HOW TO BE . . . A FAILED EXTRA IN AMERICA

A taxi driver put me up to the idea. 

I was in LA and he started telling me about how much money he was making on the side as a “background artist”, as “extras” are now called – or “supporting artist”, as seems to be the case in the UK. “Relatively superfluous to requirements” would be a more accurate description as far as I can see, but who am I to take away a minion’s moment in the sun (well, the shade out of the sun’s rays).

   

He said the first step was to sign up to a casting agency and so, now in possession of my Green Card, when I returned to New York I decided to do exactly that.

   

I won’t name the agency for reasons that will become apparent, but let’s call them Muppet Casting, only because the people in the waiting room mostly looked as if they had just walked off that show and were awaiting their next gig on Fraggle Rock.

   

Never have I seen such an assortment of shapes and sizes gathered in one room; I thought I had walked into a Hall of Mirrors. It’s not often I’m the slimmest, youngest and, dare I say it, the most attractive person in the room (in fact, never), but I was nailing this. One woman was so enormous, she lost her clipboard in the folds of her stomach; there were at least three serial killers (the real kind, not the actor possibilities); and one woman was stuffing so many crisps into her mouth, if she were auditioning for a Walker’s commercial the director would live in fear of losing the product by the end of the shoot. 

Then there were the stupid people, who hadn’t brought any ID with them, despite having been specifically told to do so and were quickly shown the door.

   

The form-filling was incredibly tedious and very complicated, not to mention long. At the end of this torture, officiated over by a woman who could not have been less enthusiastic had she been playing a corpse, it was time for the photos. That took forever, too. I swear I had two birthdays during the course of the afternoon. Then, before you can do any work, you have to complete the online anti-harassment course – and there’s no escaping it. At least it paid $15.

In essence: don’t make unwanted advances; don’t persist on pursuing someone when they’ve made it clear they don’t want you; and don’t grope anyone. 

That would pretty much wipe out the Nineties for me.

   

Now, this is how the system works. You get a text asking for your availability and you answer YES or NO. My first job – “woman in blue coat” came through pretty quickly, but I missed out on it.

   

What was wrong with me, I wondered? Did they think blue was not my colour? Maybe the coat was too big? Maybe I was too fat for it. I had already dismissed my chances of being a “concentration camp survivor” I saw advertised online; I was overweight by about five stone. 

I pondered applying anyway, arguing that if I had survived, maybe I’d managed to wolf down a few hearty Big Macs, but thought that if groping was politically incorrect, trying to wangle my way into a Holocaust production by devious means was definitely a no-go area.

   

And so, to the next job. It was a major show on Netflix (I can’t say which one because I am bound by confidentiality) and they were looking for people for a crowd scene. My YES resulted in a positive response and my booking was confirmed the day before shooting.

   

Then the problems started. I would not receive the details until after 9pm, when I had to click on the link and key in the code I had been given (and they also tell you to check in again in the morning, should anything have changed). 

A voice at the other end rattled off a number of addresses – 5^th Avenue, East 102^nd (that’s practically Canada, for those of you who don’t know Manhattan streets), 92^nd . . . there were instructions for gates, groups, individuals. I listened to it a dozen times and was still none the wiser, so had to call the “urgent” number to confirm my details.

   

My call time was 6.48am on East 102^nd Street. I live on West 45^th Street. WEST. I never go to the East side unless there is free beer. Here, I was told, there was going to be no refreshment whatsoever; it was a “walkaway lunch” for which I would have to bring money or my own grub. 

I presume that’s because I’m non-Union, because I know that SAG-AFTRA (Screen Actors Guild-American Federation of Television and Radio Artists) extras (I’m still going to stick to the shorthand term) put on at least ten pounds a day on every shoot. Last week, there was a violent fight at a food truck on set and the police were called.

   

But really, NO LUNCH? Apart from free food, there is no other upside to the job. It’s a nine-hour day for minimum wage, on which you are taxed at source, you have to pay your costs of getting there and back, and for what? To mingle amongst the muppets.

