On the holiday, we threw ourselves into all that was offered. Volley-ball at 9am, Pass the Balloon between your Legs at 11, Race round the Pool at 3. I attended the 5.30pm aerobics class on the first two evenings and strained my calf muscles so badly, I couldn't stand on tip-toes for a day or two and had to walk down to dinner as if both my hips were fused.
It has been recently suggested to me that this collection of pages should be renamed, "women_ive_shagged.com". I suppose, looking through each one, I can see how this conclusion, however misplaced, could be reached. The fact is, without wishing to sound like Julio Iglesias, the women who have been in my life over the years have made me the man I am today... (I'm not blaming them, it's just an inescapable fact). They are a never-ending challenge to understand. To be a man, allowed to be within a group of women, is an incredible feeling. It is to be at the centre of the universe, given a glimpse of another world.
And, yes, I know... I sounded like bloody Julio Iglesias (I blame single-sex schooling).
By the age of eight, this enjoyment of all things feminine resulted in my having thirteen girl-friends on the go at once, who I would take it in turns to hold hands and skip around the playground with during break-time. My seduction technique at the time was to bring them back to my house for tea, rush through the cucumber sandwiches and get upstairs for some serious playing of "Murder in the Dark". There being usually only two of us in the game, the investigation was always going to be perfunctory and we soon got down to some major lip work. After one particular heinous killing in the gloom, I found myself lying on top of my current squeeze, kissing the life out of her, wondering what the hell it was all about. I remember thinking that there must be more to it than that, but, being only eight, had no idea what it could be. I obviously knew that whatever it was, it was worth pursuing as I would often walk three or four miles simply to have tea with a girl at her parents' house and to hold her hand under the table. Grammar school was a disaster as girls were kept geographically as far away from us as possible leaving me at the mercy of school-boy nastiness and mockery - as I've said before, I was condemned to be the school homosexual simply because I had even features and nice hair. I think those five years at a single sex school instilled in me a deep mistrust of 'blokes' and I have spent my life always prefering to be in life's girly coach, having a sing.
Back in London, without Jo, my "Uncle" Martin - the inverts are used as he was only six years older than me and my step-father's brother to boot - had landed the job of producing a load of videos to be used in Karaoke bars. Martin, if you recall, had had his chances of musical super-stardom severely hampered by my truly abysmal drumming on his first - and last - album. He worked for EMI in the visual section, PMI (Picture Music International). He had been knocking out these videos for a while, using his team of directors, and, in a leap of faith, decided to use me in the first one he was going to direct himself. If you ever find yourself in a bar with a Karaoke machine in it, pick "The White Cliffs of Dover" and you'll be in for a treat. I was certainly in for a treat when I met the impossibly beautiful model Martin had chosen to be the love-interest in our little movie. (Here we go again...) It was hell spending the week-end in Dover and Calais kissing and caressing this vision of loveliness - A video? With a beautiful model? With my reputation? Are they mad?
The next one we did was "Used to be my Girl" by the OJays, not, I imagine, picked that often by the Karaokers. There was yet another model and I got to sit in a black Porsche. We shot the 'kissing' bit after lunch and the model had decided to have pizza with extra anchovies for hers. I couldn't wait to get back in the Porsche...
My final appearance in the world of Karaoke was in "Summer Holiday". Martin and I and a friend of his from work, Guy, went on a 'boys' holiday to Greece, and Martin used some Super 8 footage from the week we had at the holiday 'camp'.
On the holiday, we threw ourselves into all that was offered. Volley-ball at 9am, Pass the Balloon between your Legs at 11, Race round the Pool at 3. I attended the 5.30pm aerobics class on the first two evenings and strained my calf muscles so badly, I couldn't stand on tip-toes for a day or two and had to walk down to dinner as if both my hips were fused.
The camp had a resident "Rep Company" made up of disparates from all corners of Europe. They ran all the games during the day, performed a cabaret every evening and ended up in "Disco Skorpion" (sic) every night. The main man was a very theatrical type called Ron. He had a huge quiff of steel grey hair and a pink neckerchief. Martin always gently took the piss by asking him whenever he threatened to join us how his neck was. When he heard that I was in the "biz", he wafted over to us and asked if I could skate. "We need a Rusty for our Starlight." Bloody actors... It was very difficult to remain anonymous in the compound. Besides having neon on our foreheads saying, "Three Single Guys out for a Laugh", Guy would insist on recording the holiday for posterity on his ridiculously large video camera, complete with its own lighting rig. We'd be having dinner in the communal dining room and he'd get out his various stands and lights, spark them up and ask us to look normal. We very soon came to the attention of two of the "Red-coats". Pam was in charge of sports and had buns of steel. I know because I found myself in her room one night with my hands on them while we attempted to floss each other without the use of dental-tape. Usually, when grabbing an arse, you would expect a little 'give'. Pam's buttocks stood their ground. I didn't: I ran like the wind, petrified. Her friend's name I forget. For some reason, she reminded me of Julie Walters as Mrs. Overall which was a real turn-off. It was the end of the holiday season and they were bored and looking for fun. They decided we would be it. As you can see from the pic, I wasn't too keen.
