So I'm never gonna dance again
Guilty feet ain't got no rhythm
Tho' it's easy to pretend
I know you're not a foo...oo...o...oool
I should've known better than to cheat a friend
The wasted chance that I've been given
So I'm never gonna dance again
The way I danced with YOU, oh oh oh OH...
Those of you who've heard Peter Cook and Dudley Moore's famous "Mama's got a brand new Bag" will appreciate the absurdity and sheer hilariousness of part of my brief while working for ExR (English by Radio). Although I was twenty four at the time, dressed in stripy shirts and white trainers, I was seen by my employers as the voice of youth at the World Service. Mind you, seeing as half of our six strong company were drawing their pension, I suppose I was! Because of this, I was given a regular slot on a programme called, "Catch the Words" where I had to slowly and clearly enunciate lyrics from such numbers as "Careless Whisper" and "Beat it" ("This ain't no truth or dare!"). It was almost impossible to sound like anything other than a middle-aged politician trying to be hip. The fact that you also had to ignore the Americanisation of 'dance' and 'chance' didn't help matters one bit. Having to speak so clearly and slowly, sounding every consonant, meant I ended up sounding like Angela Rippon, who I remember clearly ennunciating the 'D' of 'and' when announcing on the news the death of Elvis Presley, "the King of Rock AND Roll" .
Another of my favourites was "Professor Grammar", where I basically played myself, a dumb student. The 'Professor' was supplied by the immensely talented Ian Bamforth. He was a vocal gymnast. His voice had incredible depth and a brilliantly gravely quality helped, no doubt, by his staple diet of alcohol and roll-ups. It was quite easy to sound ignorant and in need of assistance in the presence of such a mildly-tortured genius. We made it into print. This being radio, there was, of course, no need to wear anything special when recording - no need, in fact, to wear anything at all! - but the book needed photographs and, knowing Ian, to see him in the hired get-up, was a treat. I imagined all these students of English across the globe, presuming that that was what Ian looked like on a daily basis. If only they knew! I myself was drawn. I seem to be wearing a jumper over a stripy shirt and tie! Uncanny...
My nine months at ExR was a chance to take stock and drop out of the acting game for a while, while still, in a sense, being in it. It was nice not to have to worry about where the next job was coming from. Having said that, my pay after tax (tax?! Oh, yes. Being in the one work-place for so long and this being the BBC, the actors in the company all had to pay the inland revenue on a PAYE basis) was £96 a week. That is not a typing error. It was £96. Bear in mind I had been working for the company for a few months already on a freelance basis and the fee for one visit to the studio was around £70, and you'll understand how the security of joining them all under contract was very tempered by the near poverty-line wages. We were, however, allowed to have the occasional day off to film the odd commercial now and again to suppliment our incomes. One day, I had a call from my agent asking me if I fancied doing a day's work on a movie directed by Terry Jones called "Personal Services". I thought about it for a nanosecond and said I did. I was allowed my day off to make my film debut. I was taken shopping by the wardrobe assistant - she dressed the actors, didn't sell wardrobes - and, armed with a sackful of trendy, over-priced, nylon gear, went over to Fulham to shoot the scene. Mr. Jones was busy, so the scene, which was to be a porn film within a film, was directed by the film's writer, David Leland. Much talk was made of showing how instrinsically silly most stock porn imagery was, and how we would gently mock the genre. Fair enough, I thought. The end result was still me being pushed onto a dustbin around the back of Fulham Broadway Tube by a woman with a feather boa who then proceded to 'gently mock' the flies of my extremely tight, newly bought jeans. Speaking of which, the most disturbing element of all this was that the director felt that I wasn't, how shall I say, big enough. By this, he didn't mean I wasn't famous enough to appear in his film. He felt my nethers weren't big enough to show through the tightly stretched denim. I didn't take offence. After all, this was meant to be heightened parody and so the larger the better, and, although I'm a big fan of the Method and she was a very nice lady, there's a line to be drawn. We tried tissue paper. We tried various fruit and vegetables. No good. The make-up lady then produced a large tube of Wet Ones. Bingo! We shoved them down the front of my jeans and the actress did her stuff. They let me keep the Wet Ones afterwards.
