Society
Now what? - Lauren Booth meets an importunate Aussie
Published 06 January 2003
The woman had "stuff" on Peter Foster, but first she wanted a regular column
How do you make friends and influence people? Or to clarify this age-old question: how do you get cushy jobs as quickly as possible by doing as little as possible? From Madonna to Eva Peron, Delilah to Marilyn Monroe, women with fame and power have always been accused of shagging their way to the top tables in life. But don't be fooled into thinking that men have missed this trick. I have a head full of rumours from the Sixties about dashing young actors, many "straight" and subsequently big movie stars, who supposedly chose to bend down in the shower when a gay director or producer offered them a "special" break. Getting famous without suffering in a garret is the name of the game in pop music, acting and, yes, certain realms of journalism, too.
As a struggling young actress, I always envied and hated the round faces tapping pens as I sweated through ridiculously complicated auditions. The more innocuous and unheard-of the theatre company, the more tortuous the audition. So a northern children's company that toured primary schools would expect you to perform not one but two audition pieces just as a warm-up. Then, if you made the "cut", the real humiliation began.
One afternoon I remember especially well - from subsequent nightmares. First, there were the frigid, toe-curling, impromptu introductions to the rest of the "team", where each of us embroidered our sad little CVs with Archerian panache. Next followed two hours of dashing around a church hall, playing children's games like tag and sticky toffee, as our tormentors gleefully shouted out demands: "Now play on - in the style of a character from Fawlty Towers . . . Star Trek . . . a newsreader . . . Good, Jocasta!"
Perhaps I had nightmares about this audition because I actually got the part. Leading to the inevitable actor's moan: "You know, I'm too good to be doing this sort of thing. They're bloody lucky to have me."
The thought that the person in charge might have his or her own cross to bear seemed ridiculous. But at a party last month, I finally saw the other side of the power coin.
There I was, chatting to the editor of a Sunday newspaper about curtain linings being the safest class indicator left to us (nice side in means you want to impress your friends, which is middle class; flowery side out is to show the neighbours you keep them clean, which means you're working class). Suddenly, a muscular woman in her forties shoved a brutally sculpted shoulder between us.
"Hi, I hear you're the editor. I've got something you'll be interested in."
"Well . . . good. Behind you is . . ."
"Yeah, yeah, I know who she is, but it's you I need to talk to. It's about [stage whisper hiss] Peter Fossterrr." She turned halfway round to me: "Your byline photos don't do you justice. Anyway . . ." She homed in on her prey once more. His eyebrows were signalling "don't move an inch" to me in semaphore. Trying not to giggle, I stood alone at the bar and listened to her "pitch".
"Look, I could tell you stuff, great stuff, stuff that hasn't come out. But first . . ." Here she played with his tie and all but licked the rim of her glass. "First, guess what I do for a living. I'm a probation officer - from Australia."
The editor shifted from foot to foot.
"All I want is a little regular column, nothing too long. You know, a few hundred words. I'd make it worth your while . . ." Asking for a "small" column in a national paper is the equivalent of a wannabe actor, with no experience, asking Spielberg for "a small leading role" in his next trillion-dollar movie. Networking (however clumsily) is preferable to whoring your way into work - but trying to do both is really sleazy.
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