I've blown it...

I swung by my ex-lodger and 'reformed' drug dealer Malcom Powder's squat yesterday to bury the hatchet (see here) and to show him the brand new leaf blower I got in the 364 day sale at B & Q. He was not impressed.

You wooden believe it

It's not all glitz and glamour in the showbiz game you know. I tried to grab five minutes to eat my 'La Dolce Ryvita' diet slice in the Channel 4 canteen this lunch time. As you can see though every single seat was taken by the cast of Hollyoakes.

Hold on Nan.

What a day I had yesterday. My Doctor (Doctor Hook) prescribed me some tablets for my athletes foot. The tablets had worked like a treat apart for the side affect of memory loss. I’d been walking around in a dream like trance all day (itch free) when my dear old Nan called in a right old state. Her Fiat Yugo had broken down round the back of Lidl and she needed me to come and sort it out. Knowing that the car park at Lidl becomes ‘Dogging Central’ after 9pm I set off at pace. The tablets had obviously affected my memory because it took me a good 2 hours to drive to the car park which is only a 20 minute walk from my flat (18 minutes on pogo stick.) As luck would have it the Doggers were only just warming up and I got Nan on her way before the cock started flying. As I pulled out of the car park I suddenly remembered that I was supposed to be heading up to Norfolk for a whittling weekend at my agent Bernie Shimshelwitz’s country retreat. I called Bernie and explained that the tablets were playing high havoc with my memory system, he told me that if I didn’t get there by 11 he’d have to give Nick Berry the futon. I floored it. (125mph through South Mims) and cleared the M25 in record time and hit the country lanes at break neck. It was then I noticed the car behind me was right up my arse, flashing its headlights and making me well nervous. I was using some of my best driving moves but the driver behind me was taking risks, bouncing off the grass verges and keeping up with me every step of the way (we both got a good 2 foot of airtime at one point.) At this stage I was convinced that my pursuer was determined to follow me to the gates of hell. Then the tablets started to wear off and in a moment of clarity I remembered I had my Nan on tow. Yikes!

Click, click & Drag.

Whoever coined the phrase* ‘The camera never lies’ wouldn’t have bothered if they’d seen this photo of me taken at recent shoot for a ‘Man about Town’ feature for ‘Crash Mat’ magazine (a biannual publication for retired stuntmen.) I thought the shoot went really well but when the proofs came back it was obvious that something had gone tits up. Turns out the camera they used is known in the trade as the ‘Billy Bullshitter’ which would explain why its lens grew every time it took a picture of me. I don’t even smoke.

* It was actually my agent Bernie Shimshelwitz that coined the phrase ‘To coin a phrase.’ He earns a royalty every time someone uses one or coins a new one. He’s ‘raking it in.’ (That’s another £5.65 in the Shimshelwitz hedge fund.)

Pooper Trooper

Occasionally most aspiring actors have to resort to ‘extra’ work to make ends meet. Here’s a picture of me back in the 80s between scenes on Return of the Jedi. Unfortunately for me and 299 other storm troopers, it wasn’t just the Jedi that made an unwelcome return. The one woman catering van they had in, 'Beverley Grills', served up Chilli con Carne, though what the carne was it was con I’m yet to figure out. Anyway, suffice to say the bog in my hotel room found itself on the dark side for three days straight and I wasn’t able to get off it in time to deliver the one line I’d practically begged George for – “I’ve been watching Han Solo and Ewoks around the clock Lord Vader”. That could have made me that line. A line fit for a king, but I was stuck on the throne. Typical.

Thank F*ck we're out!

