Being a comedian, I sometimes get offered acting work.  I play posh confident twats, the soft of parts that Steve Mangan turns away. I’ve been a confident twat in loads of TV shows such as Gimme, Gimme, Gimme, Dressing for Breakfast, Is It Legal?, Inspector Linley Murders, Jonathan Creek, Murder In Mind, Grass, and Cardiac Arrest.

For some reason I come across a bit sinister onscreen.  When I say “Hello sweetheart I’ve been in the garden”, I always somehow manage to suggest I’ve been out there burying bodies.  So I tend to be good at Bond villain types.  I had a leading role in the French Film Marie Baie des Anges, in which I played a New York soldier, who rapes the heroine.  I’ve been in several films, but none you’ve heard of.  Unless you’re a rowing fan, in which case you might have seen True Blue which features lots of young men, who are always either rowing, arguing, or having naked showers together.
I was in the original cast of Shopping and Fucking, at the Royal Court. At Oxford University I was twice voted Best Actor.  I’d really love to do Shakespearian theatre. I’d want to be one of those tragic heroes who speaks great verse.  Or I’d be the sinister rapist, who’s buried the bodies. 

In February, I'll be appearing in Ashes to Ashes the follow up to Life On Mars.

Watch my two minute showreel.

“Here’s a story about how I got the part in Ashes to Ashes…”

It’s all starting to happen

I’m an actor, but not a successful one.  The camera does not love me.  The camera uses me, while pretending I’m David Tennant.  The camera never returns my calls.
     But today my agent calls:  “I’ve got you an audition for the follow-up to Life On Mars.”  - I loved Life on Mars -  “You’re perfect for the role.  You look like a clown:  you’re actually a weird phantom.”  I love the idea about being a weird phantom.  I so want the part.  “Now,”  he says,  “don’t mess this up like you normally do.”
     “How do I normally mess it up?”
     “You don’t prepare for the character. You talk too much.”
I think:  Right.  I’ll show him.  I get out the kids make up, and I give myself a white face.  I put on thick mascara.  On my cheek, I paint a scar, that is freshly dripping with fake, red blood. 
Yes.  It’s an embarrassing look to sport on the tube.  But I feel it’s a test.  I hold my composure.  I let the other travellers think I’m a normal clown, who’s just off to Covent Garden, to spend the day looming next to tourists.  Walking through Rotherhithe is harder.  A youth accosts me across two lines of traffic:  “Chi-chi man!  You better mind your back!”  and I break into a run.   When I reach the audition, I’m sweaty, and freaked out.  I sit in silence and stare at the director accusingly. “He says:  “So what do you think you’ll bring to this job?”  I say:  “Sandwiches.”
I get the part.
Next day.  My agent calls to discuss it:  “They’re not sending the scripts.  You’ve just got one line, which is right at the end.  There’s an explosion.  You say:  “it’s all starting to happen.”  They’re doing a readthrough tomorrow.”
For the reading, I decide not to wear the make up.  Now I’m scared they’ll think I’m miscast.  So I try to stay in character.  I figure that a Phantom would not mingle.  I decline sandwiches. 
The readthrough starts.  The scripts are electrifyingly exciting.  Everything’s exciting.  DCI Gene Hunt is there.  He’s sitting two seats away looking cool, leaning his chair against a metal drum.  It’s now 1981 and he drives an Audi Quattro.  John Simm’s not there anymore, but, instead, there’s Keeley Hawes.  John Simm is king of TV, but he looks like a Quick-Fit Fitter.  Keeley Hawes looks like a high class escort, who specialises in black magic.  She’s brilliant.  They’re all brilliant.  I’m desperately practising my line in my head.  I say it like John Hurt, with melancholy and dignity:  “it’s all starting to happen.”  I say it like Bill Nighy, pausing to think, half way through.  “It’s all… starting to happen.”    We turn the page.  There’s my line.  The director reads the stage direction:  “And there’s an explosion!”
And at that moment DCI Gene Hunt smacks his fist on the metal drum. I soar out of my chair, knocking over two cups of coffee.  I shout:  “what the F*** was that?”