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Sandra Omo changes career to see if the model-turned-actress theorem rings true

This week I took a break from being a model to become an actress. An acting agency I am registered with (oh yes, don’t forget we models are multi-talented) had put me forward for a job and I was selected to be in the wedding scene of the movie Last Chance Harvey starring Emma Thompson and Dustin Hoffman. According to the story, he had just arrived in London for the wedding of his daughter who is getting married to a British man. Feeling unwelcome because he had not been a good father, he decides to head back to the US but he meets Emma at the airport and she convinces him to return to the wedding. He agrees but under the condition that she goes with him. She does.

“I had no idea how difficult it is to make movies – behind every two-minute scene is a day of hard work”

It was going to be four long days of waking up at 5am, arriving at location before 7am and finishing at 6pm. Boy, I hate waking up early. I don’t mind not sleeping at night but waking up early is one thing I hardly do, but I did it anyway and was on location on time.

The first day went by slowly but it was fun. There were uncountable times when we just sat in the holding area doing nothing but having fun. I met so many people and thought I ate too much as the food was good. The good thing about all this is that you are paid anyway, and the pay, I must confess, is excellent. I thought if I did this job every day, I would be a rich girl in no time, but the thing about jobs like these is that they are not an everyday occurrence.

Although it was fun, it was not easy. Prior to now, I had no idea how difficult it is to make movies. It’s ok when we watch them – they look so easy – but behind every two-minute scene is a whole day of hard work. We shot a wedding scene for four days that will not take up more than ten minutes in the movie. I cannot count how many times I heard the words ‘action’ and ‘cut’. Every movement was shot so many times from different angles. We sat on the tables just chatting away and sipping Champagne (thank God it was ginger ale, as there would have been chaos) as the camera rolled up and down. This was our job: we were playing rich guests in a wedding. What other job could be easier?

I thought the main actors were really nice. They kept chatting with the crowd and Emma was especially good with the kids. By the fourth day, I was exhausted but still up for the fun. The dancing part was the sweetest. I guess everyone forgot it was acting and just danced on. And it was even better when we had to dance it again, and again, and again. However, the truth is that as all this went on, at the back of my mind, I wished it were a modelling job. Believe me, I would have felt more fulfilled walking the runway for half the pay of this job. I liked the part of the girl who played the jazz singer. She looked so good standing on stage even though she was just miming. Maybe this part would have done it better for me, but the truth, I think, is that I am so in love with modelling that no other thing would suffice, no matter how much fun, or how well paid it is unless there is a bit of modelling in it. Maybe a movie where I can play the part of a model would help me fall in love with acting. That is the next thing I am on the lookout for. So if you have that for me, give me a shout.

Andrew Kay discovers that all of life is to be found at Woodies Diner on a wet autumn afternoon

It’s 4pm on a dull autumn afternoon. I have spent much of the day looking at property for the reverse of this mag and now I am relaxing and typing it up after stopping for a late lunch. Between Henfield and where I am now I failed to spot anywhere that appealed to my appetite. Probably because I had a bit of a craving for chips. By the time I hit the coast road in Shoreham I had almost given up and then suddenly I realised I was drawing close to Woodies Diner.

Having been to art school in London in the 80s, I am a child of the Hard Rock, and although my appetite seldom calls out for a burger, there are odd moments when that is exactly what I want.

“This is great. It’s like being in an episode of Happy Days but without the bad jokes”

So here I am and I have to report that the whole Woodies experience is rather a delight. When I arrive I am amazed by the diversity of customers; old, young, kiddies, people in wheelchairs with their carers. They all have one thing in common and that is that they are having a good time. At a far table a group of teenage lads sporting fashionable haircuts look like they are planning to be a band. One has a fringe so short that he looks like the Mekon. At another table two boys aretesting each other’s knowledge of guitar chords: “Yeah, but do you know F sharp minor?” It’s the hip equivalent of the ‘Who can wee highest up the wall?’ game that most boys played at junior school. I assume that this is not a girl thing but apologies if I am wrong.

