Photos of Blackpool in Sir Cess's younger years

I hope all the above pictures will give you a better idea of Sir Cess's younger days in his home town of Blackpool.

High and not so dry in Poffadder

High-and-not-so-dry in Pofadder and Munich

Have you ever been left stranded whilst you were on holiday or perhaps even when you were contracted to perform a job or a mission in a foreign clime?

Well I have.

On more than four occasions I have been left to fend for myself with only “Toddie”, a friend or two, a Good Samaritan and my own wits, to help me disengage from the predicament in which I found myself.

I hope you remember by brief description of the area of “poor grazing” found in the upper regions of the Northern Cape in South Africa.  The one-horse, one-bar, one-shop, one-church, one-petrol station, 10-farmers, 20-locals, and one hundred fifty thousand sheep, town of Pofadder stays sun-burnt on my aging hard drive.

In the month of November the temperature hovers in the upper thirties and settles around forty-three degrees at noon, and that’s in the shade. It was a Sunday and ten local English-speaking actors were assembling for breakfast in the Pofadder Hotel. We were all nursing hangovers as the previous night had been our wrap party.  Bloody Marys were organised by yours truly and gently sipped as we partook of a large Boere breakfast. Boerwors, - that’s like a sausage, bacon, liver, spiced mince, fried eggs, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. A lavish cholesterol packed meal fit for a Springbok front row forward.

We had been informed that we would be picked up at eleven o’clock and be driven to the nearest airport five hundred and fifty kilometres away at Uppington. Our flight back to civilisation in Egoli, the city of gold - Johannesburg, was booked for 5 p.m. and we were told that the drive would only take five hours.

Although this all happened in the early nineties the Sunday Gestapo observance laws of the Second World War remained securely locked in force in Pofadder. Had I not organised the purchase the previous morning, of a take-away supply of vodka, beer and wine we would have dryless-in-Pofadder, so to speak.

The Hotel owner, known affectionately as Oom Jan, was a good-hearted soul and was used to entertaining “uitlanders” – people from overseas. Although the bar was securely barricaded and completely off limits even to us guests he was happy to let us consume our beverages in the garden next to the swimming pool or on the well shaded patio. He also willingly served us with non-alcoholic mixers and gave us pots of herbal rooibos tea.

Iced rooibos with a splash of vodka and a twist of lemon is a beautifully refreshing drink and I heartily recommend it. Oom Jan told me that I was not the first visitor to imbibe of this delicious
beverage. He pointed to a photograph on the lobby wall. Nicki Lauder, Nigel Mansel and Michael Schummacher all linked arm in arm with glasses raised toasting the setting sun.

Oom Jan explained that they were regular visitors and that this photo was very valuable. All these formula-one drivers raced for different teams and to have Honda-Williams, Ferrari, and Jaguar personnel staying at his hotel at the same time was a strange occurrence.

 “Why”, I asked.

“The teams, they is coming here to test drive. They is using the airport runway.”

“What runway, I though the nearest airport was at Uppington?”

“Ja, she is!” he replied curtly and continued with a whisper, “But they is using the secret one!”

My ears pricked up, eager to hear yet another conspiracy theory, which were common urban legends circulating in the soon to be liberated apartheid South Africa.

He continued moving closer to my sun recliner so he could whisper in my ear. “We, us Nats, we have to be building it during the onslaught. The reds under the bed. The Yanks couldn’t be landing their Lockheed C-5 Galaxys at Waterkloof military base near Pretoria when we is up in Angola, right?”

I had no idea were Angola was never mind Pretoria and I’d never heard of a C-5 Galaxy, which sounded like cosmic chocolate bar, so I was soaking up every word.

“The Cubans man, they is up there! Thousands of the fuckas, and we is only eighty ks from Luanda! They is supplying old Savimbi with arms, the Yanks. They bring in everything, artillery, tanks, the works!”

I donned my John Le Care hat and poured him a drink. He beamed from ear to ear, knocked back a huge gulp, licked his lips and continued. “You see, Waterkloof, she is too high, on the Highveld, altitude is too high. Those big fuckers, the C-5s, they’s needing a lot of fuel for landings and take-offs, right?”

 I nodded in agreement trying to recall my A-level physics lessons in aero-dymanics.

“So we Boere maak a plan! We builds them a longer runway down here. They is nearer to the Angloan border and we is helping them fuck up the Cubans! And should the shit hit the fan, we’s got an brand new airport!”

 I think I got the picture.

 “So what happens at this runway now? A white- elephant?” seemed the obvious question.

 “Hell no man! They’s using it.” he said pointing to the photograph on the wall, “for their testing.”

“The formula-one teams?”  I asked.

“Ja, twice a year they comes in droves only for two or three days and we tries never to book them double. You know, to have two different teams at the same time. They don’t like that, ‘cause of espionage!”

 “Spying”, I enquired.

 “Ja, their trade secrets, close to the chest man”, he whispered as I refilled his glass. “They come in winter when she is cold and then in summer when its baaia varm like now. Test their cars at extreme temperatures.”

 “So what happened there?” I asked pointing to the photograph.

“Jerra man! That was Nigel, a Pom like you Cess, he discovered the rooibos and vodka and refused to leave. He had two chicks with him and he wanted to party like. Him and Nickie were great buddies and then Schooey arrived with his team and I had them all for two days! Lekker
times!”

Suddenly we were interrupted by a very disagreeable junior thespian in a near state of panic, who inadvertently knocked over my bottle of vodka and told us that it was quarter past two.

 “So what?” I said as I licked the spilt vodka off the tabletop. The poor young man broke into a soliloquy of a man demented.