One night, Martin and Guy took a boat trip to a near-by island and got stranded. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and they had to stay there till the following morning, leaving me in Disco Skorpion at the mercy of Pam and 'Julie'. A group of young Italians grabbed me and took me under their wing. They took it in turns to have their photograph taken with me and kept calling my room all night and giggling. When Martin and Guy returned, they felt they'd missed out. They didn't. For me, it was another example of circumstance giving people the wrong impression. As far as they were concerned, I'd had a veritable orgy while they were absent. "women_who_people_assume_ive_shagged.com".
After we got back to terra Inglaterra, I moved into a new flat. It was owned by David Bell, the director of Maid Marian, and his wife, Cathy. It was standing empty, waiting for a buyer, so they very kindly let me live there until it was sold. In the November, I got a call from the theatre company who'd put on "Cabaret" and went to meet Bob Eaton, who was to direct another musical for them, "Irma La Douce".
"Irma La Douce" is a musical that was famously made into a film starring Jack Lemmon and Shirley Maclaine. She is a prostitute and he falls in love with her. To stop her working, he dons a disguise and pretends to be a wealthy client, giving her enough money so she needn't see anybody else. Strange choice for a musical, you'd think, especially in the fifties when it was first produced. I suppose the fact that it was set in Paris, which gave the characters a certain amount of Gallic charm, made it a lot more palatable for English and American audiences. I imagine if it had been set in Kings Cross or Manchester, it would have never seen the light of day. Bob cast me as Nestor, the poor, deluded young man who thinks that by putting on a false beard and a silly voice, Irma will not guess it's him.
So I was back in the Kennington rehearsal rooms, a stone heavier, single, with car and a second series of Maid Marian confirmed. Cool.
Rehearsals were brilliant. The company who put the play on was based in Keswick. Century Theatre, who'd produced "Cabaret" the year before, specialised in using actor/musicians who could accompany themselves and each other during the show. In "Cabaret", I hadn't been called upon to play anything other than the part, but, in this production, the sticks were brought down from the loft and given an airing.
I spent the entire rehearsal period building up a rapport with Shelley, my 'Irma'. She seemed to laugh at most of my jokes, which is always a good start. By the time we opened in Taunton three and a half weeks later, we'd met, flirted, gone out and split up. It was all very amicable, thank God, and Shelley, me and a mate from my Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe past, Fergus, shared digs wherever we went. We went back to Middlesbrough. We went back to Rotherham, We went back to Poole. We added Stevenage and Newark and avoided Harlow. Life was much sweeter. No bunk-beds or the threat of a middle of the night throttling. Having a car, we could rent lovely cosy farm cottages on the outskirts of these towns and drive in after a day of rural bliss.
While in Lincoln - it was the nearest nice place to Newark - one night, Shelley did this little party-trick game on Fergus and I. I don't know if you've ever done it yourself, but, if you haven't, I can't give you too many details because it can only be done on someone once for it to be effective. It involves being taken on a journey through a house of your imagination. You have to describe details such as what is on the table, where the door is, what the garden looks like etc. Your responses indicate certain attitudes to career, health and romance. Suffice it to say, my description of a certain part of this journey through the sub-conscious, indicated that I found sex soiled, unattractive and barren. I blame Pam. No, seriously folks, it was a bit of a bolt. I really must get some therapy...
The show was fantastic fun to do and I revelled in the part. A little too much, perhaps.
Perhaps.
I believe that, during the run of a stage production, an actor should be able to experiment, within the limits of the script and at no-one else's expense. What would be the point of merely repeating every reaction and attitude night after night? Of course, if you are playing "Third Lord", there isn't much scope for self-expression, but in lead roles, it's virtually essential or else you'd go bonkers. And in "Irma la Douce", I had a part I could really have fun with. Half-way through the run, a meeting was called in the local Wimpy and I had to sit there while this actor 'acted' as spokesperson for two or three other members of the company, telling me that my behaviour on-stage was embarrassing and, if I continued in the same vein, he, and his fellow conspirators would walk off! Oh, touring! It's "Big Brother" in the sense that a bunch of people from different backgrounds and different ages are thrown together in a pseudo-intimate way for three months or more under slightly stressful circumstances. Groups are formed, alliegances develop, egos are stroked. It's a fucking nightmare. Anthony Hopkins got it right at the National. As soon as the curtain fell, he was off home avoiding any unnecessary socialising. It's only asking for trouble sooner or later.
I suppose I can be a little naughty sometimes. In the show, there was one of those actors who for reasons best known to themselves and their mother's, find it impossible to act and look you in the eye at the same time. Occasionally, I would break off from a scene and look over my shoulder at whatever this actor seemed to be staring at - just to make a point, you understand. Not simply to take the piss...