SILENCE IS GOLDEN?

I’m standing in an enormous queue in the Post Office. There seem to be dozens and dozens of people in front of me. We’re all hemmed by barriers to keep us in order, not unlike the penned sheep in One Man and His Dog.  

There is very old man coughing incessantly behind me. ‘Are you alright?.‘ I say to him.

‘I’m only waiting for my pension. Look at all these people queuing, with closing post offices all over the place, it’s a Government plot hoping us old folk’ll die before we pick up our money.’

I often go shopping early and dotted around at that time in the morning are old granddads or grandmothers wheeling prams with screaming babies on board. They’ve probably got a single parent daughter working. ‘Can you look after Pricilla for me?‘ So, dad or mum walks the little granddaughter round and round, changes nappies, trying to pacify her when she cries and feed her five days a week. They won’t last long at their age with that routine.

In London last week and I noticed another ‘old folk‘ hazard. We all know Pedestrian Crossings: the Red man is showing, wait, then the Green man pops up and off you go. But now things are different, there is a small screen below the Green man. The minute he shows up, the screen displays the number 10 then 9 followed by 8, counting down the seconds for you to cross the road. Shit, imagine an old soul using a Zimmer frame trying to cross Regents Street in 10 seconds! ‘The Quick and the Dead’?

Two possible explanations for the 10 second time scale: (1) Maybe it’s assumed the ‘Old Folk‘ don’t come into central London or (2) The the ‘coughing man‘ in the post office was right. There is a government plot. 

With the terrible weather we’ve been having the media is full of Global Warming. One thing that car manufacturers are contributing to the problem is trying to achieve is a cheaper version of the Electric Car.

Rack forward twenty years. There are Electric Cars everywhere. Global Warming Emissions are now at an acceptable level. All Seasons are in the right place. Enough rain for the farmers. Enough sun for seaside holidays. The Economy is stable. Everyone is happy. In one fell swoop the government has solved all of our problems. Everything is stable. Everyone is happy. And electric cars are cheaper and most people have one.

But grown up Pricilla isn’t happy. As her mother before her, she’s been put up the duff by a man who’s disappeared and she has no one to look after her baby.

Why? Because all the ‘deaf as posts’ old folks are dead. Killed on crossings, worn out by grandchildren, dyeing in queues or mown down by the silent electric cars all for the greater good of Global Warming.

The coughing man was right.....There was a Government Plot 

Soul Music

We left Sloane Square tube station and made our way to The Antelope pub where we’d booked a meal before going to the concert at The Cadogan Hall. The pub was packed with office workers having a few scoops before wending their way home. There seemed no way to get to the bar. Somebody told us that the ‘restaurant ‘ area was ‘over that way’.

It turned out to be three tables in a corner and the only way to order food was at the bar. It was hopeless. So we pissed off.

Tummies rumbling, we finally moved to the concert hall.

It was like the annex of an Old People’s Home. Zimmer frames and sticks everywhere. These old souls seemed to have been brought to the concert by grandchildren, who being the offsprings of well heeled punters presumably had left their horses outside tended by grooms.

Cloakrooms: this title is the posh way of indicating Toilets. Remembering sticks and Zimmer frames, all the ‘conveniences’ were downstairs. Seeing all the infirm struggling to get to the toilets was scarey. Once they’d reached their destinations, then there was the difficulty of dealing with their bodily functions. The old gents standing at the urinals waiting for a dribble was like looking at the waxworks in Madame Tussauds. Once dribbled out they make their way to wash their hands. Another hurdle. No soap, water boiling but they persevere. Then they go to the hand dryers and struggle to find a button to activate the machine. Finally, hot air gushes out almost blowing the old gents over.

Upstairs, drinks are flowing and crates of champagne are ordered for the interval. More toilet activity guaranteed.

The Concert Hall. The stage is littered with chairs waiting for the talented bums of The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. When they arrive they’re all dressed in black, suitably garbed in case, or more than likely, one of the old souls might pass away during the concert.

