POINTLESS

I’m back. The eyes are are a wee bit better so I thought I’d better join the fray.

    My agent phoned (!} wanted to know if I’d be interested to appear on Pointless Celebrity 60’s. I was busy in the 60’s. Rushing around, learning lines [unintentional jest], costume fittings, doing tons of crap to keep a roof over our heads. So I was caught up in my stuff to take much notice what was going on around me. So Pointless seemed a waste of time.

    So I had a thought how about Celebrity Antiquity Road Trip. So I suggested that to the  agent [!) They said they’d try. I’ve heard nothing. Waited and waited. Zilch. In the meantime I watched the Road Trips as they rolled out.People I’d never heard of. Tons of them older than me. Amazing. And loads of repeats. Not a sniff or a whisper in the pipeline. I was definably past my sell by date. Oh dear. Depressing.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

    But on the brighter side.  A man called Blue John bought two of my CD’s. In a couple of weeks he bought four more of them. Why? Six! It turn out that he liked it so much that he gave it to some friends, including Bob Fischer, a DJ in Blue Johns area. He also liked it and played tracks on his show. Then out of the blue, he wanted to interview me (live) at a local venue. It was a crazy journey up there.

    Kings Cross Station is confusing. My train was about to leave from platform 0. ( Harry Potter). I just got there on time and found myself in a dining car. I was given a sandwich and a coffee. Which I ate quickly. Then guard came up and looked at my ticket.

“That’ll £25. This is a 1st class carriage.` £25 for a coffee and a sandwich! A good start.

2  and a half hours later I arrived at Gateshead.

    Nice hotel, pleasant bedroom and bathroom but no tissues.There never are are. Why not? Do they want guests walking around with running noses? I phoned Bob and arrange to meet him on 11.00  the Sunday evening show.

    Then I had a wander around the the town. Like a cat peeing on every tree it passed I marked way so I didn’t lose my way back to my hotel. I found a little pub and had a couple of of beers then back to to the hotel for a kip.

    Later I had something to eat and a glass of wine.

    `Do you want another glass.?’

    `No, thank you.`

    `If you do you can have the rest of the bottle free.`

    What an extraordinary place Darlington is.

Slept well and saw Bob the next day. Nice fella. He was going to pick me up at 6.00.

The venue was good. 60 people were coming. The K.O. was 8.00. So I went over to the pub.

The were a nice crowd. Bob interviewed me for about an hour. Then there was a break. Three quarters of hour of questions. Then signing books a giving out photographs. Then he drove me back to the hotel. It was a good evening.  But was I deluding myself?

I it seemed that Bob had paid for the hotel bill. I sent him a text thanking him. He replied, ‘It  

s the least I could do. It was lovely to meet you.’ Hardly effusive.

But what could I expect.? The old ego was popping up again. I’ll put it into a box and chuck off the Brighton Pier I’m sure David Attenborough  wouldn’t complain ‘cos fish with egos wouldn’t eat plastic bags any more they’d be too full of themselves.

CRAZY WORLD

A few years ago we were encouraged to buy Diesel powered cars. Cheaper fuel and better for the engines. Now higher charges if you drive these dangerous vehicles in London also it is muted that they could ban them off the roads completely..

It’s a strange old world. Take a product that I voiced a few years ago. Flora  boasts high in Polyunsaturates. Sold well until......a crazy American scientist told the world that it was dangerous to heath. Flora went down the drain.

Like some schools said that playing conkers was dangerous and the children had to wear goggles if they played it. Similar to T Blair who tried to ban completive races at schools ‘because children who didn’t win could suffer damage their self esteem.

What a load of toss. I never won a race at school. I’ve never won a prize in my job. But we were taught to soldier on.

In the seventies there cafes called Cranks. You may remember them. These place served  ‘healthy tea and special coffee’ and sandwiches that tasted like cardboard.  Once, with dreary church music in the background, I saw what must have been vegan mouse running about. That was the last straw.

Back to the pub for me. Jolly music, good company, laughs fags and lovely beer.

Alright I’m probably wrong . Certainly about diesel engines. Not sure about conkers, coming 2nd and cardboard sandwiches. Smack my wrist.

Experts say that electric cars are on the way and robots will be running everything. But the NHS is in a on the skids. What can we do about that? With medicine improving month by month people are living longer and old people are clogging up hospitals. 

