Stuck in a lift at Wembley

Since my transfer to the back of the camera (so to speak), I have found myself with less time for silly castings and auditions and hence less time for moaning, too.

One occasion springs to mind where I was late for work thanks to snogging a guy in the morning, courtesy of a "Johnson's" Valentine's commercial, but I couldn't complain.

My boss was happy with the explanation that I had to feed a friend's starving cat, and my tardiness wasn't mentioned again.

On the other hand, I still carry on doing the odd (pun intended!) freelance job in hospitality and corporate events, for the fun of it (and the cash, of course).

Come on, which other job allows you to get your hairdressing, makeup, shoes and clothes partially funded by the tax man!? ;)

On this occasion, I found myself bright and early at the new Wembley stadium, so new in fact that the chairs in the staff room were still in the wrappers, our ID cards and uniforms weren't ready and the heat wasn't working properly.
Ah yes, and the lifts- but I wasn't to find that out until later.

I had in fact been sent a "make do" uniform which consisted of a polyester jacket (size 12), a stretchy white see-through top (size 10) and a polyester skirt (size 14) with a broken zip.

I decided to wear my own skirt, being unable to get into the one that was sent to me without undoing the zip, and I was glad of that fact when it was pointed out to two girls (in the "standard" skirts) that standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows at the top of the escalators allowed every male (and female) on the ground floor an unfettered view up their skirts.

A colleague (an ex radio producer trying to get into TV) and I went to the bathroom upstairs via the escalator, and the only way to go back down to our designated position as human sign posts was either a long walk down some smoky-smelling stairs, or the lift.

So we took the lift.

An Asian lift boy carrying his excuse for a lunch (a soggy sandwich, apple and a Mars bar) in a paper bag, swiped his card over the reader and pressed the "down" button.
The lift went down.
Then it stopped.
A voice said: "This lift is out of service"- NOT a comforting thing to hear when you are already in it with the doors shut!
We laughed, then wondered what to do when after a while the doors still didn't open, and the lift operator's card had stopped working altogether.
Instead of a green light and some up or down motion, it merely produced a red light and not much else.

We started banging on the door, as we could hear voices outside.
The public were about to come in and we weren't in position!

Intelligently, you are not allowed to keep mobile phones on you during your shift (only a small pouch is provided for lipsticks, tampons and small change), so apart from banging on the doors, shouting and getting to know each other there was little else to do.

We pressed the "alarm" button. An alarm shrilled and a recorded voice urged us to "please remain calm", then again nothing.

We tried pressing the button again for longer, and finally it rang through to some office.
It rang and rang, then a dozy woman answered, clearly barely able to hear us over the din in the background.

She assured us she'd alert people to our plight.

The Asian boy offered me his apple which I took gratefully (Wembley had not provided us with any breakfast despite the early start), and my radio colleague mentioned how glad she was not to be stuck with a friend of hers who's claustrophobic.

Nothing happened for ages, then we pressed the alarm button again.

"Lift 12?" the dozy lady answered when we told here we were STILL stuck. "No, lift ONE!" we shouted in desperation. "Number twelve? Help is on its way." "NO, lift ONE!" we yelled back.

I clawed at the doors. Voices, and yet still nothing from outside.

Suddenly, the doors opened.

My colleague and I bolted out, leaving the lift boy to his first shift at work.

"This happens all the time" he told us reassuringly.

No thanks- again

Text from my agent: "R u free this Saturday, walk-on work in a swimming pool (outdoors)." This was in November I might add.

No thanks indeed!

No thanks

In the interest of preserving my sanity and helping my finances recover, I have put the acting on ice for a bit.
Although I still sneak off to the occasional casting during my lunch hour (shh!), I am enjoying the routine and security my current position brings, and have no regrets so far.

