Why give Macbeth a dildo?

This question haunted my day-thoughts. From the Sunday fry-up at Irish Lucy’s at eleven (in the morning) to my retirement (to bed) at a little after four (in the afternoon) (I’d made the error of drinking a number of lunchtime pints of Budvar over The Observer in Blackheath – there’s nothing like lager to drain the energy from your bones), the question ‘Why give Macbeth a dildo?’ consumed my cognisance.

I had hoped to embarrass the man. I had hoped that an inappropriate pressie would spark a light of humility within him. I wanted him to laugh at himself, Reader. Ever since my opening audition, in which he unnecessarily sat, I’d been astounded by his arrogance and monomania.

He wore stupid glasses and claimed on eight occasions to know Chris Martin.

I thought buying a dildo might shock Macbeth to self-knowledge.

Reader, I’m man enough to acknowledge my error of judgement.

Monday: things began ominously when I fielded a telephone call from the director at a little after eight in the morning. I had been dreaming of chasing dogs in a forest. I had been wearing a red satin cloak (in the dream) and shouting in a language that sounded Spanish.

“Come in early today, Kay. Come in for nine, please.”

She had sounded civil. Suspiciously civil. Stomach-wrenching civil.

Something was ‘up’. I suspected that it was the phantom of the dildo (idea for musical?) come to haunt me. I expected to be punished. I didn’t suspect sacking. Being placed in charge of collecting doughnuts was the worse I thought I’d endure as punishment.

Reader, I was mistaken.

When I arrived at the Thames-side rehearsal space, the director and Macbeth were stood waiting in the entrance hall. The security guard smiled. They led me to an office on the ground floor that contained a small table with two chairs on one side, and one on t’other. I attempted to sit on the side with two chairs, but the director directed me to the opposite side of the table. The room was impossibly small. I suspected the table had been originally constructed in the room, for it seemed unlikely that it could have fitted through the small entrance. It was a hefty challenge to pull the chairs from under the wooden table, so close were the walls. The strip lighting hummed above and spewed forth harsh white. After much fuss and squeezing and squealing of chair legs, I sat down opposite the director and Macbeth. The director was the first to speak. She exhaled hyperbolically.

“We’re forced to ask you to leave the production,” she said with the gravity of a policeman informing a mother that her daughter had been found dead in Wales.

“Fuck?” I said.

She repeated herself.

“What?” I said.

Macbeth spoke.

“You’re a sound actor, Kay. But you’re a poor person.”

The director frowned.

“This isn’t personal.” Macbeth shrugged and half muttered something about the dildo being personal. The director continued. “So there is no misunderstanding, we have composed a list of reasons why I believe it’s best that you leave our production. It speaks volumes that you’ve managed to accrue a mighty catalogue of misdemeanours in such a short space of time.”

Here is that damned list:

1) Altering appearance without contacting Director;

2) Refusal to engage in whole group activities;

3) Inability to arrive to rehearsal on time;

4) Refusal to take direction;

5) Wearing of inappropriate and offensive clothing to rehearsal;

6) Inappropriately sexual behaviour in rehearsal;

7) Harassment of female cast members;

8) Failure to learn lines;

9) Substance abuse;

10) Verbal abuse of cast members;

11) Homophobia;

12) Fabrication of CV;

13) Inappropriate present-giving.

I allowed the litany to soak into my consciousness. Finally, with grave timbre, I responded:

“I learnt my lines. You can’t say I didn’t learn my lines.”

Macbeth rose awkwardly to his feet, his chair hitting the wall behind.

“You’re a disgrace to the profession. If there were enough space to storm out of this room, I would. I don’t want to spend any more time in your loathsome presence, you see. You’re a laddish sham. And I’ll tell you something – the way you conduct yourself with Lady Macbeth is embarrassing. You’ve no idea. That woman’s too delicate for pondlife like you.”

“Julian,” barked the director. She softened her voice. “I think this is best for both the company and yourself, Kay.”

“I’ll go alright, but before I do – hear this,” I said and pointed to the director’s jammy face. I was going to say something coolly threatening and better profound. Instead I erred and ummed for a few seconds, clambered to my feet, pulled the door open and left, leaving the embarrassed and incomplete sentence trembling behind me.

I determined to contact Equity about this outrage. But I remembered that I’d also lied about being a member of a union.

Know this, Reader: Macbeth sacked me ‘cause he saw me as a threat – professionally and sexually. And that ain’t cricket.

I’d take him down. Take him down to Chinatown.