Inequality - a brief thought

Whoever thought that the caste system was confined to countries like India never tried getting a  job in British theatre.

Discuss.

SPYING 101 - A strange profession

Being an spy, like being an actor, requires that one take at least a rudimentary interest in ones physicality. You have to have a basic level of fitness, in other words.

It is difficult to follow a suspect, have long evenings sitting observing a suspect in the cold, be tortured in various nefarious ways and attend all of those long boring conferences on Spy-craft that are advertised in the back pages of the Spectator, if you don't look after yourself.

Or you could just end up with a desk job if you're a bit porky.

Like acting, where if you put on a few pounds, it will be difficult to progress beyond the chubby cheerful friend who lurks in the background and only appears fully in shot to push the protagonist onto self fulfilling action and love. Unless you're Richard Griffiths of course.

I also had an audition coming up for Marie Popin, a French version of the old favourite Mary Poppins, featuring a flying Au pair and a sans culotte chimney sweep and set in the days of the Barricades in Paris. There was a chance, if it was successful, that it might transfer to Disneyland Paris and could be a nice little earner for a couple of years. And Au pairs might fly...

It was with this in mind that I realised I did not quite look the part of an indigent chimney-sweep and so undertook a somewhat stringent diet that Anna has used several times in the past when she wants to lose weight quickly. Called the Cambridge diet it seems to involve ingesting nothing more than variously unpleasant milk shakes and the odd soup. Very Odd.

Anna was not dieting at the time so didn't notice that I was sneaking her hideously overpriced products as meal replacements. This was probably just as well as I had been somewhat scathing of her dietary habits in the past and had a go at her for starving herself for the sake of her appearance.  Hypocrite is my middle name. Actually it's Eustace but I don't generally let on. I don't really have the stamina for dieting, if I'm honest but this was even worse than usual after two days I was weeping inconsolably as I watched The Great British Bake Off and yearning for a pie and a slice of Battenburg.

Sam (my CIA handler, if you recall) chose this moment to ring and offer me some work, of the less than legal variety. When I said no and told him to Eff off (having been threatened with castration by Anna if I ever went near him again) he did have the courtesy to ask if I was okay as I sounded 'a bit weird, even for me'.

I told him no, I was not okay, thank you very much for asking, but I had had enough and was doing a Cambridge and it didn't really sit well with me, what with my beliefs and all that. Then I heard Anna coming in through the front door and hung up on his protests.

Anyhoo, long story short and I got a callback for the part (profit share of course - those words that make an actors blood run cold, so I was in two minds) and it looked as though I might actually get the part. About six weeks after the above detailed phone call, there was a knock at my door.

When I answered, holding Giorgio in my arms, three men in matching black jackets and casual buff trousers, wearing sunglasses and carrying very smart briefcases, stood on the doorstep. They nodded a hello. And, in reference to my earlier argument, they were all very trim and smart. Though two of them had very fat necks. Oh great, I thought, The Men in Slacks.

I sighed. 'Look,' I said, 'I'm a blood donor, I carry a kidney donor card, I'm not particularly religious, my politics are lazy bordering on criminally neglectful, we have double glazing and loft insulation and most charities have received cheques from me at their offices as I'm extremely generous with the pittance I earn and I have a virgin going cold in the basement. So if you'll excuse me...'

They pushed past me, to my protestations and began taking apart light fittings and plugs.

'What are you...?' I managed to blurt out until I noticed one of them was packing a very small microphone into his briefcase, whilst the other was taking what looked to be a camera out of the skirting board. The third just stood off to one side, silently pointing to various apertures and fittings until the others removed whatever was hidden there.

'What is all this?' I shouted. Well, sort of muttered, as I'd noticed one of them was concealing a very large gun under his jacket. 'Who are you people?'

The leader approached me and reached inside his jacket. I flinched and turned around halfway so that Giorgio was at least partly shielded. I had thought about holding him in front of me in self defence (he'd been a bit grotty that morning and I was a bit tetchy with him if I'm honest), but then I thought about what Anna would do to me and decided being shot myself was probably the soft option.

Rather than a gun, the lead Man in Slacks pulled out a document of some kind and a pen and held them out to me. I stared at him blankly and he shook the piece of paper. I placed Giorgio down on a chair and took it from him.