“We’ve all been trying to reach them. We can’t get through. Nobody’s answering their phones, We’ve tried the assistant director, the transport manager, even the director and the grips and lighting department, they’ve gone! Everybody’s gone! There’s nobody in town, nobody!”

“Of course not son,” said Oom Jan trying to calm the young man down, “It’s Sunday, nobody moves on a Sunday in Pofadder, not even Schumacher!”

“They were meant to be taking us to the airport at eleven o’clock!!”

Oom Jan and I broke into uncontrollable laughter and I poured us another drink. “Join us.” I said to the young thespian, who seemed to be wetting his pants with agitation at the thought of being marooned in Pofadder. “I’ve even tried calling my agent!”

 I was about to say, “And what would that achieve?” but I thought better of it, as I did not want to disillusion the youngster as to the futility of agents at such a tender age.

Oom Jan sprang into Boere action. A true good Samaritan. “Tell your okes to load up my Kombi, I’lls drive you.”

We arrived at Uppington airport well in time to board our flight to Johannesburg. Oom Jan had donned the feet of his idol Mr. Shumacher. I was sorry that I had fallen asleep on the back seat of the Kombi and missed our low flying drive at two hundred and ninety kilometres an hour through the desert.

I’ll tell you about Munich next month. It was a bit drier but not much.

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!”

Aussie tour & being a complete Eejit

When a jobbing actor is offered a part in a touring company’s production his initial response is usually one of joy. He may even be over-joyed as it is the first offer of work he has received for many a long dry month. However once the terms of his engagement have been thrashed out by his agent, Ms Boo-King Clarke and the reality of his life for the next four months on the road sinks in, he usually dives deeply into the well of depression.

I have been on many tours in my illustrious career. Some like the tour of Australia in the early seventies hold many exciting and wonderful memories; others have left much to be desired. However they all deserve a mention. Some with hindsight are seared with regrets, others with feelings of guilt and others with self-acceptance of realising that I was a total eejit.

At the naïve and tender age of twenty-one and being a hard working and industrious young thespian full of desire to show off my skills to the world, I greatly enjoyed working an almost twelve hour stint. My day in the metropolis of Sydney started at ten in the morning with an ice cold shower, a hearty breakfast of lambs fries, eggs and bacon and then it was of to the theatre to give an exhilarating performance in Peter Hanke’s “Offending the Audience”.  This was in the days when “Lunch-time theatre” was the in-thing and audiences flocked to the theatre to be insulted by a bunch of energetic Poms.

The price of their ticket included a small bag of over ripe tomatoes and stale bread rolls.

Handke's play is an hour-long polemical improvisational lecture about the theatre, taking place in a theatre, which tries to be as unlike theatre as it possibly can be. Four strapping, fit and dynamic young actors bombarded the audience with insults, ranging from the cynically benign to the outright atrociously disgusting.

Reactions were varied. Some audiences were mesmerised and wouldn’t utter a word. Others, displaying true Aussie grit and an inbred hatred of Pommies, pelted us with their rolls and tomatoes. After such a performance it was another quick shower and into the nearest hostelry to see if we could meet up with any of the audience and continue to insult them. As you can imagine this did result in some hair-raising alcoholically induced mayhem, which required the intervention of the local constabulary to restore the peace.

Recuperating from such events either in a police cell or back in comfort of your B&B’s bedroom was a regular occurrence. Then there was the preparation for the evening performance of King Lear. This was either a short session at Bondi beach chatting up the local girls who seemed to be completely ignored by their local male counterparts. Or an afternoon’s nap before we all had to join the main company for a warm up session at the theatre.

The performance was, to put it mildly, long. Four and a half hours including two intervals. In those days the attention span of an audience was longer and they were educated to the fact that Shakespeare is 15^th century soap opera. So the Aussies thought nothing about nipping out to the local bar to have a quick schooner and a pie floater and returning ten minutes later to pick up were the story left off.

We junior thespians all played small supporting roles and also had long spells off-stage. It was during these times that we used to either watch the performances we were understudying from the wings or play games of chess, dice, cards or scrabble. These games often tended to distract you from the job at hand, - that of performing in a play - and many times screams were heard through the tannoy system calling the third servant-on-the-left to get his arse on-stage! However I learnt to play many games. Little did I know that in later life I would be a complete eejit and regret the learning of these skills.

I was the servant that gets killed by the Duke of Cornwall while he pulls out Gloucester’s eyes. Never once did I miss my entrance even though my Queen was being threatened by two pawns and a bishop.

But later in my career whilst I was playing the evil Claudius in another Shakespearean masterpiece Hamlet I nearly did fail to get on stage in time for my cue.

The game of chess was to blame.

 I am by all accounts a mediocre player but during this later production at the Alexander theatre in Johannesburg the actors playing Horatio and Guildenstern were keen and fervent players.

 As you may well know Claudius does have an almost thirty minute break and I was drawn into the chess tournament. The game in question had been in progress for five days and for the first time it looked as if I had our chess guru, Guildenstern, a move or two away from a check-mate.

The Alexander Theatre had a strange, actor-unfriendly design. The architect who designed the building decided that the actors should be housed in dressing rooms that were as far away from the stage as possible. Four flights of stairs, a walk through a cavernous underbelly of the stage and the ascent of another flight of stairs was the only way that any performer could make an entrance on stage-left. A stage-right entrance required only the descent of the four initial flights.

My first grand entrance with all the court following was on stage-left.

My cue rang out through the tannoy.