I’ve always thought that old people should be supplied with a bottle whiskey, a hundred fags a day and it can’t be impossible in this technological world to create a night time pill for the older generation to dream happily of sleeping with Nicole Kidman or if they prefer Brad Pitt. Anyway there is alternative.... the electric car. Sleeping with a car !? No,no.

Old people get frail, wobbly, certainly not too quick on their pins and usually a bit deaf.

So match deaf old folks and electric cars.

They cross the road and then can they hear these silent assassins?

Oh, dear, electric cars and cardboard . What the hell is this crazy world coming to?    

Supermarkets

We all use supermarkets, don”t we? They are enormous and charmless.They can buy in bulk and consequently all the local shops can’t compete and and they have to close. And I miss the friendly faces.

Of course the supermarkets sell their goods a lot cheaper and shoppers love them.

But they are temples of destruction. Why are they so? Not just the little business that go under but the potential of bringing A.E. departments to bursting point. Why do I predict this?

Supermarket trollies. We’ve all seen them whizzing around piled high with food and the owner on a mobile phone. haven’t we? But have you ever had to leap out of the way when one of these juggernauts bears down on you? If you were a lorry driver on the mobile the police would slap him in prison. But these buggers are never touched.

So I have a simple solution. At the end of each supermarket aisle there should be traffic lights. So normal basket shoppers can cross safely.

But, of course, it would cost money and for these poverty stricken supermarkets might have to shell out and then they’d be FORCED to put their prices up. Any excuse.

Then maybe the local shops would be able to open up and we’d all be happy.

Dreaming

A dream. Well they’re looking for a new Dr Who. What about this: a very old, retired Time Lord trying to get a hip replacement. Then he finds himself in the Tardis. The wrong button has been pressed. He’s totally confused, doesn’t know what to do. Fortunately there is an assistant who helps him to fly the Tardis to sunnier climes where his aching bones can be eased. They’re attacked by Sun Rays. The only thing he’s got in his pocket is a pencil.It could be fun having a dopey old man trying to come to terms with the terrifying stuff he’s confronted with. What about dopey old me? Dreaming.

Or back to EastEnders. Say I went back as the twin brother of Joe Macer ( who fell out of a first floor window after confessing to Dot that he killed his wife Pauline Fowler), who’s corporate lawyer, and demands to get back the property that Ian’s living in. Dot would have kittens thinking that Joe had come back from the grave and Ian would have a nervous breakdown and my lawyer would become the pariah of Albert Square. That’d be fun.

The trouble with dreams is you always wake up.    

Wind and Rain in Ilfracombe

 got a taxi from Barnstable and arrived at the Carlton Hotel £30 lighter. Snow was predicted.

‘It only snows on Exmoor’ the driver said confidently. ‘You’ll be alright.’

But there was certainly rain. When I got out of the taxi it was like having a bucket of water chucked over me and the wind nearly blew me off my feet.

‘Mr Brooks.’ the Michael, who I’d spoken to on the phone, greeted me warmly. ‘Your room is 203.’ The room was comfy and so was the bed. The wind was kicking up but I had to get a beer.

All the pubs seemed to have closed down for the winter but then I found one that was open! It was a big warm place and I downed two pints lickerty spit and settled down to think about my show tomorrow night in The Space in wet Ilfracombe. I had to introduce my memory stick to the projector at 1.00 on the day.

Having slept well and having a jolly breakfast. I set off, with my books, for The Space. The rain had stopped but the wind was even fiercer. The Space was was in the basement of sort of church. Inside it was a hive of activity. People putting up seats, others fixing up lights and I was greeted by Robert, the overall boss of the place.

‘A lot of seats.’ I said.

‘Forty people have applied but only fifteen have confirmed. The weather, I suppose.’

Fifteen was alright for me, I’ve played in front of a lot fewer than that, but for the theatre not so good. Although they’s said they wanted just 40 per cent of the ticket price and I told them that they could keep it all. It didn’t seem like a lot of money to take on the gate.

That evening when I arrived it seemed full! The wind must have blown them all in.

The show went well although I left out a chunk in the first half (getting as bit carried away I suppose). ‘Ran for forty minutes, Ray.’ Robert, the stop watcher, announced.

‘The second half is shorter.’ I said pathetically. And it was.

Generally I was pleased and the audience seemed happy. They bought most of the books.  Then I took Robert off to the pub. Back at the hotel and Michael was still there but the bar was closed.

