Frygate

The train journey down to Kent was arduous. I was going to see Ray in The Brownlee Care Home for Demented Actors. He’d been there for a month and I was full of trepidation. There were no taxis at the station so I had to catch a bus. I was dropped outside the Home. Imposing gates and high walls surrounded the place. I rang the bell. Vicious dogs barking as I approached the front door.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m here to see Ray Brooks.’

‘Who?’

My heart sank, they don’t even know who he is or was. What way to end a career.

The Brownlee Care Home had only been operational for about ten years. It caters for actors who have suffered from severe depression after they’d been given the push from ‘soaps’. It contained ex EE, Coronation Street and Emmerdale thesps etc but their star attraction currently is Nigel from The Archers. (For those of you who never listen to that particular show, he’s famous for his unique scream when falling to his death from a roof. It created a sensation. But of course nothing lasts.)

I was shown into the principal’s office, who looked like an extra from Adam Adamant, wearing a ginger wig which had slipped over over his left ear.

‘You’re here to see Mr Brooks, I understand.?’ 

I nodded. 

‘I think it’s best to warn you. He’s changed.’

‘That’s good.’

‘But not for the better, I’m afraid. He’s becoming very friendly with the most disruptive inmate that we’ve ever had. Roger Walker. Have you ever heard of him?'

I had to admit that I hadn’t.

‘He worked with Mr Brooks on Big Deal.’

I almost rushed from the room to be sick. The principal continued.

‘I’m afraid that it’s becoming a most unnatural relationship.’

I recoiled. ‘Mr Brooks does not bat for the other side!’

‘I’m not suggesting that. For instance, Roger Walker’s room here is festooned with pictures of Stephen Fry. I ask you, is that natural?’

‘Good God.’

‘He seems obsessed with him. Now Fry, as you might remember, absconded after the opening night, of the Simon Gray play called Cell Mates. Distressed by the reviews he disappeared. It was thought that he might have killed himself. The Sun newspaper even suggested a Fryday and encouraged it’s readers to wear black armbands out of respect for the great man. There was a world wide search for the lost actor. Then there were rumours of sighting in Australia, the North Pole, darkest areas of the Amazon even Belgium. But everyone, of a morbid disposition, thought he was dead.  And then he returned from the grave, the sweet man was contrite, weeping, the public greeted him as a hero.

Call me silly but I have an inkling that Mr Walker and Mr Brooks might want to emulate Frygate. Disappear and return in triumph.’ 

After my meeting with ginger, I went to ‘the Day Room’ for the inmates, still in a daze, and what a depressing place it was. Old actors sitting in chairs, faces encrusted in makeup, watching UK Gold on TV hoping for ‘repeats’. Ray was sitting on the other side of the room, staring out of the window. He must have eyes in the back of  his head because as I approached, he said.....

‘Get out!’

‘Nice to see you, too.’ I said. I noticed a bunch of ‘actors’ on the lawn. ‘What are they doing?’

‘That bloke waving his arms about is Gordon Glow. who is apparently an extremely distant relation of Andrew Lloyd Webber, anyway he’s cobbled together a musical version of The Mousetrap.  They’re rehearing. And the great Nigel of Archers fame is playing the Detective. I auditioned for the Detective and Gordon Glow offered me the old bird who’s knocked off in the First Act. There wasn’t even a song!  He said I was too wooden to play the Detective! Me! I’m the most adroit and flexible actor in the world! I’ve played Detectives all over the globe, even on Radio Four!......

I let him ramble on for what seemed like a couple of hours about how nobody appreciated  his soaring ‘talent’ and finally he stopped. 

I eventually asked the question that was burning a hole in my head. ‘So, tell me about Roger Walker.’ 

‘I worked with him when I did Big.....’

‘I know, I know.’ I said hurriedly.

