Peeping Tom

                  Helen Mirren with NYT director M Croft in rehearsals for Anthony and Cleopatra

Peeping-Tom

Can you remember what you were doing at the tender age of fourteen?

Of course you youngsters can. But for those of my generation who have to deal with the onset of senility, Altzheimers and other age-related medical problems the task is not so easy.

However, in spite of the afore-mentioned ailments, I can remember certain details with great clarity. The more exciting the memory the easier it rises to the surface.

The more mundane get zipped and, stored in the never-able-to-reach area of my aging hard drive. 

Good use of the computer analogy don’t you think?  Keeps the youngsters reading.

Sex is also an excellent tool to keep the younger generations glued to either a book or a screen.

So where was I? Ah, yes, fourteen and sex.

Well at this early stage of puberty, as we called it back then, I used to recite poetry to panels of stony faced adjudicators who sat in on Sir Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Poetry Lovers Fellowship” examinations but I was also training as a “Peeping-Tom”.

I received this never to be lost training whilst I was treading the boards at the Old Vic Theatre in the suburb of Waterloo in London.

I was performing the minor role of Third-spear-carrier-downstage-left in a National Youth Theatre production of Shakespeare’s Anthony and Cleopatra.

I’ll give you the standard three guesses as to what I was peeping at.

Right first time.

Young Cleopatra’s ample glandula mammaria.

Mammary glands or bosoms for those of you without the Latin.

None other than the now famous Dame Helen Mirren was playing the role of the voluptuous queen of Egypt, who had all the local politicians of the time sporting permanent hard-ons.

She was a brilliant actress even at the tender age of seventeen and the Youth Theatre’s director, Mr. Michael Croft, had an extremely good eye for casting when it came to getting bums on seats.

There is a famous scene in the play, Act 3 Sc2 I think, when Antony confronts the love of his life about her possible involvement with his political rival, the young and also sexually active, Octavius Ceasar. The director, an astute and clever man with an immense knowledge of the Bard, had worked the scene as if it were a good old marital tiff.

As you may remember, this was the dawning of the “Kitchen-Sink” drama in the UK and Mr. Croft, in an attempt to upstage the famous John Osborne, gave birth to one of the first productions in London to have a good dose of explicit bedroom-drama.

He justified his direction by brandishing his “Stratford-Edition” of the play during the early rehearsals.

 “What does it say, line 138? Look at the stage directions!” We all perused our scripts.

Hands were raised in unison. “He strikes her!” we all yelled. “Good. And line 157?”

Our eyes glued back to the printed page. “He strikes her again!”

Mr. Croft then donned his school-teacher robe and explained.

“Shakespeare may have played this scene the same way we are playing it.” Holding the Stratford-Edition aloft he continued, “This is taken from the 1st folio edition and in several of his plays, in Othello for example, the stage directions clearly state that the leading man strikes his leading lady.”

For male kids of the Teddy-Boy era this was good news, for the young girls a few eyes were raised. You have to remember that this was the start of the Women’s Lib uprising. And I do concede that back in sixteen hundred and two, there were no “Abuse-Against-Women” marches, and as young boys played all the female parts, I’m sure Mr. Shakespeare did not have to deal with any picketing by irate females outside the Globe theatre.

However the early sixties were another ball game. There were mutterings emerging from the Australian Outback from the then naive diva of feminism, Germaine Greer. Bras were about to be burnt. Twiggy was strutting her stuff on the catwalks not needing one anyway. And Marianne Faithful and Mick Jagger were doing things with Mars Bars. Even “Ken-the-Red”, the recent ex- Mayor of London Mr. Ken Livingstone was up in arms, barricading the private garden squares of Notting Hill, so that single mums could wheel their prams.

These were heady times.

The young Ms. Mirren was no slouch either when it came to airing her views and opinions. The rehearsal room was a-buzz with heated discussions on women’s rights, the pill, violence in the home, and banning the bomb. Ms. Mirren and her gallant on stage partner Mr. John Nightengale, who played Anthony explored all the avenues that Mr. Croft opened for them.

Rehearsals continued apace and by opening night the “Strikes” were in! Thank God!