   

I told them I wouldn’t be able to make it after all as I could never make the venue by 6.48am.

She tried to negotiate. 

"I'll tell them you'll be late."
“Ok, how about 8.15?”

 “Could you do 7.15?”

 “This really isn’t going to work for me. I’m so sorry.”

   

She got really huffy with me. 

“Well make sure you DON’T turn up tomorrow.”

“I WON’T!”

   

My Background to the Future career has not begun well; I’m just not ready for my non-close-up. Heck, I was Top Extra in Kenneth Branagh’s Frankenstein (you can read about that in the blog How to Be in Commercials in America, by the way); this already felt like a real comedown. 

Don’t they know who I am?

HOW TO BE . . . IN COMMERCIALS IN AMERICA

“Hi, Jacqueline,” the message began. 

“A Walgreens Commercial Pays $800 is looking to cast a role With your Specs. Call now XXX-XXX-XXXX.”

   

I have no idea when or where I signed up to do commercials, but heck, $800 sounded a pretty good rate. I have a Walgreens card, so I must like something about them. How hard can it be to go into the store, fill a shopping trolley and walk out again? I’ve done a lot more for a lot less. Human chess piece, scullery maid, and I was even an extra in Kenneth Branagh’s Frankenstein. 

None of this experience has enabled me to get through the doors of Central Casting in the States, where my attempts to sign up for work as an extra have been doomed because there are never any spaces available to complete the process in person.

   

I was, by the way, Top Extra in Frankenstein. Originally cast as a grieving widow in the warm church, I was demoted to one of a hundred starving peasants in the freezing January cold outside when they saw how short I was (no one under five foot five is allowed to suffer a bereavement, it seems. That’s the movies for you). Ken (who had kindly arranged the whole thing for a feature I was writing) saw me lurking among the other peasants and moved me to the front row, resulting in 99 seething peasants behind me and later having to eat my lunch alone, ostracised from the madding (literally) crowd. 

Hating the stain the make-up department had put on my teeth intended to make them look rotten, I’d been to the toilet and wiped it off. I featured three times in the movie and also in the front row in the publicity material - the only peasant boasting a perfect set of white porcelain veneers. 

   

The commercial sounded a little more glamorous, although there were things that were already worrying me about the Walgreens message: not least, why they felt the need to unnecessarily capitalise Commercial, Pays, With and your Specs. And was that Specs as in specifications, or Specs as in spectacles? Should I mention all these concerns to them before discussing what my role would be? I thought it best to put my grammar pedantry on the back burner and, having mentally spent the $800, called them.

   

The young man (I could tell he was young - and anyway, everyone is 12 these days) seemed very thrilled at my having made contact. The only problem was, I had no idea how he had my details. “Do you remember signing up to XX?” he asked. I did not. 

I’ve signed up to a lot of things here, so much so that I live in fear of the FBI breaking down my door and finding me wearing no clothes watching Law and Order: SVU (not that going commando is a prerequisite for watching the show; it’s just how I roll on occasion). Sometimes, I think I worry too much.

   

Anyway, having established that I had no idea who he or his agency was, Calum (I at least established his name, but have changed it to protect his innocence), could barely contain his excitement at touching base. “You’re SIXTY?” he squealed, reading out bits from a form I had no memory of filling in. “That’s amazing!” Then the conversation went like this.

   

“Why is it amazing?”

“Well, you sound as if you have so much energy.”

“I do.”

“You’re not ill?”

“No.”

“You’re not retired?”

“No.”

“Are you thinking of retiring?”

“No.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Why?”

“You really don’t sound 60.”

“Tell me what you think a 60 year old should sound like.”

“Um, well, er, I’ve been talking to a lot of people from 50 to 67 - 67 is the oldest - and you just sound very different.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m 22.” Dear lord, he’s barely out of the womb. 

   

Having established that I was not infirm, heading for the scrapheap of life or, in Calum’s mind, possibly the grave, I enquired about the commercial.