‘Then he went into Eldorado, the BBC spent zillions on it, building a township in Spain. They thought it was going be bigger than EastEnders,’ Bile rose in my throat but I managed to keep it down. ‘Within a year the BBC pulled the plug on it. Actors thrown on  the slag heap. The cruelty of it.  A dedicated motorcyclist Roger and he was falsely accused of trying to run down Alan Yentob, the one who had pushed the reject button. But it turned out to be a bloke who’d played a Munchkin in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on his way to audition for a CBBC version of  Old Mother Hubbard to play a Singing Clothes Peg. But mud sticks and poor Roger was Black listed. He spends his days now down in a small engineering workshop here in the basement.’

 So the ‘ginger’ principal was right. There was a friendship with Roger Walker. Finally I wished him goodbye and left but my thinking was not happy. ‘Disappear and return in triumph.’ The principal had said. That phrase whirled around and around in my brain all tied up in that lurid headline ‘Frygate.’  Escape? Roger and Ray? They’d never get out of this place.

The bus was full of pimpled kids going into town to get off of their faces. I had to stand all the way to the station, not one of those little shits would give up their seat for an old man, who was bouncing this way and that like a drunken skittle.

I managed to get off the bus first and when I was a safe distance from the detritus exiting the clapped out vehicle, I shouted. ‘ You’ll get old one day, you spoilt little bastards.’ 

I can’t repeat here the abuse they hurled back. I resolved never to return to this god forsaken place but of course I had to. The sacrifices you make for a ‘friend’.

But would my ‘friend’ still be there when I returned?

Frygate. Dum, dum, dum. 

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Ann Wilson(Saturday, September 21 13 03:08 pm BST)

Cynically amusing write Ray!

Mark(Wednesday, September 25 13 03:48 pm BST)

Roger Walker seemed determined to corner the market in amusing animal related named characters at the beeb for a time. Kipper in Big Deal, Bunny in Eldorado

Me again

Walking down a London street. An empty street. Except for one young man sitting on a wall staring at his mobile phone. My shoes, bought for £10 in an antique supermarket in Brighton not dissimilar in their effect as the 50’s Brothel Creepers, made no sound as I whispered towards the statue like youth. As I became parallel with him he looked up and at me. He must have had a radar app for his mobile so sharp was he.

‘Are you on telly?’

‘Yes.’ I replied. 

“Why bother doing this? You’re not on telly. You haven’t been since 2006.” 

Who said that?  

“Me, stupid.” 

Who are you? 

“You. The sensible you, before you had delusions of grandeur.”

‘What have you been in?’ the young man said.

“Oh God, here we go again. Give him that tired old list.”

‘Fools and Horses.’

“What? You weren’t in that!”

Of course I wasn’t but he won’t know

‘Oh, yeah.’ he said, happily. ‘You were smashing, I loved you. You was Rodders, weren’t you.’

‘That’s right.’

“That’s a lie and you know it. Stop pissing about. You’ve been writing on your blog for the thick end of three years and hardly anyone reads it. Most posts are trying to sell you Viagra. You’ve got to pack it in. It’s bad for you.”

Is it?

“Yes, because nobody, nobody reads it! Now, let’s get you home, have some hot milk and bed.”

I want a coffee and a cigarette.

“No more smoking. It’s turning your brain inside out. Before you know it you’ll be talking to yourself.”

Oh dear.

P.S. Ray has now been incarcerated at The Brownlee Care Home for Demented Actors in Kent.

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simon drew(Wednesday, August 14 13 11:37 am BST)

why not transfer your blog to Facebook?
please .....don't stop writing
I look forward so much to your anecdotal therapy!

Ann Wilson(Wednesday, August 14 13 04:09 pm BST)

Ray, you are so funny and I love your blog, so please keep it going. I don't think anyone reads mine either, well maybe friends and family, but they don't leave comments, probably too polite! You must have lots of juicy snippets you could put on here, that maybe you missed in your autobio.

mark(Saturday, August 17 13 01:09 pm BST)

Keep writing Ray, ignore the spam

'Smudge'(Monday, August 26 13 10:13 pm BST)

I vote with the other folks here - do please keep writing Ray. Your blogs never fail to entertain and amuse.

