SQUYDD
   (Jonathan Kydd Ltd)

BE A GOOD BOY SAM

Robert Newton was one of the country’s most successful actors at the time: he'd recently been Bill Sykes in David Lean’s hugely successful Oliver Twist - and was infamous for his extremely hard drinking. However, he was apparently “nearly on the wagon” so he told us, but nonetheless drank Guinness and Champagne, “Black Velvet” at the end of every scene. He justified it by saying that this combination didn't count as “proper drinking” and was purely for medicinal reasons! But his consumption of alcohol didn’t seem to impair his acting. He was very on the ball and conscientious, dealing with a very large star part and was noticeably very chummy with us all, even though he was under huge pressure. He used to arrive at the studio driving his Rolls Royce, looking very scruffy indeed, often in his dressing gown and slippers, having come straight from his flat. Several times he went home dressed as Long John in his huge sleeved red jacket and white stockings (even on one occasion with his sword apparently) and sometimes turned up the following morning in the same outfit. There was discussion amongst the cast and crew as to whether he’d slept in the costume, possibly in the car,  he looked so much the worse for wear! But in fact it worked really well for the part and there was an astute hard working actor’s mind on view.  He was always “in character” when you think about it (or possibly just laziness!)! He never shaved, as the part never required it (the make-up department would trim his stubble) and he was stopped regularly by the police, who thought he’d stolen the Rolls. He seemed to revel in his notoriety:        

     “Well lads sorry to inconvenience you, but I've been stopped by the police again!” he would announce if he was late for his call, adding,  

     “There is a problem though. Unfortunately they've confiscated my  cutlass.” 

     Cue much laughter!  I mean the police stopping him made sense when you consider such a classy car was being driven, possibly slightly erratically, by a pirate! Or a man in his pyjamas! And there was also the likelihood the coppers all wanted to meet one of the most popular actors of the time, so were keen to stop him even though they knew who it was and where he was going. He certainly gave a brilliant portrayal of a villain - a likeable one - which became one of the seminal Disney films of the period and spawned another pirate film for Robert as Blackbeard and then a Long John film, and a T.V. series shot in Australia - Long John Silver - which was cult viewing for children. Unfortunately the drinking took its toll and Robert was taken from us soon after this T.V. series, far too young, with cirrhosis of the liver in 1956. He was 51. A great loss to the profession. He was certainly a character. Even today people are still impersonating him -          “Aharrr Jim Lad!”. 

        A source of huge embarrassment for him, was the fact that he kept getting cramp in his left leg, doubled up uncomfortably behind him and secured with tape and straps to give the impression it was missing from the knee down. He’d started off with a peg-leg, with his knee inserted into a sort of cup and that used a bizarre combination of even more straps as well as those doubling his leg up, but that was soon dispensed with. It was so painful that Robert displayed his displeasure by throwing the wooden leg over the ship the first time he wore it. However even with just a strapped up leg and a crutch, he suffered. Just standing still was so uncomfortable (he obviously wasn’t hugely fit, what with all his drinking) that even that required great courage and tenacity, and then he had to act at the same time! But moving - that required another set of skills entirely! Co-ordinating his crutch and stepping on his unstrapped leg, was frequently too much for him , as we often found out. 

     His parrot, called Captain Flint in the film, wasn’t helping the situation either. He fell off Robert’s shoulder on numerous occasions, squawking, unused to the shoulder being at a tilt and the up and down motion of Long John lurching along on his crutch. The bird and his handler, consequently spent so much time on the film, I believe they made more money than the actors. The number of retakes necessitated by “the bloody bird” as Robert called it, could have financed several crews! 

     “Sorry lads. The bloody bird’s fallen orf again” Robert would say through gritted teeth. 

     This, coupled with Robert’s milk curdling cries of anguish when he was getting cramp, were enduring memories. A scene would be going well when suddenly he'd yelp repeatedly in dismay and then fall to the floor writhing in agony. 

     “My leg! My bloody bastard leg! Aaaaaargh!” he’d cry. 

     In addition there was always a liberal scattering of sunflower seeds, the bird’s feed, actually supplied in abundance by the film company, littering the set, and of course free nibbles from the actors who'd surreptitiously given it snacks, so consequently it was always looking around the floor - or at the pirates - for some tasty morsels! On several occasions Robert’s crutch gave way, having slid on something edible. The Parrot had a double (stuffed of course, which was a relief) who was always on standby should the original prove to be too difficult! Memories of the Scott of the Antarctic cat! If only they'd had a stand-in then. At least the Parrot didn’t fly off and hide amidst the arcs! 