‘Do you want a drink, Ray.’ he said. Then opened the bar and brought a large red wine. ‘And I’d like to buy a book for our in our library/’ he bought a book then offered me a  lift back to Barnstable the next day.

And so to bed. Two books left, an audience of 47, then a text from son, Tom. ‘Very proud of you.’

The perfect end to a perfect day.

CATHY CHAOS

After the debacle of Cathy at BAFTA, I was standing waiting for a train at Brighton Station. When it arrives it looks like something out of The Ark. With me and a few of others, it chugs along coughing and sputtering, stopping at every station, where nobody gets on or off. then there’s an announcement over the the tannoy. ‘We will be delayed because of trouble with signals. We’re sorry for any inconvenience.‘ Inconvenience! I’m starving, there’s no  buffet car and the seats are rock hard.

Eventually the train arrives at Southampton. I’d missed my connection to Bournemouth. I was starving so I went and got a sandwich from a dubious station cafe. Egg and cress which tasted like it  had been made in around 1847. After about half and hour the Bournemouth train arrived. When I got there I took taxi to the hotel.

‘The room’s been cancelled.’

‘What !’

‘Yesterday.’

I phoned my contact. Not answering. Left a message. Got a taxi back to the bloody station. Got back to Brighton. Dark and miserable (me) and exhausted. You can stuff Cathy.

Now someone has has invited me to a showing of Cathy in Brighton, I turned it down

After the disaster of Bournemouth good news arrives ! I’ve been invited to the Bewdley Book Festival in Worcestershire plus ( and this is extraordinary) to go to The Dr Who Convention in Wichita in Kansas. And I’ve only done a Dr Who film with Peter Cushing! Very exciting. Valium Airlines here I come! If I’m brave enough.

But my concentration is focused on Ilfracombe. I go there on the 13th of January to do my show. The hotel is booked, the posters have arrived and so have my books.

 I’m following my rep towns which I did for three years. The second one was Clacton but there were no suitable theatres ( two but both too big ), I certainly couldn’t get 750 people in. My first was Nottingham which I have fond memories of.

So next year is exciting if Valium Airlines stays in the air!

BAFTA

Wednesday 16th is the fiftieth anniversary of the first showing of Cathy Come Home. A lot of you may have not heard of it.

It’s about about people who hit hard times and fall through the net and end up having nowhere to live. When it was aired it caused a stir there questions about it in Parliament and it was repeated the following week. Also it was voted the 2nd best TV programme of all time. Oh, and I was in it playing Carol White’s husband.

There was a radio breakfast time interview arranged on the morning of the 16th on some obscure station I’d never heard of. I had to ring up and talk to them. I phoned but nothing happened. Finally I got through. The bloke didn’t know who the hell I was. Then I was passed down to someone else, who said. ‘Can we record it between 1.00 and 5.00.’ No I said. ‘Ok.we’ll talk live at 12.55. A Bright Good Morning DJ voice eventually spoke to me. ‘Good morning, Ray Brooks! You were in Cathy Come Home?’, ‘Yes, I was.’, ‘How exciting.’, ‘Yes it was.’, ‘I’m sure it was. Oh, we’ve run out of time the clocks against us. Goodbye. Lovely to have spoken yo you.’  What a load of crap!

The point is I was invited to BAFTA on that evening and my son Tom came as well. Clare who arranged it met us and bought us a drink. Then she shot off to see some other people. I was very excited. A Q&A with Ken Loach and Tony the producer. It was my chance to go on the stage and prove to the people that I wasn’t dead.

Tom was exited too. ‘It’ll be great, there might be someone out there who’ll give you a job.”

We had another drink. 

About ten minutes later Clare came back. I asked her about timings.

“The programme finishes at 7.55 then the are Q&A for about half and hour. and then back here for a couple of drinks. What time do you want the car to take you back?”

“9.15 would be fine. And where we will sit so I can get on the stage for the Q&A session?”

“Oh, it’s just Ken Loach and Toni Garnett going onto the stage.”

“Oh.”

So that was it. I was only there to watch Cathy which I seen four or five times before. What a pisser! What a f**K up! Tom and I sat and the back of the cinema. It’s a very depressing show. In the group scenes It’s impossible to hear the dialogue (maybe it was the sound system) but even Tom, who’s got hearing like a bat, couldn’t hear it.

Eventually, with about five minutes to go, Tom said can we go,

“Right. There’s an exit just there.”

“Ken and Toni are there.”

