Rea ended...nearly

I don't know what's happened to the Season of Goodwill, but I've just been cut up on the M4 by Chris Rea of all people. I don't know where he was headed, but he was driving like a right nutter.

A bum deal

I’ve taken on some unlikely roles in my many years in the business, but rarely have I stooped lower than when my agent, Bernie Shimshelwitz, persuaded me to play Andy Garcia’s arse double in the, straight to DVD bargain bin, debacle ‘Things To Do In Devon Then Instead’. Now Garcia has a famously hirsute chest and back (see here) but, strangely, this does not extend to his backside which resembles Grant Mitchell having his way with Gail Porter. Enter Harrison Banks then for the not so hilarious “Quick-pull-up-your-pants-my-grandson’s-home” scene. Now I’m quite proud of my bum, which has been likened to two boiled eggs in a mohair sock, but I could’ve done without the constant sniggering of the crew and a director who kept insisting I was coiffeured between takes because “There’s just no way Mr Garcia would have a centre parting.”
More humiliation followed at the wrap party when I had to drop me cords and take a bow before Andy even recognised me.
What goes around comes around though as I was the only cast member to get a decent review.

In sickness and in Elf

What a torrid weekend I had. I got a call from my agent Bernie Shimshelwitz last week telling me he’d landed me a sweet little acting job for the festive season. Chief elf in Santa’s grotto in BHS Thurrock wasn’t as high profile as I would’ve liked but a job’s a job and I’ll be honest if I’m ever going to be able to afford the ‘race & chase’ Scalextric that my dear old Nan wants for Christmas I’ll need every penny I can lay my hands on. I was due to start on Saturday so to celebrate being back in the game I decided to take Bernie out on Friday night for the all you can eat Indian buffet down at Balti Towers. I don’t know what happened but I’m guessing I must’ve downed a moody bhuna because my stomach was all over the place when I clocked into Santa’s grotto on Saturday morning. 80 screaming kids, a tight elf costume and a rancid gut is certainly an unholy trinity and unfortunately things took a turn for the worse 10 minutes in. I’d just sat a little lad named Clive on Santa’s knee, he wanted a Nitendo Wii for Christmas what he got was something very different. Without warning I let out a mighty, rasping guff; the odour of which was so unforgivable that I instantly vomited all over the back of Santa’s noggin. The smell of chunder set off a chain reaction of gagging and bawking throughout Santa’s grotto, the sight of Santa picking chunks of turkey bhuna out of his beard was too much for little Clive who had wet his pants in confusion and fear, not quite the wee he had expected. I took the rest of the day off.

Charge of the Light Brigade

My celebrity star has, admittedly, been on the wane somewhat recently, so with no panto tights to fill and no switching on the lights in Leighton Buzzard town centre to look forward to, my agent, Bernie Shimshelwitz asked me to be the celebrity guest to switch on his very own Christmas lights spectacular (pictured). It’s good that the Jewish community are happy to join in the fun this time of year and the Shimshelwitz’s even invited Rabbi Burns along for the switch on. When I flicked the switch and the skies around Sidcup lit up with Bernie’s home made Aurora Borealis one could not help but feel some yuletide joy. This joy was soon replaced by dread when a newsflash revealed that a power surge in the Kent area was causing mayhem. Apparently Bernie’s Heath Robinson wiring had caused the lights to flicker at the local children’s hospital and the medication time alarm system was blaring out at 4,000 decibels. The epileptics were freaking out due to the flickering lights, police units from all over the county were sent to break up the ‘rave’ and now they were looking for someone to blame. As I looked around me I saw that Bernie had legged it, Mrs S was in tears and our resident holy man was like a Rabbi in the headlights. It was left to me then to explain the disaster to the chief constable. Fortunately he recognised me from an episode of the Bill I did in 1994 and, after explaining to me the correct way to present my helmet when ‘at ease’, he let me off with a caution. Happy Christmas, Harrison.

Don't believe everything you're told

You can't teach an old dog new tricks? That's precisely what Paul Daniels has been doing for the last 20 years.

Strictly Cum Dancing

In an effort to keep my mind off chinning cigs I decided to join my local Biodanza class. For those of you in the not know Biodanza is a dance fusion that aims to reconnect you with life and sexual being. Basically it’s like dirty dancing for the over 40’s. The first lesson didn’t exactly go well, I was paired up with Diane from Pinner, a right munter, breath like Iams and a face like a farmer’s arse. Our first routine was ominously called ‘The anal splice’ which involved me frenetically rubbing up against Diane’s bottom whilst we stumbled around the dance floor like two Bedouin wrestlers. If I’d have known this frottage was going to create so much friction I never would’ve worn my wide groove corduroys as, unbeknown to Diane, a small fire broke out in her rump region and the next thing I knew she was being foamed down by the appointed fire officer. Luckily the panic that spread through the rest of the dancers allowed me to attend to my lazy lob, I was reminded of Kings of Leon's ‘Sex on fire’ but not in a good way. I stopped off at Superdrug on the way home and bought some nicotine patches and a tube of Germolene.

The Needle and the Damage Done

I’ve been trying to give up smoking recently. First I tried the cold turkey approach, but the mayonnaise was making me fat. Next my agent, Bernie Shimshelwitz, booked me a course of acupuncture at the ‘A Friend In Knead’ massage and beauty parlour. I’d been there before for a head massage (see here) so I wasn’t expecting much. Just as well cos when Mr Bleedin’ Miagi had finished with me I looked like that geezer from Hellraiser. He left a pin sticking out from behind my ear the idea being that, every time I fancied a smoke, I was to give it a tweak and the craving would be replaced by a feeling of calm and fulfilment. Not quite what I experienced when, on my moped on the way home from the first session, I sneezed into my crash helmet and stabbed myself in the jaw at the same time, which sent me skidding, knee-cap first, into a belisha beacon. Once I’d scraped my Honda C50 off the zebra crossing I hobbled straight into Fourbuoys for 10 Camel Lights.
Bernie’s next trick was to sneak up on me while I dozed in my hospital bed and cover me in those nicotine elastoplast things. He calls them my acupuncture repair kit. His heart’s in the right place I s’pose.