Expletives flowed, heart pounded and pumped muscles tore. I knew there was no way I would be able to make the stage-right entrance in time. The production was fortunately directed as a modern dress version and my long and slow kingly entrance was accompanied by a mighty fanfare of trumpets.

As the last note of the stately regal trumpet died echoing in the auditorium an unnerving eerie silence descended. Standing on stage-right was the full court, lords, ladies, courtiers, lonely Gertrude and the juvenile delinquent Hamlet.

Suddenly I appeared down stage-left and uttered what I consider to be my best line of improvised Shakespeare.

“What doest thou there?!!!”

I immediately snapped my fingers and ordered the whole court to circle the stage, fall in behind me and then proceeded to march them all back to where they had all just come from. Using the device known as a pregnant pause I awaited the arrival of my fellow chess playing thespian, - an out of breath Guildenstern who had traversed the theatre’s underbelly, and greeted him with the opening lines of the scene:-

“Welcome, dear Rosencrantz”, and after beautifully handled Pregnant pause, I continued, “Guildenstern!

Moreover that we much did long to see you,

The need we have to use you did provoke

Our hasty sending.”

I never again played a game of chess during a performance and I never again almost missed an entrance.

 But I’m happy to consider myself a self-confessed eejit!

Methylated in the Blue Mountains

My nine month tour of Australia did teach me a lot of other important lessons in the life of a jobbing actor, apart from the previously mentioned one of being a complete eejit. It was, in these tender years, that I was introduced to passion fruit, Brian the snail and learnt a great deal of the Australian lingua-franca.

Our company had been invited to the Adelaide Arts Festival, and with a Labour government in power, the British Arts council was offering an extra bonus which was expressly to be used for, “Extending British culture to the Commonwealth” Tandem productions of Shakepeares’s “King Lear” and “Loves Labours Lost” with lunchtime productions of Samuel Beckett’s “End Game”, “Escurial” by Michel De Ghelderode, and Peter Handke’s “Offending the Audience”, the stage was set.

What British culture was to be found in an Irish-Frenchman’s play about men in dust bins, a Belgium’s playwright’s farce and a German’s hour-long polemical improvisational lecture was anybody’s guess.

But the two Shakepeares and the star-studded cast which included, Timothy West and wife Prunella Scales and at-the-time boyfriend of Vanessa Redgrave, the yet to be James Bond –Timothy Dalton, attracted the attention of the Adelaide festival organisational committee. We arrived in Adelaide flying BOAC as it was then known.

The flight lasted well over twenty four hours with touchdowns in Zurich, Tehran, Calcutta, Hong Kong, Perth, Canberra and a short hop to Adelaide. Ourreturn flight took seventy two hours, - but more of that another time.

For a young actor on his first visit to a foreign clime beyond the borders of Eastern Europe the trip was an adventure of my life. On our second evening after a long day’s rehearsal we were invited to the residence of the British high Commissioner. Brian the snail as he was affectionately named after his look-alike in the then very popular kiddies cartoon show called the Magic Roundabout.

Brian moved at speed of a tortoise carrying a snail with ten ton of Mafia-styled concrete blocks on its head. Meaning, - he didn’t moved at all. He lounged on a recliner in his vast back garden whilst costumed butlers and maids scurried about delivering excellent G&Ts and schooners of Australia’s finest beers on silver trays.

As is normal at these soiree gatherings thespians know when they are onto a good thing. Free food and drink was on offer, oysters, prawns,clams, salmon and a lavish spread of every roast of meat, game and poultry. Entertainment expenditure is listed very high on the budgetsheet of the diplomatic service and the scene was set for a good old thrash.

We had all been instructed to be on our best behaviour by our company manager. We were and the rest of the six weeks performances in Adelaide were booked out. All the shows, including out lunchtime sessions, received critical acclaim and we played to full houses, so we were suddenly informed that we’d been invited to Sydney and Melbourne and the tour was to be extended.

 We were all delighted at the thought of having work for another nine weeks. However the tricky question was raised about where we were going to stay and the even trickier question of “per diems” was raised by our union representative. These added engagements were not part of the original contract and we were told that new ones were being drawn up and the company manager would let us see them as soon as we arrived in Sydney.

 A friend of mine at the time was a Mr James Snell, a fellow junior actor who was also in the lunchtime productions. A fellow imbiber of alcoholic beverages and a partaker of the dreaded weed, as it was then known. James was an avid smoker of what the Aussies called “Mull”.

 During our stay in Adelaide he had made contact with a dealer in the product and established a rapport with him. So on our last night in the city we arranged a drink with him to find out where we could get the “Mull” in Sydney. He gave us several telephone numbers and two addresses.

 This set our young excited minds to work now that we had some contacts in Sydney. If, as had been suggested by the company manager, as long as we gave him our contact details we could stay with friends or relatives and not in the hotel which was going to be booked by the company. We had name names and addresses. So James suggested we take full advantage of this.

 The added incentive was an increased “per diem’ – the daily allowance. We would get one hundred and fifty Aussie dollars per week as compared to fifty if we stayed in hotel and had our meals with the rest of the cast.

 The die was set for naughty times.

 On landing in Sydney we said farewell to our fellow thespians and took a taxi to a suburb called Paddington which was quite close to the area known as Kings Cross, a bohemian suburb which at the time was a chosen place for American service-men taking R&R from the war in Vietnam. Restand recuperation for the Yankee soldiers meant being stoned out of their tiny minds for as long as possible.

James had definitely chosen the right place to assuage his addiction to the dreaded weed. On meeting the long haired hippy residents at the address we were given it was almost as if we had arrived back at our dingy basement flat in Hampstead London.