The conductor is Freddy Kempf who is fascinating to watch. I suspect that he’d washed his hair about eighteen times before the concert because it seemed to have a life of it’s own. Swishing this way and that no matter which was Freddy was moving. Boy, was I jealous of his thatch! The leading violinist was a tall blonde, whose hair didn’t move despite her head swaying emotionally with each dramatic moment.

The first violinists are seated on the right side, the seconds on the left. The seconds seemed to watching the firsts intently in case one of the ‘firsts’ snagged his or her finger and had to be replaced.

The one worrying part of being the audience at a concert is when to applaud. The orchestra tend to stop, put down their instruments but don’t clap it might not be the right time. It’s best to wait until the knowledgeable start`applauding then you can join in otherwise you might get kicked out.

Once they start playing it is beautiful. All fears and doubts are put on the back burner. Everyone is caught up in the glorious music of Beethoven. The strings soar and the audience is in raptures.

Leaving, everyone was smiling like they’d just had a slice of my mother’s chocolate cake.

At the tube station was an old busker playing a violin. I put £5.00 in his hat. Beethoven is good for the soul. And buskers.

Fifty two years

me and Jane Birkin

‘You stole my part.’

‘Pardon. What part?’

‘I was Tolen in the Knack at the Royal Court. You stole my part in the film.’

‘Sorry.’

Slough last weekend. And that ‘conversation‘ with an actor called Julian Glover. Dozens of ‘actors‘ were assembled dotted all over the place in a hotel off theM 4 signing autographs for jolly punters. Most of them I don’t know and they didn’t know me.

‘Hi, Ray.‘ An oldish man was sitting another table smoking an an e-cigarette, something that I wish I’d been able to get on with, save me having to nip out for a roll up come wind or rain. ‘Tom.‘ he said. ‘We worked together at the Royal Court.’

The bloody Royal Court again. The last time that theatre was mentioned was five years ago in a Public Library where I was giving a reading. A woman said, during a Q and A session. ‘Have you worked at the Royal Court?’ ....‘Yes.’....’My friend and I used to go the regularly in the 60’s and every time we came out of theatre we always say to each other what was that play about. My question is, when you did a play there, did you know what it was about?’

I settled myself in my seat behind the table, next to me was Angela Douglas. I haven’t seen her for 52 years when we were doing a film called Some People in Bristol. It was good to talk to her. Mind you, there was a hell of lot of stuff to catch up on. She’d married Kenneth More, who she’d met on the the film we’d done together. Kenny died over twenty years ago and she’s been living with a Scottish director ever since.

After we’d been to the room set out for lunch. ‘Smells like an elephants farted.‘ Angela said. She went back to the autograph table and went off to the bar for a glass of wine. 

The day was dragging on. Eventually it was time to go. ‘Oh.‘ says Angela, who’d spent most of the day grabbing my arse. Sexual assault? Could I sue? ‘I forgot to mention that my partner directed you in a play at the Royal Court.’

Here we go again. Three times in one day! Driving home I thought about the R.C. The play that I did there was called Backbone by Michael Rosen. It was a long time ago but I have fond memories. They didn’t pay a lot of money, about £10 per week, but it had elements in it that all struggling actors, in those days, dreamt about.

Food! Two hot meals during each performance! Bliss.  

2013-2014

Basil Rathbone never got shorter

This is a stressful time of the year. All the resolutions of last year have turned to dust, now I have to find some for 2014.  Newspapers, at this time of the year, change out of all recognition. Journalists seem to take the easy option filling the pages with ‘Top Events of the Year.’ ‘Predictions for 2014.’ ‘Years best Bio-Pics’. But best of all, and this must be desperation, New Year Resolutions for All. Bloody hell. Sub clauses include; Resolutions Anyone Can Keep Including You. For Social Media Losers Who Want To Be Winners. For Youngsters Who’ve Just Left Home. Ten Resolutions For Dogs. If You Want To Stop Being Annoying To Other People. Ten For Journalists. That’s perfect.......stop writing these fatuous articles. Including you, Catlin Moran, who can’t stop writing about anything and everything. Her contribution is My New Year’s Resolution. Give me strength, who cares?