Mick Kedian(Wednesday, September 04 13 08:29 am BST)

Ray, there are plenty of readers out there who enjoy and look forward to your blogs... you certainly deserve a larger audience

Bogman(Tuesday, September 10 13 06:43 pm BST)

I thought you the coolest winkle picker ever. I suppose if I was to see Some People now it would not be the same but it made a big impact in my little town in the west of Ireland. I think it was 1963 and I was 14.

Lee Crichlow(Saturday, September 28 13 12:20 pm BST)

Keep writing the Blog Ray. It is a marvelous read and maybe one day you can publish the collected musings?

Top of Form

Reviews

I read a lot of books and reviews. I’m not saying that I read books constantly but I seem to get through a good few each year.

One of my mistakes recently has been buying hard back books from the Guardian Review magazine. This I suppose is the high end of the market, the so call posh books. My recent acquisitions have been Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life (477 pages) and Michelle de Kretser’s Questions Of Travel (515 pages). These are very large books. The sort of books, I always read at night and if I fall asleep these tomes inevitably close up and because of the bewildering complication of the so called plots, it’s almost impossible to find my place. So I have to start again. Large books. Bruised knees.

Other books reviewed in that paper are Kafka: The Years of Insight and Kafka: The Decisive Years, Isaiah Berlin-Building: Letters 1960-75, Isaac and Isaiah, The Men Who Lost America, All The Birds, Singing, The Crumb Road, Ocean At The End of The Lane, The Times of Fading Light. All I’m sure (the titles might give you a hint) as unintelligible as Kate’s or Michelle’s. But the reviewer’s pick these incomprehensible books because it makes them look clever and write about the ‘structure.’, the ‘delicate creation of character.‘ etc, so us poor saps buy the books struggle through them, not understanding a word, end up with headaches and bruised knees.

They never review books written by Peter James. A good marketing ploy by him is always have the word Dead in the title. Why no reviews you might wonder? They are long, the last being 407 pages. Not quite as many as Atkinson’s or Kretser’s but quite close. So why don’t they review it?

The answer maybe that they’re are not obscure or obtuse, in fact they are very straightforward. But there is one inclusion that is irritating. The copper hero named Grace, has a wife who left him about ten years before. He’s looked for her, doesn’t know wether she’s dead or alive. But she’s popped up in all the books, lingering in the background but why?  His books sell, according to the blurb on the cover 11,0000,000 copies. So what do I know? 

In an independent  bookshop, a lady said to me ‘You should read this book, if it’s made into a TV series the main character would be perfect for you.’ It was the first Dead book by James. Within a few pages I discover the hero is thirty seven years old, goes jogging, ex rugby player, tough and has the occasional fag. Me, book lady?  Don’t be silly. Good way to shift a book or two. So, I kept buying them just in case the hero got older and if he did, then a great TV mogul might want to film them and I might have a chance. But like Peter Pan he never seems to grow up.

Why have I been writing about the Guardian? Well, there is one review in it that caught my eye (another lumpy title, I’m afraid) called Sleepless in Hollywood: Tales from the New Abnormal in the Movie Business and by Lynda Obst. She’s 63 and her career in films seems to be over. In the past she helped to produce Taxi Driver and then among others she produced Sleepless in Seattle. In 1996, down in the dumps, she wrote a book called Hello, He Lied. The tenure of this book is ‘you never trust anyone about anything’.

That hits the spot. Trust....what a word. I’ve trusted publishers, P.R companies, plumbers, gardeners, accountants, actuaries, lawyers. Yes, I’ve been a fool. I never learn.

In about 1987 I got a chance to do a sit-com. The producer was called Marcus Plantin. After the recording of the first episode, we repair to the bar. Plantin come up to me, puts his hands on my shoulders, he was wearing Buddy Holly glasses with tape wrapped around one of the arms, then he says. ‘Ray, you’re a star. Every time we cut to you it’s money in the bank.’  That man, a few years later, wouldn’t even pick up the phone when I called him. 