The national press reviews the following morning gave a unanimous thumbs-up for the production and audiences flooded in. Especially after they had read the Sunday review that mentioned Ms. Mirren’s mammary glands, which tended to slip out of the loose toga-like dress she was wearing. Crowds started queuing three hours before the performances so that they could get a chance of being a member of the “Peeping-Tom-Club”.

But unfortunately for these eager punters Ms. Mirren’s glands were never seen again by an audience after the opening night. With the use of her brilliant technical acting skills she had quickly developed a marvelous pirouette movement that ensured she always fell facing up-stage. I take this opportunity to thank Helen.

Two reasons.

Firstly, at a later stage in my career, I used the same twirling motion when I had to prevent my own privates being seen by the audience when I had to urinate on stage. And secondly because she gave the fifteen-or-so spear-carriers, who were standing in the up-stage wings awaiting their next entrance an occasional chance of catching a glimpse of her glandula mammaria, as they tumbled out of her dress.

As those adolescent years passed, the memories of Ms. Mirren’s boobs slowly faded as I focused on the more physically present appendages of the female partners with whom I was cohabiting at the time.

My peeping-tom days were over. Are they returning? Now that’s another story.

Lost on the Rhine

Lost on the Rhine

The sexual education of children particularly those approaching puberty has, and always will be, a hotly debated issue. The basic findings of all surveys on the subject come to a similar conclusion; it is sadly insufficient. However with today’s technology and access to the WWW today’s enquiring minds can easily gain access to this often taboo topic.

Unfortunately this access can lead to pedophilia, kidnapping and other even more horrifying conclusions.

My casual, slow and satisfying education way back in the nineteen-fifties was gained purely and simply by the act of observation and some strange graphic drawings on a blackboard during my biology classes.

It was during my time with Gypsy Rose Lee as her assistant that the full use of my eyes came into play. This was due to the fact that Rose Lee demanded that I scrutinize every possible punter, so that I could gather as much information about them as possible.

In the early mornings before the punters arrived I used to walk along the shore-line and the promenade of Blackpool. I would occasionally find a young couple “At-it”, as the sexual act was described at that time, under the iron girders of Blackpool’s north pier.

In my wanders during the height of the summer season just after high tide I used to find the debris and residue of sexual activity, an assorted supply of used rubber-jonnies. These useful contraceptive devices, made by a rubber company in which the Vatican had a share, came in all sorts of colours, shapes and sizes, but they were not what I was after. Apart from noting that they looked like dead jelly fish they held no interest for me.

I was on the look out for far more sellable items, like watches and jewelry which the sun-worshippers had lost the previous day. It was amazing as to what I would find amongst the broken sea-shells.

Some-days nothing, others a lucrative windfall, a rolex watch, a diamond ear-ring, a gold bangle. 

Gypsy Rose Lee had a contact in the fencing-trade, known as Larry the fingers. He was a forger by profession but also dealt in the trading of what he called “Lost-Merchandise”, thus bringing him in an extra income while staying just on the right side of the local constabulary.

I used him many years later when I was tracking down my biological father and he arranged the five passports I ended up with when I visited Munich after the 9/11 incident. You’ve presumably already read about that in the essay called “Passports”.

I digress, my apologies.

Sex at a tender age was the subject that I wished to enlighten you on.

Apart from the delicate, although at times robust handling of my private parts by some fan-dancer friends of my mother, who said. “It’s better than doing it yourself Cess. You could go blind!”

I was in theory, a virgin till the tender old age of sixteen, when all was revealed to me in a broom cupboard on board a tourist vessel cruising down the river Rhine in Germany.

I was there as I was playing Brutus in Mr Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar. It was a National Youth Theatre modern dress production and we were on tour in the mining town of Recklinghausen, in what was called West Germany.

The theatre was newly built when the coal mining company of the town “Swapped coal for art” just after the Second World War hoping they could give something back to the community, and make the fact, that they supplied Mr Hitler with most of the energy for his war effort conveniently disappear. 

This was my second NYT tour to the continent.

The previous year I was playing Paris in Romeo & Juliet. I was only reminded of this fact when I received a copy, in the mid-eighties, of Simon Master’s book entitled, The National Youth Theatre. 

