Two types of people you should never trust: writers and actors; one is an egotistical fantasist and the other a fantastical egotist.
Years ago, through the machinations of a single-serving friend called Simon I was offered the part in a local play - Pygmalion! I didn’t want to be in it and had no aspirations of being an actor at all; I preferred to write my own fantasy even back then, but I was told that there wouldn’t be much to remember and I was desperately needed. I was younger and more tractable back then and so I acquiesced. He was over the moon, and so was his father (Let’s call him Mr Simon), who was the director of the play. They couldn’t find anyone to play the part of Mr Doolittle and I was uncouth enough to pull it off.
I had long suspected that there was something more to the ‘comradeship’ that Simon and his family offered; certainly, they were of a much higher standard of living than me and it showed. I was often invited over for supper and treated to nights at the theatre -all of which I was, and still am, grateful for; but in my more cynical moments I can’t help but wonder whether they saw it as some kind of charity work. Please don’t get me wrong, they couldn’t have been nicer to me, but they were more than a little aloof and treated me with a kind of benevolence you would normally give to a sickly animal.
For the first audition I arrived a little early, determined to be eager in appearance at least. I was greeted with earnest graciousness; a necessary outsider as no one would lower themselves to such a working-class background even in the play. They were widely known as an incestuous bunch; they didn’t like new people moving into the village let alone anyone new entering their precious Am Dram society; they were puritans and loved Morris Dancing and traditional folk songs. Even though they greeted me with outstretched hands and toothy smiles their gaze and grips were ice cold and threatening. I was an outsider; worse, I was a necessary outsider. How that must have festered!
They explained to me the premise of the play as if they were talking to a child and I was now really regretting this. All of them had an effete sense of superiority that only comes through breeding or coming into money; not through actually working for it. I realised I could change the evening from a complete washout to a potential source of amusement and play them at their own game.
“Do you understand what the play is trying to say?” Cordelia asked me, her cracked voice trying to make up for her rheumy stare.
“And what we’re asking from you?” Mr Simon chipped in, in a far gentler tone. Mr Simon was extremely charismatic, and I couldn’t help but like him even if he was a bit like the rest. I could see he was trying to sweeten Cordelia’s attack and I almost felt sorry for him as under any other circumstances I might have become quite good friends with Mr Simon, but this was going to be a long night otherwise.
“I remember seeing My Fair Lady a few years ago.” I quipped and I could see Simon bristle next to me, this was obviously NOT the response they were looking for. I smiled deep inside.
“It’s not quite the same thing.” Mr Simon replied, ever the diplomat.
“Oh -you mean there are no songs in Piggymalion?” I asked, really laying it on thick.
“That’s PYGmalion!” The Brigadier snapped; it was obvious that he was going to play Higgins. I was tempted to stir things a little bit more but didn’t want it to turn into a farce too quickly. The Brigadier was definitely one of the elite who thought the world now owed him a living because he ‘fought’ on the battlefields of the ‘great’ war. I actually researched him later on and found out the closest he’d got to a real battlefield was when he was retired due to being totally ineffectual at his post.
“Sorry. Well, the part I’m playing.. .Mr Domuch..” I replied.
“Do LITTLE!” He snapped back.
“As little as possible -well, that’s my motto.” I replied. Simon kicked me hard under the table, he knew what I was up to now but it was too late. I could feel The Brigadier bristle and even Mr Simon was having second thoughts. “Anyway, Doolittle is the wisest one of the bunch.
He doesn’t care for his daughter and if he can make a bit of money out of her, so much the better. It was either that or sending her on the game, I suppose.” It was time for Estelle to blanche. Estelle of the duck billed countenance and brick thick glasses.
“I say.” She said and I tried my best to hold in a chuckle.
“Have you actually read the damn book?” Oswald asked me venomously. He had a gristled piggy face, white hairs popping out of moles everywhere. He could have been the original absent-minded professor; his knowledge was so out of date it threatened to become current one day soon.
“Yeah, I had a glance through it.” I ignored Oswald who was just about to launch a full-scale attack. “The trouble is, Dolittle is completely right. There’s no way he’s going to change Eliza’s mind; he also knows that Higgins is going to have his way regardless, so he may as well make SOME money on it. He also knows that you can’t polish a turd. It doesn’t matter how much you tart it up it will still remain a turd. Higgins will grow tired of Eliza -or vice versa- and just discard her; where will her airs & graces get her then. She’ll truly be alone, neither one thing or another.
"That's is the trouble with fantasists; they’ve no understanding of reality -I suppose that was what Shaw was trying to say. The working class has never deluded itself whereas the middle-upper class lives with its head in the clouds. They mistake money and breeding for good manners and an understanding of humanity; confuse university degrees for common sense and true intelligence. Doolittle may not be educated but he’s got more street smarts and understanding then the whole lot of them.”
I looked at the stunned silence of the people around me. Mr Simon looked at Simon who glared at me. I couldn’t care less so I thought I’d just twist the knife a little bit further, in my best cockney voice I said. “I ain't pretending to be deserving. I'm undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that's the truth.” I shifted back to my normal voice and added the final piece: “So… do I get the part?”
