The Return of Galaxy Log!

Scanning through the myriad emails and messages, I notice one from Peter Nayland-Goathe, a old and wily man and dare I say, a friend. Although he has not been in touch recently, not since the end of Galactic Log, he brought glad tidyings. Apparently they are thinking of bringing back GL for  whole new generation.

For those who don't know Galactic Log was one of the most innovative Sci Fi shows ever made. It had a cult following in the 1980s, and to enhance it's exclusive and on the edge style, it has never featured in any sci-fi convention, and wouldn't do even if we were invited. The reviews were mixed for it, it seems the critics just 'didn't get it'. One that stands out in my mind was 'Galactic Log should be renamed "there's nothing on BBC2 either"'. A trifle unkind.

In the series I played Vorbilon, a Spand from the planet Squirb, who had been recruited into the United Kingdom of Planets partly because his own planet and star system was burnt up in a supernova and partly because of the luncheon vouchers.

Sadly Vorbilon was struck dumb by an alien crumb ray in the second episode, so I had to convey the angst, loneliness and desperation of my character using only my physical perspicacity and rubber tendrils.

I am to meet Nayland-Goathe tomorrow - the 15th. I shall keep you informed.

Return to Reality

The last week of March I spent at the Foreign Office, being quizzed on the performance and how it went and what it involved. There was certainly a lot of interest! People would come in and go out and then another set of people would come in and go out. There was talk of a diplomatic incident, although I can’t really take the credit for how the populous of that nation reacted to our departure home. It was a team effort, although if pushed, I would have to say my puppetry during Mid Summer Nights’ Dream was something I would be proud to have on my CV, and any future employer can explore at length my Bottom.

The problem which also dogged me was Melvyn Hayes, who was under instruction from a Columbian Cuddley Toy Cartel to smuggle in as many toy penguins as he could. Imagine my surprise when his body scan revealed over fifty eight of these items hidden in his rectal passage. The image of poor Hayes being led away by guard to literally have the stuffing taken out of him is something which will live with me for a long time, as is the imaginary image of him placing them there in the first place.

I returned to my flat to find absolutely no trace that Dick Van Dyke had been there and set an elaborate trap to force me to meet my maker. This was a tremendous relief to me; as readers know I have had a rather heated dispute over a set of pajamas which went missing in Greenwich dry cleaners and which subsequently I saw on an episode of Diagnosis Murder; it seems Van Dyke is biding his time.

London is something of a bump to reality when returning from a foreign tour. No one here comes up to me, let alone chases me, and to some extent I feel lonely, unappreciated and neglected.

I must ring Nicholas Parsons today.

Back from the Brink. Or Africa, as some call it.

It’s been a while so let me fill you in on what I have been up to. I have spent much of the tail end of March in Malawi, with the RSSPC. Not a charity, although if you want to donate some funds to them I am sure they will be gratefully received. Neither is it anything to do with the RSC, as the injunction clearly states. The Royal Shakespeare Shadow Puppet Collective performs the Bards’ plays via a complex set up of a wall and a table lamp. Oh, the deep feeling of doing something new! The raw emotion of being the first to explore this medium with the greatest playwright the world has ever seen. The embarrassment of Two Gentlemen of Verona where I made a rather convincing but unscripted mallard.

I have to say at this point we were in no way responsible for the civil unrest which seemed to dog our performances; we put this down to a sweeping desire for political change, and nothing to do our actual shows, which were dogged by technical, performance and rioting issues.

The endless chanting of “pothawira iye” and “McPhereson! Duka chotsa mavalo a chimuna” I took to be especially heartening. To think my name is now part of the language in Malawi. I am reliably informed it means “We must give him what he deserves” and many of our security personnel and latterly the army certainly seemed to concur.

My journey to the airport was eventful, as faithful audience members rocked the vehicle, perhaps hoping for one last performance of our epics, although we lacked a suitable torch, and Enrico (head of security)  said it was unwise to go out in case they got over excited, and with each wanting to savour a part of me pull me limb from limb.

Threatening call

I have just received a call from a withheld number. The words are etched on my mind like the graffiti on the front door.

“Evenin’ Guv. It’s a real pea souper out there and that’s a fact. People bound to go missin’ tonight, squire. Cor blimey, it’s a bleeding nightmare for those who remain when some bloke goes missing, so it is, chief. I tell you mate, I can feel something awful about to happen, never have I had such a sensation in my plums”

And the line went dead. The cockney accent was so bold, so assured I can only assume it was made locally or at least in the Northern Hemisphere. 

I would switch the lights off and close the curtains but Van Dyke stole them all.

I may go and stay with Binky Biggins tonight. If I do I want you to know that if I am reported to have been found in a sex game which went wrong, it was nothing to do with me. Well, it certainly wasn’t consensual.

The pajama game

Further to my earlier post, I have just come off the phone to the producers of Diagnosis Murder. My conversation was somewhat curtailed by their refusal to believe in my stolen pajamas appearance, with threats being issued on both sides of a most boisterous nature. Since putting the phone down I have reflected on the career of Dick Van Dyke, and the money has has accrued, and am under no misconception when I say that the man intends to carry out his threats, many of which relate to my bottom.

