eugene this time”. I can take it. I'm not a monster. Contrary to what Mssrs Aldkirk and Weston have claimed, I am professional enough to accept defeat.

I must say though the mafia had a good thing of placing a severed horse's head on the pillow next to their intended victim. I couldn't actually find a horse, and I did feel somewhat odd harming an animal just to make a point, so my decision was right, I think, to use sprouts.

Voodoo is also something which I have found to be ineffective, and I have now disposed of all my dolls and pins.

'My Beats' - transcription of my show - By Tarquin

Renee and Renato; which is which remains a mystery.

And so I graduated early from Drama school. It was a proud day, and one which resonates with the fraternity there. Mr Olga, the Head of the College, told me – and I quote “We have nothing we can teach someone with your level of talent”. As I exited the portals of the learned buildings, many of my compatriots and fellow students were so overcome with emotion stayed away, so warped with grief, and the few I did see couldn’t find the words to express their sorrow at my departure, choosing instead to look at a advertisment for a jumble sale in the students’ union rather than meet my gaze.

My work was full and varied. Ne’er a year pass without one part or another. I hate to boast, as you know, but my work was unparalleled in both it’s breadth and girth and quality.

3 Blob Creature in Dr Who

Crowd member in Boys From the Black Stuff

Patient in background in Casualty

Unnamed laughing Cockney Cheeky Chappie in pub in Eastenders

Dead man in Holby City

Pedestrian in The Bill

Plague victim in The Survivors

Slab Occupant in Silent Witness

It was a fantastic time; and the truth and exposure I brought to all the roles meant it may have distracted viewers from the main action, and would explain why I was never asked back.

It was also about this time I was asked to front a campaign and become the face of a product so fundamental to our democratic and quasi political way of life it had become endemic to our national image. When I was first approached by Finchers Crab Paste, the substance had remained largely unknown to me. I had no idea crabs produced paste, let alone what that paste would do. I tended to use Gloy.

I was taken on a tour of Finchers’ factory, and my knowledge of crab paste increased exponentially. “Are you up for it?” said the Managing Director, whose name is lost to me temporarily. “Yes. Yes I am” I replied.

For five years I was the voice of Crab Paste. No one could rival me in terms of enthusiasm for the product. Every event, every public speaking engagement, every after dinner speech I made at the time was festooned with humourous stories relating to, involving or somehow used as a metaphor, crab paste.

But the party came to an abrupt end one cold day in March, when I received the news there was no longer a Finchers Crab Paste to be the face of. The manager, whose name still eludes me, had apparently taken a turn for the worse, and shot eight people in his factory, before turning the gun on himself.

This tragedy touched me deeply. How could I continue to front a company which now was basically a warehouse full of dead bodies and errant shellfish? How would I reaffirm myself into the world of serious acting? My face was known, yes, but was that enough? I rang my agent who appeared to have changed his number and I got through to a Tyre replacement centre. As an actor you learn opportunity knocks but once and asked if they had any plans to stage any theatre in the near future, whether traditional or experimental. I wasn’t bothered. And neither, judging by the reply were they. I did however avail myself of a set of smart radials, with good tread and a three year warranty. Which was handy, a good price and should come in handy should I ever learn to drive.

It was then I entered what is known as my ‘dark period’. A succession of films – none of which I am ashamed of – followed. Again the range was vast. Plumber, gardener, bridegrooms’ best friend, tv repair man, ointment salesman and campanologist. The plots were wafer thin though, and my Spotlight entry that year was deleted on the grounds of the Obscene Publications Act.

There was also the incident with Una Stubbs in Mother Goose in Cirencester.

These were dark times. And my music reflected that.

My beats - Transcript - Part 3

“What would you like to be?” said the careers officer, his eyes twinkling with the forlorn dreams of what will never be. “I want to act, Sir” I replied “I want to present to the world the dilemma and dichotomy that is the human condition. I want to explore issues and emotions and expose the essence of what it is to be human. I want, through my work, to help people exist with each other, to foster tolerance and understanding. In short, Sir, I want to be at it”. “There’s no chance you could do all that in Bernards’ shoes on the high street? They’re looking for someone”

Such is the attitude of those outside the profession. Those who have not and never will act we call ‘nactors’ within the profession. That or Matthew Waterhouses. Acting is simply the hardest job in the world. It is parachuting into enemy territory in a luminous jump suit at night with a faulty parachute and realising you forgot your packed lunch. It is fighting pirhana while being covered in slices of ham. It is sitting next to Brian Blessed during an otherwise quiet bit at Wimbledon.

It is a struggle; like climbing Everest in a ballgown or taking on the entire US Military with a Cornish pasty. I knew then I would settle for nothing less than the challenge of a script.