It rambled on about how I had been identified as a possibly dangerous individual under the Terrorism Act but this had now been established as a mistake. They apologized for any intrusion but under said Act they were free to investigate any and all accusations and threats using whatever means possible. A cheque was attached to make repairs for the various listening and watching devices they had utilised in their surveillance of me, provided I signed the official secrets act form attached and mentioned this visit to no-one.

Reader, I was confused. I asked for further clarification but none was forthcoming. The lead Man in Slacks simply reached inside his jacket and this time he did pull out a gun. 

I signed. And off they went. As they left, the lead Man in Slacks called back over his shoulder that if my Irritable Bowel Syndrome was still a problem I should increase the fibre in my diet.

When Anna returned she thought I'd been up to some kind of DIY and no amount of explaining, complaining and swearing would convince her otherwise. I even showed her the cheque but, given that it was a Department of Work and Pensions giro this did little to help.

It wasn't until a couple of days later when Sam rang back that things got a little clearer.

He said he was calling back under instructions from his superior (how mealy mouthed is that for an apology?) but when I had said I was doing a Cambridge and sounded so panicky and on edge, he had assumed I was defecting and selling secrets to the Russians or the Chinese and so had instigated an investigation in order to find out what I knew.

He now knew that thinking that I knew now, or ever would know, anything of importance was foolish in the extreme and that all of the tapes and files against me would be sealed and only opened if I got myself together enough to commit some act of gross treason or kill someone.

I explained that he had better keep those files handy next time I saw him. Then I swore. A lot. As much as a troop of troupers who've just been informed of the latest round of pay cuts in the armed services.

He told me that by way of compensation he had arranged for Anna and I to have an all expenses paid holiday in Paris and we could maybe check out Disneyland while we were there. 

I was going to ask how he knew about that but then I realised, he'd have heard all about it over the microphones and on video. I swore at him some more but then, purely in a spirit of international co-operation and detente, I generously agreed that we would take the holiday.  Really, I should have known better... Talk about the holiday from hell.

I thought it was lucky that I'd lost all that weight, ready for a nice sexy break in Paris. But when I weighed myself I realised I'd actually put on a couple of pounds. Bugger.

INTELLIGENCE - IS IT OVERRATED?

SPYING 101 –  

Part 3: Intelligence 

Intelligence is the main currency of being both a spy and an actor.  

In this instance it generally means information, not being clever, which in the case of most spies/actors/directors I have had the ‘privilege’ to work with is just as well. 
Sometimes this information is in the public domain but more often it is not. So most of what the security forces deal with has nothing to do with what the everyday person would call intelligence.

As I say, being an actor is also often about intelligence – emotional intelligence, as the more up themselves in the trade would call it. One must gather information to create a believable scenario and character and convince onlookers that what they are watching is real and ‘true to life’. It can also mean digging out ‘nuances’ in the text that nobody knows or cares about and making them the pivotal idea for a production. If the audience is ‘intelligent’ in the same way that you are, they will love it. If they are not, or if have a soupcon of common sense, then they will hate it. 

Let me give you an example. 

I was recently asked (actually I begged for a role and even offered to work for free, but I had my own nefarious reasons for that – do you see what a tangled web we secret service operatives must weave in order to do whatever it is that we do?) to be in a new version of Othello. 

Not ever having actually read the play, I was surprised that my good friend Mr. Willoughby-Chase, (with whom I have only recently made things up after a few small misunderstandings involving the destruction of his flat in a fire and getting him shot in Edinburgh – though I would point out that neither of these things was in any way intentional) wanted to more research about the Moors in order to give the play a greater depth and make the murder scenes more believable than was usually the case.

 Having spent a couple of weeks driving around Haworth and Settle, and brushing up my Yorkshire accent, as well as reading a book about Ian Brady, I was very surprised that none of the rest of the cast seemed to have the same depth of knowledge, and their accents seemed more north African than Northern England. 