The décor is great too, really slick and fun, with surf boards, football helmets, neons and random Americana covering the walls and clean laminate topped tables surrounded by chrome chairs upholstered in white and red sparkly vinyl. Through the windows I can see the sea and Fatboy’s house, and I suppose that one next door must be Macca’s. It’s all so rock and roll.

Even the waitress looks the part in her clean white woodies uniform edged in black gingham and with her blonde hair piled up high on her head. She’s a real charmer, exactly what the place needs, and she’s never still. If she’s not dashing about delivering food then she’s wiping tables or sweeping the floor – industrious to a fault.

I open my menu and suddenly my heart sinks – it’s not that it’s not good, there’s just too much choice for my tired head to take in; burgers of all styles and sizes, with fun names based on classic American car models. I finally spot a steak in a bun option that comes with peppercorn sauce. Now I have to admit that I love the combo of peppercorn sauce and chips so it’s a no brainer.

A fridge branded Jones is stacked with soda, I choose a sugar free cream soda and settle back in anticipation. There’s a retro juke’ to one side and in the background the familiar stabbing harmonies of Duke of Earl are sounding. The coloured neons are catching the raindrops that by now are trickling down the large windows. It’s all very picturesque – I half expect Richard Dreyfuss to come walking in with Thelma and Louise on each arm.

The chord swapping boys are now having a serious discussion. The older one orders two more drinks with all the attitude of someone passing on the highly confidential details of a major military operation – he is so full of it. What started as quite a friendly meeting for them has suddenly turned into a ticking off that even after the burger and knickerbocker glory softener has soured their lunch.

My steak arrives and is far better than I expect. Six ounces of steak cut too thin stands no chance on a hot grill. This is in a thick slab and as I cut it it has retained the right amount of bloodiness. Oh I know I should have ordered a burger but what of it.

The chips are not bad too, not thin but crisp and dry. Onion rings are less good, the frozen kind I guess, where reconstituted onion puree is coated and fried. They wouldn’t be my first choice but they’re not offensive. I like the tomato and the iceberg lettuce in the bun and although I discard the top of the bun it’s a quality product with a herby topping. I have a fondness for iceberg lettuce at the moment, sick as I am with the hideous and un-ecological bags of ubiquitous mixed leaves that have invaded every menu across the land. It could be that since growing my curled moustache back the eating of frisee is now a hazardous task.

I’m happy, my food is hitting the right spot – and the clients are offering all manner of entertainment. I finish my soda and order a coffee. By now the sun is setting and a mirrored ball is throwing dots of white light in revolving patterns around the room. It has a real nostalgic feel. The serious discussion is now turning into a full blown interrogation and the younger guy is shifting uneasily in his seat. This is great, it’s like being in an episode of Happy Days but without the bad jokes. Sadly they suddenly up and leave and the last I see of them is their backs and the obligatory swathe of underpant that all youngsters feel compelled to blatantly display.

I’d love to have a pudding now, a big sundae has just gone temptingly by but I really can’t do justice to it so I settle for the coffee. Coffee which is plain and simple, good strong black filter with the milk on the side. Much as I love the latte culture of late, a good cup of filter cannot be topped once in a while.

My quiet is eventually broken by the phone, it’s my MD Bill wanting to know if I think gay tango is a good idea. Of course I do, where do I sign up?

Woodies Diner, 366 Kingsway, Hove, 01273 430300 www.woodiesdiner.com

Dani fails to see how a letter from a dog warrants embracing the Christmas spirit

So Christmas is upon us. We have been told to buy our presents with a catalogue, to save up all year round with a company that will then give us some gift vouchers, to buy all our cards online and personalise them for each person. At the same time we have been made to feel guilty about all the charities that need our hard earned money, reminding us that Poppy the dog was bought for Christmas and left tied to a lamp post only a few weeks later.

“Why is it I am made to feel bad about spending some of the money I’ve earnt on myself?”

Are we allowed to enjoy anything anymore? Does every fun thing have to have some sad soppy story attached at the end to make us think twice about that £20 in our purses?