 “No worries mate’ said Geoff, “you can doss down here, 20 dollars a week, take the end room next to the back door, the showers outside, and so’s the Dunny, the great white telephone!” I was just becoming accustomed to the Aussie dialect and lingua franca.

He meant the toilet.

 After the second week in Sydney James and I had settled into our routine. Understudy rehearsals in the morning, lunchtime performance sessions which turned out to be a lot more violent than in Adelaide.

The police had to be called twice to the bar next to our venue to separate the warring factions that the Pieter Hanke play created. Thetheatre going liberals tended to be pro-Pom and the anti-royalty factions would make any excuse for a punch-up, a “Blue” as they called them, usually close to the two o’clock closing time.

It all worked out well for everybody as the Landlord would then complain that his licensed selling hours had been disrupted and the police would allow him an extra half an hour to serve his last round. James and I would then return to our doss-house have a sleep and prepare for the evening’s Shakespeare.

Like all neo-colonial countries, Australia has added national day holidays. Anzac day was around the corner. This is a day of remembrance for the fallen soldiers of bothworld wars and those who had died fighting in Vietnam alongside the Americans. It fell on a Monday so that meant we had a forty eight hour break before the Tuesday’s performances. The hippies suggested that we take a tour to the Blue Mountains, a wine farming area of the country about a two hour drive outside Sydney, if you take the national highways.

 They arranged with a couple of friends who had an old VW – “Dub” to take us. We went the long way round, along Bell’s Line Road from the suburb of Richmond, through to Mount Tomah and across to Mount Victoria and covered most of the vast Blue Mountain National park.

After about three hours we found ourselves at the weathered limestone peaks of the The Three Sisters, one of the iconic landmarks of the Blue Mountains. They tower more than 900 metres high among the cliffs of the Jamison Valley.

These unusual formations watch over the land of the traditional country of the Darug, Gundungurra, Wiradjuri and Dharwal Aboriginal people. According to one Aboriginal legend, the pillars were once three beautiful sisters named 'Meehni', 'Wimlah' and ‘Gunnedoo' who were turned into stone by a powerful tribal elder.

The women had fallen in love with three brothers from another tribe, but were forbidden to marry under tribal law. The brothers decided to capture the three sisters, causing a major battle, and the elder turned the women into stone to protect them.

He had intended to reverse the spell when the battle was over, but was killed himself. As only he could reverse the spell to return the women to their former beauty, the sisters remain in their magnificent rock state as an eternal reminder of this battle.

The character of the Three Sisters changes throughout the day and throughout the seasons as the sunlight brings out the magnificent colours. Our hosts then decided we should get down to the serious business of wine tasting and we drove off to Hunter Valley, which is Australia's oldest wine growing region. It is also boasts fine dining, cooking schools, galleries, health spa retreats and golf courses. These later four offerings were outside the reach of our limited budget, so we concentrated on the freebies.

All the wineries offered samples of local cheeses, hand-made chocolates, charcuterie, dairy goods, sourdough breads and olive oils. Finally at about three in the afternoon we joined a wine tasting master class and sampled a varied selection of wines at one of more than forty cellar doors. We learnt that the first vines in the Hunter Valley were planted by families in the 1820s. The Hunter Valley semillon is widely considered the iconic wine of the region, but the Hunter also produces wine from a wide variety of grapes including shiraz, chardonnay, cabernet sauvignon and verdelho.

As the sun set Tiny, a massive rugby playing lock forward, who was driving said he heard of a “B & S” going on in a small town called Wollombi and we should “Give it a thrash.” “What’s a B & S?” I asked.

 “A Batchelor and Spinter’s or Shelia’s bash.’ answered Tiny.

 “A Great place for us Root-Rats.”

 “Root-Rats?” I questioned.

 “Horny males, Bruce!” and the other two males Gary and Tony laughed. “A good place to pick up Shelias! Time to have a naughty!”

 

 So we stocked up in next town with “BYOs”, because the “B & S” was a “bring your own booze” party. I made sure Toddie was full to the brim with a delightful Aussie gin, which was made, I was told, from Juniper berries similar to an old Dutch brew. It was light blue in colour, and mixed well with tonic water it made a delightful drink.

 The gathering was in full swing when we arrived with about a hundred mostly youngsters cavorting about, twisting and shouting to the music of Chuck Berry, the Beatles and the Rolling stones. James immediatelyfound his fellow “Mull” smokers and proceeded to get stoned out of his tiny mind.

 I decided to chase the Shelias and spent most of the night dancing under the star lit sky, hoping I could “Pull a Shelia and have a naughty.”

 At about three in the morning my legs were beginning to give way and all the Shelias I’d tried getting plastered on my blue gin had disappeared, leaving Toddie empty and my “Donger’ unused. 

James sidled onto the dance area carrying a plastic bottle containing a bluish liquid, and joined in the remaining few dancers. He was taking what appeared to me as constant slugs from the bottle, and with a devilish back swing as The Stone’s “Fuck the star” blasted the air waves, he passed me the bottle screaming, “I found some of your gin.” I took the bottle and had mighty gulp, which I immediately tried to spew out of my mouth. 

 James laughed hysterically like only a stoned person can.He had been faking the drinking, and had handed me a bottle of Methylated spirits.

 I never again drank gin until I travelled to Malawi, as every time I burped I had to “Chunder” in the nearest “Great white Telephone”, and for the next three days the horrible taste of the Meths stayed in my mouth.

 I cursed him for the rest of the tour after which our friendship ended.