This is the problem with actors; they are often too arrogant to read briefs properly as they are from the South. Willoughby-Chase explained to me in no uncertain terms that my work was not really fitting in with everyone else’s efforts (though why that would be my problem I do not know – I think as usual I was used as a kind of Northern scapegoat), though as things turned out I had too many other commitments to appear in his rubbishy version of the play anyway – though I did notice in the reviews that Iago ‘had a whiff of Heathcliff and Othello had all of the nobility of Charlie Williams’, so my interpretation must have stuck, on some subliminal level. Other than that, the reviewer didn’t seem to like the production very much so I rather think the last laugh was with me. 

It is this kind of experience which makes me believe that I am cut out to be the perfect spy. Given that I am rather…idiosyncratic in my actions, it makes said actions hard to predict, and will often lead to confusion on behalf of any viewer of the resulting scenario. Or as Anna would have it – ‘given that you rarely have an effing clue what the buggering hell you’re on about, it’s effing impossible for anybody else to know what you’re bloody well up to…’, which I can’t help but feel is just a more impassioned way of saying exactly the same thing… 

Don't worry, dear Reader, I will go into this in more detail and give concrete examples elsewhere – you may wish to buy my books in order to learn the finer nuances of both acting and spying. The first volume (entitled Rant) will be available from Moth Publishing next year, at a very reasonable price...  People from the intelligent and non-intelligent communities alike will, I think, be enthralled. 

Then of course there is counter-intelligence, which is the spreading of (often false) information to mislead or entrap the opposition.  Anna has told me since reading this over my shoulder that most of the things I do are counter intelligent. LOL! Mind you, she’s a fine one to talk, given some of the revelations she has seen fit to share with me of late…and only then after I managed to get into her Facebook account. 

Readers of my books would not be surprised that they comprise a little of both intelligence and counter intelligence. As I have stated before, some details have been changed in order to stop me being arrested and/or getting a good kicking from the parties involved. 

Being involved with the intelligence services does mean that I am often privy to information which is withheld from the general public. Usually for reasons of security, more often for reasons of wishing to avoid embarrassment, or too many queries about the way tax dollars are spent. 

I have thought about using this information to my advantage. Not blackmail (though I am not above this, as readers of my biographies will know) but rather as a way of reassuring the public that those in the know, know little of any use, if you know what I mean… 

Perhaps I will start a website called MikiLeaks, putting such info into the public domain. Anna tells me that it sounds like a blog exploring the problems of living with double incontinence, but I quite like it myself. 

My books, of course, do exactly this, but in an entertaining and enterprising way. I do like to think that I could teach Julian Assange a thing or two about public relations. My only fear is that, living as I do in the remote provinces (i.e. the North) I do not know the address of the Ecuadorean Embassy, if such an institution were to still exist when I may have recourse to their services.

A Small Misunderstanding.

You would think that the police would be more interested if you rang up complaining of a bomb under your car. Especially when there are children in the house. Although I suppose that technically speaking my child wasn't in the house, and I was a little circumspect about the details, but still.

              Let me explain...

             Anna and Giorgio, having spent the morning playing in the garden and being abused by a group of youths who were hanging about, went off to nursery (and the mother and toddler Tae-Kwon-Do class they've been attending recently). I was due to go and pick them up so went out to check out the car for any danger signals (I have been doing this a lot more recently - for reasons I will explain at length somewhere else...)

             I noticed some wires hanging down at the centre of the car, underneath and, thinking it was something that had come loose, reached under to pull them out. It was as my hand clutched at the wires that I felt a solid mass shift and bump against the exhaust pipe, along with a loud ticking noise.

            Now I know that most people would have thought nothing of it, but as a jobbing actor and part time international spy I have to be a lot more careful than most people. And I remembered that there had been a bit of a bump and some rattling when I'd driver to the supermarket this morning. Which I had forgotten to check out on my return. It was for this reason that I ran into the street screaming and waving my arms about, frightening the group of youths who now had their BMX's and who were, presumably, preparing for the Olympics by kicking the shit out of next doors fence and falling over whilst swearing and throwing cans of energy drinks at old ladies.

