Ulterior Motives.

It would appear Parker Knowles himself got an award. This would explain his expeditious cuts to my own speech – he wanted the lime light for himself. Well, Mr Knowles, this will not do! I have not spent the last few decades building to this moment, working away from the public, hiding behind characters and shunning the limelight of celebrity to have my moment in the Sun eclipsed by him.

I mean, I am not bitter; he may have made a good speech. In fact, I am pretty sure he has lifted many of my stories, anecdotes and other material for his own evil ends. All I am left with, after his savage cuts, is a brief thank you and a long section about parrots.

Parker Knowles will rue that evening; for now he has enraged the Wrath of the Mcphereson. An untold, untapped power of limitless resources which knows no bounds, no lines, no mercy. I have put his name down for a call from Scottish Power.

The Ceremony

It went well, thank you for asking. The initial nerves one feels when one is confronted by an audience of one’s peers are magnified exponentially in comparison to the butterflies one experiences when faces the great unwashed. And many of them are unwashed, believe me. I am not being disrespectful to the public when I say sometimes you are up on the stage and the wafts of stale farts, beer, garlic and bodily odours are overwhelming. Like being locked in Leslie Joseph’s dressing room.

The worst thing – if there is a worst thing about accepting an award one is entitled to after many bloody years entertaining the aforementioned stinking rabble – is writing a speech which is not going to offend, upset, disclose anything that would result in shunning/prosecution, anger, annoy or insinuate. It is important to be both exciting and vague. A complex paradox indeed.

After much scribbling to adhere to these rules, I had written a speech which was as moving as it was in English. Nervous, with trembling hands, I read it back. This was to be my speech. My chance to say, in my own words my debt indebtedness to the industry which had spawned and supported me. But was it enough? Was it veiled in difficult insinuation? Did it litter it’s prose with double meanings, dark secondary narratives and thinly disguised accusations? Yes.

But I was aware that this could be my epitaph as well as my speech, particularly if Mr Blessed hears what I have to say about him. So off I trotted to Parker Knowles, my companion in my darkest hour, my Savant of wisdom, my guru who offered me nought but advice and succur in this cold, unfeeling life. He was in bed, but he dutifully arose (got out of bed, nothing like that going on, thank you) and read my speech. “It’s okay, may be a little on the long side” he said, brushing away the cobweb which had formed around him whilst he perused my manuscript.

In short, he recommended the following deletions/addendums:

The story about Jacques Cousteau could go. Although you can’t libel the dead, the Octopus may still seek legal redress.

My anecdote about Lenny Henry would have to be cut. There was simply no way that was even physically possible.

Canterbury was not demolished.

Delia Smith had never, as far as can be determined, been to public school and similarly had little experience of ‘taking a hot muffin’.

Costumiers REDACTED

The resemblance in behaviour, smell and acting ability of redacted makes her likely to be more suited to Brighton Sea World than The Shaftsbury, albeit it with her wooden leg and charity work.

Hospital records indicate otherwise in my case notes.

This cut my speech down from a manageable, entertaining seven and three quarter hours to fifteen seconds, although if I spoke really slowly I could probably spin it out a bit.

Awards and All

I was surprised last Thursday by the arrival of an invitation to the Actors Awards. Not that I should have been. I have been a practising actor for many years, and my ability was obviously so convincing that they had completely missed my presence in the profession.

Some times acting is like that. I remember the shock rippling through the audience when Leonard Nimoy appeared at Basingstoke in 'Oscar and the Peach', many people said 'where are his ears?'. His ears, of course, were located on the side of his head but the reference to his greatest role and his convincing portrayal of said character obviously made for comment. In the series, the name of which escapes me, he adorned himself with some plastic pointy ones, a fact which some people could not adjust to. "Who is doing all the science bits for Captain Shatner?" people would chime. So convinced were his fans that he was from the future some even went so far as to accost him for a make shift trial. I put a stop to that as soon as the so-called judge put on the black cap. And well I did! Executing an actor mid-run can really put a damper on a production.