Although he does not comment on my acting in the tome, my ability to make a fast buck definitely caught his attention as he mentions me in the second to last chapter, “Cess Poole spent a good part of the Romeo and Juliet season getting up at seven in the morning, walking to the local public house, The Enterprise, to swab down the bars and clean the tables, all for a few shilling and a free breakfast.”

At the time Simon was totally unaware of my ulterior motive in securing this employment and Toddie remained full to the brim throughout that summer season.

When the NYT toured the country they visited supplied them with what was called “A liaison officer”. On the Reckinghausen tour this officer was a very young attractive lady called Heidi, who certainly wanted to show her young charges the beauties of the area and the Rhine valley.

It was our first free Sunday with no performance and we were taken on a barge and chugged along the Rhine from Strasbourg to Colonge. 

After a few slugs of Dutch courage from Toddie, I made my introduction, "Ich habe Deutsch in der Schule fünf Jahre lang lernen"

 

"Das ist sehr gut Cess, müssen Sie sehr hart studieren und dann werden Sie in der Lage, die großen Werke der Literatur der Deutschen lesen."

And on she gabbled like a Messerschmitt chasing a UK bomber  thinking that I would understand.

I didn’t and we continued the conversation in pigeon German and English.

She was studying English in her first year at university and certainly understood the underlying implications involved in taking steady sips from Toddie.

I knew that Toddies contents were taking effect when she started changing all her “Sie’s” to “Du’s”. The latter being the more friendly translation for “You”. It wasn’t long before we began kissing and exploring with wild youthful abandoned hands under her great overcoat and my army surplus combat jacket.

We thought we’d found a secluded little hide-a-way to the rear of the vessel under the tarpaulin that covered a small life boat, till we heard the voices of fellow thespians congregating next to the life boat.

The cruising barge had just passed the magnificent Gothic cathedral of Colonge and they all wanted to look at it for as long as possible, so had swarmed the full length of the vessel and had moved to the stern to catch a last glimpse.

A healthy pause and silence followed until the voices died away.

Heidi said, "Lassen wir in funfzehn Minuten Andocken werden. Wir müssen uns beeilen. Ich weiß von einem Besenkammer auf dem Oberdeck. Lass uns gehen"

I understood kamer, gehen and Lass for room, hurry and go, and surmized that we only had 15 minutes before we’d be disembarking. So off we crept trying to avoid the rest of our party, and made our way inside the smallest broom cupboard on the upper deck you can imagine.

So it was amongst oily rags, buckets, hose-pipes and mops that I lost my virginity.

Sordid is perhaps a good word to describe it, but it was also filled with adventure, fear, intrepidation, anxcious pleasure, sheer ectascy, and all the other adjectival words you can find to describe your own sexual exploits.

Heidi and I continued our fly-by-night relationship for the whole of the following week before we had to return to the UK. In those days when international phone calls were expensive the trendy thing to do as parting lovers was to become pen-pals.

I am certainly glad we did, and although our relationship fizzled out two years later, the exercise of putting pen to paper has helped me write these tales.

Whether or not I learnt anything as regards sex education is another matter, but the dextrous moveability I devised amongst the mops, buckets and brushes could certainly be published in the next edition of the Kama-Sutra.

Silhouetted in Malawi

Travel is an integral part of a jobbing actor’s life, a theatre tour to the dusty old theatres of a country or a film contract that takes him away from his base. When he is working the actor is usually paid a per diem, a daily allowance and is given a roof over his head and sometimes gets a free meal or two if he is actually on the film set.


The allowance varies greatly and depends on the budget of the production and all producers of both theatre and film love to use the expression, “It’s a low budget production so we . . . . . .”


I have during my illustrious career been in over four hundred theatrical productions and been involved in at least one hundred and fifty television or movie shoots. A good fifty percent of these have been classed as “low-budget”. But a few times I’ve been chauffeur driven and provided with my own air-conditioned trailer. On these occasions I have lived the life of luxury and Toddie has always been full.


On many of these film shoots I have been unaccompanied and they have taken me to numerous countries, India, Namibia, Mauritius, Germany, Malaysia, and Malawi to mention a few. On the latter I was accompanied by my third lady-in-wedlock, Felicity or Flee for short. Thus I was able to combine work with pleasure and have what civilians call a part-paid-holiday.