             I told them to clear the area as quickly as possible and they told me to fuck off. So be it, I thought, That's natural selection at it's finest.  I then pulled out my mobile and phoned the police, explaining as quickly as possible to the somewhat reticent call taker that there was a slight problem with my car and that I required assistance as soon as possible. She asked for my postcode and the first line of my address. I told her. She said that nothing was coming up for that address. I explained, somewhat tetchily, that there would be nothing at that address if she didn't get here soon. She asked for the details again and I swore and told her. This time they came up. She said I had given her different details last time and I gently explained that she must have inputted them wrong and then she warned me not to swear. She then asked me what the problem was and, so as not to panic any passers by, I told her quite calmly that there was a major incident unfolding concerning my car (yes, I admit that I perhaps I screamed just a little, but who wouldn't given the circumstances). The can of energy drink bouncing off my head didn't help.

           I could hear the stiffness in her voice as she explained that she would pass the details on but they didn't have a car available in the area at the moment but would have someone check it out as soon as one became available. It took several seconds before I realised I was swearing into mid air.

          Unsure how to proceed, I phoned my CIA handler, Sam Smith (not his real name...I think). For a change, he answered immediately. I could hear voices jabbering away in a foreign language - possibly Russian. They sounded quite agitated. Sam actually sounded more nervous than I'd ever heard him.
           "Can't speak right now," he almost whispered, "I'm in the middle of something, darling..."

          "Won't keep you a second," I said, "but there's a bit of a situation with a bomb under my car and the police won't come out, so..."

          "MIKE! I canNOT speak right NOW!"

          The noise in the background seemed to be getting louder and more agitated.

          "But what should I do? It could go off and hurt someone. Even me."

          "Look! Call them back and give the codeword Anklesocks and tell them there is a terrorist incident unfolding and you require assistance as soon as...AAaaaargh!"

          There was a sound of gunshots and the line went dead.

          Oops. He was likely to be very cross with me the next time we spoke but I didn't have time to worry about it now. I called the police back.
           Once I had given my details again I heard the call taker sigh. What are the chances of getting the same person twice in a row? Surely there's more than one? Or have the cutbacks really started to kick in? I could tell she was about to fob me off again when I blurted out "Anklesocks!"
           There was a long silence, except for a series of clicks and buzzes on the line. Then a man came on sounding very brusque. He quickly asked for details and reassured me that help was on it's way and that I was not to leave the area.

          "But there's a-" I began, but he cut me off.
           "Hush, Sir. Not over an open line." And the phone went dead.

          I stared at it for a moment and then felt a tap on my shoulder. As I turned, one of the BMX boys punched me in the face, whilst the others laughed.

          "What are you...?" I gurgled, clutching at my nose.

          "Shut up, Grandad," he hissed, and took the phone from my hand. Was this the bomber? "Give me you car keys."

          I started fishing in my pocket whilst his friends advanced on me. He took the keys and he and his friends piled into the front and back seats of the car.
           "You'll be sorry," I said.

          "Oh, yeah?" He came back over to where I lay and raised his foot to kick me, and then we both froze, as we listened to the sound of sirens building in the distance. Then a helicopter appeared over the rooftops. Wow! Talk about efficiency. BMX boy looked as though he didn't know whether to shit or go blind, but in the end he did neither and just jumped into the driver's seat, almost running me over as he reversed into the street.
          They didn't get very far. Several police vans and cars screeched into the end of the road and cut him off, whilst several very large men armed with very large guns surrounded the car and the helicopter hovered overhead, a loud voice crackling through the bullhorn that they were not to move, or the armed response unit would have no choice but to open fire. No cars available in the area indeed, I thought. What is the world coming to if the police lie to you like that?
          I looked around, dazed. Then I spotted Giorgio's remote controlled LovePuppy lying on the drive. The one his Grandma had bough him for his birthday. His favourite toy. There were wires hanging out of it's belly, where I must have run over it this morning, and it's legs were still clicking and ticking away as it tried to crawl off up the path.
          Oops.
          The police took me in for questioning, obviously. You can't even be assaulted and mistake a child's toy for a bomb without bringing all kinds of trouble down on your head. I explained that I had gone out that afternoon to my car and a gang of youths had attacked me, taking my phone and car keys. I had heard one of them on the saying something about terrorists and anklesocks but had assumed it was some kind of youth slang for stealing a car.
          I don't know if they believed me or not but they decided to keep my phone. They asked a few more questions and the lady who had answered the phone on my original calls couldn't be sure it was me that she had spoken to as the caller 'had seemed a lot more camp, or maybe just effeminate'. Cheek. I was under duress at the time.
          When I got back, there was a crater and burn marks on the tarmac at the end of the road, where they had to blow up my car just in case there was an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) attached to it. I explained what had happened (the edited version I had shared with the police) to Anna, but I could tell she was even less inclined to believe me than the police were.
          Still. Everything turned out okay in the end. Although Sam doesn't seem to be answering his phone at the moment. Maybe he's still pissed off with me.