To think this business may actually lead to my untimely death. It’s only a pair of pajamas I know, but it’s the principle of the thing; then the horror of the truth hit me. 

Van Dyke had robbed my flat!

He has the power. He has the money. He has my pajamas. It all fits. I rang the local police station and informed them of my suspicions ; several times to several officers, all of whom passed me onto another officer to explain my theory. They assured me someone would come around tomorrow and speak to me about it.

But that is tomorrow! Tonight is the questionable time. If I am found dead in my bath, or deceased after some bizarre sex game then I can assure you that I did not kill myself, I had no intention of killing myself and frankly if I am found in a cupboard with jam on my genitals and a noose then it is definately not a sex game gone wrong. I cannot emphasize this enough. 

If I am found with a tangerine in my mouth and a dog collard in ladies undergarments with a Henry hoover attached to my manhood then ignore the report - it will be murder. 

And if I am discovered with a black mamba ‘adult toy’ rammed up my behind, blindfolded and tied up spread eagle and naked then I can assure you it was not of my doing.

March Madness

One thing March is famous for, apart from the Ides, is madness. It has been quite fraught here of the last few days. First, on the second a man called around claiming there were some slates missing off my roof. I inspected the roof myself while he waited, and found no such deficiency in slate provision, and on my descension I discovered it was not slates I was lacking but a television, DVD, blue ray and for some reason my pajamas. Having informed the Police of this foul business, I was duly sent a form (well, they claim I have been sent a form but to be honest I have recieved squat diddly from them). My pajamas I will miss, everything else can be replaced, but they were a gift from Chris Timothy and the very same pajamas featured three times in All Creatures. A collectors item for sure. Then on the fifth another man came around to tell me Mark Featherstone at the Bull Theatre was looking for someone for his play 'Hopeless'. Apparently Featherstone had written the play with me in mind! I rushed around to the Bull stage door, full of adrenaline and enthusisasm, only to find there was no such play ergo no work. With a horrible feeling I rushed back to Islington where I discovered my setee, chair, table and lamps had all gone. what foul trickery does the criminal underworld think it is playing on me? Then, yesterday, the tragic news of Godfrey Bellamy, with whom I had the pleasure of appearing in 'No No, Not Mr Bellamy' in the 1970s had passed away during an epic attempt to scale K2 (although only having one arm since appearing in the musical live theatre version of 'Born Free' could be seen as something of a handicap. I poo-pooed this news thinking no sooner would I have left the house than Bellamy would be around taking what is left of my possessions - albeit slowly with his one arm - off to the underworld. I flatly refused in my paranoia to believe he was dead and this lead to them taking me to the undertakers and prizing open his coffin to check. Lo and behold, Bellamy. I have to say I have never felt so bad in my life. To doubt someone is dead simply because it may mean saying good by to my Victorian Tea Pot or the sideboard was unforgivable of me. I felt a fraud and a charlatan. I gave a splendid (if I say so myself) impromtu speech at the service 30 minutes later and was consilatory and sympathetic as any funeral goer could be.

I returned home to find they had taken everything but the floorboards. No one saw anything of course, I mean it would be too much to ask that people look out of their windows and see someone carrying doors, light fittings, taps, kitchens and an entire toilet and loading it up in a van. What is the public doing, not looking out of their windows? It's not like they have much else to do. Theatre is afternoons and evenings, therefore the notion they are too busy to look or even ask a question 'What is going on outside' indicates to me they are not the kind of people I would want to watch me play Rattigan.

While I have been typing this I have had Diagnosis Murder on, and horror of horrors, one of the actors has my pajamas on.

Update

Here we are approaching the end of February and not one word from any of the applications I have sent off, auditions I have attended. The last two months have been almost annoyingly quiet. Apart from one job I did have at Warner Road Police Station where I was involved in an identity parade. That was before a collosal near-miscarriage of justice, which was cleared up in under three days, though I am pretty sure word got out to the grocers in the area.

It was during my sojourn in Warner Road I started to think about how famous people would survive in gaol. I don’t think there has been a convincing portrayal of Prison life; I mean that. I mean, there was The Green Mile, The Shawshank Redemption and Within These Walls, but no really gritty, socially combative exposure of life ‘inside’.

Which is why upon my release I started to write a new novel. I don’t see why not; Richard Fairbrass is not coming back to me about that audition for the West End, and he is leaving it a little late, considering it’s been on a week. And Penguin haven’t even replied to my idea about a book about the adventures of an amorous chair.

and so my mind is sharpened, my pen is ready. I say pen because I feel the writer works best when the process is not weighed down with the rigors of technology. Plus the electric has been cut off. This is what I have written thus far

Bob Crime is a garage proprietor from the east of London. Involved with some shady coves, he quickly becomes immersed in organised crime, and is involved in the notorious fruit stand caper, where he and his cohorts knock over a fruit stand. Alone and sentenced to four thousand years, he has time to think about the error of his ways. About his wife, and about sodomy. Not necessarily in that order. Anyway one of the convicts - or lags to use the parlance of the cells - tells him to do something or other which is totally contrary to the rules of the prison and thus presents a moral dilemma which is the main driver to the story. There is conflict as well with the prison big crime man called Mr Big, and for light relief a small scuffle over a pudding.

Glorious, gritty, real.