To cut a long one short, me and my agent Bernie Shimshelwitz were (by default) forced to become the front and back end of a promotional unicorn for the latest Narnia film. Needless to say the expected happened. When it was time for our union regulation cafe creme break Bernie and I spent an age writhing around attempting to free ourselves from our mystical costume. After a good 45 minutes the heat eventually overwhelmed us and panic set in as Bernie was unable to reach his ventolin inhaler that he had stashed in his bum bag, thankfully a member of the gathering crowd had called the fire brigade who, after a little gentle persuasion managed to free the zipper which had become snarled up in Bernie's hefty pubic region. I don't think anyone there that day was prepared for what emerged from that unicorn least of all class 4F from the local primary school. I tried in vain to stop the screaming by sticking the unicorn's blue mane on my head and offering the kids free rides but it was too late. The Police were called and Bernie and I were carted off to the local nick, later released without charge or clothes. Apparently the case would never have stood up in court.

Grease is the word

The more I learn about Pat Maggs, the more I like her. She’s been getting complaints and ironic remarks from customers for years about the greasy floor in her café. Now Pat has plenty of positive attributes, but cleanliness, a decent work ethic and cooking are not really among them. However, she’s nothing if not inventive. She stopped even pretending to clean the floor about a month ago, instead taking just a few minutes out to draw up a poster on her Commodore 64 ‘pooter which read; ‘EXERCISE AND HEARTY FOOD GO HAND IN HAND AT PAT MAGGS’ PLACE – any customer who can slide the length of the café from the door to the counter without stopping will get their ‘all-day breakfast Gutbuster’ absolutely free (not including tea or bread and butter or condiments or milk or sugar).’
I prefer to keep a bit of pride in tact if I can so I put me Reebok Supergrips on before visiting Pat’s place, happy to pay my £2.50 and watch as representatives from all sections of society try to get summat for nuthin by taking a run up from the bus-stop opposite and hurtling towards the counter like bambi on ice, screaming “Gutbuster please!” as they go. It can’t go on like this though, there’s a film of blood sitting atop the grease slick now, which I’m sure must contravene food hygiene laws somewhere along the line. Good old Pat.

...You have no messages...

I’ll always feel sorry for my old friend and ‘Double Dutch’ skipping partner Ken Dunkley. He never received any bookings for his one man show. I always felt his marketing strategy was a little too exclusive. It’s a real shame, he had one of the finest falsetto voices I’ve ever heard.

The drugs DO work...on stubborn stains.

With the credit crunch squeezing us all dry I've been forced to take in a lodger. I only got one response to the ad I put in the Metro (most likely because of a hideous typo which meant that applicants must be prepared to share balls) and that was from a scruffy looking bugger called Malcolm. He had a beard, but I recognised him straight away as the drug dealer who used to hang around stage door at the Empire when I was in Aladin with the kids form Hear 'Say. They used to know him affectionately as Malcolm Powder. Anyroad, he promisd me he was going straight so, since I had no other choice, I got him a set of keys. Well blow me if I didn't get home last night to find Malcolm hunched over a pile of white powder on my glass coffee table. I went spare and threatened to heave him out. He assured me the powder was Vim so I chucked him a damp Brillo pad and watched as he slowly scrubbed away the Bovril stains with tears running down his face. He'll thank me one day.

Don't take the Mickey

My agent, Bernie Shimshelwitz was in Amsterdam at the weekend trying to regain his yoof and lose his mind simultaneously. Unluckily, after doing a massive dose of magic mushrooms and smoking the dimps out of fourteen ashtrays, he woke up in the middle of a riot about dog dirt or canal pollution or some other heavyweight Liberal dilemma. Poor old Bernie thought the canal boat he’d been snoozing on had delivered him to EuroDisney. I’m glad I wasn’t there to witness the kicking he got after demanding that the geezer pictured shout “Hello Pluto!” and autograph ‘Love from Mickey’ on a king-size Rizzla.