AN ACTOR PREPARES

Why, oh why, oh why do I keep getting into these situations?  It certainly isn't for love of the work. That stopped being glamourous and became just plain dangerous some time ago. An I really am not that patriotic - or only in that whiny, 'I couldn't get away with being who I am anywhere else on the planet kind of a way.

Let's examine the facts, dear readers.
I am poorly paid for what I do.
I am at the sharp end of my profession.
Others are well remunerated.
They sit behind a desk.

Now I know this is often the case. Be it as an actor (the creative driving force within culture, the people who get things done whilst producers pick our pockets) or as a spy (out there getting shot at or threatened with death in other, more creative ways, whilst OTHER  PEOPLE (you know who you are) sit at their desks telling us what to do and then deny all knowledge of our existence when it comes down to it) I find it doubly hard to take.

They will tell you that this is because, as you move up the scale in terms of your wage packet, you will have to take more responsibility and therefore the buck stops with you. If something goes wrong, it is your head on the block.

I have only one word to say to that. BANKERS.

I don't think that if I screw up (and believe me I often do) that I should be paid four years wages in compensation and then given the same job somewhere else. Well, actually I do, but I am realistic enough to know that it will never happen.

I am writing this as I am trapped inside a prison with several score of very dangerous prisoners and a group of very dangerous terrorists, whilst the people who pay me a derisory wage are undoubtedly  watching events unfold on a screen somewhere, chuckling gently to themselves whilst stroking a white Persian cat and hovering their finger over the button of mutually assured destruction.

I hate running drama workshops. Especially in prisons. I am supposed to be teaching a class on 'Conflict Management Through the Dramatic Arts' but one of my students got miffed when I told him his interpretation of Ray Cooney was a bit wooden and seems to have broken my nose. It does little for ones respect among the other members of the class. I may well have to record them doing some contemporary dancing this afternoon and then post it on YouTube.

Spying 101 - Part 2

SPYING 101 (PT 2)

Pursuit and observation.

As a spy, pursuit is important, as is (obviously) spying.

The key is not to let people know you are following or observing them, as this will somewhat defeat the point and the 'mark' (technical term for the person you are following, or followee, which can become confusing if the person you are following is actually called Mark) might behave differently.

When observing someone, it is best to never make eye contact with anyone and at the same time to pretend you are not listening to their conversation whilst storing up anything that can be used against them. Scowl to yourself as though you something much more important on your mind than them. Or play with your i-pod headphones whilst tutting. As an actor I try to imagine I am a fourteen year old EMO girl and this usually sets the right tone.

If you have access to recording equipment (mobiles sometimes have this capacity - or you could use a dictaphone - best of all is if you can bribe a nearby employee to give you access to their CCTV and have a secretarial assistant with good shorthand skills sit with you, though I'm aware that not everyone has this facility, including me) then use it so that you have a concrete record of any naughtiness which may occur.

If you should gain employment with the CIA you will find that all of the above happens as a matter of rote, though you will probably not be given access to it until your lawyer demands it, and even then it's touch and go.

Learn to read their body language - they may appear nervous or perhaps agitated, which could be a sign that they are up to something. Though I have learned to my cost that it does occasionally mean that they have noticed you watching them and they don't like it. At this point use your judgement to decide the best time to leave (before the police arrive is my advice).

If the 'mark' should move then you have to be able to 'shadow' them without arousing suspicion. The best thing would be to have two or three 'agents' follow them in a kind of 'tag-team', but this is not always possible. A change of clothing can help to throw them off. By this I mean a different jacket or hat, maybe even shoes. Changing your trousers in the street is often counter-productive. False moustaches, wigs, contact lenses for close-up work and even false teeth can help too - they will also disguise your accent in a unique and simple way. If you are a proficient actor, like me, change your accent regularly as well as your facial expression - or pretend to have a strange facial tic (though be frugal with this last one, there is fine line between disguise and psychosis).

