
I used to work very hard, all the time for diddly scrot, no dollar, free and lm wasn't alone. Truth is if you are lucky enough to have located your reason de etre, a passion for the arts then you can expect to have this exploited for many years before it becomes wholly recognized and eventually paid .The whole creative industry machine is perpetually fuelled by desperate little sweating, starving urchins like my good self, who spend their days grafting their balls off in the hope that one day they will strike oil, get recognized and maybe eventually paid salary for what it is they create before they a)die b)go bankrupt c) throw the towel in. I still have hope….but one can not live off hope alone. Occasionally l do have to eat and afford my bed sits rent, this is a problem. In order to carry on trying to make it in that big bad world l have to sell out to money, doing the kinds of jobs l prefer to keep secret. l really have had a lot of shit jobs, literally, one summer l spent weeks elbow deep in turd water, scrubbing barge bogs for petty cash. However last year saw me really stoop to my single lowest depth in order to get my hands on that green…l became an extra. This single word now strikes molten fear into my quivering heart, so awful was the entire experience. Now l know it don't sound THAT bad, yeah? Watching tele you may even be mistaken for thinking it’s actually just a piece of piss. The only requirements seem to be: waft about a bit, pretend to chat and laugh with other extras in background scenes and generally be invisible whenever visible. I was to find out the reality was somewhat more horrendous. Who’d have thunk it was in fact so soul-crippingly esteem shatteringly- core wobblingly fuckin grotesquely awful. Not l said the little mouse. And yet it was, l mean it really was, so much so l can whole heatedly swear down l will NEVER do it again.
I first embarked on my short lived acting career when a colleague at work suggested me for a role in the ITV pilot of 'Fashion Babylon' (it gets worse) the spin off series of ‘Hotel Babylon’ which was so shit it got sacked off a while back, starring every actor who had been dropped from every soap that has every been aired on television. When offered this seemingly unmissable opportunity to rub shoulders with the stars l was like a bloody greyhound. Two days later l could then be found trotting off to some far flung south London region at an ungodly hour completely unaware of the massive gapping precipice of shame l was about to voluntarily lob all my credibility and self worth into. I should've known, right? But then and there in that instance l was secure in the false knowledge that this was my calling. Fashion Babylon’s was my in, move over Peggy, here l come! And then l got there…Arriving on time l got to my stop, plopped off the train, was herded into a minibus and transported to a massive country manor with a whole load of other desperate down and outs, l was so wonderfully naive as to the fate that awaited me. Lined up like a firing squad at the site we were presented like a cattle market to the scrawny, angry little director and delivered our caliber: 'A list', 'B list' and the dreaded 'crowd'. Guess which l was? The term crowd is code for 'keep out of shot whenever and wherever possible' l was literally a cumbersome hunk of human flesh just there to offer presence and make up numbers, my being a human person with feelings and worth was of no interest to these contrived cunts. In all fairness l was going through a particularly unfortunate and entirely inextricable period of experimentation with my appearance, this point in my investigations had led me to bleach off my eyebrows and smear my eyes with black eyeliner, l would have been perfect for an extras role in a kling-on spin off series, but it wasn't that kind of Babylon and this fashion based variety was obviously horrified by my appearance and rather determined about keeping me invisible at all times. The day had not yet begun. I was escorted to wardrobe, chucked a lime green ball gown, seven peacock feathers, a fluro pink patent primark shoulder purse and one shoe, no expense spared, l was playing with the big boys. So off l skulked to the static home toilets to struggle myself into the couture and straddle the porto loo. When l emerged l saw my colleagues reaction and opted to avoid all mirrors and reflective surface, to just get 'it' over with. At this point prostitution was beginning to perhaps feel like the better option. Then came the waiting game, the endless drawn out awkward hours we would all spend huddled up in cramped and freezing 'extras' cattle carts with nothing to do, nothing to say, nothing but the bubbling sense of animosity that would only grow throughout our tenuous avros spent here, willing the day to hurry the hell up and just bloody end. I saw one of the girls l used to 'extra' with back in the dark days when l was doing the Sunday big shop down Tescos a cuple weeks back, it threw me right off me kilter and when half way down the cereals aisle, maintaing some unwieldy eye contact t l 360'd with my basket-trolley tripped over my own leg and hurriedly waddled off at great pace in the opposite direction, she later joined me in the embarrassing checkout queue, l stared at my shoes very hard. Consider the awkward silent factor here and you've got a 2% idea of how painstaking this whole charade is. On set all was equally shit-flavoured, my duties included gargling warm yellow liquids, so to pretend it was champagne and chat with the other 'party-goers', basically to look like l was having a good time hanging out with a room full of cheese freaks. I didn’t' fit in, groups would disperse when l barged my way into the staged social circles, no-one wanted to be trapped on screen next to me, the glittery klingon, sashaying around in the lurgee gown. l was the plague. Even hair and make-up hated me, the fashion gay who did my 'look' crimped my wispy head of fluffy hair and dusted down my bleached brow with lavender eyeshadow. He said l was contemporary, l said l was devastated. The highlight of it all came when l dragged my boy along with me for a bit of moral support the following day and someone actually spoke to me, nearly calling me by name! Not 'look a little less like you've just shit yourself green dress' but ' approach camera crew Emily, time-out' Emily/Milly, potata/potatao. Mr director propositioned me and made a real-life indecent proposal: 'pretend to have sex on him on camera, we'll give you a category B and you don't have to show your vagina' l bit his spindly hand off. A category B is a smooth £100 reward for doing that which is beyond the duties rarely ever asked of an 'extra', ever because noone wants to do it, ever, ever. We did it. I dry humped my then boyfriend like a hunk of splintered basswood for a fine 10 mins whilst being filmed and watched by a room full of silent people. When wrapped, my new employers provided no transport home, didn't say bye and shouted' same time tomorrow' as l skulked off. l realized, I had sold my soul to the devil with level head in tact, l was trapped, it was all to late to go back. Prostitution would now not only be the better option but more right of passage, at least l wouldn't have to wear the green dress.
Now l've closed this sordid chapter in my life, I've very deliberately disposed of all photographic evidence documenting said time spent whoring my soul. If it may emerge or you spy me one eve lurking on your television screen please switch over. l beg of you, it didn't mean anything to me, it was a one off, it'll never happen again, l didn't know what l was doing…..





