Every year my main resolution that is to Keep Trying to Improve My Writing. But what to write and how to improve it? My burden, my weakness is reading the Guardian Review. For instance if a book is recommended in glowing terms. I buy it. Recently I bought Questions of Travel by Michelle de Kretser. The blurb on the front says ‘She writes quickly and lightly of wonderful and terrible things.‘ A.S. Byatt, Financial Times. The word that sticks in my craw is Byatt’s ‘writes lightly.‘ Lightly? The book is almost impenetrable. It may be ‘light‘ for Byatt but for the likes of me it’s like a ton weight. As a book it’s up there with Zen and Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I remember dozens of people in the 60’s carrying it around but I never found anyone who’d read it.

Kretser’s book and TV’s Sherlock are very similar. Simple stories but wrapped tightly with meaningless distractions. Like Sherlock’s technology. Text writing smothers the screen at regular intervals, scenes follow scenes that don’t seem to have any connection with what’s gone before. Another mystery is that Sherlock appears to be shrinking. If it went on for a few more episodes Sherlock could well be sleeping in a matchbox.

I could summarize Michelle’s book and Sherlock on two A4 pages. But the shrinking Sherlock is popular, maybe TV watchers like to be confused. Michelle’s book was not big seller.

Conclusion: TV is chewing gum for the eyes. Throw the kitchen sink in, it doesn’t matter. But books are a different animal. You could fall asleep in front of the telly but fall asleep with a 1000 page hardback on you lap, you could do yourself some serious damage.

I quote the much vaunted Guardian summarizing ‘great books and writing’. ‘The final coup de grace comes with the throwing of a random spanner into the works: a moment when all is reduced to chaos, as Frayn writes, by “a completely unconnected and irrelevant event.....a velleity that comes out of nowhere and has no imaginable significance or place in any self-respecting causal chain.”  What?!

I’ve tried writing for TV but never quite made it. I try to write books, try to improve but how? Should I try and follow Fran’s line? Could I even do that? Do I want to? To be reviewed in Guardian I’d have to have ‘velleity that comes out of nowhere.‘ No chance.

Plod on, Ray, leave the highbrow seekers alone. And stick to reading paperbacks, I had enough injuries last year. Night, night.  

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Comments

• Lee Rolf
  Hello to you Ray
  
  Belated Happy New Year
  
  From East Brighton
• Ann Wilson(Saturday, January 25 14 07:14 pm GMT)
  I know how you feel. As you may or may not know I have written poetry and a few short stories that actually makes sense and mostly rhyming poetry too, neither of which is fashionable nowadays! I can't write any other way, so will never make any money! We can only be who we are Ray and be true to ourselves. I enjoyed your bio and novel by the way so don't give up!

Mr Sandman

During the 3 months after my tumble I was finding it difficult sleep. Laying there like a plank, unable to turn tight or left, I spent most of my nights ironing, making mugs of tea staring out of the window chain smoking, when I ran out of stuff to iron I even contemplated taking the sheets off the bed and ironing them. 

It was bloody awful. Now time has passed and things are different. No nocturnal ironing, no night time mugs of tea and copious numbers of fags while staring out of the window. It seems as if I’ve turned the corner at last. 

But still tiredness lingers on the outskirts of my conciseness. Every time I sit down I drift off. I must have lost so much sleep during those ninety days. My eyes are happier closed then open. I now sleep in the afternoons, not just a nap but full blown out of the game. I reckon that I’m fully awake about forty minutes a day.

But there is one advantage to all this. Over he last year or so, every time the phone rings I hope it’s my agent with an offer offer of a job but it never it is. Gutting, it really is. But now, I realise I couldn’t do a job because I couldn’t stay awake long enough. So I content myself, and earn a bit, going around to events for Dr Who conventions or Cathy Come Home do’s signing photos and selling a few books.

The punters don’t seem to mind a yawning ex Dalek slayer confronting them.  

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Comments

• Ann Wilson(Friday, December 20 13 12:17 pm GMT)
  Glad you're feeling a bit better Ray, awful when you can't sleep. I was the same after knee replacements, just couldn't get comfortable despite painkillers, which made me nauseous anyway. I hope you and family have a Merry Christmas and I hope you have a peaceful and hopefully fruitful New Year!
• แทงบอล(Saturday, December 21 13 03:37 pm GMT)
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• Simon Drew(Tuesday, December 24 13 01:42 pm GMT)
  Happy Christmas Ray
  Love
  Simon

Your comment: *

Ups & Downs

My shoulder’s getting better. But with all the exercise I’m doing, I’m convinced that within a couple of months my arm’s going to resemble Arnold Schwarzenegger’s which is hardly going to match up with my Mickey Mouse other one.