But however I try to avoid it, the G. R. draws me to it like a magnet. And there are some glorious nuggets to be found there. For instance one is The Trip to Echo Spring: Why Writers Drink. As I’m sure you’re aware that your dear blogger has a penchant for the occasional small glass of sweet sherry, so he was delighted with a quote by Dorothy Parker who said “ I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”

Ah, I’ll drink to that.

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Chris Sullivan(Wednesday, August 07 13 08:50 pm BST)

Hi Ray,

Remember me? Back in London now so if you're around let's meet up for a Starbucks one of the days.
Here's my blog by the way http://storytelleronamazon.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/baseball-and-cricket-difference.html
Chris

Giants

I loathe that phrase ‘Standing on the Shoulders of Giants’. It has been used in that pop world, I believe even in the well respected and revered corridors of the BBC, the much lauded Melvyn Bragg even called one of his Thursday morning forty five minute yawn shows, by the same name.

I’ve never stood on anyone’s shoulders. I’ve stood in dole queues, at bars, at football matches, bus stops, school gates, yes, I’m sure we’ve all done a lot of standing. 

But being in this ‘glitzy’ world of show biz, all wonderful and frothy, I’ve stood in rooms and ‘breathed the same air‘ as a lot of legends (not stood on them).

In the ’60’s the streets of London seemed to be teeming with potential ‘legends’. Everyone was as thin as a pencil and girls wore skirts so short that imagination went up in smoke. Once Biba and the like opened, childhood went down the drain. And it’s continued at a pace ever since. In 1962, travelling by tube to rehearsals of a telly series called Taxi, starring Sid James and Bill Owen, I was accosted by a strange looking young man called Andrew Loog Oldham, who gave me his card, and said if I wanted to make a record to contact him. 

I went to see see him, his office was crowded, I waited got bored and left. It reminded me of when Toni Meehan, the Shadow’s drummer, took me into the the Savile Row headquarters of the Beatles. It was teeming with people, all using the phones, smoking and generally pretending that they were a part of the great groups emporium. No doubt that these days they are very likely to be shuffling around on Zimmer frames or are six feet under.

But. I often think, if I’d put pen to paper on a contract in Oldham’s office and if I’d have known that a few months later that he’d been sharing a cab with John Lennon and asking him if he and Paul had got a song for a group that he wanted to promote. The song was I Wanne be Your Man which turned out to be the hit song that got the Stones Rolling. Missed out there.

If  I had signed a contract with Oldham I could have been a pop star, had to have grown my hair very long and snarled my way through songs. In the Oldham style I would have to become a Mick Jagger clone. Would this moody me have ever been allowed to do Jackanory? Would Liam Gallagher have wanted my autograph if I hadn’t done Mr Benn?

The Stones got rid of Andrew Loog Oldham very early, I didn’t sign with him, they haven’t done too badly and nor have I. 

But Mick’s still got his hair and I haven’t. Yes, I’d certainly swop my barren patch with his voluminous thatch. 

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Ann Wilson(Saturday, July 27 13 05:41 pm BST)

One consolation Ray is that you don't look as wrinkled as Mick!

Who's Ed Milliband?

My mate Dave and me were in the pub discussing Ed Balls’ gobbledegook chat on Radio 4’s Today radio programme. The lady working behind the bar said. ‘Who’s Ed Balls?’

‘The shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer’........‘Who?’

‘Have you heard of Ed Miliband?’.......‘Who?’

She has got two children (‘Ten minutes of fun.’), a car, which keeps breaking down and, because she’s pretty, plenty of the lads in the pub fix it for free, when it’s completely knackered her dad buys her another one. But it seems that she has no idea of what happens in the world around her.

My mother was born in 1914 and would be about the same age as the lady behind the bar by 1946. The big difference was that in my mother’s day people talked about politics. They had opinions. 

