A man of many parts, that's me

Odd how certain topics, after years of being lost in the dim recesses of memory, are suddenly prodded into consciousness several times in the space of a few days.  Thus it has been for me just recently when conversations with friends, and passages from books, reminded me of roles I played as an amateur actor.  I am pretty certain that I have already written on the subject of the ineffable Barney Cashman, the, er, 'hero' of Neil Simon's great comedy, The Last of the Red Hot Lovers.  A play in three acts in which Barney never leaves the stage!  Shortly there-after I developed alopecia which the quack told me was due to stress.  I blame Barney!

Even so, it was an enormously enjoyable role and helped build up my stamina for another big role - Insp. Nelson of the Royal Ulster Constabulary in Ron Hutchinson's Rat in the Skull, a long, sustained howl of poetical anguish over 'the Troubles'.  Here is a passage in which he is interrogating a young IRA man called Roche:

NELSON:  So on leaving school, young Roche, by now a strapping consumptive of seven stone, and well recovered from the rickets, has decided on a career.  Well now ... ICI's gone, and the Lear Fan's gone, and they've found out why De Lorean wouldn't look anyone in the eye and why his nose was always running ... and the shipyards was never really on, not for a wrong-footer, and how to keep the Harland and Woolf from the door?  What's it to be?  Priest or gunman, gunman or priest?

(In at Roche)  I'm in there.  I can feel your teeth, your jaw, you want to bite me back.  Do it.  Crack.  (No response)  The hours are better in the gunman line, and there's after all a tradition in the family, is there not?

Does it not say in there (indicates file) the Roches have been blowing up innocent passers-by and RUC men in every generation as far back as as as, and who's Roche the Runt to buck the trend and let his grey-haired mother down, well into her eighties and still pulling Proddie winkies off.  There's the birds to think about.  The priest has far and away the better chance of pulling them, and despite the glamour of the gunman, down those back streets a fella has to be looking over his shoulder all the time.  You never know.  The skinny blonde with the big knockers and come hither eyes you meet at the ceilidh might just turn out to be an SAS sergeant once you get her back to your place.  But Rochey, like all his sort, puts women down the list.  He'd rather by far be running his hand along the barrel of a gun than along his own conjugal equipment.  Runty wasn't put on this good earth to breed sons, he was sent here to kill those of other men because the Roche's, man, boy and dog on the mat were wedded to the cause.  And off he sets, in a beret two sizes too big and a borrowed pair of sunshades, to war, with a mother's blessing ringing in his ears, 'Fuck those Orange bastards, son.'

All of that, of course, and much, much more had to be delivered in the harsh, back of the throat dialect of a Belfast proddie - think Ian Paisley!  I should add that the Fenians get their side of the tragedy to tell through the words of Roche, the young IRA man:

ROCHE:  I'm not denying I signed a statement.  Forgive me Father for I have sinned.  The state I was in.  The cell light's a crippler, right enough, and once they'd the statements from the other lad, the one they picked up on Monday morning that led to me.  (He stops)  The stuff was under my bed.  (He stops)  Anything to get the bastards off me and get my head down,and who's to say I couldn't take it back,and who's to say they didn't fake it?  Forgive me Father for I have coughed.  The fucking confessional urge.  A thousand  Sundays muttering into the God Box.  Forgive me Father.  And who's to say there's no taking it back.  First thing Monday.  Free of the God Box, the Holy Fucking Coffin, for another week.  And what the hell, there's something fine and grand and flying high about saying, yes, you've got your man, you're on the ball all right, this is Michael Patrick de Valera Demon Bomber Roche bang to rights, I'm the man you want.  Mad Bomber Roche present and correct, forgive me Father, but I did the lot, and what the hell, bang me up for 25, I did my bit, I played my part, I wasn't found wanting when it came to the Final Push, the Big Shove, the Last Gasp.  I did the lot.  And you brave lads in blue will never understand or get it through your inch-thick Anglo-Saxon skulls.  You never understood Paddy then, when you had him by the balls, and you don't understand him now, when he's got yours.  I'll sign and up the lot of you.  'Up the Rebs', says Paddy as they lock him up for life.

The mainland Brit point of view is put across by a pair of uncomprehending London coppers:

HARRIS:  Once upon a time there weren't any bomb warnings on the Tube.  Once upon a time a pigeon could have a straighforward crap on a Whitehall window-ledge without having to dodge the bomb netting.  You could get a straight view of the street without thinking here go the eyes despite the bomb proofing if the strange motor badly parked down the road gives a big green puff and goes sixty foot in the air.  Once upon a time you didn't get a pain in the kidneys when they put you on Post Opening Detail; you didn't spend a morning once or twice a year wading ankle-deep through broken glass looking for some poor bleeder's missing foot or head; once upon a time coppering was coppering; bombs was what wogs threw at each other, never white men; Paddy like his pint too much to give you bother, and the only bother he ever gave was having to be bounced out of the bar come Saturday night.  Once upon a time.

An absolute diamond of a play, and the role of Det. Insp. Nelson was hugely satisfying even if it did take a hell of a lot of work, particularly the accent.  For one tiny example, in Nelson's speech above it was necessary to remember that in the phrase "by now" the 'now' rhymes with 'by'!  The greatest compliment I ever received for my acting was when I returned several months later to see our next production and the lady serving the coffee in the interval jumped slightly in surprise when I spoke to her and said, "Good Lord, I thought you were Irish."  You get that sort of praise once in a lifetime! - well, that's all I ever got, anyway!

Comments

[dearieme]

The nearest I ever got to such praise was bargaining in a Paris flea market. When I turned to my beloved to speak in English, the stallholder struck her brow and yelled in anguish "Vous etes touristes!" My old French teacher would have loved it. He always said I had spontaneously developed a convincing Marseille accent. As for acting, we rehearsed a school play for two terms and were then refused permission to stage it because it was too close to the exams. Buggering bastards, we said in our sophisticated thespian way.

[David Duff]

Hissy fits all round, eh, 'DM'? What was the play and what was your role, but more important than that - were you any good, darling?

[Tim Newman]

I often got a surprised "Ti ne Russkii?", but only if I'd kept my mouth shut for a while. As soon as I opened it the cat was out of the bag, but hitherto the leather jacket, bootneck haircut, and concentration-camp frame led everyone to believe I was Russian. And I wasn't even acting!

[David Duff]

You really ought to write a book on your Russian experiences, Tim, I think it would be a good read.