So the awards are tonight, and it is strictly black tie. I have no idea whether I have won or not, but my mere invitation after many a solitary year does indicate some sort of recognition. What, though, could they be congratulating me on? My role as Murph, the sarcastic Irish navvy officer? Lord Felch in "Felch In Trouble"? The second face vommiting up Marmite in the commercial (for which, incidently, I am still arguing that throwing up is a special skill and thus deserves a little extra). I wasn't supposed to throw up, in fact, I was supposed to say 'yum' but I was so immersed in my charaterisation that I lost all sense of the narrative and did what the character - called 'man' would do. They broadcast it with Rodney Bewes in the end.

I have spent the days since my invite concentrating on writing my speech. Who to thank? Who to miss out? Who to credit when the obvious person to credit is the one holding the award (me). But I cannot talk about me all the time. I have selected a letter, chosen at random, from one of the hundreds I recieve. Let me run it past you.

Dear Mr McPhereson,


Saw you at the National many years ago and you really made your mark on me. There's a actor with panache, style. Not like those other actors you were with. They were in the shade compared to you. You were the most convincing, let me tell you that. 

When I am in the steel manufacturing business making steel, there is little or no opportunity for a working chap such as myself to indulge himself in culture and learning, and this is a calimony which really causes me and my working compatriots great consternation.


It should have been your name outside on the posters, not Briars, Hopkins, Irons and West. No, you should have been included. You are certainly one to watch and I hope you win an award. If you do feel free to read this letter out.


Yours,


Fred Smith.

Marvellous. Or this, from the Welsh Valleys


Dear Mr McPhereson Boy,


Oh, you did us proud you did boy. Your appearance in that drama I saw the other night was one highlight of theatrical avalonia I shall not forget in a hurry boy. I would be remiss if I didn't write and tell you how good you were, better than all the others put in a box and dumped out at sea (which can be arranged, I have friends in Merther).


When I am in the mining business mining, there is little or no opportunity for a working chap such as myself to indulge himself in culture and learning, and this is a calimony which really causes me and my working compatriots great consternation, I will tell you that, boy.

Good luck to you and if you ever down this way call in to my house and we shall have tea and Welsh rabbits.


Yours




Ivor Smith.

Charming, and one of hundreds I have received. I best get back to writing my speech. I shall let you know the full extent of my presentation when I am happy with it.

Teary Eyed Tarquin

The sadness which pervades the end of a run is something I have always found hard to get over. Indeed, on occasion I have witnessed many actors anticipate the final performance when I attend the first day of rehearsal, blubbing and wailing and calling their agents in quivering tones.

The problem is that we actors are sensitive souls; we bond so easily. Our company becomes like family, a close knit unbreakable bond develops which can only be broken by death, coma or a Bovril commercial. Yet we are also pragmatists. We know that ultimately, as in life, a run must end and we must move on to the next role, the next challenge, the next audience who have yet to sample our delights.

I am in this sort of mood because I have just finished a run as Cedric in 'Dobermans Dilemma', an interesting mid 18th Century piece about industry, slavery and beans. The play, written by Mallard, is one of the most moving ever put on in Wolverhampton Community Centre (I am informed) and immediately garnered plaudits from the local press. The Wolverhampton Messenger described the play as a 'rollercoaster of emotions' while the Tribune noted 'a hearty, meaty subject tackled with deft moribundity by a cast who were assumed to know what they were doing'. Of course we knew exactly what we were doing; we were creating the actual atmosphere of the 18th century, and this was enhanced no end by the faulty drains.

The team consisted of Miranda Nyta, Christian McColl, David Lewes and Rachel Pargetter-Gratton. Fine performers all, and topped off with yours truely as the seedy smuggler who's intent to court young Agatha was as strong as his desire avoid import duty. The cast formed a strong bond, almost immediately, although I am always cautious of such temporal attachments. Chinese meals were eaten, nights in bars were commonplace, the savouring of all Wolverhampton had to offer, it's exotic and erotic, its' studious and serious, its' meat and drink were all undertaken during the rehearsal period. Apparently. I of course preferred to stay in my hotel room, studying the script and looking at the patterns in the wallpaper, and I am pleased they spared themselves the embarrassment of asking me to join in such things. I find the process of bonding with fellow thesps a joy, but I know the heartbreak of goodbyes all too well and such things can be bad for the spirit and the soul. and I can always order a pizza.

