CANCELLATION 2.

I tweeted ‘Sad. I’ve cancelled Liverpool on the 12th. Technical reasons.‘ I know it’s not as momentous as Dusty’s cancellation. There was a small flutter in the world of twitter, someone hoping that ‘I’d get well soon’. Maybe thought that technical was a heart condition..

So, what now? The ‘technical reasons‘ are diverse and certainly bumpy. I’ve had no feed back from the two shows that I’ve done. They listen but am I going on too long and beginning to bore them? It’s hard to tell. As I say, no feed back.

So, I’m in the process of re-writing the whole thing. Using my autobiography as a template,   

applying the talk like on a trampoline, spinning this way and that, no shape. I’d be happy like that. Improvising. And if the audience get confused all they’ve got to do is interrupted and ask me ‘what the hell are you talking about?’ That could be fun as well.

All I know is that I’ve got to do something to shake things up.    

CANCELLATIONS

In Brighton a good few years ago, my wife and I were walking passed The Dome Box office. In the window was a poster advertising a Dusty Springfield concert. Slashed across it was a Cancelled sticker. I’m a big Dusty fan. I couldn’t believe it had been cancelled. Was she ill or something? I went in.

“Only twelve people bought tickets, so we cancelled it.”

I was stunned. Brighton being the ‘gay‘ capitol and she being a ;gay‘ icon I’d have thought they would have flooded in to see her. But no. ‘Cancelled’.

A few years later Dusty was dead. In Brighton some months later, I’m passing the Theatre Royal. ‘The Dusty Springfield Show‘ the posters outside blaze the good news. There are crowds queuing to get in.

I could have cried. A few years ago, twelve tickets sold to see the real thing and now hundreds of people going to see a ‘look-a-like’ in a wig singing Dusty songs! It beggar's belief.

Poor Dusty, fame slipped through her fingers. She couldn’t take the rejection, the twelve tickets sold in Brighton, how many other places did she suffer this humiliation?

Fame is a ephemeral, like a cancer it can destroy you. And when it went away, she tried to ease the pain and eventually she died. 

MADE UP

Using ‘street language’ now, I think! Joined in the melee of the Twitter world thanks to my son Tom. I use it to promote my new novel the mini tour I’m doing.

I keep logging into it and most of the posts seem to be opinions about current issues or in some famous celebrity’s case ‘I’ve just washed my hair.’. Bloody hell. I certainly don’t want to get into that. Not that I’ve got much hair to wash.

I used to tweet a bit but it’s a strange old world. Anyway, I logged in yesterday and there to my suprise and delight was a complimentary post about me!

I looked today but it’s disappeared. I must be doing something wrong. But the gist of it was really about the show that I did at the Riverside Barn Theatre last Sunday.

And for the first time, this sweet tweeter, said that it was Great! Wow, I was thrilled. The first time that someone had shown such enthusiasm.

So, I was Made Up.  

OVERHEARD

The sun was shining. I was sitting outside a pub (suprise, suprise). A couple of old gentlemen were sitting across from me.

‘You look a bit down, Jack.’ one said to the other.

‘So many things going wrong at the moment.’

‘For instance?’

‘My sister in-law’s broken her ankle. Skiing.’

‘Your wife’s sister? How old is she?’

‘Eighty two.’

‘What the hell’s she doing skiing at her age?’

‘She goes every year. I had to arrange her flight back. There were complications. She had to see her specialist. And....’

‘And?’

‘Son Steven’s business has gone bust. He’s desperate. He wants me to lend him £50,000.’

‘£50,000 ! Your not going to give it him surely?’

‘He’s ill with worry.’

‘Jack Jack, Jack. You’re going to make yourself ill.’

‘What can I do?’

‘I’ll tell you my theory, Jack. Any problems you can’t sort out. Forget them. Like your feckless son and the Mrs Jean Claude Killy 81 year old twit. Let them stew in their own juice. Mend what you can and forget all the other stuff. It’s a waste of time.’

Jack nodded.

I looked at Jack’s ‘philosopher’ friend as he sipped his wine contentedly. My nearly finished pint was in front of me. I should go home. I’m late already. ‘Mend what you can’ Well my glass needed ‘mending’. I ordered a refill. That old man was a genius. 

APRIL 12TH

I arrived at The Little Theatre in Brighton at 5.00 on the 12th dragging a bag of books with me. It was exhausting. Twenty autobiographies, twenty copies of Lies, five Echoes, photos of Mr Benn and my lap top. Like pulling half a tree. Bloody heavy. 

It was a relief to dump the bag in the bar. My right arm was longer by an inch or two.

It’d been a few tricky days. On Wednesday I was off to The Moorfield Hospital for injections in both eyes. I  always remember what the doctor had said to me before the treatment ‘There is a 3% chance you might have a stroke or a heart attack.’ I haven’t had one yet but it’s always in my mind when I have to face the needles.

Anyway back to the Sunday. My Apple lap top had to be connected to the DVD projector. Bev the expert on these aspects was on hand. ‘I’m used to Windows. This could be tricky.‘ she said. But she  persevered and finally, after an hour of much huffing and puffing, it all clicked into place.

Sam and I slipped off for a pint wrapped in our thoughts about the outcome of the evening. There were some people drifting down towards the theatre. At least there would be some people there when we begin, I thought.