I told him to go and get the coats and I’d wait to the end when Ken and Toni went down to the stage then I’d get out.

We went to a pub, had a couple of beers and got a taxi. The evening was a bloody wash out.

Three days later I get an email from Clare. THANK YOU FROM BAFTA. “Sorry about the mixup on Wednesday. Ken and Tony were both keen to see you and made a point of mentioning you from the stage! We did an audio of it. Would you like me to email you it.”

Now I thought she was organizing the whole evening. So what’s this all about ‘the mix up’? Do I care? Not now. Because I’m off to Bournemouth to talk about Cathy. No Ken or Tony this time. But...I’ll be sharing the stage with a Labour MP.

Once you switch on a politician they rabbit forever. I won’t get a word in edge ways. If that happens, and it will,  I’ll say I have to go to the toilet and I’ll piss off never to return. 

DREAMS

I decided to visit my rep days to do my shows. I had so much to talk about those old days.

First was Nottingham. A small venue. It went very well. Not a massive audience but they were very appreciative and I had a good time.

Second was Clacton. How the place had changed. Now only two theatres and both enormous (650 seats plus) which I could never fill. But one of them seemed very welcoming. It should be fine, they said, we have a large fan base and if you could send us some posters. I did, quite a lot as requested.  As a back up I thought I find a local PR firm to help in the promotion. There were two. One I couldn’t get hold of and the other told me that they only dealt with supermarkets. So that was a no-no.

The theatre who wanted me, well their confidence was misplaced. I don’t mind playing in front of small audiences, I’ve done plenty of those in my time, but a tiny group surrounded by hundreds of empty seats wouldn’t feel comfortable for them.

So my second job in Clacton was out of the window. Third job Ilfracombe. On enquiring I found out that there was only one theatre in the town. I phoned them, crossing my fingers that it was suitable for me, But no, it was enormous, a newly built construction consisting of two massive  bumps on the horizon. Apparently the local residents hated it because it didn’t fit in with atmosphere and the houses that surrounded it. In fact they called it Madonna's Bra.

With the paucity of theatres in my old stamping grounds, I dreamt of buying a second hand old double decker bus taking out half of the top deck, put a projector at the side and have a screen behind the driver’s cabin. If they haven’t got suitable theatres I could take my own with me! But, but, but, before I did any alterations, a double decker bus would cost £35,000! So my dreams of being a mobile theatre owner had turned to dust.

Bugger, bugger, but then I had a call from a theatre called The Space, which is in the crypt of an old defunct chapel on Ilfracombe seafront. It held about forty to fifty people and they said that be thrilled if I agreed to play there. A date was fixed and I was excited.

They phoned a week later and said that there was a leak in he roof and they’d have to put me in when it was fixed. I thought of suggesting that I get them all macs and umbrellas but I didn’t. What do they do in the Regent’s Park theatre or the Globe when it’s raining cats and dogs? Not they’ll ever get me to me to do my one man show at he Globe! Ha ha.

So no hopes of small theatres in other places where I performed as a kid.

I’m just a dreamer.  

BYE, BYE.

People are tapping, browsing, clicking, scrolling and swiping on their Smart phones or tablets, I’m not. I text and send emails also I Blog and there’s the rub.

I’ve been Blogging for a few years and it’s massively distracting. And apart from getting little response, it takes a lot of time and keeps me away fro more important things. For instance my novella. It’s a mere 30,000 words but I’m only half way through it because these bloody Blogs.

Other things as well including my penciled appearance in Clacton on the 16th of September. I’ve got to concentrate on trying to get bums on seats and will my books arrive at the right destination etc.

So Blogging is out of the window for the for the time being,

Bye, bye.  

AN ADVENTURE IN FOLKESTONE

Walking back from town along the Leas to my hotel, there were an elderly couple ahead of me.

The wife said. ‘Oh, I fancy a coffee, Jack.‘ He replied. ‘I wouldn’t , darlin’, you’ll be weeing all night.’

I’d arrived in Folkestone at about 4.30 and I was desperate for a pint. There were no boozers near the hotel (too posh). ‘Ten minutes that way.‘ a kind lady told me.

Ten minutes! It was hot and airless and I reached the edges of the town half an hour later. Now I was desperate for the cooling pint of ale. I found a pub and fell in. I became aware that the place was full of drunken Scotsmen wearing flak jackets. I went outside for a fag and the red bearded warriors were lurching around there as well.

