Calls - a Tarquin in demand

I have this morning received a call from a 'Lawrence', one of the myriad number of interns employed by Sharon, who seemed to be under the impression I was scheduled for an audition this morning. I dislike when agents schedule you to do something and don't tell you. It makes turning up difficult.

As an actor, and I don't know about other actors but I find this to be the case, I need time to think and consider how I will approach any part. For the role of 'man eating toast' in the Rowntree Jam commercial, for example, I spent a week eating nothing but toast. While doing this, I considered what sort of man I was. Was I married? Was I a professional man or one of the workers? How did I relate to my friends? What car did I drive? What was my relationship to my Mother like? How did I react when the cuts to live theatre in the provinces were announced? All these things were, to me, vital if I was to cram in as much pathos, character and meaning as Rowntree has crammed in real apricots.

You may think a lot of this work is wasted; oh no, I reply, waving a correcting but none-the-less stern finger in your direction, it is a vital and living necessity that I portray something like this to the best I can, breathing in realism to every gesture, conveying the meaning of life to this man to the wider public through the medium of eating toast. They would know his joy, his pain, his very soul, exposed for all to see and savour, the essence of the human condition. Through this medium, and using me as a conduit, he would be revealed to the world.

I attended this particular audition with a 108-page dossier of information on the man, his likes for Chopin and the Chemical Brothers, his passion for Bolton Wanderers, the hidden rage which lies behind all unharnessed talent. The director, who couldn't have been older that seven, tossed my information to one side 'You're only here to eat some toast' he said, not realising he'd missed out on my accounts of the man's jury service where he always thought an innocent man had gone to prison, completely negating the tale of the trouble he'd had with local kids trampling over his tomatoes and the ineffectual response of the local Police. The trials and tribulations of his planning permission application for that new patio. He missed all that. “Just eat the bloody toast, McPhereson” said the prepubescent plebe, and eat I jolly well did. Of course, my diet of six loaves of bread every two hours for a fortnight had given me something of a wheat intolerance, but I soldiered on. I tried to imagine I was one of our brave lads during the first world war, trapped in a filthy trench, facing the Somme and the Germans, knowing their new machine gun was waiting to launch the bullet which would end my life. Only replacing the Germans, the Somme and the gun with some toast and the prospect of slight indigestion.

In all my research I had forgotten to actually decide which sort of jam this man would prefer. I was shocked to find I had been dished up raspberry. “Raspberry?” I pondered, incredulously. “This man would not eat raspberry! He is a strawberry man. Strawberry is his perchant, his raison d'etre. His toast camouflage.” A heated argument ensued in which I stated that to do this character credit and give him any credibility at all, it would have to be strawberry or the whole thing would fall down and the whole of Britain would be laughing at our incompetence and unrealistic portrayal, and he put his point that I either did it or piss off.

I ate the jam, but with every mouthful I slowly and surely sank into a deep and loathful mire of despair.

They never called me back.

Lawrence seemed insistent that I had been told but checking my diary I found nothing to indicate such an engagement. Apparently I was to be a henchman in the new Bond film 'Snookerhips'. Or at least audition for one.

Of course, this all comes at a time for me that has been difficult. I have trouble keeping this blog going, partly because of the lack of suitable acting work for someone of my type, but mainly because I had the electricity cut off. And this after I offered to make their commercials for them. I had it all laid out.

Enter King Richard

“Foresooth, doest this bill of electric accurate my usage reflect? To mine knowledge, this seemeth a bit steep. The morrow I shall go and verily gather knowledge of other competitive tariffs in this the so called sector of domesticity”

It goes on to a battle between the Royalists who support Richard whose throne and future is thrown into doubt also in his quest to obtain a better unit base rate for his consumption of power and British Gas.

They didn't even reply. Is this to be the way of things? When I have a conversation with lovely Dame Judi or charming Charlie Dance or even Pongo Hopkins I expect a reply to my words, not an empty void of silence. But these are professionals; these are people who take parts of other people, mannerisms, affectations and in Hopkins case innerds, and turn them into something people can really appreciate. I dare say if there were a few more of them employed by British Gas I would have no problem communicating my financial problems to their customer services.

I envisage the conversation to go thus:

“Hello, thank you for calling British Gas, this is Sir Anthony Hopkins speaking, can I have your account number please”

There then would follow a conversation peppered with anecdotes, trivialities of acting gossip, snippets of information about upcoming productions he may or may not be involved in, all the while sorting out a better payment plan. And of course, should he be in a bad mood, he could use his Hannibal Lecturn character in awkward calls

“I think you people are blood suckers. You have screwed up my direct debit, taking 120 when you said it would be 80 and this has given me a shit load of bank charges, what are you going to do about it, eh?”

“Do you remember, when you were a small boy, you had a owl. And the owl would stare at you, night and day. Where ever you were in the house? And when you grew the owl grew until one day the owl was not there, and that was the day the Priest came to your room...”

“I am so sorry”

“Sorry isn't good enough. Remember... I have your account details on screen. Sleep well.”

That would be a change indeed. Of course, I am in no way suggesting British Gas should start actually eating their customers, although if the notion is raised in future years I would like some sort of recognition.

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.