​

FOR YOU THE WAR IS OVER

They too couldn’t believe it, but sure enough within the hour, the officer, a German Major accompanied by a section of soldiers, turned up and ordered us all out on parade. The girl prisoners on one side and the men p.o.w.’s on the other. He strutted about, very much playing the part of the officer in charge.

“We have retaken this Town,” he said deliberately. (It must have been a silent takeover, for we heard nothing!) “and the Russians will not defeat us.” (Well everybody’s entitled to their own opinion.) 

“You,” he said, pointing to the ex-p.o.w.’s,“You will be required to dig trenches to assist us to defend the town. And, anyone found committing an act of sabotage will be shot!”

I, foolish fellow that I am, stepped forward.

“Entschuldigen zie mir, Herr Major!”(Excuse me Major.)

I ventured.

“Jah?” he replied from his great height “Was ist los?” (What is it?)

“According to the Geneva Convention relating to all prisoners of war in enemy hands we are not allowed to assist the enemy, in this case, Deutschland, in any act of war such as digging trenches, working on war machines in factories etcetera….”

He looked at me coldly and started to unbutton his holster, preparing to take out his pistol …

“Except of course,” I hurriedly went on “We should

consider that it would be in our own interests to accede to your request. Where do we find the picks and shovels?”

I wasn’t going to be a martyr for anyone at this late stage, least of all for the Geneva Convention!

The unbelievable thing was to find ourselves in German hands once again, we thought we’d left all that behind ages ago! We duly marched away and dug slit trenches at either side of the road which wasn’t easy because of the frozen state of the ground. But like the Chinese have found, nothing’s impossible if you put your mind to it, and digging slit trenches out of frozen concrete slabs is child’s play—to the Chinese! It wasn’t the way I would have chosen to spend my third day of Freedom but you’ve got to be prepared to accept anything that comes along. And at the end of the day I was exhausted and very glad that we had been marched back to our prison billets and gathered up in “dem lovin’ arms!”

The Jerries put a board across the gates to make sure we wouldn’t get out and then repeated the homily about shooting on sight anyone caught in an act of sabotage and departed to their slit trenches, saying they would be back on the morrow. 

The girls or each syndicate, prepared a meal with the usual char (tea) and then we bedded down for the night. We were slightly apprehensive about our future. We were all right if we stayed where we were, we argued, but if the Jerries decided to evacuate and came to take us with them—well, that would be a bloody awful kettle of fish. 

We needn’t have bothered discussing it because Fate in the shape of the Russians had it all laid on. 

We were all fast asleep when there was an ear-splitting crash and something exploded and ripped through the roof, tearing a gaping hole so that the night sky could be seen. Nobody was hurt as far as I could see but everyone was certainly wide awake, eyes staring and looking up.

This was immediately followed by another crash and the windows on one side of the barn all shattered like broken ice, showering the glass everywhere. Then came some shouts—a short silence—and then a burst of machine gun fire. In the barn, panic set in, and a frantic general exodus took place. Everybody, including myself, bolted outside to a corridor which separated our building from another barn, but once there nobody seemed to know what to do. Where to go? What to do? Some began to scream hysterically and others sobbed. The women weren’t all that bright either. I told Krystina to wait for me while I went back to rescue my haversack and overcoat. I went back inside and scrabbled around, found my jacket and put it on, also my overcoat, grabbed at my haversack and managed to put one strap on, and dragging my kitbag along the floor I returned to the corridor. There was nobody there. Absolutely nobody. It was as if a magic wand had been waved. I shouted Krystina’s name. Then “Dickie Davis”, and waited. All I heard was another crash on what sounded like the roof again. Then, again, nearer this time, and casting care to the winds I bolted along the corridor to a door at the end of it. As I opened it, I was greeted by a hail of bullets, country of origin unknown. Just my luck, I thought, to be mown down by “British Aid to Russia Fund” ammunition! I waited, for two or three minutes or maybe five, and then with my kitbag under my arm I flung open the door and ran like a Chinese hare—sideways—pursued by whining bullets thudding into the wall.

I made for the wooden gates which were now wide open and dashed down the street zig-zagging and trying to get away from the fusillade of fire which followed me. At the end of the road I was brought swiftly and suddenly to a halt. A slant eyed, evil-looking Mongolian with a machine gun at the ready (B.S.A. Aid to Russia) was pointing the serrated barrel at me. I dropped my kitbag, put my hands up and said “ANGELSKI!—Angel—Anglichan—Niet Germanski —TOVARICH! ANGELSKI!”