I sat as far away from them as I could, listening to the abuse that hurled at passersby. I sneaked in to get another pint and resumed my distant seat. Then they spotted me.

‘You’re an actor, son.‘ a great hulking brute called out. The herd turned towards me. I thought of of trying my Scottish accent on them but decided against it. They might have thought that I was taking the piss. So I said, weakly. ‘Yes, I was.’ .....’Oh, he’s Mr Benn.’

They all piled over. They almost blocked out the sun. Never judge a book by it’s cover. They behaved like pussycats, talking about their childhoods watching the bowler hatted little man and how their children who also loved it. Awash with praise and feeling hungry, I decided to go. ‘There’s a good place to eat at the end of the street and turn left.‘ a bearded child in a flak jacket said sweetly. I went with many good wishes. I was a happy man.

When I got back to the hotel my books still hadn’t been delivered. I hadn’t got a phone number for Mail Box. Stupid man. Thank the Lord that I’d brought my photos with me

After a worrying night (books) a cup of tea in my room. I wait outside for a lift to the venue. The sun was shinning. I sat on my suitcase waiting to be transported to the venue. oh Lord, I wanted to go home the day ahead would be endlessly boring. I imagined a taxi coming down the road, me hailing it and getting the train. No taxi. 

Miriam Margolese appeared. ‘Hello, Ray.’ she chirruped. I remembered, during the VO days in Cranks she had told me ‘The trouble with you, Ray, is that you’re ill educated and you don’t like yourself.’ . Bloody rude. if true. I had to stop myself telling her that ‘You think you know everything and you like yourself too much.’ Anyway, here she is, larger than life, throwing out information like the OED and no memory of whet she said to me that cut me to the quick.

The venue was packed, most of them thronging around two ex-Doctor Who’s who were grinning broadly signing their glorious coloured photos. My bag lady Hollie was looking extremely bored at my empty table, wishing, I assume, that she was a Dr ‘s assistant. 

A few table away from me was a bloke who had done two days on Star Wars. He was up to his neck in punters. Similarly another fella had done a few days on Harry Potter was overwhelmed. My pathetic, dated black and white pictures comparing pathetically to their bright coloured images.

The actor Julian Glover came up to my table.

‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’ he said, stabbing at picture of the film The Knack. ‘You took my part and he..’ pointing to Crawford. ‘Took James Bolam’s part.’

‘You told me this last year.’

‘Did I? Oh.’ and he walked away. He didn’t even buy the picture to stick pins in.

I sold a few picture. But how I wish that my Scottish pals from the pub had turned up.

But there wasn’t a whiff Haggis.

BYE BYE

As all my readers ( ! ) seem to have gone off to their tax havens I think it’s time for me to disappear for a while.

So all my stories of the NEC experience (The breast busting bikini birds and other freaks) will have to sit on the back burner.

Goodnight.       

TO NOTTINGHAM

When I arrived on Friday I was very nervous about the show, the first time for ages. I didn’t know why. Maybe it was that Gill at the Lace Theatre had told me that only a few tickets had been sold. but I don’t think so. 

In 1957 I was also nervous, it was my first job in this city. My Christmas Day here was the worst I’ve ever had, I only had enough money to buy half a tin of baked beans, 10 Park Drive and two shillings for the gas fire. Remembering that on the Friday as I drank beer I tried to be positive about the show.

So in a haze of beer (£2-50 q pint! ) I had a meal in a place called Filthy. The board outside said ‘Hot Dogs like you’ve never tasted before.’

The place was a dark as night. I felt my way to the bar and ordered a beer and their special ‘Hot Dog.’. When it turned up it certainly was ‘ a hot dog like I’d never tasted before.‘ It was enormous and covered with a glutinous white concoction. I finished it and burped all the way to the hotel and slept like a log.

The day of the show arrived. I had a full English breakfast (freshly cooked). Then went out for coffee.  Time soon came to the journey to the theatre with my memory stick for the projector man. He told me that it would take about an hour for him to transfer it and get the lighting sorted.

So, of course, I went for a pint. When I eventually went to the Lace Theatre for the show everything was ready. Gill told me that well over twenty people were coming.

They’d laid a platform in front of the audience, my books were out on a table by the side, the screen was was directly behind the platform and the place behind this screen was where I was going to wait. I looked over my words that I was going  to deliver, pacing up and down, the cartoon of Mr Benn was playing and I was getting increasingly nervous.