A Long Days Journey into Friendship

The second most infuriating question asked of a thespian, by either a journalist, or a civilian is, “What’s it like being an actor?” My favourite reply to this inane and irritating question is, “It beats working!” Unfortunately, I can not lay claim to the creation of this sarcastic retort, but I do think it conveys an unnerving sub-textual ring of truth.

A quicker riposte would, of course be, “Better than nothing!” This sharp response is however more appropriate when asked, “How’s the wife?” “How’s the girlfriend?” or “How’s the job?” And whilst we are on the subject of conversational put-downs, have you ever been in a quandary, when asked by an ebullient over confident hostess, or a snotty maitre-de, “How was your meal?” when the plate of fodder you have just consumed, would have been better served in a trough to ravenous pigs, who were ready for the slaughter house. “I’ve tasted a lot worse!” should stand you on firm ground, but be prepared for a hasty retreat, should the hostess brandish a carving knife, or the chef charge out of the kitchen wielding a meat cleaver.

I owe undying gratitude for all the above answers to a close dear thespian friend of many inebriated years. Mr. Richard Cox, or Dicky Cocks, or “Cocksy”, as he was affectionately known. A true cockney born and bred, and certainly a “Tricky Dicky” as well.

 Born during the war in Peckham, London, he often swore on his mother’s grave that on the day of his birth the bombs stopped falling for six hours, and the sound of the Bow Bells carried clearly across the Thames from St. Mary’s le Bow in Cheapside, to his war ravaged house.

The fact that the bells were destroyed on 11 May 1941 by a German air raid and, seeing as “Cocksy” was only born in 1942, the only place he could have heard the sound of the Bow Bells was on the BBC World Service. This was a recording made in 1926, and is still used by the Beeb today, as an interval signal on their World Service. “Cocksy” was a man of small stature, a gigantic heart, a true prankster, and had he been born forty years later, he would have been an ideal presenter for the BBC TV show “The Real Hustle” or, he could have played a leading role in “Lock Stock and two Smoking Barrels”.

Twenty five years of numerous intoxicated nights were spent with Cocksy, fleecing unsuspecting punters, and casual customers in bars of their hard earned cash. Unseen spirits rolled cigarettes along bar counters, unopened bottles of beer were mysteriously glued into the corner of walls, coins always landed on heads, and Gypsy Rose-Lee’s psychic telepathic trick was played on many a gullible punter. He was a master craftsman in the game of matches, and always left the bar with more cash in his pocket than when he arrived.

His greatest talent, apart from his ability to make you laugh, was his capacity to break wind. He specialised in the “Silent but deadly variety”, and attributed this inane skill to the vast quantity of Castle Lager he consumed.

I, however as the years passed by, began to suspect, there was another rather ominous reason behind his latent skill in the manufacture of his unwelcome farts. A sudden loss of weight, and yellowing skin were tell-tale signs of sclerosis of the liver, and the possible onset of cancer, even to my untrained eye.

Mr. Cox did not start treading the boards till he was in his early thirties. He was a qualified draughtsman, and earned an excellent income guiding his dextrous fingers, pencil, crayon, or pen in hand across a virgin white sheet of paper. However his addiction to the well known brand of amber fluid did tend to make some of his straight lines a trifle wobbly, especially when nursing a severe hangover.

I first met him during the halcyon days of steam radio in Johannesburg South Africa. This was the late sixties. The then Nationalist government of the day had banned The Beatles, the book “Black Beauty”, all works by Enid Blyton, Nelson Mandela, and the then president, John Vorster, had named television “The Devil’s Box”. The poor brainwashed white public of the country were starved of entertainment.

So, radio and live theatre were the only avenues open to creative minds, and the culturally starved population. 

However by the mid-eighties, the television industry was in full swing, and Cocksy and I found ourselves camping in a lean-to on a desolate beach at Disappointment Bay, near the mighty Tugela River’s mouth, in what is now Kwa-Zulu-Natal in the New South Africa. We had been hired to portray the two leading villains in a TV series drama entitled “John Ross”.

Young Master Ross was an intrepid and enterprising teenager of the late eighteen hundreds, and rode bare back for fourteen days through the lush sub-tropical vegetation of Natal to raise the alarm in Durban of a Zulu uprising in the far reaches of the British colony.

Our drama did not deal with this episode of his eventful life. Our story started with a ship-wreck scene on the Natal coast, and delved into how John, who was a stow-a-way developed from frightened teenager into a heroic young man.

It was a nine week shoot. Cocksy and I decided we would rough it on the set at the shooting location, rather than travel 2 hours at 5 o’clock in the morning from the hotel in Eshowe, where the crew and the rest of cast were billeted. This meant we could save our per diems and, as we managed to twist the production office’s arm that we should be reimbursed the accommodation costs we were saving them, we lived a life of luxury. If the TV series “Survival” had been on air at the time Cocksy and I would have been prime contestants, and possible joint winners.

Our living quarters were spacious, and the lean-to covered at least fifty square metres. We quickly acquired a small gas driven bar fridge, an old battered metal dust bin lid served as our cooking pot, and the friendly Chippy partitioned off our sleeping quarters. Using a few gum poles, and some fish netting washed up on the beach we each had our own private bedroom. The production drivers eagerly offered their services for a small remuneration, and collected our alcoholic requirements and minimal groceries from the shops in Eshowe. By the end of the first week the rear wall of Cocksy’s bedroom was stacked to the roof with cases of Castle Lager.