The set was ready when we got back. The plan was that Sam would nip on stage and put Mr Benn ten minutes before we were due to start. He’s then he come on and switch the machine off and introduce me. I wait in the dressing room for his call. I wait and wait. Then there is a frantic knocking on the  door. “You’re on!”

I have to enter, late, through the auditorium, It’s dark and with my iffy eyes, I struggle down the steps to the stage saying ‘Sorry‘ as I go. Is there a last step? I feel around with my foot, not wanting to fall and seem like a complete prat. I find myself on the stage. How I got there I’m not sure. I begin.

It goes quite well, a few laughs (intentional), I cock up a bit with the machine, going backwards instead of forwards. I seem to say ‘sorry‘ a lot but they didn’t seem to mind. Eventually I get to the end of the first half.

Sam didn’t move, nor did his mum and brother in the front seats.

‘I only asked four questions, Ray.‘ he said mournfully.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ son and mum said.

‘Did you?‘ I was confused. ‘I got on a run. I didn’t notice.’

‘You kept improvising.’

‘Did I? What did I say then?’

‘I don’t remember.’

This chat went on for a while. I won’t go into detail. The 2nd half went okay. Sam managed more than four questions this time!

After, my niece, Jane, her husband, Rob, Kate and her husband plus the other twittering Mr Benn appeared as if by magic. I didn’t know they were coming and I’m glad that they didn’t tell me.

Off to the pub, lots of laughs. They’re good company. Then home.

Next day I had to collect the books from the Little Theatre. As it’s run by volunteers I couldn’t get them ‘til 7.00. I dragged them up the hill. I’d only sold three of them and that doesn’t reduce the weight by hardly anything from their outward journey. On the flat, I pull them about two miles. I have to keep stopping. I pretend that I’ve got a call on my mobile, I don’t want people to think that I’m a wimp. How conceited is that to think anybody is interested in what I’m doing? 

Eventually I turn left. It’s a steep hill down to the flat. It’s the reverse of dragging the bloody bag now it’s the bag dragging me! No more mobile phone business, I’m fighting the blessed thing which is pushing me at a rate of knots. At last I arrive at the front door.

Now I’ve got to get the bag up 57 stairs. Edward do Bono’s theory comes to my rescue. Of course, lateral thinking.

I take some of the books out of the bag and carry them up the stairs until eventually the bag is light enough to get it up.

When the task is completed, I make myself an omelette and collapse into bed.

At least I got through it, a few hiccups but on the whole a bit of an adventure.

Now, The Riverhouse Barn Theatre in Walton on Thames. Whoops.  

BLOODY FOOL.

I read in the papers a week or so ago that Fulham game against Brentford kicked off at 8.00.

I arrived at the Chancellors in Hammersmith, my favorite pub, in good time to get to the game. Got my pint and went outside.

A Fulham supporter comes out. Recognizes me. “ What a game.’ he says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Four one,’

‘Could be.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘We could win.’

‘We lost four one.’

‘Lost? It hasn’t started yet! Starts at 8,00.’

‘It’s finished! Kicked off at 3.00. You prat.’ and he stomped back into the pub. 

Yes, I did feel like one. How could I have got it so wrong? I felt like crying, we lost and I didn’t see it! I like to be there whatever happens. The door to the garden door opens and another Fulham fan comes out. I don’t want another conversation like the previous one. I start to dig into my pint.

‘Hello.’ he says cheerfully.

‘Hi.’ I say with my glass at my mouth.

‘That was a penalty, wasn’t it?’ he says showing me his ‘smart’ phone.

I watch it. ‘Yes.’ I say.’

‘My name’s Andy Onions.’ he says extending his hand. ‘I do comedy in the evenings. Run a comedy night in my local. For a a few amateurs and semi professionals.’ he stops suddenly and stares at me. ‘Oh, it’s you! You do the voice of Mr Benn. You did a VO of Mr Benn for one our company’s commercials.’ he fiddles with his phone. ‘Remember?’ he says showing me.

I didn’t remember. ‘Oh, yes.’ I say convincingly. He gives me his card.

So here I am, having missed the game but still Mr Benn pops up. How extraordinary.

This a true story.

CHANNEL 4

Some 20 years ago John Willis, head of Channel 4, told me that he wanted to do a week of shows about the homeless on 4. He was determined to do it but worried that commercials makers wouldn’t want to be associated with a channel doing a week of depressing programmes.

John’s father was the legendary Ted Willis, a writer of extraordinary screenplays and plays, who was also a dedicated socialist. Hence I suppose this was one of the reasons that his son wanted to do this week about homelessness. 

The week would include Cathy Come Home, Edna the Inebriate Woman, interviews with people in terrible circumstances and including a group of people building their own homes.

A few months later I bumped into John and asked him about the success or failure of his experiment. He told me that he was thrilled about it. Far from a disaster, Channel 4’s income for that week had exceeded the income from any week from the previous six months.

This connects to my previous post about Jack Rosenthal. If Channel 4 can do such a radical transformation of their normal weekly output what about Jack and others?

There must be treasures hidden somewhere waiting to be aired. There must be plays from Pinter, Stoppard, Charlie Wood, Rosenthal and many, many more just crying out to be seen and audiences that want to see them.

Come on Channel 4, root around, dust them off and show them again. John Willis has moved on but there must be someone at 4 with the wit to take a chance.

Think about it. Please. Just press the button marked GO.