Our first trip together was in nineteen eighty five to the shores of Lake Nyasa in Malawi, which was still under the Presidential thumb of Dr Banda. Like all neocolonial countries I have visited the remnants of the colonial occupier have been clearly evident, like driving a car on the left hand side of the road, round-a-bouts, four way stop streets and tarred roads between the major towns.

 However in Malawi as in India,the roads are now shared with elephants, pigs, pedestrians, chickens and vehicles of assorted sizes and shapes. The traffic lights are defunct; the storm water drains and gulleys are blocked, and the roads are riddled with pot holes, some large enough to seriously damage the vehicle you are driving.

Malawi was no different, however with practice, a degree of caution and following the old adage “when in Rome”; you soon follow the natives and take the detour through the adjacent field of mealies, cotton, tea or coffee thus avoiding replacing a tyre on every journey you make.


We were staying at Nkopola Lodge right on the southern shoreline of the lake which offered excellent accommodation and what can only described as a dual menu choice for main meals, a choice of either chicken or Chomba. Chomba is the local fish from the lake, very like freshwater bream and is very tasty, but after six weeks of having it cooked every way possible the yearning for juicy piece of prime Scotch fillet began to rise. However the local alcoholic beverage was superb. Malawi gin and their locally made tonic became our tipple from sunrise to sunset.


My third weekend was free.


A change over from night shooting to daylight, this required that the crew have what is know as “turnaround-time”, so we had Saturday through till Tuesday morning free. Flee and I decided to sample the tour excursions that were on offer and picked a visit Cape Maclear National Park which was about forty kilometers away.


We signed up with a tour company that advertised what seemed an excellent deal. We had to bring either a blanket or a sleeping bag, an ample supply of mosquito repellant, a torch, and we would be accommodated and fed and watered for the two day excursion.


Departure in a converted three ton army truck was scheduled for eight o’clock on Saturday morning.


Flee and I arrived punctually to be greeted by the tour operator Johann and his two assistants Unlimited and Battery. The assistants were muscular wiry men who were lying on their backs under the rear end of the converted 3 ton army truck. It was jacked up and supported by two heavy logs while they changed the wheel.


“Better safe than sorry”, said Johann “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

With a huge grin exposing his toothless gums he continued, “Good job I noticed it. It’s a hell of a mission to change a tyre on the road.”

 “Why?” I asked.

“Ruts” he said.

“Rats?” I enquired.

“No man Ruts! This time of the year with the rains and wet ground they can be over half a metre deep. Can’t jack the dam thing high enough.”

“So how long the delay” I asked.

“Depends on the other three ladies who are booked to take the trip.”, he said as he heaved a huge cooler box off the back end of the truck.

 “Take a seat and help yourself.” he said as he opened the box which was full to the brim with Carlsberg Browns. We laid out our blanket and sleeping bag on the Lodge’s gravel forecourt and opened ourselves a beer.

Little did we know this delay was going to be a daily routine.


After our second beer we took a look inside the truck. Two old four seated metal park benches had been fitted to the floor. They were cushioned, with one facing forward the other facing towards the rear; the canvas sides each had a large clear plastic window. The central area was piled high with other large plastic containers.


Finally at about ten o’clock as Unlimited and Battery finished changing the trye three rather plump middle aged ladies arrived. We were introduced to Gladys, Emma and Aletta, three Afrikaans English teachers from Benoni, a town near Johannesburg.  They apologised for their lateness and we climbed into the truck. The three teachers took the forward facing bench while Flee and I sat facing the rear with the cooler box at our feet.


It was a slow bouncy drive. Unlimited, who was driving seemed to have mastered the knack of keeping the truck in the ruts, helping to keep the ride reasonably smooth. Johann kept informing us when a really bad atch was approaching.

 “Grip the benches and keep your drinks secure between your thighs. Better still knock it back and have another when we’re back on a smooth bit of the road!”

At a quarter to one the truck pulled up outside what can only be describe as a hotel which looked as if it was about to collapse. It was another dilapidated relic of the colonial days but as Johann told us it was still functioning, so we had a choice either in a room, or in a tent that Battery would erect for us. Flee and I immediately opted for the tent and willingly let the Benoni lasses take the luxury of the fall-down-hotel.