   

“The Walgreens commercial is looking for a confused older customer . . . ” 

   

HANG ON A MINUTE! Maybe it was too soon to be asking about my character’s motivation, but for a rather generous $800, my mental state might have to be deteriorating at quite a rate. Was I just confused because I couldn’t find the aisle where the Corn Flakes were, or did I have amnesia following a car crash (being way too old, obviously, to be behind the wheel of a car)? These were important questions.

   

“Calum - I’m sorry, I have to stop you there. Why am I confused?”

   

Bless him, he had no idea. “I don’t know. Walgreens just said they wanted a confused older person.”

   

“Why would Walgreens assume that a 60 year old out shopping would be confused? And if they are assuming that, they should at least tell you the level of confusion I have to convey. Am I mentally ill?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Okay, let’s talk numbers.”

   

Calum sounded relieved to be back on the right track. It was possibly three days’ work for the $800 and . . . 

   

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you there again. The contract would have to go through my agent.”

“You have an agent? That’s amazing!” (Why is everything “amazing” to 12 year olds these days?). 

I actually don’t have an agent, manager, or any other kind of representation at the moment (any takers, please?), but if I’m going to make a living from wandering the aisles of Walgreens being chased by men in white coats brandishing strait-jackets, I think I’m going to need one.   

   

“Of course. I’ve done several of my own TV series.” (Ok, now I was being mean).

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Calum, I’m going to go now. This really isn’t going anywhere.”

   

I know that instead of chasing minor roles as a background artist or a demented old lady playing Grand Prix with supermarket trolleys, I should just be getting on with my writing. But it’s been a tough year, filled with death, personal injury and relocation, and I’m finding it hard to get motivated again. On the plus side, my local Walgreens is doing three for the price of two on certain cosmetics this week. I just can’t find the store. Too confused. 

   

   

HOW TO BE . . . SHITTY IN AMERICA

A month is a very short time in US healthcare. Within a matter of weeks, I had a mammogram, cervical smear and a colonoscopy, all included in my insurance under the banner of Preventative Care (or preventive as they call it here). 

In the UK, even at the age of 60, I would have been offered the first two once every three years and the latter probably never; any medical word containing five syllables equals expensive. It reminds me of a cartoon I once saw in the New Yorker: a man lying on the analyst’s couch and the shrink saying, “Manic depression? Manic depression? Oh no, that’s way out of your price range.”

   

The mammogram involved machinery that made me think I had gone on vacation in Thunderbird 2. The paddles I remember from the UK transformed my breasts into muffins, but thankfully they were no more; instead, the 3D technology involved a gentle process that nevertheless produced hundreds of shots from every imaginable angle.  

   

The smear was likewise painless. The last one I had in the UK made me feel as if I’d been attacked by a bear - from the inside out. For some bizarre reason, they always started with the metal tube that threatened to split me in half like a water melon; the one they ended up with, to fit my petite size, was barely wider than a nostril. Then there was the scraping, like a soon to be employed miner, desperate to get a memento of the last coal mine on Earth.

   

In the US, they were in and out so quickly, I didn’t even notice (a bit like some of my exes). I have no idea why in Britain everything was so painful and across the Atlantic almost a pleasure to be put under the spatula/tube.

   

I was dreading the colonoscopy, however. Only once had any outside party ventured up there (I’ll ignore references to exes at this juncture; no means no, okay?) and that was when I was doing a show called So You Think You Want a Heathy Lifestyle? It required me to live mega healthily for two weeks and have colonic irrigation. 

The procedure was to be performed by a male doctor, accompanied by his sidekick wife, the show’s director (female), and the camera and sound men. There was a poster of Princess Diana on the wall and the doctor explained how she was a big fan of colonics (not that  it helped rid her of the toxins of her marriage, but that’s another story). I pondered that if I could look like her at the end of it, the trauma would have been worthwhile.

   

The problem was that I was supposed to go out on a bender with alcohol and a Vindaloo one night and, the next day, have the colonic to get rid of all the evil debris. Owing to the tight schedule, we had to shoot the scenes in reverse, so in the morning I had the colonic and in the evening went out for my monstrous meal. Alas, by that time, there was precious little to hold the food in and I recall running across the restaurant floor to the restroom, desperately trying to hold everything together. And failing.