The other morning, however, I got a message on my answerphone.
It was around 9:30 on a Saturday, and a lady from a touring theatre company I auditioned for last year was on the line. She sounded desperate and urged me to call her- apparently a member of this year's cast had dropped out at the last minute due to a family emergency and she needed a replacement that day for a week's rehearsal.

I felt sorry for her and slightly smug, so I called her back.

I remembered the audition last year well. I arrived on time for an all-singing, all-monologuing audition but they were running about 2 hours behind, leaving me to practise my song in the loos and to gossip with my fellow auditionees.
It would have been a first job for many of them and I really thought I had it in the bag when half of them couldn't even drive, or sing.

Imagine my surprise however, when I was finally called in to do my bit, and the first question the male half of the audition panel asked after ogling my CV (which I'd sent them weeks before)was if I was legally entitled to work in the UK!
What a waste of everyone's time that would have been, if I hadn't been allowed. The mind boggles why they called me in to audition in the first place if they thought there might be an issue with my "work permit".

I am sure it was news to them when I informed them about the EU. I also wondered whether it might not have been a clue to him that my training and all previous work (and even professional driving) experience had taken place in England...

So then I was asked to sing, dance and act in the style of Santa Claus, a sugarplum fairy, a mother, and unruly son and a christmas elf, finishing up with stepping back into the room gradually whilst singing harmony with two other actresses, so they could make sure my voice could still be heard over the playback and cacophony of imaginary children's voices from a certain distance away.

I was finally released and thought I had done ok, but I never heard from them.

So imagine my surprise when that girl phoned up, last minute, this year offering the exact same crap deal as the year before:
£100 for the rehearsal week (6 days), £200 per week during the tour (6 days, 12 shows) and no extra allowance for the drivers.

I was glad to be able to turn them down.

Arrogant Actors

Every now and then, I come across a fellow actor who is so arrogant it makes my teeth bleed, or maybe the person in question is just insecure?A friend of mine was in a play with a bloke straight out of drama school.
It was a really funny and charming production of a renaissance comedy, performed in a typical little fringe theatre above a London pub.This bloke was good and seemed to enjoy his part.
After the performance, I hung around waiting for my friend, when this guy emerged, desperate for a drink, and headed to the bar.
I approached him and told him how much I had enjoyed the production, and his performance in particular, but he just seemed to brush me off, grabbed his water from the bar and dashed off again.I found his behaviour rather peculiar- here I was, ready to heap praise on him after a rather busy Friday night, and he didn't appear to want to know.
Thirst didn't explain it, as he disappeared after he had his drink.
I got a feeling he really didn't want to be there: he hated the chavvy pub and the simple theatre, and appeared to think he was something better than my friend and his fellow actors, and especially the punters in the pub. Sad, really.
What was even sadder was that my friend had developed a crush on him and he had brushed her off in the same manner as he had me when I tried to compliment his acting, always disappearing back to Kensington when the other actors stayed for a drink and socialised with the audience.
One night he agreed to drive her to the night's performance. She went to meet him at his house.
Turns out he lives at Kensington Palace...

Feeling comfortable on set

I had a meeting last night about a music video that is meant to start shooting today.
Basically, they were going to start my scenes with a "snuff film scene".
I was supposed to turn up in this underground garage at 10pm, where I'd then be tied up in my underwear and threatened- making for some interesting footage for that snuff film sequence.
Interesting!
Fortunately, there was another girl at the meeting yesterday but somehow I must have missed that scene in the script.
The guy was nice enough and seemed cool and straightforward, but I had to ask him who else was going to be on the set. Fair enough, they want to shoot late-ish in order to be free from disturbances by residents trying to park their cars, but still- 10pm with a crew of 2, and me in a basque and suspenders!?
In any case, I was reassured and ready to start shooting today (just gotta mention this is all unpaid again, let's hope the band make it big), when he called and cancelled me.
So instead of hanging around a dark garage half-naked, I will be tucked up in bed drinking tea, for exactly the same amount of money (i.e. sweet FA).
The only thing is, I already splashed out on a travelcard...