Then wake up with cramp in my foot. Usually this takes a few minutes to clear. But it doesn’t. Could it be gout? It’s not as if I drink 36 pints a day followed by a bottle of brandy (well, not quite). The bit in brackets is a joke, doctor. But whatever it is, it bloody hurts.

Four limping days later it clears up. And then, a front tooth falls out. Shit. The following weekend I’ve promised to a Collecterama for Dr Who, where fans will want to have pictures taken with ’celebrities‘ and, in my current state, it’ll be like having your arm round Ben Gunn’s grandmother.

In desperation, I phone Barry Gatoff, my dentist, who’ll see me at 11.00. Good old Barry. With a couple of valium on board, I go in.

‘You’re going to need a Crown.‘ he tells me. ‘It’ll a take about a week for it to be ready.‘ I tell him about the upcoming Dr Who do. ‘I’ll stick something temporary in, they won’t be able to tell the difference.‘ I leave, the foot’s better and I’m grinning all over the place.

I catch a train on Saturday night, they want us for an early start on Sunday morning.

Milton Keynes is lit by 40wt light bulbs. The taxi to the hotel drives like the wind, either trying to escape MK or the driver’s got a death wish. I arrive in one piece.

Jury’s Inn loomed gloomily out of the murk. I’ve stayed in one before. Hard beds, plastic pillows and pictures of trees and bushes line the walls and no ‘room service.‘ I’m starving, so I have to go to the bar. I order a Panini with ham and  cheese (why don’t they sell sandwiches anymore?)

I really don’t like these do’s. Sitting at a long table, in a space the size of four aircraft hangers with photos in front of us, supplied by the management, charging £10 with signature and the money all goes to the bosses. I do get a few bob for turning up, but my main purpose to try and sell a few of my books.

Fifteen minutes later I’m still waiting for my bloody Panini getting myself into a right frazzle about the following day when there’s a tap on my shoulder. It was if all the 40wt bulbs had turned into 150wt’s. The tapper was none other than Michael Jayston, an old pal. With him on board, tomorrow was taking on a new allure.

At 8.40 in the morning the coach arrived. Michael and I were the last to board. It was hard to find a seat. Who are all these people?

We arrived at the M.K.Dons football ground. It was a bleak scene. A few yawning punters hanging around waiting for the ‘big event.’

We were led to the dreaded table. Forty of sitting there, pens poised waiting for the signings. All of us, who thirty years ago had killed Daleks, Cybermen, now looking like for all the world like old aged pensioners waiting to have chilblains treated. But the punters didn’t seem to notice.

Michael and I kept popping out for fag breaks, catching up on old times, laughing at cock ups, yes, having a great time.

Surprisingly I managed to sell two books in the morning and then, miracle of miracles, I sold four more in the afternoon. Eventually, it was time to leave.

On our way out, the organizer of the event came up to me. ‘I’ll let you know when the next one is, Ray.’

‘Thanks. But make sure that Michael is there as well.’

Six books sold and rekindled an old friendship.

The two old granddads wandered through the gathering gloom to the railway station. They’d both had a lovely day in Milton Keynes.       

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Comments

• Ann Wilson(Tuesday, December 03 13 11:15 am GMT)
  Glad you had a good day and pleased your shoulder is improving Ray x
• Mark(Tuesday, December 03 13 03:48 pm GMT)
  Sounds like a surprisingly lovely day Ray. I well remember you and Michael in Series 2 of Big Deal, nice to hear you caught up on old times and your shoulder is on the mend.
• Maurine(Wednesday, December 04 13 07:17 pm GMT)
  What's up, this weekend is fastidious in favor of me, because this time i am reading this wonderful educational article here at my home.
• viagra online(Sunday, December 08 13 06:14 pm GMT)
  Actually when someone doesn't know afterward its
  up to other people that they will assist, so here it takes place.
• smudge(Sunday, December 15 13 10:51 am GMT)
  Nice to read this - Michael Jayston is always great value at these events. A genuine bloke who likes to have a chat with folks. Glad you enjoyed it in the end Ray...