He looked at me coldly, I could see his Asiatic breath on the night air, and motioned me to pick up my kitbag, which I did and then came behind me and prodded me in the back to move along in front of him. At machine gun length I lurched down the road till we came to a house that had been taken over as an Emergency First Aid Post. There he handed me over to the Russian doctor or Medical Officer who luckily for me spoke pidgin English and like most of them was anxious to show it off! Mind you any English at all was music to my ears and from the mouth of a Russian it was even sweeter—and a relief!

He had a leathery face but kindly eyes and he told me he came from Moscow.

To my surprise he offered me a Will’s Gold Flake cigarette which I took. “I smoke only English” he said, showing me a packet which had the inevitable “Aid to Russia” written on it!) He made his excuses and then left me to attend to some of the wounded. I noticed that he and his orderlies were using paper bandages to bind the wounds, the paper being not unlike thick crepe toilet paper. Several severely wounded lay on the floor but the less so, comprising the majority, were suffering from minor injuries such as flesh wounds. The Germans apparently were putting up a stiff resistance (from our slit trenches no doubt!) but their cause was hopeless, they were outnumbered by four to one!

So said the Doctor.

He went on “Ambulance come you go Moscow—much Vodka drinking! Plenty women—Russian women BEEG—Strong! They fight! But they give in! Ho—Ho Ho!”

​

GO QUICKER SOUND SLOWER

 Scootered to Soho. All parking bays full. Parked miles away near the London Uni building in a bay which always has a space when I’m desperate. 

I’m in town to voice a Christmas commercial for Kerry Mill Department Stores at Slick Studios. I know it’s August but that’s when they’re made. It’s for TV so I’m doing it "to picture" ie they show me the ad and tell me when to "come in" ie speak. In this instance it’s after about ten seconds of an actor playing Santa and close ups of the store and I have to go like the clappers and cram the script in. 

The engineer can offer you a "cue-light" if you want when it’s your go to "come in" as he has the waveform in front of him, and you have a little red light in front of you, usually with a rather tasteful circular mahogany base that other voice overs have written "I woz ere" on; but I prefer to know what the timecode is and time it myself. (The ads or promos or whatever always have minutes and seconds ticking away on the screen. Or can be placed there by the engineer. The producer either writes the timecode on the script when your cue is, or tells you in the studio). There is frequently a "guide" voice on the ad/promo either done by the producer him/her self, or the editor. In this instance there is no guide. During the action, I have to say

     "14 shops and Father Christmas this Friday at 4.30. (pause for view of door) And we’re open till late! (pause for pack shot) It’s a Kerry Christmas!" 

     Inspiring stuff eh! There are 3 variations on the 20 second script outlined above, (“tomorrow” and “today” and a generic without the time) and there are two 10 second scripts. Eg "14 shops. Elves. A Grotto and good old Santa himself! And in the week, we’re open late! Kerry Mill" etc. etc..

     "We chose you because of your Father Christmas like quality" said a bright young thing in a business suit and the air of a brief case. 

    "Oh thankyou" I coyly responded slightly wounded as I’m a beardless slim man in his thirties and have come by scooter not sleigh. 

     "We’re re waiting for someone but let’s start. He’ll be with us in a minute," I was informed by a bald man with a goatee and no chin. His face just became part of his shirt. 

Now this starting before someone important is there, is normally disastrous, because no matter how far you get with the commercial, the late comer will scupper it. It doesn’t matter how satisfied everyone is with it in the studio or how well it’s gone, she/he who turns up late will be more senior and will create such doubt that the whole read is reappraised and redone. It is very rare for the new arrival to go "Oh that’s great!" They feel the pressure to be critical. So they are. They say things like:

     "Oh that’s not how I imagined it at all" or 

     "Hmm. Not sure. Can we have another go?" and the engineer leaves the talkback on so you hear exactly what’s being whispered.  

     "I thought he’d have a more Father Christmas like voice. He sounds like an elf" or "He sounds different on his showreel" or "Is this the same guy I heard before?" Or "He looks nothing like Santa."

     It’s actually more ominous when the engineer cuts off the talkback and you can’t hear what they’re saying at all. You know it’s gonna be bad. And then they ask you to redo it all. What tends to happen is that you go round and round and return to the first read you did at the beginning. But she/he has to be seen to be leading you there, just to maintain his/her status as "grand fromage". It’s pathetic really.