   

The doctor had earlier said I had “stubborn stools” as I lay patiently on my back, awaiting the great swirling movie of my bowels he encouraged me to watch in the overhead mirror. By the time the Vindaloo had done its stuff later on, they weren’t so much stubborn as eagerly trying to sell themselves on the Black Market.

   

The American doctors were stunned I had never had a colonoscopy, which they perform as a matter of course here after the age of 50. Three days before, you are required to eat a low-fibre diet, so I had fish, potato without skin, eggs and herbal teas.

   

The day before, the great purge began. No solids, just clear fluids, four tablets and a whole 8oz bottle of powder to be dissolved in 64ozs liquid - 32ozs of which has to be drunk six to eight hours before the procedure, which in my case meant setting the alarm for 4am.

   

Niagara Falls doesn’t begin to describe what happened to my bowels (stop reading now if you are squeamish); but by the time morning came round, I was peeing in stereo, with only my vagina a safe dry crevice separating the geysers either side.

   

Fussed over by no fewer than nine medics in all, I wafted around in a gown that could have housed three Texans and still had room for a multi-story. I was told I would have a twilight anaesthetic, which is like sedated sleep (although I was given the option to stay awake throughout if I wanted to. No thanks: give me The Twilight Zone every time). 

As with general anaesthetic, I had no memory of falling unconscious; I just recall being woken, when I started to tell them about a dream I’d just had; I think there were hamburgers in it which, not having eaten for 48 hours, was understandable.

   

The doctor arrived with photos of my super clean colon (I tell you, Donald Trump’s penthouse does not look more polished; there was not a molecule of waste in evidence. “It’s very clean, isn’t it?” I boasted. “Yes, you did really well,” she replied. I felt strangely proud; I may use one of the pics as my Christmas card). 

There was one polyp, which I had given them permission to remove, and now  that goes away for examination. Even if it comes back showing potential risk, it still means five years until my next colonoscopy, although most polyps are benign anyway.

   

I read more about colons, bowels and intestines in a week than I ever thought I would have to do in a lifetime. I lost just two pounds in weight, my stomach is still flabby, my tongue is sore as I bit on it throughout (clearly why no means no in the colonic vicinity) and I’m right out of toilet paper. 

But somewhere in West Hollywood, I’ve doubtless made some plumber’s day. 

HOW TO BE . . . GAY IN AMERICA

The message was clear. At least, they thought it was. On a glorious hot weekend in Los Angeles, rainbow colored flags, clothes, scarves, jewelry, dogs (you name it, rainbows owned it) took to the streets to celebrate Pride.

   

Except for THEM. The tiny group being penned in behind a metal barrier and being carefully watched by the police. They were like the Cybermen, sinisterly lurking in wait to attack the Tardis of pleasure. Their banners said it all - or would have done, had one man not also had a microphone, into which he bellowed the terrifying message. God’s pronouncement on the ten plagues of Egypt could not have been more sinister. I tell you, ten minutes later I could barely keep my cost price Pride Special Breakfast down.

   

Putting things in your “rear end” is WRONG! the beast declared. God is going to punish you for using your bottom as a parking lot (my words; you really don’t want to hear how explicit he was). So there. Engaging in this heinous activity will give you AIDS. “How many of your friends have DIED. . . Do you WANT HIV?” The capital letters rained down like a plague of locusts.

   

Then he got started on lesbians, for whom he had saved most of his wrath. “Wait till you get licked out by God!” (To be honest, he seemed to know a little bit too much about it all for my comfort. Does God even know what licking out means?). “Your vagina was not meant for a dildo!” He declared. Hey, mate, it wasn’t meant for yoghurt, either, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

   

I was in two minds whether to go over and bring him up on a point of order: straight women use dildos, too - usually when pricks like this make us lose all hope of ever finding a man.