Churchill (‘War Monger.’). Attlee (‘ Bloody Labour party. What can he do?’) Nye Bevan ( ‘National Health Service?’) Frank Cousins, President of the Transport Workers Union. (‘He’s back from Moscow. Got his orders.’ ‘He’s selling busts of himself at the Conference!’) 

Yes, there were strikes back then but in a way that showed political thrust. But with no televisions, no computers, mobiles, washing machines, dish washers, central heating with nothing interesting on the radio and after a meagre meal of boiled potatoes and fritters (I’m laying it a bit thick here but there were food shortages.), adults would sit round the fire and talk. And politics would be one of the topics.

But do people talk these days? Even if they wanted to, social spaces are pervaded with musac. They, of course, grunt and mutter, play games on their smart phones, ‘converse’ on Twitter or Facebook.  

Their world is full of noise and nobody can hear anything. There’s an opinionated, social network that wraps it’s tentacles around the globe but no one’s taking any notice.

There’s so much going on, that maybe nobody noticed that Ed Miliband (?) had fallen through the cracks.   

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Anne Wilson(Thursday, July 04 13 10:18 am BST)

Think people are more interested in talking about TV talent shows, soaps and banal reality TV than discussing politics nowadays. Maybe why Nadine Dorries opted to appear in the latter; she certainly did get noticed and caused much discussion! I think Ed's brother would have made a better leader and he probably thought so too!

Mark(Saturday, July 06 13 01:05 am BST)

Completely agree Ray, but take comfort that I'm in my early 30s, probably about the same age as that barmaid and I'd rather discuss politics than reality TV or use Twitter and Facebook. They're just momentary pleasures and devices to take our mind off the fact we're all going to hell in a handcart! And then MP's wonder why we have 'voter apathy' ??

Glitter Dust

Sunday the 26th of May: Sitting outside The Chancellors pub having a pint (or a ‘scoop‘ as one of my mother’s husbands always said.) with Paul Winter, who’s organised a Dr Who gathering in the Riverside Studios opposite. It’s a very sunny day!

Then Karen, who’s helping out on the day, comes over. She’s going to interview me during the Question and Answer session after the showing of Daleks Invasion of Earth in which I, an extremely young version of the slob sitting outside The Chancellors supping beer, appear.

Five minutes on, we go into the foyer of the Studio, where a table is laid out with piles of photo’s of the very young me in various productions including pictures of the perennial bowler hatted Mr Benn. I put dow a few copies of my autobiography ( ever hopeful ) on the table.

People come up, I sign photos, some want have pictures taken of me with them, I oblige, then miracle of miracles, I sell THREE books. Bingo!

The film starts but Karen and I still sit at the table twiddling our thumbs. I’m tempted to shoot off to the pub for another ‘livener‘ but resist. Anyway we talk. She has worked in fitness clubs, does Panto’s in Norwich, used to have MGB, doesn’t drink or smoke, and me, who has never crossed the threshold of a fitness club and never intends to, listens to the whippet framed athlete in awe. In between the list of lifting weights and healthy diets, she asks me about the things I’ve done. Obviously needing to bone up for the Q and A session. 

‘We need to go up to the cinema in a few minutes the film’ll be over soon.‘ she says. ‘There’s quite a few stairs to climb but there’s a lift you can use if.’ ...‘Don’t be daft.‘ I laugh.‘I’ll use the stairs too.’

She goes up three at a time, I manage just one. In the cinema, standing at the back, the film is coming to an end, Daleks tumbling down shafts and finally the Space ship blows up. The House lights come up, ‘I’ll go down first and introduce you.‘ She zooms down the stairs to the stage. ‘Ladies and gentleman, please welcome Ray Brooks.‘ Applause, applause.

I go down to the stage slowly, the stairs are steep, hoping that the applause will last until I arrive. It does. The Q and A starts. It’s rolling along quite well. I can’t help thinking back to my pub function room experiences, when there were never more than ten people present, they were a struggle. Here there are 200. Questions are asked about Big Deal, EastEnders, Cathy Come Home, Mr Benn etc.  