The thing is, I think Wolverhampton CC is haunted. I was struck by the number of times my door was knocked yet no one was there. By the strange way people seemed to look over my shoulder in mid conversation, and by the almost subliminal yet constant whispering from mouths unseen of the word 'cheesy'. In theatre one gets used to such phenomena; the production of raw human emotion is bound to elicit a reaction from beyond the grave - even if it doesn't get much from the audience - and spirits are drawn to our naked and vulnerable exposition of the mortal condition. Also it has heating, which may be a factor. I remember appearing at The Ladbrooke some years back in the 1930s farce 'Binky and the Butler' and was surprised to see the disembodied entity of Sir Henry Irving sat, as real as I am now, in my dressing room chair, brandishing a waste paper basket and what looked to be a gonad. "Beware" said Sir Henry "beware the reviewers, Tarquin". Then the figure was gone. I mentioned it to the Theatre manageress and she said Sir Henry only appeared to a select few, offering his wisdom and guidance and would I like a complimentary bag of wine gums. "My good woman" I replied, my hands still shaking from the phantom encounter "by wine gums this spirit shall not dispel!" and left in something of a huff. I refused to use the dressing room again, but space being limited I had to change in the public toilets, and due to a misunderstanding was cautioned under the indecent exposure laws.

Sir Henrys' words were apposite, however, when the reviews for the show did finally appear. All were what could be described - and I make no apology for using a show business term - not good. Even Exchange & Mart broke with tradition of advertising car parts and dodgy, unfumigated furniture by mentioning how bad they thought the show was, although they were kind to place it under 'Fridges'.

Interview

I was recently interviewed by Jo Toxic on Cumberland Gold, the radio station service Cumberland and surrounding area. She seemed very poorly informed as to my career, but you cannot turn your back on publicity.

Speaking of which I would like to distance myself from the commercials for the Nazis. I now realise this was a bad career move, but in all honesty I was under the impression that Na Zi was a detergent. "We need to get all the filth out" said the representative. I apologise for my involvement and any offence I may have caused; it was entirely innocent. I thought at the time it was a very big washing machine, and it only goes to show you should research things thoroughly before becoming involved.

Bad

I write this from the Mild Attention Care wing of Dunstalls' Hospital for actors. I was in Intensive care, and when I arrived I was in the Keenly Observed In An Intrusive Manner Which Should You Wake Up You May Feel A Bit Annoyed ward.

The hospital is specifically for actors. No extras, supporting artistes or crew are allowed to benefit from the services offered. Around me are some brilliant yet ailing thesps, many of them making a desperate final encore before moving into retirement. Jon Crisp, the actor who starred as the mysterious Agent Pork in Reasonable Cause lies opposite, his legs in plaster suspended by pulleys which neatly lift his buttocks from the bed. Ironic his final illness puts him in the same position as his first audition. Hilary Quim, who I appeared with in Portsmouth in a Pizza Hut promotion, completely covered in psoriasis, poor love, and every time she moves she sounds like my leather bound Encyclopedia of Sexual knowledge. And to my right Bernard Yakob who seems to have bought some pills off the Internet, judging by the ruffles in his blankets.

The staff here are excellent, and all needs are catered for. Mr Battersea was ill Sunday last, with low blood sugar and difficulty breathing and the staff leapt into action with an impromptu version of 'The Producers'. Oh, that funny, funny performance. Most excellent. I know Mr Battersea enjoyed it and am sorry he missed the end.

So here I lay, with splints, bandages and a poor recollection of what exactly happened to situate me thus. I do remember saying to Brian Blessed 'You are a bit loud' and the next thing I woke up here.

Three weeks I will be in here apparently. It could be longer. Depends on how long Blessed is waiting outside.

While I was typing this to you, someone called...

Just received an interesting call from NASA, that’s the National Acting in Space Association, not the rocket people, although strangely it did involve the rocket people.

Apparently they are looking for someone to send into space, an acting mission. To see how Stoppard and Ayckbourn work in a zero gravity environment. Apparently the results thus far have not been good, with the performance of PSmith in the City, performed by chimps, largely consisting of throwing excrement at the loading bay window.

I am going to return their call and continue updating you with my news shortly.