But our secret weapon, and the hidden bonus were the locals. “The Sugary-Coolies”, as they were affectionately known became our bosom buddies, as we soon discovered they too held a similar fascination with alcohol. Cane spirit was their poison. In exchange for a case of this noxious clear fluid, made from sugar cane, they would, at spring tides, catch crayfish for us. So, at the going rate of eighteen Rand for a crayfish tail, versus twelve Rand for a bottle of Cane, we were batting on an excellent wicket.

Their method of catching these delectable crustaceans reminded me of cowboys practicing their lassoing technique before a rodeo show. They worked in two teams of three. The main man, Naidoo number one, stood up front as close to the sea as possible. He held in his hand a long nylon rope. Attached to the other end was a wire mesh funnel shaped contraption. Broken live mussels were used as bait, and rammed into the interlocking wire strands.

In Grecian chorus style Cocksy and I would shout, “Stand bye!”

Naidoo number one would then begin twirling his contraption in a small circle above his head. With each revolution he extended the length of rope until it reached a radius of six or so metres. Suddenly he would stop, and the trap would plunge into the sea and disappear.

As this happened the Greek chorus would scream, “Lights!” and both Naidoos number twos would switch on their torches. 

“Camera!” we would scream.

A minute or three later. “Action!” and Naidoo number one would yank firmly on the rope bringing the trap, now laden with crayfish hurtling back onto the rocks. Naidoo number three then sprang into action, as number two illuminated the entrapped crayfish. His seemed to be the most difficult task, as these highly sought after culinary trophies are tricky customers to catch. The light from the full moon, the darting torch beams, the fine sea spray splashing into the air forming a fine mist created a special effects’ back-drop for the movie “Alien” with the crayfish taking on the title role.

The whole operation lasted about half an hour, and one full moonlit night, we were presented with eighty crayfish in exchange for a case of Cane.

But what about the work? You may well ask.

Well, the art of being a believable villain in a TV drama is simple. Say as little as possible, look mean, and lurk constantly in the background. Seeing as Cocksy and I were nearly always under the influence, the uttering of dialogue was a no-no and, thank God the scriptwriter also believed villains should be seen and not heard.

As regards our costumes? We were sleeping rough, so our appearance was visibly villainous. The make-up department loved us. We were always last in the queue, as they didn’t need to daub us with dirt and soot, and the wardrobe department were also pleased, as our costumes, which we never took off, took on a life of their own.

Our only problem area was the assistant director, a robust young man whom we gave the nick-name Sabre Tooth on our first acquaintance. He was a large bearded burly man with the voice of a regimental sergeant major, and the manners of Al-queda terrorist. “Where the fuck are Mr.Cox and Mr. Poole?” was his opening line every morning.

“Harvesting our breakfast!” I would scream back.

We were always down on a rocky outcrop about six hundred metres from the base camp. As the location was part of a nature reserve, the rocks were teeming with edible crustaceans. The back mussels were enormous, and featured regularly on our breakfast, lunch and supper menus. 

“You’re in the first scene! Make sure you’re ready!” was Sabre Tooth’s standard reply, even if it was not the case. Being a true Cockney, and a fan of Michael Caine, Cocksy always yelled back Michael’s catch phrase, “Notta Lotta people know that!” and we would continue scraping our breakfast off the rocks.

The shoot ended in the middle of the year and we both parted company. We went our separate ways. We briefly contemplated opening a fresh seafood restaurant, but I was booked to film a documentary in India for six weeks, and Cocksy went onto another local production playing the brother of the famous gold magnate Barney Banarto. He gave a stunningly brilliant performance in this TV mini series and, I firmly believe that had he not passed away the following Christmas Eve, he would have been nominated for an award.

I had been right, cancer and sclerosis of the liver. To this day, I also believe that his timing was deliberate, as during the month of December the whole of South Africa comes to a virtual standstill; especially Johannesburg, which is almost deserted, with most of the residents taking their summer holidays in greener, and more pleasant pastures on the coast.

That particular year I was in my Don Juan mode and, had to make a mad dash to Durban, as I had been summoned to meet the family of my intended Lady in Wedlock for Christmas Day lunch. His body was discovered at nine o’clock in the morning and the mortuary van took ten hours to arrive at Cocksy’s flat. So, by twelve noon a small party of his closest friends had gathered in the cramped confines of his dingy bed-sit. As most of us were either working, or had pressing family commitments over the festive season, another friend, Mr. Iain McPherson of E=mc squared fame, took control of the funeral formalities.

Cocksy was cremated in the last week of December, and thus began the Saga of the Ashes.

On my return in mid January from my enforced confinement in the hands of my prospective in-laws-to-be, I was told the funeral parlour had mislaid the ashes. An administrative error they said. Cocksy at that time had no living relatives, and had never mentioned anything about his family background, so the funeral parlour had taken the unsolicited decision to send the ashes to a PO box number they found in the visitor’s book that had been placed at the door of the crematorium on the day of the service, instead of putting them in storage, as instructed by Iain. 

Jobbing actors are notorious for never having a place, of permanent residence. This is for two reasons. One, they can never afford it. Two, they still retain the stance of a travelling minstrel, and are always hoping that one day they will get the big break, and end up with a mansion in Beverly Hills. So, a PO Box number was the next best alternative in the days before the cell phone and e-mail. After a week of playing Holmes and Watson, Iain and I finally tracked down the missing ashes.

They had been sent to Ms. Debbie O’Nair, an old Cocksy flame that had been the first to sign the visitor’s book, as she had been in a rush to return to her lunch time Xmas pole dancing assignment at a Southern suburbs bowling club.