The consumption of several Carlsberg Browns had over extended our bladders so we set off in search of a latrine. Round the back of the hotel we heard music; it was coming from a small wooden doorway.

Entering we found a bar. One normally associates a bar with a toilet.


“Hi, good-day.”, was my standard greeting to the seven or so guys that were in the bar. It was sparsely furnished, 3 tables, one with only three legs, some benches and the smoke filled atmosphere was illuminated by a solitary globe precariously hanging by its wire from the blackened ceiling.

There was a nod and grunt or two of greeting from the occupants.

Walking up to the bar I asked the barman, “Where’s the loo?”

A stoney face stared at me.

“The toilet,” I explained.

 A general laugh filled the room and in unison all the occupants pointed to the doorway.

“Nearest tree.” said a voice from the corner.

“And for the lady?”

“Next to the tree, she find it there.”

Flee darted out the door, “I’ll find it.”

I reckoned I could squeeze my cheeks and hold it a little longer.

 “So how about a drink.” I asked as my eyes now fully accustomed to the light took in the environment. Behind the bar was shelved, but not as you’d expect with drinks, but with groceries. Cans of baked beans, pilchards, various jars of Atchar and I spotted some cans of Fray Bentos corned beef nestled next to an assortment of both sweet and savoury biscuits.

The barman broke the dwall I was in. “What you like?”

“Two double gin and tonics please.”

He reached under the bar and plonked two brown bottles of the local tonic water on the bar. With dexterous ease he opened them by catching the rim of the metal top on the edge of the bar in a downwards motion.

He smiled benignly at me with a look that I interpreted as I must now do some thing.

“How much?” I asked.

No reaction just the continued smile.


"So where's the gin?"

Slowly the occupants began to laugh and the same voice from the corner, who’d given the direction to the loo said, “You must take a drink from the bottle.” The barman continued, “No glasses, you drink from the bottle, I fill with Gin.”

Flee reentered as I was taking my second slug of tonic water. I passed her the other bottle and explained, “No glasses, so you must drink the tonic a bit and then he’ll tot it up with the gin.”

“No bloody toilet either! A long drop! Stank to high heaven, so I squatted in the bushes.”

Placing her tonic water on the bar, the barman filled it to the brim with a generous helping of gin, “Thanks,”, she said, “I’ll see you at the beach.”, and departed.

Fifteen minutes later Flee and I were sitting on our blanket on a pristine beach with a hazy afternoon sun glistening on the majestic lake. Securely anchored in the sand were eight double gin and tonics in their brown open bottles. On a flattened out Carlsberg Brown box lay our mid-afternoon snack, slices of corned beef neatly arranged on cream crackers with a small green cocktail onion balanced on top.


Towards seven o’clock the sun began to set over the shimmering lake and fishermen began to drag their hewn-out-of-logs vessels up from the shore line. One explained that it was low tide and they had to get heir boats a safe distance from the water. Yes, the great inland lake has tides and its depth varies greatly from season to season.

You always live and learn on your travels.

As darkness encroached we headed back to the hotel to find our tent erected about four foot away from the hotel’s front patio. Johann greeted us and asked if we’d like the evening meal of freshly caught Chambo and chips. We declined the offer and climbed into our tent which was lit by a small Cadac lamp.


We zipped up tent, finished off our corned beef and onion biscuits, and another supply of  G & Ts, then settled down to a quiet night of nuptial shenanigans.


Dawn broke around five thirty. We were awoken by Unlimitted, who brought us a cup of tea and informed us that breakfast would be at six thirty on the hotel’s front patio.


As punctual as ever Flee and I emerged from our tent to rapturous laughter and applause. Seated at a table on the patio were the teachers who were clapping enthusiastically.  We made our way up the steps and sat at the table next to them. It was the three-legged table from the bar which was now supported by a column of bricks.

“A good night?” enquired Aletta.

“Fantastic.”’ I replied.

“Us also.” said Emma as the three giggled softy.


Unlimited and Battery served the breakfast of excellent breakfast of bacon, two sunny-side-up fried eggs and toasted mealie bread. We were told by Johann that at eight o’clock a catamaran would be arriving and we were going out scuba diving round Downe Island about twenty kilometers into the lake. They would take a packed lunch, drinks, beverages and all the necessary equipment. All we had to bring was swimming costumes, a towel and some sun-tan lotion as the reflection of the mid-day sun off the lake could cause serious sun burn. Luckily for me Flee had packed some.


