I have, in my possession, a lifesize cardboard cutout of myself wearing a tuxedo and striking a gameshow-host pose. It dates back to the Raw Theatre tournament I hosted in summer 2003, which ran over six Saturdays, one of which I was on holiday, so they replaced me with a cutout. The producers (Aubs and James) then did all the hosting (which they excelled at) and my opening musical numbers (ahem – least said, soonest mended).
This cutout (picture pending) is made of that artboard stuff, with foam between layers of card, with colour inkjet printouts pasted onto it in a mosaic. Crude, but effective, even if you discount the bizarre foreshortening of the legs which has occurred. I’m not complaining though – Julia did a great job, nearly getting sacked for building it her office, and using office Pritt Stick.
After the run finished the cutout was signed by the teams and the crew, and given to me (to carry home). Now it’s cluttering up the flat, so I need suggestions as to what to do with it. I feel it needs a spectacular send-off.
So I posted a Curious George question on Monkeyfilter, to see what ideas people had. The response was stupendous. The ideas seem to be split between spectacular destruction (documented of course), bizarre profit-making schemes (thanks Capt Renault), and various suggestions on how to get away with illegal acts. Now I just need to decide which I’m going to do. Rest assured, dear reader (singular), it will all be documented here. Of course, if you have any ideas, feel free to contact me. The best suggestions will be posted here.
I just want to do something with it. To be honest, it’s beginning to freak me out. Wait a minute, there’s someone tapping at the study door. I thought Mairi was out…
In stark contrast to the rubbish I produced, here is the piece Jane Richards (AKA Simone Evrard) wrote to accompany the wonderful gift she gave me. The limerick form appears to be mandatory.
There once was an actor called ‘Petty’,
And it’s to him I dedicate this fine ‘Netty’.
It’s crude and it’s brash,
And a banned load of trash,
But will make any man very sweaty!
Thank goodness for Monsieur de Sade,
He defined what it meant to be mad.
But Matthew is wise,
He took all in his stride,
And was great as this sadistic lad.
‘Secret Sades’ should cost less than a fiver,
But I’ve been a bit of a conniver.
Who cares about rules
When pornography calls,
Coz ‘Justine’ is worth more than a fiver.
Notes: The Netties are our equivalent of the Oscars, a gift-giving ceremony at the after-show party. A kind of ‘Secret Santa’ rule is used, where the names are drawn out of a pot to see who gets a gift for whom. Of course, in this case it was a ‘Secret Sade’. Jane got me a fantastic 1960’s copy of the Marquis de Sade’s Justine, which describes in wordy and vivid detail the fall from grace of an innocent girl. Lovely book, wrapped round with red white and blue ribbon, for that French Revolutionary touch. Thanks again Jane.
This was disrupted somewhat by events. Disrupted seems a little disrespectful, but you know what I mean. But, it was all booked, Mairi’s parents and nephews were all ready to go, so we went. I needed some time off anyway, on top of the compassionate leave, and it had taken us long enough to find a dog-friendly caravan site anyway. All in all, it was fun, if you discount the following.
- Taking the dog to the local vet because he was limping (it turned out to be a grass seed lodged in the fur of his paw, which kept prodding him.)
- The literally incessant rain.
- Twisting the same ankle that I had twisted some weeks earlier, forcing me to use WORDS in front of my partners mother and young nephews.
At least the on-site pool had a slide.
Here is the crappy poem what I wrote to accompany the gift I gave my compatriot James Grayston at the after-show party, in the ceremony we call the ‘Netties’.
This inmate is further in years,
Than his partner in crime, it appears.
When calling for “Food!”,
His “Pleas” are quite good
His “Not me!” a treat for the ears.
But way back before he could shave
La la la la la la la lave,
The careers officer,
Der der der der der,
Cos he wanted to be “Depraved!”
Utter shit I know, but all I could come up with between the matinee and the last performance. The poem I got from Jane was much better.