Then Karen said, I think. ‘Say that famous line.‘ So I said. ‘Suddenly as if by magic...‘ The reaction was extraordinary, to my ears anyway. So I continued. ‘Maybe I should go round the country doing the shortest show in the world, just go on the stage and say “Suddenly as if... “ ‘ From the noise they made it seemed that they thought it was a good idea. Then I cut the 100th Anniversary cake for Peter Cushing. This was followed by the trailer for the the film, made by Kevin Davies, which included out takes. ‘You could see yourself dubbed into Spanish‘ he told me.

the 2nd most famous Mr Benn

Later downstairs for more signings and photos taken plus I sold FIVE more books! Good old Dr Who.

Eventually I leave. In the taxi home, the driver suddenly turns round and says. ‘Your voice is very familiar. Aren’t you Mr Benn?’ That little man pops up again. Twice in one day? Could this be the Eureka moment?

 I’ve done 4 Dr Who jamborees and 1 Carry On, they’ve all been well attended, the glitter dust of those titles worked.  

Could the glitter dust of Mr Benn work for me? Could I go out and talk about Mr Benn? 

Yes, a Mr Benn evening, show an episode or two, talk about the background, a few anecdotes, a couple of jokes and conclude with the hit song ‘Suddenly as if by Magic’.

It might work. 

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Mark(Wednesday, June 05 13 11:08 pm BST)

Excellent news Ray! I think I said not so long back that the Who fan circuit is usually very friendly and could be very successful. So glad to hear that's the case.

Mick Kedian(Sunday, June 16 13 01:53 pm BST)

Double pleased for you Ray... deserved recognition I sincerely hope this leads somewhere.

Valerie Blackwood(Sunday, June 23 13 04:11 am BST)

Lovely to read your blog.

Never work with....

Beautiful Grace with BBB (Big Brother Beau)

Grace is born at eleven forty five on the 18th of April. I’m having a quick pint in The Sun, having been home to have a shower, shave and change of clothes, after three days and nights without a glimpse of a tap, shaving gear or even fresh socks. Tom, youngest son, had kindly taken Beau off my hands to allow my ablutions. 

Beau is the two and half year brother of the newly arrived Grace. My job was to look after him while Anna and Will attended the hospital. Beau is a lovely boy but inevitably was missing his mum and dad, not having seen her for thirty six hours and him for twenty four.

I get back to Will’s house and Tom delivers Beau. It’s time for his afternoon nap. I take him to his room. He’s not happy. Get him in his bed. ‘Daddy, daddy, daddy!’ he wails. ‘He’ll be here to wake you up.’ ‘Daddy, daddy, daddy!’ he goes again. ‘He’ll be here to wake you up.’ ‘Mummy, mummy, mummy!’  ‘You’ll see her later.’  ‘Mummy, mummy, mummy!’ ‘You’ll see her later.’

He stops crying suddenly almost as of a tap has been turned off. He looks older, strangely similar to a fearsome maths reacher at school. He stares seriously at me. ‘Dummy.’ he says. ‘Not mummy. Dummy.‘   

Suitably admonished I take the Dummy (not Mummy) down from a shelf and stick it in his mouth.

Next day round to say welcome to the family, Miss Grace. Beau comes up to me. ‘Granddad.’ ‘Yes?’ He takes my hand and leads me to his room. He walks to the side of his bed and turns to me.

‘Dummy.’ he says and holds out his hand. ‘Dummy, granddad.’

He’s got my number and no mistake.

Never work with........

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Ann Wilson(Sunday, May 12 13 02:55 pm BST)

Lovely post Ray. It reminds me of my grandchildren and their funny comments as toddlers, all grown up now! Congratulations on the new arrival, hope all doing well.

Simon Drew(Tuesday, May 28 13 02:33 pm BST)

look every day for a new 'post'.off on our hols now,back in 3 weeks.Cultural trip this time...China.I'll bring
you back a Panda!!!!!Hope you are both ok.
Valerie Blackwood(Sunday, June 23 13 04:14 am BST)

What a great kid.