Practice. This cannot be emphasised enough. Find ways to hone your skills, especially with people you know. This makes shadowing harder, as they are more likely to recognise you, but is less embarrassing if you do get caught. I began with the tabby cat from over the back garden. Standing still when it was looking and creeping slowly up when it looked away. After I few goes I managed to get quite close and then realized I was in next doors garden and the old lady who lives there was watching me. She opened the window and leant out to tell me to fuck off. Luckily I was wearing a long ginger wig and a black boiler suit so I don't think she recognised me.

For the last few weeks I have been following my wife Anna to work and to the shops - even into the garden. I even managed to hide in the laundry basket whilst she went to the toilet, though I almost suffocated when she piled a load of dirty nappies in there - though she did say afterwards that it was a shock to find me there as she had no idea where I was.

Following her has put all of my skills to the test. Ducking into doorways, running around back lanes and side streets in order to get ahead of her and then waiting in shops for her to pass, changing between my overcoat and hoodie. And today I even ducked into a taxi and had him circle the block whilst she was in Bravissimo. Then my phone went and it was, of course, a text from Anna telling me that if I didn't 'stop being a silly bugger' and following her around, she would 'get a restraining order against me.' How we laughed. Or I did. Still don't know how she spotted me.

I headed for home and began following the old man from across the road. Very difficult, as he has a rottweiler that kept growling at me and glancing back, so I had to hide in bushes or behind cars. He shouted that he could see me and was going to call the police, but I don't think he could, as I was in number 62's wheelie bin at the time.

I waited until I was sure he'd gone and sneaked back to our house. There I found the tabby cat from across the back garden shitting on our doorstep. I tried to sneak up on him and catch him in the act but he heard me coming and was gone before I could get close enough to get a photo. Took a couple of shots of the poo though and cleaned it up. Will go around and have words with the owner later, once I've 'cased' the joint and made sure it's not a sociopath or anything that he lives with. There are some strange types around.

Must go now. Anna is home and seems to be having a somewhat fraught conversation with the rottweiler owner from up the road. She keeps looking up at the house in what can only be described as an agitated manner. Time to put my concealment skills to the test, methinks...

SPYING 101

SPYING 101

Most people do not choose to become spies. Fact. They are either recruited from other fields (the Army, Navy, Civil Service, Police, Gentlemen’s Clubs or drug dens - though the last two are almost synonymous).  Or like me you may just find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and may have no choice but to take on and foil a worldwide criminal network for the greater good.  This means that most spies do not know what they are doing from one moment to the next – so it’s not just me.

This handy guide is meant as a basic course in spying, should you find yourself in a position, like I did, where the safety of the country is in your hands, God help us.

Part One – Lying

There is a reason why, if you should be writing a poem about spying (and I don’t know why you would be but bear with me here) the obvious rhyme that will spring to mind is ‘lying’ (though there is ‘crying’ but I think that’s just me.) To be a spy is to be a liar, to live a lie, to never let it lie. This is, luckily for me and the people I work for, very similar to my life as an actor, as will hopefully be made clear in the following guide.

There are three basic types of lie (for reasons of space I do not include here ‘Lying as a member of parliament’)

1.                              Dissembling. This is the kind of lying that is too dishonest and/or lazy to even call itself lying. It is allowing others to live with assumptions they have already made or with information they have been given by a third party. If someone assumes that I am Lord Crackenthorpe and that I am in on their dastardly deeds, then is it really my job to disabuse them if it is to my advantage. Also, as an actor, if I say on my CV that I have appeared in, say, Hamlet, and the director assumes I mean alongside David Tennant at the Globe rather than in a rather dodgy am-dram production that toured primary schools and ran at 29 minutes – who am I to disappoint him?

2.                              Lying by omission. Into this category falls my conversation with my wife, Anna, regarding my trip to the Television Awards in Edinburgh a few years ago. This was true. I was up for an award, I was travelling to accept my award, and up until the last few days that was my sole intention. The fact that I omitted my secondary role (to act as a mule in a somewhat illegal transaction involving disaffected members of the military who were planning to commit a terrorist act known as the RAIL project) was entirely for her own good. Not that she saw it this way. And I suppose the fact that she refused to tell me that she loved me for six months (let alone actually see me) was a kind of lying by omission. And the fact that, when I was recruited by the CIA I was given no idea of what the wage scale was. (It wasn't nearly so remuneratively attractive as you might imagine.)