My third month in Bernards’ Shoe Emporium heralded a light in the darkness, illuminating not only the shop itself but also casting it’s rays on a glimmer of hope. Mr Bernard had decided on an amateur dramatics performance. But not any – oh no – this was to be a staging of a Mid Summer Nights’ Dream. We had three staff I remonstrated with him, we can’t do it. And Mrs Caruthers has a bladder condition. If we put her in a false forrest, who knows what will happen. She was bad enough left alone with the Hush Puppies. Then the mind of my employer was displayed in all it’s finery “We shall do the whole play, but the actors…” he drew breath. I waited, poised to pounce. “The actors shall be the shoes themselves” he finally added after a long lunch.

This shoeman, this purveyor of footwear was – unbeknownst to himself  - a genius of theatre. The play was cast, with spats, lace ups, Doc Martins, Wellington Boots, Sneakers, galoshes, brogues, pumps, stiletto heels, espadrilles and a startling performance by a winklepicker. It was an overwhelming success, and the four audience members watched in awe, although one of them had to leave as he was supposed to meet his Mother for a sandwich.

Our little show revealed much of human nature and a comment on the raw and savage world of consumerism, and the fact Mr Bernard had a breakdown and started stuffing clogs with offal shows the effect it had on him, the shop and the audiences.

But back to my story; a brother of an audience member had a friend who knew a man whose sister was seeing a man whose wife worked with a woman who was married to someone who was seeing the doctor of a theatrical agent. A call was placed. I was on my way.

And this was the song which heralded my new direction. A song of hope. A sweet melody which evokes the idealism of the young, the possibilities of youth and the optimism of the future. Renee and Renato.

Part two of my program 'My Beats'

Dean Martin, recorded before he died, and Memories are Made Of This.

School was unremarkable, although I was even then a keen participant in the school productions. I played as wide  a range of characters I possibly could, from small merchant selling fruit in the corner to silent onlooker to donkey. The donkey presented a unique challenge. How does a donkey think, what is it’s motivation, it’s raison d’etre? How would it feel to actually be inside a donkey. A question I put to several teachers and subsequent educational psychologists.

I would have done anything to get the lead role, that of the shepherd, but in a way the awarding of the prime character part to Richard Mule was a lesson in life; no matter how talented one is, one is always going to be overlooked for someone else. I did for sometime let my anger and fury fester deep inside, but, and this is the main thrust of my words here, I did not let them rule me. I was the Donkey. A peaceful, tranquil beast. I would focus my energies on my performance and not the way Mule had stolen what was rightfully mine.

I discovered Stanivlaskys ‘method’. For those who don’t know, Stanivlasky – first name…Mr… was one of the pioneers of the ‘Method’. The idea was to live the part, to experience it first hand and translate that into your work. Dustin Hoffman I am reliably informed uses the method a lot, and once used to to completely transform himself into a role few actors thought was possible. It was difficult to recognise him under that make up, but we all know he was Lassie.

It took Hoffman several months of research, fetching sticks and licking his privates before he was truly ready. Even now he greets you by sniffing your crotch or licking your face, and if you throw a ball at the Oscars, Hoffman will return it to your table for a tasty treat.

 I decided I should live as a Donkey does to know this part, and this raised a lot of eyebrows as I grazed lightly outside the classroom, defecated on the PE room floor and did surprisingly well in a maths test. As the educational psychologist took notes, I remember this song being on the radio. A sweet tune, almost hypnotic, though that may be partly due to the injection.

The Beatles and Twist and Shout

A retrospective.

It was with great pleasure this week that I was invited to BBC Radio Bristol to record ‘My Last Beats’, a programme much in the same mould as desert Island Discs, but hosted in Bristol and featuring songs which remind one of times in ones’ life one would either cherish, lament or quite like really to forget about. There are many ‘tracks’ as the youngsters call them which I would prefer to be deleted. But there are many more which evoke fond memories of people, places, performances and in one case, litigation.

Six tracks and a mystery food. Here is a transcript of the show

“Hello. (OFF) Is this on? Are we on this time? Okay. (normal) Hello. As the more perceptive of you will know, I am Tarquin McPhereson, actor, wit, writer, critic and bone vivante of the acting world. It is my honour to guide you through the tracks of my life which I feel something for. This is ‘My Last Beats’.

I was born on a notorious day. The 5^th of August remains synonymous being the anniversary of the last Danish army invading Britain, the Americas stops flogging criminals and the day the BBC stopped showing neighbours. But 1955 was the year I made my debut, cast out from my dressing room (my Mothers’ womb) down the wings (her cervix) and finally onto the stage (exiting her vagina). I don’t mean for a minute that my Mother gave birth on stage, that would be terrible, and lead to a lot of bad reviews, especially if she had to do it six days a week with matinees. No, I am using what is called a metaphor.

The lines I had that day were limited but the scope for development was there. ‘Waaaaaaaaaaa’ I emoted, so convincingly a dummy was placed in my mouth reducing the possibility of further dialogue.

