What was even harder to avoid was my room mate, who I found looking at me, as I opened my eyes one morning, with an enigmatic smile on his face, and rather disconcertingly informed me he could "see my bottom" as I slept!
At the end of July, 1984, we were all given a talk by the wonderful George Hall, who ran the drama course, about how our future career in acting, and indeed life in general, wasn't a race. We let him finish and then raced out as fast as we could before anybody else got all the work...
My departure was a little more leisurely and self-satisfied than some, however. I had a job! Richard II at that summer's Edinburgh Festival. £10 to cover expenses, train ticket and a place to stay provided. My cup veritably runnethed over, my liege. The King was to be played by a very nice man and confirmed bachelor, Nigel. We rehearsed at the Actor's Institute in London where Nigel gave classes in how to be a megalomaniac and he put all his experience to good use. The director, David Hillman, was suitably intellectual and director-like, but withered whenever Nigel threw one of his legendary tantrums. I don't blame him really, it really was a sight to behold and I went pretty limp myself when faced with such mincery. David decided to start proceedings with an improvisation where we all were in a submarine and Nigel was the commander. Nigel simply sat there among the rest of us, as we gamely pretended to submarine ourselves, with an enigmatic smile on his face refusing to join in. Very 'Richard', I thought.
The rehearsals went well apart from the scene where I had to stand upstage with Nigel as he declaimed that it was his castle and he wasn't coming down.
During this speech, I was required to gently weep. Not only did I have to weep, but my tears were to be tenderly touched by his Kingship and talked about for ten lines or so. The heat was on. Time after time, I stood there trying to squeeze something, anything, out of my eyes, but nothing came. We were to have a run in London before going up to Edinburgh and the first night was fast approaching. Still nothing. I would stare at the King, trying to think of how awful it must be for him to lose his throne and all that, but try as I might, I just saw Nigel giving it large. Something had to be done. Someone had told me about this menthol stuff that you rubbed on sore muscles called Tiger Balm and how it was brilliant for producing tears in the eyes. The Saturday before the opening night, I went to my local Boots and found what I was looking for. "Ay, there's the rub!", I announced, and procured this little red tin of menthol-magic. The next time we ran through the play, I stuck my index finger and thumb deep into the wax and daubed the stuff under my eyes before this dreaded scene. Blimey! I cried my eyes out! I found the whole 'coming down' thing so moving, I bawled like a baby, and continued to cry my eyes out through the remaining eight scenes and the director's notes session afterwards! My fellow actors thought I must be having some sort of breakdown and I had to come clean. They were suspicious of such artifice and worried, quite rightly, about relying on something so plainly nuclear in its effect but, by the second week in Edinburgh, I had perfected the technique, and could lightly tap the skin under my eyes with the deftest of touches and produce a solitary tear that dropped down my cheek on cue. Quite a few times, members of the audience would come up to me afterwards and congratulate me on my incredible acting ability. I would always gladly own up to my trick, however, as, through the run, I had discovered that the sensation of tears streaming down my cheeks produced some sort of Pavlovian emotional response in me and, in a sense, freed me of the worry that I didn't look upset enough, to actually get very upset indeed!
The Edinburgh venue we were booked in was the Masonic lodge. The floor below us, Rory Bremnar and Jenny Eclair, among others, were starting their careers. We all had lunch while we were there. I know this sounds silly in the light of what he does for a living, but Rory Bremnar did impressions the entire time! I remember thinking how frighteningly driven he seemed to be, and how horribly talented! The flat we stayed in was pretty close to luxurious. I had to share a bedroom with a couple of the other actors, but at least I didn't have to share with Nigel. He had the lion's share of the sleeping facilities, as befitted his ennobled rank, and slept alone. His 'husband' came up to visit for a few days and we fast became the lodgers in his domestic arrangements. I really didn't wish to intrude, but the brazen display of campery was hard to avoid. What was even harder to avoid was my room mate, who I found looking at me, as I opened my eyes one morning, with an enigmatic smile on his face, and rather disconcertingly informed me he could "see my bottom" as I slept! But here I go again, displaying a rather worrying penchant for ridiculing all feminism in all things male. I apologise, but can't help but find campery completely hysterical and, indeed, it has been suggested I err on the camp side myself! If anyone saw any of the episodes of "Maid Marian and her Merry Men", you'll see what they mean... Back in Edinburgh, I'm sure I was reading all sorts into all sorts through my paranoia, and everyone else had, so to speak, a ball!
You may have noticed that I have yet to mention the actresses in the production. That's because there weren't any. This was an "all-male" Richard II. David Hillman had simply removed all the wives from the play and carried on as if they didn't matter. I suppose, in a sense, they didn't. Richard is usually played as a screaming queen anyway, and casting one in the role only led weight to his slant on things. My 'Aumerle' was as camp as Christmas, the 'Duke of York' batted for the other side both in the play and out of it, and Bushey, Baggot or Green - I can't remember which - enjoyed the sight of morning bottom!
'Bolingbroke' was as butch as they come, however. Neil was already famous as a Scottish detective's sidekick on TV and lent the show a manly weight that was sorely missing from our side. He acted with his legs wide apart and a voice as deep and resonant as Nigel's nether regions, and I wished with all my heart for just a crumb from this man's manly table.
We pulled in thirty or forty for each show. Not bad, really. The only aberration was the night of the firework display when no-one showed up, but by then we didn't really care that much. The run was coming to its end and we'd all explored each other's artistic avenues as much as was necessary. Everything had gone without a hitch - apart from the show where we all stood on stage, acting away, and could see through to the dressing room where someone had got in via the fire escape and had begun rifling through our bags. It was a strange dilemma. Do you go against all your instincts and destroy the magic by running off into the wings and the twentieth century at that moment? Or do you remain there "the show must go on" ing and let some toe-rag nick all your stuff? We ran.
Neil ended up in the US, Bushey was the middle-class foreman of the jury that sent down Little Mo, and I last saw Nigel on a station platform in a suit carrying a brief-case. He was obviously never the same after losing his throne. I looked him up on the net while writing this and found his CV which states he now "works cross-culturally, particularly in the Pacific Rim."