Ah, the joys of fame. I received a letter from the National Theatre of Ireland the other day, addressed to Kevin Myres, Independent Newspapers, Abbey Street, Dublin 1. Not bad. Mispelt my name, and wrong newspaper, but otherwise spot on, a veritable triumph of the press officer's art.
Never mind these pettifogging details. No doubt the envelope contained a request for me to assist in auditioning young actresses for the Abbey's forthcoming production of Lesbian Romps in the School Dorm. Maybe it was even offering me the part of the kindly schoolmaster who supervises the girls' showers, or, better still, as the hockey mistress who has an affair with the head girl - I can do drag if need be. That, after all, is the key to dramaturgy - the completely professional willingness to throw oneself into the part. We actors take our profession terribly seriously. As for the nude scenes, well, maybe a strategic loofah might just do the trick, or perhaps, draped with a couple of naked prefects, my own imperfections as a female might not be too evident.
Plaintive requests
Yes, indeed, it seemed my career on the stage was finally taking off. A little overdue, for frankly, I was a little surprised that the National Theatre was only now coming to recognise my thespian skills. But there we are. Perhaps they've been trying to contact me for years, addressing all their plaintive requests to come to their rescue to Independent Newspapers, Middle Abbey Street, all the time wondering why I never replied. "That's actors for you," they probably muttered fretfully. "Highly strung. Artistic. Sensitive souls. Won't reply until the right parts come their way. After all, that Kevin Myres fellow is clearly an artist of the purest integrity. Well, mustn't give up or despair, but keep on trying."
And so it went, for year after year, until the other day, when somebody in the Indo realised that when the National Theatre of Ireland was writing to Kevin Myres, Independent Newspapers, Abbey Street, it was actually trying to contact Kevin Myers, The Irish Times, D'Olier Street, and thus finally forwarded the letter to me.
Ah, the ecstasy of excitement as I gazed at the letter, my career on the stage glittering before me. I know I would make a splendid Hamlet, a most manly Henry V, especially in the tights, a majestic if doomed Othello. Nor have I regarded myself as a purely Shakespearean actor. Beckett lies well within my command, though Estragon is a somewhat limited character for my sumptuous talents. But of course, acting down, being dramatically minimalist, is one of the vital disciplines of theatre. I first learned this, aged 14, when, in the school production of The Count of Monte Cristo, instead of being given the lead - a part for which, with that strangely dangerous edge to my stage presence, and that austere, understated magnetism, I was admirably suited - I played an unseen prisoner whose role was confined to tapping twice on his cell wall.
Theatre critics
It is true that the review in the school magazine made no mention of my performance, but we actors learn early in our careers that envy is the engine of theatre critics, and Carruthers of the Lower Fifth, who wrote the review - a spotty fellow much addicted to unnatural practices - was deeply jealous of my many talents. I personally feel that I redefined the meaning of a theatrical off-stage tap on a wall. I gave it dimension, strength and subtlety. I know many in the audience were moved to tears by the simple economy of my performance. Tap tap. Just like that. Oh, I know, it doesn't sound like much, but in the hands of a true professional, those two sounds, tap-tap, can be turned into a truly gut-wrenching performance.
So now it was rather late in the day for the National Theatre to be recognising these dramaturgical skills of mine. Perhaps Carruthers is on the board of the Abbey. Typical. At least this foot-and-mouth disease ought to have curtailed his sex life somewhat. But that is no concern of mine, my art is my all, and we artists cannot let the Carruthers of the world obscure these greater truths. The big break might be slow in coming, but come it surely must. When Hollywood beckons, as presumably it will now that I am about to conquer the theatrical peak that is the National Theatre of Ireland, who will I accept as my second lead? Sir Anthony Hopkins? Brad Pitt? Liam Neeson? Hmm. Hardly. Not charismatic enough.
Rehearsed reading
Enough speculation! Time to open the letter! Tremblingly, my fingers prised out the contents. "The National Theatre invites you to: a rehearsed reading of Danny Morrison's The Wrong Man, at the Peacock Theatre. . ."
Danny Morrison? Danny Morrison? Is this the same Danny Morrison as the convicted IRA terrorist who was imprisoned for kidnapping? Or was the National Theatre really trying to invite me to attend a rehearsed reading of The Right Man by Danny Morison at the Gaiety, only its press office can't get these little details right? I have a horrible feeling that it was the former.
You know, Danny and I have had our spats in the past, but it looks as if he's won this one. It also looks as if my theatrical career is on hold for the time being. However, if anyone is auditioning for The Count of Monte Cristo, they can contact me, Kefin Miers, at the Ballymore Bugle. Tap tap.