Then a complete surprise. On the dot of eight the catamaran arrived and we all embarked on our cruise for the day. It was idyllic. The destination of Downe Island is what Malawi is about. We passed several local fishermen who greeted usand told Battery and Unlimited which part of the Island had the best snorkeling place of the day.


It took us about forty minutes to get there. In we plunged in to see the most beautifully coloured fish of every shape and size you can imagine. I am not the most accomplished snorkeler in the world and it was only after my third attempt that I mastered the art and stopped reacting like a drowning hippopotamus spouting the water out of my mouth.


Johann suggested we actually go onto the Island, telling us that there no dangerous animals and the place was uninhabited. We should pack our lunch and what we wanted in a plastic “Checkers-bag”. The teachers declined and stayed on the boat enjoying their drinks and continued giggling every time they looked at us.

“Back at four.” said Johann as we dived into the lake getting away from the constant giggling and headed for the island’s shoreline.

“What the hell are they laughing at?” asked Flee, “every time they look at us? It’s starting to annoy me.”

“I’ve no idea.” I said. “Must be something you or I said yesterday."

We found what we thought was a cosy little hide-a-way that couldn’t be seen from the boat and settled down. Flee basked in the sun and I read a book I’d managed to bring with me securely wrapped in the “Checkers” plastic bag. This also contained some bottles of tonic water pre-mixed with gin. I’d mastered the opening and closing of the metal top so that no contents leaked. After about ten minutes we suddenly heard a whistle, follow by a voice that we did not recognize.

“You want Gold?”

Flee sat up immediately quickly covering her boobs.

“Malawi  Gold?” said a tall lanky man who was now standing right next to us, seemed to materializsed on the uninhabited island.

“Dagga?” asked Flee.

“Yes.” said the lanky man smiling ear to ear.

“Very special, good quality. I roll especially for you, only five Quatcha.”

“We’ve no money with us.” I said.

“No problem. You toss in lake from boat when you swim back.”

He extracted from his plastic “Checkers” bag a sheet of the Malawi national daily newspaper and laid it neatly on the ground. Tearing it in two he asked, “Half or quarter?”

Flee and I were mesmerized.

“A quarter.” I said not knowing what I was buying.

“That’s good.” he said, “Five Quatcha, half is ten.”

He then proceed to pour a flakey green mixture from his bag onto the quarter page of torn newspaper and roll the most gigantic joint I’d ever seen. He licked the page as he finished and sealed the joint. “You have to smoke quick, or she fall apart.” He said as he lit it and took a drag.


I have been stoned a few times in my life and indulged in a few social drugs but for the following five hours I felt as if I was walking on water. The colours of everything seemed to take on a distant shimmering quality and time seemed to stand still. Thank God I was Flee as we swam back to the catamaran. It seemed to take two days.


As we boarded the vessel Johann gave us a knowing wink and the teachers giggled even more.

“Five Quatcha.” Said a voice from the water.

Flee quickly took my now empty “Checkers Bag" and stuffed a five Quatcha note and an full tonic bottle into it. Tied if off and hurled it towards our floating drug dealer.

“Thank you. I see you again tomorrow?” our dealer said and swun away.

By this time I’d lain back on the central canvas and was fast asleep.


We arrived back at Cape Maclear as the sun was setting, and were told that tonight we were having peri-peri chicken and chips. Flee and I were ravenous and even though she’d run off to the bar to buy some Kit-Kats for the munchies we were suffering, we both decided we would partake of the meal scheduled for seven o’clock.


I left our tent to stock-up on our G & T supplies and left Flee to tidy up for supper. When I returned to the patio the three ladies were seated at their table and were still giggling whilst looking at our tent.

“We were out here last night.” said Gladys. “Having a night-cap.” She continued as the three of them burst out into hysterical laughter.

“What a performance!” said Aletta, “You said you were an actor!”

I glanced at our tent and saw a clear silhouette of Flee combing her hair.

The Cadac lamp had provided the ideal setting for a “Hand-Sprung-Sex-Show!”