1955 was a good year for music, and I am only too sorry I didn’t arrive on this Earth sooner so I too could have enjoyed Doris Day, Pat Boone and Perez Prado, but sadly I was occupied filling my nappy and screaming all night to really take an interest in popular music. One song which did touch me though was Dean Martins’ Memories are made of this, which I recall playing in the car on a family holiday to Lowestoft, while my father shouted and my Mother tried to get the sick off my clothes. Happy days.

Whoops

So caught up was in telling you my woes I forgot the reason I was posting. Having checked the job papers this morning I was amazed that my old pal Nigel Farmer was holding a reunion for the stars of the 1980s soap opera ‘Anglian Lives’. The show was local & never made it to network, the snobs in London felt anyone in the East Anglia would be of little interest to the rest of the populous, but oh! How wrong they were. This ignorance afforded us a certain cache, we could cover issues those in London would balk at.

Some of the subjects covered which those in London would have balked at.

Tractor maintenance

Fleas

Over cooked Puddings

Faulty pitchforks

Jamborees.

Ritual Devil sacrifice

Home made curtains

Yes, and even to this day those in London are woefully ignorant of such things. We also covered social and environmental issues

Oil

Water

Electricity

The Rainforrests

Bovril

The set up of the show was simple. Rob Wainright (Richard Griffiths) was a man who discovers a new fuel source in a field in East Anglia. He makes his fortune, millions (which today would probably still be millions) of pounds rolls in. It was truly the Dallas of its’ day, with Ron playing the head of a oligarchy of super rich people, and his cheating, unfaithful and duplicitous wife, whose evil was only out matched by her glamour and looks, Doreen. (Played by Penelope Keith). He had a son, two daughters and a dachsund, although the Dachsund didn’t seem particularly used to film sets, and was written out after biting a guest stars’ ears off mid scene. As the blood gushed from his wounds, Rickman continued to deliver his lines, and even as he lost conciousness he was still emoting like a good ‘un. Of course it’s not something he chooses to talk about, which is why so few interviewers ask him about his ears. I did hear the Radio Norfolk personality Nathan Wickham mention it to him in passing during a interview about Rickmans’ book, shortly before Wickhams’ mysterious disappearance.

Oh, the array of stars who queued up to be on the show. Sylvester McCoy. Bono. Dr Hilary Jones. A man who claimed to be Hartley Hare. It was halcyon days of invites, chat shows and controversy. I remember we did a story line, which, if you took a straw pole around some of the villages in East Anglia (or E.A., as we liked to call it) You would find almost 8% of people were talking about it. 3% positively. Yes, were were the flavour of the month in many ways, an intoxicating brew of talent, script and direction which assured us success. Such a shame Anglian Television decided to ditch it after the first show and put on repeats of sale Of The century.

I am back

Good day. Firstly I must apologise for the lack of updates. There are several reasons for this, the last of which is I had my fingers broken in a protection racket run by a certain television actor. For obvious reasons I cannot name the performer, I don’t Wannamaker angry, or risk My Family in any way.

I think I am correct in saying my last post was in April, just after the debacle of Dick Van Dykes’ pajama theft (something which the British Police seem totally disinterested in, and the only action they took in relation to this crime was an arrest and imprisonment for much of May under the Mental Health Act). At the beginning of June a letter sprouted forth from my agent, Mcallister and Thorneycroft,stating that because of my attitude, my relationships with fellow performers and indeed the standard of my work in general, they no longer wished to represent me.

I was shocked.

What had I done to deserve such detrimental treatment? I immediately rang the office to seek answers to the hundred or so swirling questions which moved through my mind like a hurricane. It was actually two questions, but with repeats…

I spoke to David, who was less than helpful. “Listen, love” he opined “we have people on our books, and with your exclusion we now have a 100% of them who have never smacked David Suchet in the face”. I was stunned. Was I to be treated thus because of an incident which both of us (myself and Suchet) had long since sorted*.

“I don’t need you” I shouted down the phone “Talent always wins. And I am talent. And you will regret doing this to me” I screamed, my anger as palpable as a strongly odourous cheese. But he had hung up.

As work seems to be thinner on the ground than Nick Robinsons’ quiff, I have decided to enter the work of the great unwashed, and currently I am to be found in the dish washing section of Harry Ramsdens’ in Gospel Oak. This may seem a step down from the world of showbusiness, but I maintain it is healthy to mix and undertake the work of the public; it keeps you grounded. And who knows, maybe a role will come up featuring dish washing in a television play, or maybe even a film. And then my experience here will pay dividends. To play a role, one must live it, and the ability to play a man who stubbornly refuses to stop until that pasta sauce is wiped from the dish, no matter what the cost to himself personally, is one which I think any director worth his sort would look at.

*The dispute was settled in a barn in Totnes, where Suchet and myself fought in hand to hand combat. Both of us had been working hard, and had both come straight from our respective sets. Suchet dressed as Poirot, myself as a large petunia (I had been filming a commercial for Rennie). Suchet took a beating that night, and his ‘little grey cells’ were well and truly shaken up, as for some days after he was convinced he was Folkstone.