(See the clip)
Another day off was needed when I was asked to play Constable Dickson in a new drama starring the late John Thaw, "Inspector Morse". Constable Dickson was a very naughty policeman who stole a fishing rod from a suspect's house and, of course, this fishing rod contained vital evidence rolled up within it. I motorbiked my way up to Oxford for the shoot and was introduced to no-one. I got into my uniform and while wandering around the set, suddenly realised they were shooting the scene I was in! The scene involved a long track down the garden of this suspect's house following the inspector and his 'side-kick', Lewis. The camera followed them both into the tiny garden shed after which I was supposed to interrupt their method-acting huddle and announce something or other about there not being anything here worth finding. I stood behind the twenty or so people behind the camera and strained to hear what John Thaw and Kevin Whately were saying inside the shed. This was a take! This was not a rehearsal. I thought I'd heard my cue and twenty heads turned as this actor appeared from nowhere, threw caution to the wind, and began shouting his lines over them all. John T. and Kevin W. looked up and seemed to reply from what I gathered, the director shouted, "Cut!" and that was that. Although it wasn't. They needed to put a face to the disembodied voice just to show who had actually spoken. We filmed that and some other scenes, where I may not have had any lines but, my golly, stared very intensely. After the show was broadcast, my dad rang me up to ask if my voice had been dubbed by someone else. I saw what he meant. They'd used the sound from that original long take where I shouted hysterically over the crew completely unsure of what I was supposed to do! The combination of the nerves and the shouting conspired to lift my voice at least an octave and give my much rehearsed Cockney accent a distinct Birmingham edge. This episode, of course, became the first of what was to become a television phenomenon, and so my strangulated nasals are displayed regularly on our screens. I don't mind, though. It's become quite an honour to have been involved - in however crap a way - at the beginning of such a long-running success. One thing. After seeing myself on it, I didn't watch another episode for two or three years. When I came back, "Inspector Morse" was the huge success it continued to be, but, I was shocked to hear John Thaw speaking in a quite refined accent! When I'd filmed that scene back in Oxford, he still sounded like the bloke in "The Sweeny"...wierd that. I wonder if anyone else noticed?
At Bush House, more often than not, all the programmes I was down to record each day would be finished by lunch-time which left me the rest of the afternoon and evening to do with as I fancied. I was back at the parental home as Mandy had decided she'd had enough of my living in the snooker hall and being generally useless. Unlike Tom "I'm never gonna fall in love again" Jones, after the news had sunk in, I went about the job of finding someone else to play with and Bush House with its copious staffing levels gave me an opportunity to drown my sorrows in someone else's Babycham.
It always amazes me to hear myself described as a 'ladies' man'. If you've managed to read any of the other pages in this little oeuvre, you'll surely have gathered I have the self-image of a train-spotter with the sexual magnetism of a brick. I seem to have spent a large part of my life being the anorak with no girl-friend. My fear of rejection though spurs me on to put myself in the most dangerous of situations and at Bush House, I was determined to see if I could face the fire once more.
The department had been given loads of tickets to see "The Entertainer" in the West End and I had been given two of them. This was my chance to finally approach the very pretty girl I had tried not to stare at too much every day at lunch in the BBC canteen. I took the lift to the floor where she worked - the Thai section - and took the plunge.
Sarah was attractive, intelligent and filthy. She introduced me to the East End, stockings, and marijuana as marital aid. We spent two unbelievably energetic months together after which I dropped her like a stone.
Years later, the mother of my children would suggest that the major motorcycle accident I had the following year was, in fact, God punishing me for being such a c**t. She may have had a point - the c**tishness, not the religious retribution. I still think she was being a little hysterical about the God bit - I didn't see it that way, though, at the time; but Sarah was flummoxed by my withdrawing from her so quickly - and I must admit I was pretty depressed by it too. As a friend said at the time, she was beautiful, committed and loved me to bits. What the hell was wrong? I'm beginning to get a vague idea now, but back then, I just followed the line my head and underpants told me to.
Not that my underpants were kept at all busy over the following months. I put my anorak back on and carried on where I'd left off. I spent the summer being groupie to two mates who'd 'devised' a show they planned inflicting on the tourists of Covent Garden. My mate from college, Steve, played the Ernie to the other guy's Eric. They began with
"My name's Ian, Capricorn...the RAM!"
"And I'm Steve, Virgo...(pause) virgin"
Ian now writes professional comedy very well and spends time in LA. Amazing, isn't it?
Update! 31.10.05.
Ian is now fast becoming huge (in the 'famous' sense, not the calorific one). He is cornering the market in 'sleazeballs' currently starring in "Funland" on BBC3 and "Vincent" on ITV!!!