We transferred the ashes to an ornately decorated Zulu urn, and arranged a memorial service for our departed friend. The service was held in the garden of a retired diva of the entertainment industry, Joan. Food and drink was supplied by a kind film catering unit. Speeches were spoken. Songs were sung. Salutations were saluted and drinks were drunk. The latter to such an extent that by ten o’clock that night eight of his closest friends were still imbiding at Cocksy’s favourite drinking haunt, The Bohemian Club.

The following morning I was in a sad state of disrepair. As Cocksy used to so eloquently say, “My mouth was as dry as a Nun’s nasty!” Orientating myself, and trying to piece together the insane actions of the previous night’s long days journey into drunken insanity, I stumbled towards my fridge in search of a hair of the dog. My motor functions were a trifle unstable and, as I trapped my finger in the fridge door, a loud, high pitched laugh cascaded around inside my swollen head echoing with my scream of excruciating pain. “Oh shit!” was my first exclamation, closely followed by Sabre Tooth’s line, “Where the fuck is Mr. Cox!?”

The urn was not in its pride of place on top of the fridge. The reasons for the choice of this resting place were four fold. One, it had been decided that I would scatter the ashes on Easter Sunday in the sea at Disappointment Bay. Two, the fridge was in constant use. Three, I would always be able to see them, so I could not loose them. And four, and the most important, it was Cocksy’s voice that had been used in a famous TV advert of time for a coffee creamer called Cremora. “It’s not inside…… it’s on TOP!”
 
Frantic phone calls ensued. “No, they were on the altar in the garden.” “I last saw them while you were talking.” “Didn’t you leave them at Joan’s?” “Did the vicar take them?” “No. You had them!” “Didn’t you put them in the boot of your car?” “No, I gave them to you!” ”No, you didn’t, we put them on the pool table so he could watch the game!”

Of course the Bows!

Yes, that was the place I’d seen them. But where would they be now in the none-too-clear light of day? The establishment was being cleaned when Iain and I arrived. Hoovers were hovering, and Emanuel the barman was wiping down the bar. “Have you seen Cocksy’s ashes Mannie?”

He smiled benignly; a soft African toothless grin creased his face. He opened the fridge, revealing the Zulu urn neatly nestled beside the Castle Lager Long Toms, “Ja, ma boss, I put them inside….. Not on Top!” and there they stayed till I drove down to Disappointment Bay.

Two months later I, my Lady in Wedlock, and another local white Zulu Fergus and his two children, arrived at the corrugated lean-to. Memories of crayfish tails, a dust bin lid of steaming mussels, freshly caught fish, and a skyscraper of Long-Tom Castle Lager cases came whizzing back.

While Fergus and his kids built a fire, and my Lady in Wedlock organised some lunch I was left to my own devices. I wandered down to the rocks clutching my Toddie, a Long-Tom, and the urn containing the ashes. It was late morning and extremely hot, the mid thirties, not a cloud in the sky, or the slightest breeze. The becalmed Indian Ocean lay before me. Selecting the exact spot from where we had harvested the mussels, I sat down, took a quick slug from Toddie, and eyed the urn. “Now’s a good a time as any.”

I replied immediately, “Notta-Lotta people know that.” 

I opened the urn and took out a small press-top plastic bag.

“That’s right. KNOCK. KNOCK!”

“Who’s there?” I said as I inspected the grey ash and small fragments of bone.

 “’Aventa you got a?”

 “’Aventa got a what?” I replied opening the bag, standing, and lifting my arm ready to scatter Cocksy’s remains on the still ocean.

Out of nowhere a sudden, a swirling wind engulfed me, waves crashed over the rocks, the open bag flew from my hand, and rose in the air. The ashes fell out, blew up my nose, into my eyes, my mouth, and covered my head.

The voice inside my head echoed in the wind with a howling screaming laugh, “A FUCKING BELL!”

“You fucking bastard!” I screamed as I dived into the crashing waves to rescue Toddie, that had been washed off the rocks. 

As I surfaced, the sun was shining and the sea still. I caught sight of my breathless companions staring at me. “What the hell was that?” asked Fergus. 

“All that screaming?” continued by beloved Lady in Wedlock.

Pulling myself onto the safety of the rocks, clutching Toddie, and trying to wipe the remaining fragments of my closest friend out of my hair I replied, “Oh, just a slight gust of Cocksy’s astral wind.”

May he rest in peace. 

The Big Question

Sir Cess poses a changeling question to fellow thespians and jobbing actors.

How many roles have you played in one day?

Before you leap in to an answer, please bare in mind that Harrison Ford was a carpenter, Chuck Norris was a Ranger, Steve McQueen did race sports cars, Elizabeth Taylor did marry four or was it six men, Peter Ustinov was a writer, and Angelina Jolie professed to being a lesbian. These are all vital facts you need to consider before you answer the question. “Great thought is required!”

 This is a genuine Sir Cess quote, you may share it.

Only the other day I donned my working costume robes. I was off to finish re-wiring a kitchen electrical circuit. The said circuit was wired in the late nineteen fifties and carried power to a switch, a central kitchen light, and two exterior lights. It was not earthed! So off I went in the early hours fully wardrobed and completed the job.

New T& E wiring, that’s twin and earth to the unknowledgeable. Role one, an electrician. I applauded myself for a job well done and moved onto my second role. 

Cleaner. Clean up the mess I had made.With an almost defunct brush I swept all the trash into a corner of the kitchen, engaging the use of a pan and hand brush I discarded the trash to the bin and moved on mop in hand to clean the kitchen floor. Time for a celebratory sip from my ever faithful “Toddie”, I thought. Damm! Or any other expletive will do! Empty.