Mr Benn was coming to the end. I stood by the door to the auditorium. The time was getting closer and closer. 

I remembered taking Sadie backstage when I was doing a West End play with Maggie Smith. I wanted to show her how tense it was waiting to go on. ‘Now‘ I whispered and went on stage. Later she said. ‘I don’t know what you were worried about. You’ve done it plenty of times before.’

My Nottingham cue came and I was on.

It went well. I made a cock up but pulled myself back on track. After they bought books and drinks for me. I was happy.

Maybe Sadie was right. ‘You’ve done it plenty times before.‘ Women are always right.

NEXT WEEK. My trip to the NEC in Birmingham for signing photos and my attempts to fix a venue in Clacton for the show.      

NOSTALGIA.

My first professional job was in Nottingham. I thought why not go back to my roots? So I’m going to appear at the Lace Theatre in Nottingham on March the 12th.

It’s a long way to go and driving is out of the question so I have the perennial problem of getting my books up there. And as I am going to give copies of my novel Echoes to any one who comes along (as long as stocks last) the logistics are giving me a headache.

I suppose the solution is to have them sent but even that is tricky. Never having attempted this route before it could be a worry. Say they don’t turn up! In this instance I’m definitely a half glass dude. Also the problem of tracking down the radio presenter who interviewed me when I did my interview about Cathy Come Home.

But I will pursue this course and keep my fingers crossed. And I hope also that evening goes well.

Wish me luck.  

Dusty and Me

Walking with my wife in Brighton, saw a poster advertising a Dusty Springfield concert coming to the Dome Theatre. Slashed across it was a CANCELLED sign.

I was a big fan of hers so I went in and enquired why it was cancelled. I was told that she’d only sold 12 tickets so the show was scrubbed. She’d cancelled it.

Five or so years later I was having a drink in the Colonnade bar next to Brighton’s Theatre Royal. It was full and there were crowds of people outside. I went outside to see what show was on. THE DUSTY SPRINGFIELD SHOW. God lord, now Dusty is dead there are people clamoring to see a double in her frocks, a wig and singing her songs . Where were all these people five years ago? Very, very sad.

I’m not dead and I’m not as famous as Dusty but we’re in the same boat. Nobody wants to come and see me. I’ve cancelled Liverpool and Lewes because of the dribble of ticket sales. She cancelled her show at The Dome. 

So I’m in good company, aren’t I? 

She didn’t want to play to bus queue of people and nor do I.

FIRE

Looking in the mirror, I have a tan and black hair. I looked 25 years younger than I did last night.

The secret? Right, first light a fire in the bedroom then go into the shower room for your ablutions. Soon the lights will go out then you’ll notice it’s very dark. You’re not wearing glasses, that would be silly when your washing yourself also you’re not wearing any clothes.

Next open the door. Even without your glasses it’s black as night. You notice a blazing fire where you’d put on halogen fire to warm the place up. 

Then you grab your dressing gown and cover the flames with it to dowse the said flames. Next you open the window to let the smoke out. On turning your dressing gown is on fire. More things are piled on. Then you hear a fire engine. Next clumping firemen running up the stairs.

See me naked. ‘Put some clothes on, sir, you must vacate the building.’

Now I’m on the fire engine with an oxygen mask on. Everything was a blur after this. I remember being in an ambulance on the way to hospital.. ‘Just to check you out, sir. You do Mr Benn, don’t you?’

Next, in the hospital, stretched out with with with wires pinioned all over my chest, a strap round my arm, checking my blood pressure, which switches on every ten minutes, blood taken out of my arm  leaving two  contraptions ‘In case you need a booster.‘ and a clip on my finger to check my heart.

Nurse. ‘Keep breathing deeply, sir, your rates down to 94.‘ I breathe deeply. ‘That’s better up to 100 now.‘

They bring me a coffee, I daren't move in case I pull one of the wires out. Three and half hours the doctor let’s me go. Outside the first thing I do is light a cigarette. I was stressed out.

Now, I’m at home in front of the mirror. Alright look much younger but was it worth it? No. I wouldn’t recommend it.

Who wants to look younger?    

THE INTERVIEW.

I’m being interviewed on Seaford radio for my show at The Lewes Little Theatre. My young PR guru didn’t spot there was a local radio in Seaford. If he had maybe I would have got a few more people in the audience for my show there.

I’m being interviewed by ex-politician Norman Baker. Now when he was a politician he must have been interviewed by all sorts of heavy weights including ‘tough guy’ Jeremy Paxman.

