Ungrateful

I recently agreed to translate a script for a long-standing Cannes contact, ASAP and for 1/3 of the price a translation service charges.
Basically, this was to be used for some financiers to read who, as I understood, didn't want to read this script in its English original because it would be easier for them to understand in their own language.
I got it done within the week and the minute I typed the last word, I emailed it over to the producers.
They seemed pleased, yet suddenly revealed that they would have it checked over by a native co-producer of theirs.
The email I received from her has to be seen to be believed. Basically it wrapped up all the reasons I don't live in that country very nicely!
She was sarky, nit-picking and put me and my use of the language down with a really nasty, know-it-all arrogance it made me want to go over there and wring her sad neck.
Needless to say, the money agreed has still not reached my bank two weeks after they asked for my banking details, and nobody took into account that my focus was on getting the job done quickly for a bargain price, not to win the Pulitzer.
One sentence, which I had translated literally to mean "it would take a miracle to enable the vehicle to move now", was commented by that spiteful woman with: "this vehicle can't move itself anyway, unless this was Harry Potter"- can you believe it!?
All I can say, it would take a miracle now to move me to touch that blasted script again!

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A few weeks ago, I noticed a casting call from a theatre director I worked for last year, doing a UK tour. My fellow actor and I had exceptionally positive feedback, with most of the venues keen to book the company again in future years.
We were somewhat of a trail blazer, performing this show in a new language for the first time, for students taking it for A-levels, and the director told us we were without a doubt the best team to perform this show, ever.
I sent him an email expressing my interest to work with his company again (my fellow actor had done a follow-up tour with them with a female partner who wouldn't drive and couldn't act, basically they didn't get on), but I needed to check the dates didn't clash with my commitment to another show in September. I also wanted to find out where the show would tour to.
No reply.
Instead, I heard from my actor friend that the director had contacted his agent, mentioning my interest in the show and asking him whether he would come on board again if I did it with him?
He agreed, but later on received a call from a former school mate of his, who had been invited to audition for the play. She was keen to do it too, and I found out today that the job went to her.
This after I helped establish the theatre company's presence as performing foreign language plays, and he used my name in a follow-up show, after I expressed my interest and after my friend was enthusiastic about us working together. He is not so sure about this new girl, especially as she has never driven on the left side of the road before...

No Honeywagon?

For those in the know, a honey wagon is the portaloo usually found on film sets.
This week, I turned up in a field to record some voice overs with about 170 fellow actors, extras and singers for a well-known sporting goods manufacturer.
The honeywagon was sadly missing.
Yes, 170 adults of all ages (plus one toddler who was with his parents) had been bussed from London into the Surrey countryside, and were expected to sing "I feel pretty" for 2 hours -without a toilet!
I got off the bus with the call of nature resounding noisily in my ear, and asked where one might find the loo. I was told there wasn't one, by a rather stroppy woman who only revealed herself as the production manager after I asked her whether she was part of the crew, or a fellow singer needing to relieve herself.
I informed her that as I had no toilet roll on me, I wasn't prepared to poop behind some bush, and showed my surprise about the fact they expected all those people (some of them in their seventies) to use the bushes surrounding the farm...
She then asked me to calm down (I was calm, thank you), and turned to another crew member, using the immortal words: "I won't be having 170 people trespassing on this property" meaning the farm house whose occupants were obviously being compensated to lending their meadow to ****.
Finally, someone walked me to the house and a friendly woman with a fluffy Spaniel let me use her bathroom. I found it hilarious that there was only one loo roll in sight, she obviously hadn't prepared for the arrival of 100+ working bladders and bowels either!
As we assembled on the grass to start our singing, we were informed that the honey wagon had suffered a burst tyre (yeah right!), and we should all just pretend it was Glastonbury.
Not a place I have ever had any desire to visit (the loos are rumoured to be awful!), but at least it has better music...