But? The roof! The thought sprang into my mind with the distant rumble of Highveld thunder. I had not nailed back the Marley tiles I had removed to access the wiring. Up onto the roof I went, clout nails in pocket, and quickly restored the roof to its weatherproof state. 3rd role completed, Roof Tiler!

Definitely time for refreshment. I loaded my tools onto my bakkie as the though of an espresso coffee and Hungarian snaps sent my saliva into an orgasmic state. But the premise’s garage door needed to be closed. This was a strict order from my client, an easy job. Now I ask, have you ever closed a nineties-fifties concrete weighted 100kg garage door? Yes? No? But,whatever the answer, I bet you’ve never closed one with a carrier cable that only had had one thin strand on metal wire left to support the mechanism. “F…….u……c….K!” was the next Shakespearean oral emission I made. The door came crashing down, and if it had not been for my speedy response some future fellow thespian could have been clutching my battered cranium whilst he uttered, “Alas poor Yorrik.”

Seeing as I was still attired in my electrician-odd-job’s costume, I man-handled, with much exertion, the now un-cabled and derelict garage door to a safe place where it would pose no problem to the returning residents.

Off I sped to my friendly director who lived nearby, as I realized my role number four as a demolition survivor was an Oscar nomination performance. Oh yes, an espresso and Hungarian snaps went down extremely well, while I listened to the trials and tribulations of my directorial friend who was going through one of those soap opera dilemmas following a divorce. This was an unexpected 5th role. Consoling friend and psychiatrist.

It was time to depart, as I had to return to my place of residence to feed the gardener his meal for the day. I climbed into my 1984 Nissan 1400 Champ bakkie and moved the gear into 1st, “C-Chucnk!” and I had a clutch pedal that sank un-tensioned to the floor. The cable had snapped. “Ah, ah, role number 5. A car mechanic!”

This is a role I have never played before and had no intention of playing! My friend, “Jurgen-The-German” sprang into my mind and after a quick phone call, the 68 year old, with a gambling addiction, arrived at the location and gave his honest appraisal of the situation. “I ‘ave one?, Might not right size, give me keys, one hundred Rand, I fix.

Now another question I have to ask all you thespians is; have you ever driven a car with no clutch? Answers on a postcard will be accepted.

Off he went and another espresso and snaps were consumed. Role number 6 was assumed. This is a role that all jobbing actors know well. It is the role of “Out-of-work-jobbing-actor”. In the UK it’s an easy role to play, as the signing on in the dole queue requires no talent at all, only a reliable alarm clock. The same applies in the US of A as long as you are a Union member and you’ve kept up with your annual payments. However in other parts of the globe including the Republic of the New South Africa, it means that you are in the proverbial shite! Your mind has to work, or rather, my mind has worked . And believe it or not, is still working. Play an electrician, a cleaner, a roof tile fixer, a psychiatrist, read, and do crosswords and play Soduko!

So, I reclined in my directorial friend’s chair and read the local rag. The “Melville Caxton Times”. This publication is a hive of information. It is packed with so much advertorial garbage that you could spend a good hour on the big white telephone having a quiet shite, that you’d believe you were playing the lead in the 2013 re-make of H.G. Well’s “Time Machine”. After an hour and a half I had found out where to buy the cheapest chateau cardboard dry white wine, the cheapest cut of shin beef, from which Hyperama I could buy the cheapest recycled spam, and I had discovered that the residents of Melville were being terrorised by vagrants!

All very enlightening. Jurgen-the–German returned, asked for the loan of one hundred Rand, which I could not oblige him with and departed. The bakkie was fully operational and I sped homeward to engage in my 7th role of the day, that of a chef. As the Lady-in-Wedlock was away taking a holiday in the Mediterranean climes on the island of Majorca, I had indulged in purchasing some of my favorite cuts of meat, tripe, brains, sheep’s tails, ostrich livers and other beautiful delicacies. When the Lady-in-Wedlock is in residence I unfortunately can’t cook any of these superb childhood favourites, as the smell that emerges from the kitchen sends my dear lady into convulsions. I also had to prepare for an organized meeting with the director of a student film in which I had been asked to perform.

Two roles at once. A Chef and an actor. 

I was returning to my roots, as I got the tripe boiling, lowered the sheep’s tails into an overnight marinade of red wine, and blanched my pig’s brains. Tripe a simmering, brains a blanching, and tails a marinating; the young highly enthusiastic director arrived. Chef hat off, and convivial out-of-work-ageing-actor’s hat on.

Role number eight. “Have you looked at the script?”

“Of course, in fact I’ve made a couple of changes.”

He sank into a deep hole, as he was also the scriptwriter of this virginal creation that came from his own life’s story.

“Goldmann? He’s a money grabbing arse-hole, a highly manipulative man, he doesn’t give a fuck about either of the two juve leads, he couldn’t care less which one of them fights. He’s an East-End cockney Jew-boy! Shall we read the first scene?”

God I was rolling. I was about to enter into my 9th role of the day. An actor. 

“Ja, well, I’d like to hear it as a cockney…… but It’s a South African story……. I thought maybe Lebanese , or Portuguese.”

“No, no, East-End Jew! Listen!”

The words rolled off my tongue, “What a fight! What a fucking fight! You know who called me? Don King, Don fucking King! This next fight for the two of you is going to gross more bucks that the Ali verus Foreman fight!!!!”

The young director and two other cohorts that were with him were thrown into a trance. “Ja, I like the cockney.” Was all he could say. And thus I had completed the 11th role of my day.

A scriptwriter!” So, have you answered the question? Till next time, Sir Cess Poole.