Murder At Columbia Book

"'What about my fucking refurbishments? You cunts! I hope your fucking theatre falls down in the middle of Shopping And Fucking, you fucking cunts!'"

Bleedin' 'ell, it's tough being an out-of-work straight-up proper East End geezer in the acting game, when all the theatres are controlled by upper-class pricks who knew each other at public school and university, and agents are all flash bastards who'll drop you in the blink of an eye. Trying to get through the daily grind of screwing posh birds in Hampstead, driving home stoned, signing on the dole, fucking up auditions, cadging loans off barmen, and reading in the paper about some complete shit who's landed a brilliant role in EastEnders and he can't do the fackin' accent, the cunt.

Although there is a reference to 9/11 and suicide bombers, bits of this book (for example the job centre scenes, and anything related to signing on) seem to be older, maybe dating from the late 80s, when its author would have been the same age as Charlie. There's a passing remark about "Christine Edzard's Victorian films", which makes 1988 the lower bound. Since then Alan has got more success by being typecast as East End Hardman, which he plays well. And his book is bloody good fun, honest about acting and highly conscious of London from the perspective of a certain kind of grifter, who knows all the bars in Soho to look around in for work.

Four stars for the totally frank, man-to-man details in chapter 2 about how Charlie "shat himself" after a near-fatal car breakdown. I bet Nick Hornby and Tony Parsons wouldn't go there, though I've never researched this opinion and don't really care if it's accurate at all. Charlie won't take a role in EastEnders because it's beneath his dignity. In conclusion: WHAT A FACKIN LEGEND. Danny Dyer has got a long way to go still before he catches up.