Election Section

I had a call from my agent Bernie Shimshelwitz earlier. He told me I had to get up to speed with everything that was going on in the American Presidential race. Apparently he’s landed me a part in a new Hallmark TV movie reprising a role that I played a few years ago. Back in 2004 I starred in a softcore porno called: ‘How to get Bush in the Whitehouse’ (You’ve probably seen it.) To be fair most of the scenes involved ‘Big Dick’ Cheney but it transpired that my understated performance as Gordon Brown struck a chord with the public and critics alike. Anyway, it seems that my Brown is in demand again but Bernie is worried that my ignorance of world politics may lose him his 10%. He may be right. I have to admit my knowledge of the two presidential candidates is patchy. I thought that John McCain was in Die Hard and that Barack Obama was a holistic cream of some sort. My dear old Nan wasn’t much help; she was certain that Barry Sheen was the President of America. I think she’s confused him with Martin Sheen, which is wrong twice but I didn’t have a chance to correct her as she was watching Countdown.

Twice Knightly

I got a call from Brendan, the landlord from the Rabbit and Ladder last night. He was urging me to get down there as, out of the blue, Kiera Knightly had wandered in for a Taboo and Blackcurrant. When I arrived the place was heaving, even Paranoid Polaroid Pete the local paparazzo was there with his Box Brownie. It was all a waste of time though. I’ve been in this game long enough to be able to spot a ringer. It wasn’t Kiera Knightly at all but some bird on the books at Starlike Express lookie likee agency. Starlike has a reputation of taking on people who don’t actually look that much like their subjects. The company formed some twenty years ago when a bloke that looked just a tiny bit like Dennis Waterman started doing public appearances as 'The Re-Minder'. It seems they're keeping up with the times and Brendan was well pleased with the business Kiera Slightly brought to the Rabbit and Ladder. Fairdos I suppose.
Other Starlike Express clients include; Roger Mooreorless, Jerry Hallmost, Rudolph Nearenough, Oliver Hardly, Nicole y’Kiddingman, Keith Moonie, Nearlee Van Cleef and P Diddie Eckerslike

(email me email@harrisonbanks.co.uk if you can think of any suitable applicants for Starlike representation and I’ll pass them on.)

"I've just bumped into Nearly Sedaka outside Mornington Crescent tube." - James, UK

"Glenn Close??" - James, UK

"How about the Queen guitarist - Brian Maybe?" - Klas, Sweden

"Similart Garfunkel??" - Dolph, USA

"Yoko Ono It Isn't - John Non Jovi" - Dale, UK

"Ronnie Corbitlikehim" - anon

"Asif-a Powell" - Kerry, UK

"Elaint Paige" - Peter, UK

"Mark Knotfler" "Gary Cooperhaps" "Danny De Wouldyoubelievito" "PartiAL Pacino"- Mark, UK

"Harvey Quite-el and Robert Di Nearo" - Lizzie, USA

"George Cloney" - Pez, UK

"John Bel-who's-he (Blues Brothers)" - Connor, USA

What's on your iPod #9

So, I’m on the train heading homewards, I stick on the old iPod, hit shuffle and what does it throw up? Only the perfect album for anyone returning from an ill-fated adventure that’s what. Don’t be fooled by their rather pious exterior (although you can’t help but wish that the camera would spin round to reveal just what the progeny of this pair might look like) Weldon and Betty Jo can really mash it up. And they hit the ground running too, track one’s entitled ‘Take Your F**king Shoes Off’ – and there’s no let up for a further 16 pumping tracks. I’m ready to take on the world again.

It's goodnight from me, and it's goodnight from Himler...

Well, I made my mind up that I had to leave the show and head home. We’d been told that we were to close the Holyhead leg a week early anyway since there didn’t seem to be much demand there for a bawdy farce set in a WW2 PoW camp. I wasn’t upset to hear it, I’d never been comfortable anyway; I’d had to fight tooth and nail in rehearsal to get them to cut the rather risqué shower scene and Roger De Courcey’s no Robert De Niro whatever my ass of an agent might say. Anyway, De Courcey’s decided to stay with the show as it moves on to New Orleans, but there’s to be a wind of change as I’m afraid they’re going to have to recast the role of Major Downturn. I’m off, back to the city to rebuild my career. Goodbye ‘Third Reich from the Sun’ and good luck.