I met Paxman in Hamleys toy show one Christmas. We were both waiting at the Magic Counter. ‘Do you know anything about this stuff?’ he said to me. ‘Not really.’ I said. ‘But I’m sure it’ll keep the kids busy at Christmas.’  He grunted.

I don’t know if he used his Magic Set but I’ve still got ours.

I think I’ll take the magic wand when I go for my interview and if Mr Baker gets ‘tough’ I’ll just wave it and make him DISAPPEAR. ‘As if by Magic.’

BLACKPOOL

Going to Blackpool on the 24th of October with my mate Michael Jayston. Charity signings and selling a few books.

I’ve always liked Blackpool. Years ago ago I narrated a series called Cine Memo, showing old personal films from before the 19th century up until the the 30’s. Extraordinary   

footage was found. Mostly in those days it was rich people had cine cameras. Loads of families on picnics posing in front of their gleaming cars.

Wakes Week was when Blackpool was full. Factories were closed for a fortnight and they all flooded in. The film that showed them was taken from the Big Boss’s camera.

The film that touched my heart, was a film shot in 1938 of young men and girls, in the sunshine, dancing along the promenade. Glorious, happy young faces and in a couple of years, those young men would be fighting a war. How many came back?

Memories include being driven up there by Sid James, his wife, my wife and me. We were filming Taxi along the seafront. Another time was taking Tom when he was about eight up to Blackpool to see Fulham playing a match. We stayed in a dodgy B&B, had an iffy Italian  meal. Next day Tom was sick but insisted that we go and get tickets for the match. He began to feel worse and we abandoned the game and came straight home. Fulham lost 1-0.

I’m sure when I go up there on the 24th, a lot of memories will come flooding back but none so more than that flickering image of those happy, optimistic young people danciing arm in arm along the promenade in the sunshine. 

     

Luck

After an exhausting day in a V.O studio in London, I arrived in Brighton at 5.30. I made my way down to Western Road to find something to eat for dinner.

Walking ahead of me were three thirty year olds, beautifully dressed, laughing and talking excitedly in a language I couldn’t place.

I saw on my left a man in a suit and tie scrabbling around in a bin. He was about seventy, wearing a hat, he seemed like a man who had a good position in earlier years. But feeling around in this this bin for half an sandwich or a fag end, and seeing these booted and suited gigging youngsters was very disturbing. Even more so was that at distance this man looked like Barry Cryer. But, of course, Barry would be looking for class fag ends outside the Dorchester. The old tart.

Next night I go to see Barry in the The Space in London Road in Brighton. The person selling he tickets for Barry’s show hadn’t arrived yet so I shot off to the pub opposite to the theatre. Bloody hell. It was a noisy place, televisions blasting out competing with musac for the top volume slot. The beer though was excellent. The door opened and a young man came over to me.

‘Heard you were here. I’m Wayne, I interviewed you on the radio Reverb four years ago. I’ve put you on the Guest list.’

I bought him a drink.

Barry arrived at 7.30 to be told that he wasn’t on ’til 9.00. He was a bit pissed off. But when he got on he was sensational. They loved him. And the woman interviewing him was well boned up on his past achievements so it was easier for him to roar on.

After, we walked dow the road to a recommended pub followed by a few of his ‘fans’. We had a jolly time. I must say that he always seems pleased to see me.  A few rounds later we get a taxi. It’s 12.00. Drop him off at his hotel and I go on back to the flat. Scrambled eggs on toast.

But I can’t get the man and bin out of head. Me feeling aggrieved about a hard day in the studio. I suddenly realised that without these VO’s and my amazing agent Wendy Noel I would have been on my uppers now. My acting career would never have kept me afloat. So that man and me would have been both at the same bin searching for dog ends.

Yes, I’ve lucky and that poor man hasn’t been Count your blessings Ray. 

SEAFORD

Grand opening at the Seaford Little theatre on Friday the 4th of September. New seating. maybe a dob of paint and a DVD projector.

I’ll be there to shake a few hands of the members hoping, if they like me, they may even come along for my show on the 11th. I’m a bit of tart, I know, but it’s all in the a cause. Mine!

Speaking to Barry Cryer the other day. He tells me that Sorry I Haven’t a Clue has been on tour. They get audiences of 2,000. Bloody hell.

If I get fifteen I’ll be happy.

Heres hoping.