Fate

5.45 Saturday the 31st of August 2013. They order some more drinks. The chat is dominated by the game. ‘Stupid last minute goal.‘ They were gutted. Then someone says ‘Checked the train times. Sorry, it’s not 6.00 o’clock. It’s five to. Better drink up.’

At about the same time a taxi is arriving at Newcastle Station. A man, we don’t know, climbs out with his wheelie bag. He searches for his wallet. ‘Sorry, mate.‘ he says to the driver. who’s giving him a beady look.

Our pals are trotting down the hill to the station. The wallet is found and the driver is paid. The pals reach the platform with minutes to spare. ‘Coach H.‘ 

The man is is dragging his case along the platform. ‘Coach G, coach G.‘ he mutters. He finds it, the door is open and he climbs into the train pulling his bag behind him.

The pals are hurrying along the platform searching for their carriage.

One of the wheels of the man’s bag has become wedged under the carriage step.

‘Here’s coach G, next one along.’

The man pulls at the bag trying to dislodge it.

The pals can see coach H. One of them his lagging behind. ‘Are we nearly there?‘ he gasps.

The man has got one foot against the door frame, tugging at his bag still trying to release it.

The pals are at coach H. The straggler is bringing up the rear. ‘Hurry up!‘ they shout at him.

With a final mighty heave, the man pulls at the handle of the bag, this bag is a cheap copy of an up market brand certainly not made to a high standard, the material is of sub standard cloth and the stitching is hap hazard therefore the handle, not used to this rigorous treatment, gives up the ghost and separates itself from the bag, which tumbles back on to the platform.

The straggler, unaware of anything but the need to get to coach H, hits the wayward bag and falls on the platform like a ton of bricks.

‘Dad?’

I open my eyes. ‘Where are we?’

‘On the train.’

I’m aware of blood dripping down my face and my left shoulder is giving me terrible pain.

‘This Jordan, dad, the physio with the Arsenal under 18 team, they’ve been playing in Sunderland, he’s going to help you.’

Jordan cleaned me up and put a plaster on my forehead. Then made up a sling for my painful shoulder.

‘Now, Ray.‘ he said. ‘Keep you head still and follow my finger. No, don’t move your head, just use your eyes. Good. Good.‘ he looked at me intently. ‘What were you doing in Newcastle?’

‘Watching Fulham playing Newcastle.’

‘What was the score?’

‘We lost one nil.’

Newcastle 1-0 Fulham (not the lowest point of the day)

‘Who did you play last week?’

‘Arsenal at home.’

‘Score?’

‘We lost three one.’

Jordan looked at my son. ‘He’s alright. Not concussed.’

I don’t remember the journey but when we arrive at King’s Cross there are two Special Constables waiting for me. ‘The train phoned ahead, there’s an ambulance waiting for you.’

My boys came with me to the local hospital. After an X-ray and a tetanus injection and good news that I didn’t need stitches or an operation on my shoulder, I went home. Ten weeks later I’m writing this.

The last three blogs about Brownlee Home for Demented Actors I was just marking time. Saving you the tedium of me going on and on about the shit I was going through, bloody exercises and not being able to sleep.

What a good boy I am!      

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Comments

simon drew(Wednesday, November 13 13 11:40 am GMT)

Ray, sorry to hear about your fall, hope your shoulder gets back to normal soon

Mark(Wednesday, November 13 13 05:58 pm GMT)

Oh my Ray. Really sorry to hear that. Get well soon

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Ann Wilson(Friday, November 22 13 08:25 am GMT)

Sorry to hear about your fall Ray, glad you're on the mend and persevered with the exercises, they really are the key to recovery.

Steve Kavanagh(Saturday, November 23 13 02:23 am GMT)

All the best Ray !!

Smudge(Sunday, December 15 13 10:54 am GMT)

Sorry to hear about your misfortune - glad it's getting better!