We all know there are lots of people out there who need our help. You can’t walk through town without being stopped a hundred times by someone asking you to sign a petition and hand over your bank details to help some kid from miles away who only has one hand and six toes. When you walk past and say you can’t stop, you feel bad, not only for that kid who can’t clap but for the poor person who has to stand there come rain or shine and ask hundreds of uninterested people if they have a spare couple of minutes. The person who sees everyone who walks off pretending to be on the phone as commission falling through their fingers.

I pay my taxes, I buy everything I possibly can from charity shops, I often leave bags out for collection by those children’s charities. I buy poppies, I put my change in those collection pots, I buy fair trade. How much more is expected? What little money I do earn is usually spent existing. If I do buy an item of clothing you can guarantee it’s from Primark or a charity shop, and why is it that I am made to feel bad about wanting to spend some of the money I have earnt on myself? At least if you buy something from a charity shop you get a little something back for yourself that you actually wanted, whereas joining up to one of those £5 per week charities advertised on television where ‘your new dog will even write’ gives you not much at all. Just the knowledge that possibly a cat won’t be left in a box and a letter written by a dog? Does anyone out there actually see that as a bonus?

It may make me sound a little nasty, but I don’t care (about sounding nasty, I do care about the starving people!) I just get sick of being made to feel bad about buying Christmas presents for my family and friends. If I could sign a petition to say the amount of my taxes that is used to give some lazy arse their benefits will from now on be used to give a kid in Africa food, I would sign it in a heartbeat. But from the bit of money I do have, I don’t have enough to get the bus somewhere, let alone take responsibility for a life in another country. I understand that I now sound like Scrooge, but if I had all the money in the world I would give it away all the time. I’m just living with the guilt that I don’t have the means to help anyone else!

Victoria Nangle decides that when you laugh, the whole world doesn’t always laugh with you

There are some things that are funny to say to your mates but really shouldn’t be said in front of a crowded room from a stage. It takes a while to work this out on the new act circuit. It’s a learning curve that’s worth watching as a punter and taking part in as a new act.

Just in case you were sitting at home, on the train or on the end of a pier reading this and contemplating putting on your first ever stand-up gig – if your mates laugh you really are funny. If it’s an ‘in’ gag, a gross generalisation or a major slagging off of your ex girlfriend it may just be that your mates are happy you’re letting it all out and have stopped crying. It’s difficult, but consider whether anyone who didn’t know you well would laugh, and whether you’re poking fun at people who may be in the crowd and want to do more than ‘poke’ you back if they don’t see the funny side of it.

“It’s all very well having a cutting wit and acid tongue but they’re not much defence against an iron fist”

I was travelling back from a gig in London the other day with a friend when this really hit home. Bantering back and forth and making each other laugh, the rest of the packed carriage was in stoney silence at our antics. With our rhetorical questions about relationships, politics and sex that had us in stitches, the funnier it was for us the lower we made our voices. It’s all very well having a cutting wit and an acid tongue but they’re not much defence against an iron fist.

What I find curious about the whole episode, apart from the brilliant raw material we both gathered from our banter later to be honed into something possibly stage-worthy at a later date, was our instinctive knowledge that this private amusement wouldn’t be appropriate for all and sundry to hear. There were gross generalisations about men. There were contemplations as to the current definition of feminism. There were other things that I couldn’t possibly include here without blushing terribly. It was a private conversation. It was not a complete comedy set ready for the stage and the world. It was not a gagfest of vast proportions. It was just fun.

And here lies the problem in wrestling the wheat from the chaff. Picking out the golden jewels of comedy for a set is not necessarily the simple process of including the things that make me laugh. I’ve got to remember what I can say without going red and without having to explain that THAT’S why I can never hire a boat in Corfu. It’s not relevant, funny or part of a performance to give loads of personal details – it’s therapy. We need punchlines in gags, not competitions as to who can say they’ve drunk the most Tia Maria in any given night in the 80s. And as such I will always lower my voice when such information flies freely. And definitely keep it away from a microphone.