3.                              The lie outright. When an actor sees the question ‘Can you ride a horse, use a sword, do a decent Jamaican accent and fly an aeroplane?’ the answer is always yes. In fact any statement beginning ‘must have experience of…’ is fair game for the actor to lie outright and then go and buy the relevant ‘Complete Simpleton’s Guide to…’ The spy is exactly the same. A basic crib sheet and the stupidity to think that this means you know what you are getting yourself into are the basic requirements in each case. In fact they are the only requirements. This means that when I run onto a train in the full knowledge that there is a bomb on board somewhere I am torn. Does one, as a spy, remain calm and collected and lie to the assembled company that there is no problem - whilst frantically but quietly searching for a solution? Or does one's innate sense of the overly dramatic lead one to run about like a headless chicken, screaming like a toddler who has just seen the Directors Cut of Bambi? The answer, dear readers, can be seen in the second instalment of my adventures, RAIL. But it is not pretty. Or necessarily true.

So, as an actor, spying suits me, in the way that working for Channel 5 suits a TV presenter or prostitution suits a law student, but lying for a living does give one pause for thought. The 'truth' becomes something flexible and slippery. And my life does seem, at the moment, to be heading in a very strange direction. Lying begets lying and I am only just beginning to understand the ramifications of that...

Join me soon for the second instalment of my thoughts on spying - Following, Tracking and Stalking - the Finer Points of the Law

Olympic Debacle

Whilst the news is never good concerning the Olympics - the bright spot for me this week has been hearing a Manchester Police Officer using the word 'debacle' at every opportunity. Never has the word been said with such feeling or meaning as in a Mancunian accent.
I did apply to work for G4S at the Olympics but my application was turned down, which I feel was an absolute disgrace, given my endless service to Queen and country as an undercover spy. I would like to reiterate that I single-handedly (well, nearly) saved the London Olympics from the hands of money grabbing criminals, though they seem to be cashing in anyway in the guise of security firms and builders... Though I did later discover that the reason I didn't get the job was mainly because my CIA handler refused to fill in my reference.
Probably just as well really, as I begin filming for the new Mockumentary based on the life of King William this week. Exciting script based on his lifetime spent trying to unite the country after invading it in the name of a foreign power (France) and sucking all of the money back into his European domains - topical no? Apparently he had to agree to huge list of demands and became known as the 'Yes-man', or William the Concurrer. Unfortunately I'm playing Harold so my screen time will be limited. Anna caught me winking into the mirror last night and couldn't stop laughing. Such is the price one pays for living ones art in the public sphere.
Good to see Greece managing to field a full crop of athletes though. Still feel a little guilty after what I managed to do to their economy a couple of years ago - can't go into details here but you can read all about it in Ramp, the third exciting installment of my biography, coming soon to a remainder shop near you.
My Ghost-writer (Alfie Crow) leads me to believe that it is the funniest/most exciting/most liberal with the truth so far - but then he would say that.

Hello. Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and fame... Not. My story is a curious one, even to me, and I have been encouraged to set it down for posterity by friends and loved ones, and my bank manager. Those of you who have read the first volume of my memoirs, Rant, (and if you haven't, why not?) will understand how I became embroiled with the super (and not quite so super) villains of our age and saved one of our national institutions from ignominy and money laundering. I will endeavour through this blog to record my involvement with numerous shadowy secret government organisations at the arse-end of the fight for freedom, and to show how you too could end up fighting the good fight, albeit accidentally. Sounds unlikely? Well if you could just bear with me and let me explain... Or better, buy my book. Look ye on my works, ye mighty, and weep. Or if this is Anna, my lovely wife, reading, then try not to laugh too heartily whilst drinking your tea. It makes such a mess. Until next time, with love and subterfuge, Mike Rant P.S. Buy my book. You begin to see how I have absorbed the brainwashing techniques employed by the CIA? My publisher does not condone water boarding. Yet.