Mansfield Park & Ride Brrr! The Big Freeze

Brrr!!

The coldest snap in British theatre since ‘Romans In Britain On Ice' and we're all gallantly struggling through frost and snow into the Sir John Mills, adopting the very same ‘Dunkirk spirit' the Germans did as they advanced on the French coast in 1940; we must get there at all costs, take no prisoners, strafe, stab, kill.  Similarly we actors must also be strong in the face of impending unemployment as 2010 is upon us with a vengeance and the literal and metaphorical winds carry blizzards of drifting unhappiness and economic dearth (only if you‘re a cynical type - see below). 

The average actor will only stumble intermittently upon oases of employment that satisfy neither him or his bank manager for long, and he must soon set off once more across the arid desert of hardship and uncertainty with his already emaciated dromedary, Derek.  The prospect of weird fill-in jobs, (‘Put the puffer fish on that pile, the sea urchins on the other'/‘Yes, Mr. Yamamoto.'), of returning to ghastly civilian employment by manning the ‘gritting lorries' is almost too much to bear.  I can only apologize for the nonsense above by saying, ‘Was that Golden Virginia in that last smoke?' and ‘Who polished off that litre of Harvey's Bristol Cream?'

But less of the snow, what of the show, the chums, the laughs and company chortles.  Well, actually, it's all been rather fun, although we've not done oodles of organized trippage or gastronomic indulgence or that much Adnams but we've nevertheless enjoyed the odd pint and punnet of peppered cashews up at ‘The Greyhound'.

Dear Reader, should you ever wish to stalk or otherwise molest, kidnap, harass or punch an Eastern Angles actor for infractions against good taste or poor timing or for their inability to carry off even a passable Suffolk accent, your best bet will be ‘The Greyhound' at chucking out time by the big wheelie bins.

This weather, the Last Ironic Freeze of 2010 (as it will come to be known), has been rather trying, living as I do in Leiston, and owning a knackered Skoda Fabia, as I'm sure it has been for Sally-Ann too, although she has got a flash Fiat Punto.  Usually the journey takes me about 40 minutes but the other night it took nearly two and a half hours, thanks to several artics and idiots in 4X4s unable to negotiate the two termite hills that comprise the ‘Suffolk Alpes Maritimes' on the A12 before the Snape turn-off (why does she always stand there!).  Give us strength: what would happen if a light powdering of snow were to fall on the upper slopes of a Suffolk speed hump or sleeping policeman?  Total, irrevocable gridlock, that's what!

The other week I pulled my fingers (inadvertently) through a pair of black knee-high socks.  Yes, dear reader, they were my SHOW SOCKS. Shortly afterwards another hole appeared and then a bigger, more revealing rent.  They were not designed for such gruelling punishment, I fear.  I pleaded with Penny, Stage Manager and mince pie pusher to the stars, for a new pair from Primark, (I knew BHS would be wishing for the moon) but I was turned down flat.  So with careful 'hose husbandry' with deft ruching, twisting and tucking in of the sock material, I do my best to ensure the audience remain in ignorance of these ‘fissures of shame,' but can it be right?  This is but one example of the weighty stuff that preoccupies actors.

If anything else crosses an actors' mind in January it will probably be their tax return.  Most actors' tax returns should really be sent to the Inland Revenue inside a Christmas Cracker, as the HM Inspectors will be sure to laugh their heads off when they read the pitiful figures set before them.     

Finally, as the Mansfield Park & Ride contract reaches its tawdry climax one has to deal with this challenging question; ‘so what's next for you?' which all actors fear and yet are contractually obliged to ask each other in the last week.  Of course there will always be someone in the cast who responds with something like: ‘Yeah, doing an Iceland ad with Jason D. and the butch one out of the Nolans - I'm playing Mini Kiev 2.  It's a great part. I'm the nemesis of Mini Kiev 1, in many ways. Textually, it's surprisingly challenging. And then I'm straight into 'the Nash' for twelve months. What about you?' You really try not to be jealous, but you grimace and look away when they reveal the ad's to be shot in Madagascar over three weeks and they'll be paid real money to do it, and you mumble something like, ‘Yeah, well, just be careful which anti-malarial medication you go for because some of them can kill you.  And most lemurs have rabies.  But listen, have a great time and text me when it's on.' You can't even speak about ‘the Nash‘; in fact you're not wholly confident what it is, but you've certainly heard of it and know it to be ‘a good thing.'

Then of course you have the tricky job of finessing your own dull prospects into something a bit special: 'I'll probably watch quite a bit of The Jeremy Kyle Show - but only the new series mind, I wouldn't stoop to the  repeats on ITV3 - I‘ll be strong this time.'  ‘Yes, Greg, but anything artistic at all?' ‘Well, I've got that macramé owl to finish off'.

Pity fills their eyes. 

Hi, diddledy dee.

Greg Wagland

Villa Mirador

Capri