     Anyway. He/she was coming later. I started well. Got it all in, in the twenty seconds. They liked ‘em. Did the other 20. And the alts. (Alternative lines eg “tomorrow” “today” and the generic “all this week” which are "dropped in". You just read that bit and the engineer inserts it). Did a ten seconder. And the other one. Fitted all the lines, the copy, in. Did all of them in fact. Finished. They all listened back. Then someone asked if I could be a bit merrier. 

     "He could be merrier?"

     "Yes. Can you be merrier?"

     "But of course! Merry is on my CV!" 

     I cringe at my inane patter.

     "I know this sounds contradictory but could we have a lighter less Santa like voice?" says another. I was giving it the full Werthers Original.  We have another go - lighter less Santa. All over all of them. They’re happy. 

     "Love it!" says a lanky bloke in a tweed jacket. "Cracked it!"

     Then lo and behold in comes the latey.  And there’s twenty five minutes of the hour long session to go. It’s classic. There is no explanation from the late one as to where he’s been. It’s clearly been something "important " e.g. he’s been in the pub. Or shopping. Or dawdling. 

     "Can I hear the takes you’ve done?" he barks sternly. There is no confusing… he..is..THE BOSS.

     We listen to what I did.

     "Well "Kerry Mill" is much too hard" this thin lipped pterodactyl lisps. "And there’s no "ding".

     "No. There isn’t” agrees the pusillanimous tweedy man who loved it moments ago. And what the fuck is "ding" anyway?

     "Can we have more "ding" please....Er.. what’s his name?"

     "JK."

     "More "ding" please JK."

     "Ding?"

     "Perzaz. Christmas. Joy. Lightness. Happiness. Cheer…. Ding."

      Ah yes that fucking explains it.

      "Oh ok. I’ll have a go. Ding it is." 

      I am so cheerful it dismays me.

      I do a 20. 

     "That’s too husky "come to bed" for me. We don’t want Santa coming across as if he’s out to seduce you!"  

     They all laugh sycophantically. 

     “Aha ha ha ha! Haaaa! Noooo! Haaaaa!”

     "There’s no ding there," says the man who just turned up and is now putting pressure on me because we have less time to do it in coz he was so late.

     "Oh sorry. I’ll try to get more ding."

     I have no idea what they want really so just try more energy. It’s beginning to sound remarkably like it did earlier and we’re on take fourteen.

      "Ah that’s getting there? What do we think of that?" says he who has taken over. There is silence. The others have no clue. Someone goes "Hmmm." Someone goes "Nnnnyessss!?!", in a doubting but positive tone, not wishing to commit either way for fear of being shot down in flames. The engineer Cam, who is my pal and who is thinking on the same lines as me that there’s only 20 minutes left and he has to mix it before the next session, tries  

     "Well they’re all to time and I think we’ve had several good reads there. I could always cobble a few and create a hybrid."

     "A hybrid?"

     "Bit from here. Bit from there." 

     Well said. Tactful. Not criticising. But reminding everyone there is a way to use what we’ve already done.

     "A hybrid. That’s a good idea" says the late man, seizing onto the word and rolling it around his mouth because he has heard a word he can add to his studio vocabulary for constant use. 

     "A hybrid. Yes. A hyyybrrriddd!"

     "Yes" echo the others confused, as they quite liked everything really. I mean I’d read them all in time and hit the required words. "Father Christmas’s Grotto" was all warm and cuddly and "Kerry Mill" was given attack but not hardness as was suggested.

Someone chimed in with

“I’m worried "Father Christmas"s Grotto" is being rushed. It’s very important you know." 

     I mean this was actually a rubbish opinion and utter bollocks coz it wasn’t rushed but he’s looking good in front of his superior. 

     "Good idea. Let’s do a "Father Christmas’s Grotto" without rushing it," says the man who was late.

     "A slow "Father Christmas’s Grotto"?" I ask slightly taking the piss.

     "Yes. But not too slow or you’ll run out of time and it’ll all be too long."

     "Of course. Slow but not laboured."

     "Exactly."

     What a load of poo.

     I do another. I slightly slow the "Grotto" and speed up the rest a bit so it fits.

     "No I thought we lost the "ding" there. One more."

     The fucking ding again. 

     Cam catches my eye as he says "take 17". 

     "With more ding!" bawls the late one.

     I try lightness and energy and happiness and Christmassy and all those dings while slowing "Father Christmas’s Grotto" and giving "Kerry Mill" the right weight and it all fits.

     “Perfetto let’s do the alts. And then let’s do the tens." says Latey. And I do. I do ‘em all again.

     "Do you think they’re disjointed?" says a voice.

     "Possibly" says Latey not having a clue.