   

Here was the legal issue: was it lesbians per se who were going to hell, or just the dildo-wielding lesbians? Or was the dildo itself the real crime of the drama? If a straight woman uses a dildo, does she stand more chance of passing the pearly gates than the heinous gay one? If a straight woman’s man is away on business, is she allowed to indulge as a point of desperation? I was so anxious to try to clear this up; it’s a moot point.

   

And back to the rear end. The voice boomed out that there were all sorts of unspeakable things that men were putting there (dildos suddenly sounded the least of everyone’s problems). Indeed, we wouldn’t believe what men were capable of in their uphill gardening (ok, the gardening bit is again mine, not the speaker’s; he had all sorts of words for the unsavory trough awaiting planting). The suspense was killing me. For the love of God, mate, tell us! My imagination was running riot. What goes up there? A toaster? Air con unit? A condo?

   

I have a lot of gay friends, male and female, and rear ends hardly ever enter the conversation; in fact, a lot of my gay male friends are rather averse to that part of the proceedings. Maybe they need to buy a toaster.

   

Apparently, the God Squad group gets smaller every year, which is a blessing. On a day celebrating diversity and tolerance, it’s ironic that it was only the Born Again Christians yelling their messages of hatred. If cars had been allowed on the street, I’d have been sorely tempted to...well, rear-end them.

   

How do people find the time to worry so much about what others are doing in their sex lives? I can barely get it together to think about whether I can be arsed to reach the remote for the telly, let alone hire a speaker system to discuss what people get up to amongst themselves. Who cares? Unless there is evidence of abuse, you can build a multi-storey in your vagina or rear end and you won’t hear any complaints from me.

   

Homophobes and lunatics aside, it was a joyous weekend. T-shirts backed their various causes - “I support planned parenthood”, “Lesbian single mom strong” - and strangers mingled with likeminded people as if they were long lost family.

   

I will admit to having felt a little bit out of it though - The Only Straight in the Village (the opposite of the UK’s Little Britain show featuring The Only Gay in the Village). With the exception of the friend I met for drinks, I didn’t meet one straight person the whole weekend. That’s nothing new, really. As friends have pointed out in the past, if I will take up residence in Soho (London), West Hollywood (Los Angeles) and Hell’s Kitchen (New York), I’m not going to meet Mr Right or, as I now prefer to say: I’m going to have to kiss a lot of toasters before I meet my Prince. And, let’s be honest, time’s running out. I’m 60 years old now: at the rate my underused innards are shrinking, I’ll be lucky if I’ll be able to harbor a cocktail stick, let alone a dildo.

   

One thing I took away from the day was what a family day Pride has become. Rainbow-decked kids were out in force with their families, gay or straight (I didn’t ask), and I felt proud (yes, pride with a small “p”) to be living in a time (at least, in our part of the world), where being gay does not make you an outcast; where those young people I saw on the street will know that being gay is not an affliction. To thine own self be true (Shakespeare). Be good to one another (Jesus - so stick that up your rear end, arseholes!).

   

Alas, much of the world and much of our own society in the so-called civilised world does not concur, as witnessed by the fanatics behind the barrier. But that barrier served as a metaphor: the bigots are behind bars, screaming to ever-decreasing circles as the world changes and evolves. Be proud.

   

And if I ever do meet Mr Right, I don’t want an effing toaster for a wedding present. Goddit?

  

HOW TO BE . . . A POLITICIAN IN AMERICA

OMG! I am a political genius. 

Why didn’t I think of it sooner? I’m getting straight on the phone to the White House as I think I’ve found the solution to the whole wall problem. Within hours, I could bring to a halt the shutdown that is crippling America. I could be next year’s Time Magazine Person of the Year. I might get freedom of the City of Washington. I could become President Trump’s New Best Friend.

   

I think he’d like me. Not least because I predicted he would be President the second he said he was standing. I suspect he’s probably got a wicked sense of humor (hey, come on – I can be as sycophantic as the next soon-to-be-sacked official). I certainly think I have something to resolve the current crisis engulfing the country, which I think would endear me to the President greatly. And I can say it in 10 characters, thereby leaving him a whole lot of others to bang on about whatever else he chooses on Twitter (apologies; I know that’s no way to talk about my NBF).

