Stand up and be counted – even if it’s in a Burberry raincoat and cowboy hat

BATH Comedy Festival, of which I am a Patron, is in full swing. Standups everywhere. Sit-downs too, and lie-downs as well, I shouldn’t wonder. Every feasible variety of comic in myriad venues.

Now, I’ve won many awards and accolades for my humorous bent.

One of my best reviews in the national press was ‘He would be a household name if only he could learn his lines’.

So, it goes without saying I could never stand on a bare stage and fill 90 minutes with sparkling repartee and actual jokes. I am, however, an endless source of funny stories, perhaps best recounted in a pub situation, or indeed in the pages of this publication!

For example, I have appeared twice in Casualty. Once with ignominious results, the other a thespian triumph. The first was as an extra, a dazed American tourist alighting from a crashed coach.

It just so happened that I had recently returned from a Natural Theatre Company gig in Houston, Texas. While there I visited a thrift shop and kitted myself out as what I thought was the classic visitor to the Roman Baths.

Burberry raincoat, loud trousers, vaguely cowboy-style hat. Another stereotype to add to my character wardrobe at the Naturals HQ.

Of course I wore this outfit to the filming, but as I staggered off the coach, really pleased with my instant ‘look’, an eagle-eyed assistant director rejected me as ‘not looking American enough’. I ended up sitting on said coach all day with my crossword book.

My second casting was far more salubrious.

Rather than a lowly extra to be shoved around willy-nilly, I was a named character. Named character means a chair to sit on between takes, hot drinks, a helpful lad to see to your every need and above all, a considerably enhanced fee.

When I say named, I was listed on the shooting schedule as ‘Fat man dying’. In the eyes of Equity, this counts as an upgrade!

‘How long have you been dead?’ asked the makeup lady adjusting what is known as her death wheel (shades of grey matched to a time grid). ‘I’m not dead. I have to die. There is a modicum of acting required!’ I cried.

As I lay there intubated, a medical expert appeared. ‘How long since you died?’ he enquired, waving the ubiquitous wheel of death.

‘I’m not dead!’ I hissed through my oxygen mask.

Nevertheless, another layer of grey make-up was applied.

Just before action, a woman whispered in my ear: ‘I don’t want to put you off your performance, dear, but this is the 200th take of the series so there might be a small celebration.’

And so there was. Three staccato cheers from the assembled cast and the doctor’s cold hand closed my eyes. ‘Sorry, mate.’ Cut!

Months later I was tucking into my TV dinner when suddenly my face filled the screen. ‘Sorry, mate.’ Although I say it myself, I was pretty convincing. Slightly too grey perhaps. But for all of ten seconds I was a household name.

Fat man dying.

And not a single line to be remembered.