During my long and varied career (under the rather racy name of "Wayne"...) I've worked with some of the acting greats: Wolf, Lightening, Trojan, Hunter, I could go on. My stay in Birmingham was an opportunity to renew old friendships forged by the heated, high-pressure, grease-painted atmosphere that is panto. The Gladiator Show was recorded in the Arena close by and during one of my canal-side runs, I bumped into a fellow panto veteran, Erik Van Wyk (aka "Wolf"). He had no idea who I was and offered me a signed photo of himself wearing a thong for £2.50.
They say squash players are a strange lot on the whole. Guys who enjoy both the personal challenge and the self-flagellation involved. In the bar of clubs across the country, you see them, individuals who don't conform. They tend to run their own businesses and rarely admit doubt into their lives. Either that or they're the worms that regularly use the court to turn. Manipulation of your opponent is diluted in team sports. In squash, it's concentrated to the point of powder. Sure, there's tennis, but there's a net and 78 feet between you. On a squash court, you're right there at the heart of it! Under his arm! In his face! You can smell his frustration. It's great!
We play our squash here in North London at the historically-dense Cumberland Lawn Tennis Club (CLTC). I've personally been a member since 1996. I arrived in a blaze of glory, fresh from the Edgbaston Priory Club in Birmingham where I had spent the summer filming a rather sexy serial for the BBC called "Back Up". Not a 'series', mind you, a 'serial'. At the time, I didn't really know the difference. After a few weeks, I understood. A 'series' would be something like "Inspector Morse" or "Wycliffe", or "Inspector Linley Investigates And Then Has a Cup of Tea". Ours was a 'serial', which meant it was shite.
Anyway, being plonked in Birmingham with an expense account and a playing a character (Inspector Harlow) who only popped in now and again - "Where's Harlow, sir?", "It's in Essex, isn't it?..." - I had plenty of time and money to treat myself to a series (serial?) of coaching lessons at the very attractive Edgbaston Priory. I was coached by Matt Suckling, who, funnily enough, actually did resemble a very fit piglet. After one particular session, he accidently let me know what he thought of my physique: "I once played a match with this bloke. He was good, but, you know, had 'chicken legs' - no offence." No offence? Why would I take offence?
He would ream the ball during the knock up just to show me how butch he was and how pathetically weak - and patently spindly - I seemed to be. I would tremble before the trim power of his swing and struggle to tame a ball as hot as a baked potato. The club had many coaches who thoroughly enjoyed the process of imparting their knowledge and skills to the membership and got great satisfaction in seeing the giant leaps that can be made through such quality coaching. Matt wasn't one of them.
Still, by running me ragged every time we went on court, the afore-maligned legs became much stronger. Picture a chicken who'd run a couple of marathons and you'll get the idea. ( Actually, the image isn't that outlandish. Every year, the London Marathon always has its fair share of chickens coming in four or five hours after everyone's gone home - usually ridden by Bernie Clifton) Plus, my hotel was near the developed Brindley Place area complete with cafes and canals and the beauty of the area inspired me to get the running shoes on and tackle a few bridges.
During my long and varied career (under the rather racy name of "Wayne"...) I've worked with some of the acting greats: Wolf, Lightening, Trojan, Hunter, I could go on. My stay in Birmingham was an opportunity to renew old friendships forged by the heated, high-pressure, grease-painted atmosphere that is panto. The Gladiator Show was recorded in the Arena close by and during one of my canal-side runs, I bumped into a fellow panto veteran, Erik Van Wyk (aka "Wolf") He had no idea who I was and offered me a signed photo of himself wearing a thong for £2.50. We'd endured six long weeks together in Cardiff one Christmas with the only consolation an obscene amount of money and this happened! After all I'd done for him during that show (Dick Whittington 1995-6 - I was smashing!) - after all those cosy chats we'd had in his dressing room while he sat there eating his tuna fish and runner beans and peeing into a test-tube; after all those disagreements I'd settled for him with the rest of the cast! All those waters I'd stilled! I still remember one particularly bad afternoon when I had to calm him down after he'd had a nasty row with one of the boy dancers over whose turn it was to use the curling-tongs.
By the way, did you know that the body-builders who played the Gladiators used to address each other by their 'Gladiator' names even when they were off the set? Oh, yes. I took part one year in a Christmas edition of 'Run the Risk' , a sort of 'It's a Knock-Out' for kids presented by Bobby Davro - very funny - and, we, "Maid Marian", were competing against an "Eastenders" team and "The Gladiators". During a break in filming, I went to the canteen to get something to eat. A couple of the large ones were in the queue in front of me. "Hey, Trojan! Do you want Lightening's herb tea, she's going to have Hunter's Lucozade instead?" God's truth. I kid you not. We also had to have deep discussions over whether the Gladiators could be seen to lose. If you ever get to see that show, you'll notice how, when the whistle blows to start each game, we all ignore the 'rules' and simply start throwing as many inflatables as we can lay our hands on straight at these leotarded muscle-bags and jumping on them at every opportunity.
There followed an intense period of training. I would run along the canals every night and run up huge bills in the Copthorne bar. The hotel also had a gym. Although it served its purpose, it must be said that the equipment in there seemed to have been bought from a catalogue. This, in a way, prevented injury by over-training as the stuff would break if you simply walked towards it too vigorously. I made sure a room was booked for me as near to the gym entrance as possible so I could work out and nip to my own shower afterwards. I would pump and sweat every night... and then switch off the pay TV and go next door to begin my regime.
To begin with, I would use the canal run as a warm-up. For the first week or so, the warm-up itself completly knackered me. Simply getting back to the hotel car-park without pulling anything was a tiny triumph. (One of my favourite running stories came from an old squash partner of mine who told me that he would always tuck a tenner into his sock before he left the house for the cab ride back! ) After a week or so, the run left me with enough strength to manage the walk through the hotel foyer and up the lift to be whisked up to the third floor (Gym Level) without throwing up. After another week, I made it through the gym door into the gym itself, and, after yet another few days was able to sit (gingerly) on the exercise bike and pedal nowhere for ten minutes or so. I had spent four or five weeks getting to this stage. Inspector Harlow was soon to be cruelly struck down by a baying mob of disenchanted Pakistani factory workers so time was of the essence. Giant leaps would have to be made if I was to make the most of my stay in Birmingham and return home to London a transformed player. I began the weight training in earnest. The machines groaned under the strain of the 4Kg rocking their very foundations. Every night, the sounds of intense effort echoed through the corridors of floor 3. (I personally put that down to over doing the eggs and All-Bran). I became a regular feature at the Edgbaston club where I could be often found lying, spent, in the male changing rooms. Soon, the combination of the running, the weights, Matt's sado-narcissim and channel 23 meant that I had buns of steel and a right wrist the size of my ankle.
For some reason, though, despite my efforts, I was finding getting around the court increasingly difficult. Bending over to pick up the ball between rallies was even becoming a problem. I just couldn't understand it. How, with all the fitness work and gym sessions, was I not getting any better? The only differences I noticed in my game were the number of racquets I got through and the strange looks I seemed to get in the steam room afterwards.