     "Remember I can do hybrids" the engineer reminds everyone. "The lines on the tens are the same as on the 20s with the odd different line."

     "Ah yes. Let’s do hyyyybridddds. We could take the Kerry Mill from take twelve and the Grotto from eleven".

     "And there was ding in take six".

     "Yes and the ten second commercials we can cobble from takes eight to eleven," says the man with no neck suddenly alive for the first time since Latey’s arrival.

     "Yes!"

     They’re all cooking now. They’re all creating "Hybrids" and loving it.

     "Yes! I thought the Elves and Grotto line for the ten second commercials was excellent in take 8."

     "And we could use the Kerry Mill from 18 and the "Father Christmas’s Grotto" from take 19."

     "Yes we could."

     "Excellent."

     "Just to check" says Latey. "Can I listen to the first  takes you did?" 

     "Ooh good idea!" Says Brief Case as if this was a game changer. 

"Yes!" Everyone exults.

       Cam plays all the versions of the takes we’d done at the beginning. We listen. 

       "Actually come to think of it I rather like them" says Latey. “It’s more Santa.”

       "Yes me too!" says Lanky. Baldy and Brief Case are equally enthusiastic. It’s laughable how sycophantic they are. And how ridiculous this is.

"I think we should use them. Can you do something with those Cam?" 

"Yes of course!"

Latey has no shame or self awareness at all.

So five minutes to mix them. Which Cam manages to do brilliantly. Phew. He’s really really good. Everyone is happy, especially Latey who has done nothing but fuck about self indulgently in the 25 minutes or so he was there. A nice wink from Cam on the way out, the irony of which the others in the studio miss completely. 

​

NEVER MIND THE ACTING

I played a plumber of humble origins (another one. Perhaps that’s where they’d got the idea from to cast me from Friends and Neighbours. You’d be surprised how often there’s a thread. Actually you wouldn’t. It’s easy casting) who fell in love with Mervyn John’s daughter Polly,  (Jill Bennett) who was a dancer, while his other daughter (Sarah Lawson) was enamoured of a young Guard’s officer played by Robina. 

       I had many scenes with Jill as she was playing my girlfriend  and I found her most attractive. She had a great “energy” I suppose you’d call it, with unconventional good looks. “Jolie-laide” was the expression. She was easy to work with, and easy to get along with. This came as a pleasant surprise as I had been warned that it might be otherwise by several actors I knew who said she was “trouble”. Harry was very suspicious. 

      “Be careless Sid. She has bullocks that one! It all over the grape” he said, completely ungrammatically and missing the “vine” bit. But I got the gist.

In one of the scenes she had to slap my face, which she did quite gently at each rehearsal. Almost endearingly, I thought, not that the idea of having a romance with her entered my head! But all changed the day she came back very late from lunch, keeping everyone waiting. Well we didn’t wait. We did her scenes and the floor manager read in for her. In fact she was always dashing off and going somewhere in her car at lunchtime or at the end of rehearsals and none of us had ever spent any free time with her. We all thought she had a mystery man she was seeing, as she would arrive back slightly flustered and disappear into the Ladies for several minutes on her return. On this occasion where she was forty five minutes late, when she appeared in the rehearsal room I jokingly remarked that it was O.K. as Jake the Floor Manager had played her part in the scene and as he was quite good they’d decided to replace her with him. This got a bit of a titter from the cast etc., and was of course ridiculous as the F.M. was a fella but she didn’t appreciate my humour and giving me an icy stare, said 

     “Ha f*cking ha!” 

     There was an aghast silence. In the dreadful atmosphere, we redid the scene with her and when she got to the bit where I have a go at her for being a dancer and she had to slap my face: 

 

ME: I despise play actors. (Sneeringly in Polly’s face) 

JILL: And I despise mechanics. (Polly slaps his face) 

 

…instead of the previous gentle stroke, I got a stinging right handed slap cum punch that completely took the stuffing out of me, causing me to stagger, and created an audible gasp from those watching! And it really hurt! And left a mark! But I soldiered on and at the end of the scene I said 

     “I’d rather you didn’t do that again as it was very painful and extremely unprofessional. And I have to warn you I can look after myself.”

     I have to admit that it was far too stern and I was ashamed.  

“I warn you I can look after myself”.  Ye Gods. What was I saying? That was actually really threatening; but I’d been hurt. Naturally this riled her even more and she replied 

     “Look after myself? You prick. What are you going to do?Knock me out?  I’ll do it whenever I feel like it and what’s more next time I’ll also kick you in the f*cking balls!”