My Brief And Humiliating Acting Career

My new acting career started badly, got worse, and ended in humiliation.

It began when I retired in 2017 — by coincidence, on Jackie’s birthday. I tried to claim it was the best present ever. Her look suggested otherwise.

A few weeks later, I was sitting in the garden enjoying a rare spell of sunshine when Jackie, scrolling through Twitter, said, “Have you seen this?”

“What?”

“There’s a new movie being filmed about Robert the Bruce. It’s called The Outlaw King. They’re shooting scenes at Loudoun Hill.”

Loudoun Hill is where the Bruce gained his first victory in the First War of Scottish Independence. I can see its craggy southern face from my bedroom window. It’s also traditional to climb to the summit on 1 January with a hip flask of whisky to welcome in the New Year. Slàinte.

“Really?” I said. “When’s it being released?”

“Doesn’t say, but it’s starring Chris Pine.”

“The American guy from Star Trek?”

“Yes.”

“Oh God. I hope his accent’s better than Mel Gibson’s.”
They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our accents.

Jackie paused, scanned the article again, then said something that excited me at the time but which, in retrospect, she should have kept to herself.

“They’re looking for extras.”

You know that moment when a light bulb bursts into your mind’s eye and triggers something unstoppable?

“I’ll apply,” I said. “Never been a film extra. It’ll be fun.”

“Don’t be daft. They’ll be looking for people with experience. And a certain… well, type.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, young, fit men. Muscles. Biceps. A full head of hair. All the things young men have. And well…you don’t.”

“There must have been old guys in those days,” I said. “Surely there’s a role for a retired marketing consultant with a bad back and failing eyesight. Anyway, how hard can being an extra be? You just stand in the background trying not to look conspicuous. I can do that.”

The application form was easy enough until it reached the skills section. That’s when I remembered reading in David Niven’s autobiography that the surest way to get an audition was to say yes to everything.

Can you ride a horse?
Yes.

I pictured myself in full armour, astride a majestic tawny Clydesdale.

Can you ride at a gallop?
Yes. In for a penny.

Can you use a sword while riding?
Yes. Fortune favours the brave.

The casting team reviewed my application. They liked the cut of my jib. Audition, here I come.

The moment I joined the queue in Glasgow, I knew I’d made a rookie error. Ahead of me stood a long line of men with unruly beards and unkempt hair. They looked unwashed and smelled faintly medieval. I believe it’s called method acting.

I stood at the back with my neatly trimmed beard, manicured nails, and combed hair.

Big mistake, I thought. Big mistake.

Surprise — they loved me. Or at least they said they did. I’ve since come to believe that casting teams are desperate people who don’t want anything getting in the way of a decent lunch.

I was invited to meet the production team, which is where the downhill slide began.

“When does filming start?” I asked confidently.

Sadly, the rest of the day was embarrassing.

How was I to know they’d ask what British Horse Society qualifications I held? Apparently “once led a donkey along the beach” isn’t a recognised category. Nor was it the answer they were looking for.

They also told me I was too fat.

For a Clydesdale.

I assumed I’d blown it, but two weeks later the phone rang. It was the casting team again. I told you they were desperate.

“Look,” Samantha said, “we think you’re perfect for another part. Are you squeamish?”

“No,” I said. “Why?”

“We’ve got a small speaking role. You’re a butcher skinning a pig hanging from a hook. It’s a busy encampment. When Robert the Bruce walks past, you slice open the belly, the innards fall out, and you say, ‘We’ll give this to the English,’ then shout ‘Aye!’”

“I love it,” I said. “When does filming start?”

I lost the part to a real butcher.

He arrived on set with his own blood-stained apron, mallet, and carving knives. Apparently, he was more committed to the slaughter than I was. Something to do with authenticity, bad dental work, and realistic cutting skills.

So my film career was over before it even started. Disappointed, I convinced myself they didn’t know what they were talking about and moved on with my life.

Then, out of the blue, the phone rang again.

It was Samantha.

“We’ve cracked it this time,” she said. “We’ve got the ideal role for you. A nobleman attending a wedding. No lines. You stand in a shadowy corner, drinking wine from a goblet and flirting with a serving wench.”

“Perfect,” I said. “I was born for this. If there’s one thing I can do convincingly, it’s standing around drinking wine.”

Filming did not start.

This time I was too skinny. They wanted someone more portly. With even less hair.

A pity — I’d been practising the wine-drinking part for several nights.

The Outlaw King was released on 9 November 2018. Jackie and I went to see it at Silverburn Cinema in Glasgow.

I’m delighted to report that it was crap.

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@ Copyright 2026 Steve Gillies. All rights reserved.