   

Until I got my Green Card last year (legally, since you ask), I’d never thought of a career in politics, much less American politics. But now I’m gripped by the daily soap opera it appears to have become. I’m so gripped, I’m taking Russian language classes (even though I’m already fluent after a bottle of Chianti). In the category in which I was applying for the Green Card, I had to state, under the “National Interest Waiver” (i.e. not having a job), what I was going to contribute as a legal immigrant - financial, social, artistic et al – and now I have it. I’m going to contribute to the political health of this great country.

   

True, I can’t stand for President, as I wasn’t born here, but maybe I could get all that changed. You see? I am already well into this narrative. But would I want to live in Washington DC? They go to bed before 2am there! How old am I? Four? 

And what if the Oval Office is too oval for me? How oval is it? American football oval, or Kiwi fruit oval? Can you hang paintings with rectangles in an oval office? Would I have to have an oval husband? I have a bit of an OCD thing going on with shapes, so this might prove something of an issue. I think I’d prefer a rectangular office. Or a hectagon. Is that allowed under the Constitution?

   

While we’re at it, I’m not too fond of the color white, either. Would I be allowed to paint the White House blue? How is anyone even supposed to find it in an East Coast snowstorm?

  

Sometimes, I think I over-think things. 

And maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

   

So, back to the main point and my solution for solving America’s current problems. Brace yourselves.

   

Here goes.

   

Forget the wall.

   

Build a moat!

   

Yes, a moat.

   

As an island, the UK has natural borders. Yes, I know you can fly in and bypass all that stuff, but if the President banned all flights from Mexico and the only way into the US was by water, how difficult would it be for people to get here?

   

Unless they had a Moses among them, doing his parting of the Red Sea party trick, it would be pretty much foolproof. No bricks, no steel: just a whacking great river with hyped-up rates for the dinghies so that only people earning upwards of a million dollars a year can afford them.

   

I’ve looked at a map of the world. Here’s how the moat’s going to work. You start digging at the Pacific Ocean and don’t stop until you reach the Gulf of Mexico. True, it’ll be expensive, but with a few men in hard hats and a couple of shovels, I think it could easily be accomplished. And Voila! Problem solved.

   

Britain’s prowess in ancient wartimes was the protection its geographic placement as an island offered it. Quite simply, they could see the enemy coming. They’d get up in the morning and, over bacon and eggs, look out of the window and ask “Hey, what’s that whacking great lump of metal coming towards us, bobbing along?”

   

“What, that whacking great thing that’s not going to reach us before Christmas next year?”

   

Then they had ample time to finish their breakfast (several), gather their weaponry, lie in wait, and before you could say “Hello, sailor”, everyone on said great piece of metal would be dead.

   

Water is by far the superior material for keeping the enemy at bay (in this case, literally and metaphorically) than any bricks, mortar or steel are ever going to manage, and I don’t know why anyone has not thought of it.

   

So, President Trump, I am putting myself forward as Head of Wall Planning (water division), and it’s going to work like this.

1.     Look at map. Slice land from left to right.

2.     Dig deep. Water will eventually appear.

3.     Ban all Mexicans from taking swimming lessons.

4.     Ban all flights in and out of Mexico.

5.     Tickets for boat trips to be bought in advance and only with ID (no swimmers allowed. Olympian medallists banned for life).

6.     Ban all men with the Christian name Moses from boarding said boats. Men with names Noah and Jonah subject to additional scrutiny. Look carefully into their working background regarding ark building and whale-hiding.

7.     Strictly no fishing in the moat (non-swimmers might hook themselves to a rod and goodness how many illegal immigrants that might bring in).

8.     No one knowing the words to River Deep Mountain High, Cry Me a River or, especially, Last Boat to America allowed in the moat at any time (check to see if in possession of a David Gray CD in relation to the latter – definitely a No No).

9.     No taco vendors allowed at water’s edge on Mexican side.

10.  No towels offered at water’s edge on American side.

I am America’s savior. Just floating it as a solution, Mr President.