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...

Working in the buff

I once agreed to work with a photographer who creates amazing stories in still photographs, using actors, acrobats, dwarfs and models in wonderful costumes- or naked.
My body was my costume in this case, but I assumed I would be painted with white body paint.
This was news to the makeup artist however, who spent 20 minutes applying pale face makeup to my entire body with a minuscule sponge.
It was exciting and liberating being the only fully nude "statue" in this display of decadently clad array of aristocrats and belly dancers, and I didn't even feel cold.
My only complaint is that I never received a decent print from the session, as the rights have now been sold to the publishers of his book.

More recently, I had a nude casting at Glyndebourne opera, for "Die Fledermaus".
They wanted a girl who would feel comfortable throwing her clothes off at the climax of a debauched party scene, with her back to the audience, followed by chucking her champagne glass over her shoulder.
No problem, I thought, and was excited to get down to the last two.
But despite my unquestioningly superior ballroom dancing skills, the job went to the other girl. I was crushed, especially as the panel (the director and a female assistant) had just seen me in all my glory, and rejected me in favour of a girl with bigger boobs!
She was taken into wardrobe and I got the bus back to the station with the other rejects.
Not nice.

Age- just a number

I recently didn't get a job because it went to an "older actress" who "carried more weight on her shoulders".
As much as I appreciate comments and constructive feedback, I was puzzled- who over the age of 29 would want to do an unpaid understudy role including leafleting and ushering duties in another town?
I replied with the question how old this lady was, and received the reply that she seemed more weighty somehow. I take it she IS younger than me.
Strange thing is, I am getting too old to play teens, yet late 20's roles pass to "weightier" people...
Give me a shovel, I want to bury myself!

Attack of the Cleaners

I was bored on Saturday. Not many customers in the phone store where I am doing that blasted promotion, and the manager's comment kept ringing in my ears: "clean it yourself!"- the fossilised staff room that was.
So I did. I started on the dirty kitchen corner, then the microwave, scooping out god-knows-how-many-weeks(months) of gunk dissolved by the industrial strength cleaning spray, then I attacked the crusty fridge with its outdated sandwiches and green, fluffy pies.
Next I hoovered which was a joy to behold since the suction on that baby would put Linda Lovelace to shame, but fortunately I didn't come across any decomposing rodent's bodies, only dust and food crumbs.
Then I prepared two buckets with steaming bleach water and sloshed it around the neglected floors, paying special attention to the yellow stains around the loo. Urgh!
But I felt so much better once it was all done, and it was a great workout.

Today the bitchy manager was back and noone seemed to have particularly noticed my efforts apart from the staff who saw me slaving away on Easter Saturday. It didn't helpt that despite all the bleach the floor only changed colour marginally.
I am just about fed up to here.
After all I didn't sign on to do a leafleting or cleaning campaign, regardless- it makes me chuckle that I must be the most expensive cleaner/leafleter in town.

The woman even had the audacity to tell me how to do my "job", as if she'd ever tried handing out leaflets before. Despite the job's brainless appearance, there are actually a number of tricks to get rid of the annoying things.
Number one, don't stand where you can be easily dodged, ie it is better to occupy a narrow pavement than to stand in the middle of a large square.
Number too, talk and smile.
This can provide endless entertainment when done in small groups with equally fed-up actors because usually people don't listen to what you are saying/giving away for free. If someone doesn't want a leaflet, they won't take one regardless of the offer.
A friend recently did a job for some investment bank, they handed out 10-pound-notes in the street, and still people refused to take them.
It can be quite entertaining to keep repeating "free shags, free shags" rather than "join the gym/free coffee with your sandwich/free CD/ money off your train journey. Nobody will take you up on it.
Another popular one, if people don't take your sample/leaflet: "Fuck you very much!" with a benign smile. Seriously, they can't hear the difference and you get the odd satisfaction of having given the rude so-and-so a piece of your mind.