I’d been working for at least twenty years before I realised there was a revenue stream for the voice.
Kate Hardie, a delicious young actress, told me to contact Yakety Yak a voice over agency to see if they would take me on.
I called and Helen picked up the phone.
‘Make a show reel, send it to me and we can talk.’
So I did.
In 1992 I found an engineer, gave him a ton of money, and recorded lots of adverts.
I sent it to Helen.
‘It’s fucking awful’ she said.
‘Who are you?’
Shyly I told her I was Jeni Barnett and I worked on the telly.
I know I sound like a confident old bird, but when push came to shove sometimes I was a little hesitant.
‘I know who you are’ she said. ‘You’re much more characterful than that bloody tape. Send me another one.’
So the old git and I set to work.
The voice over world is a tough business. Everybody thinks they can do it. But there really is a skill to it and Helen and her brilliant agency knew that.
Back in the day actors would hang around the streets of Soho making themselves known to the studios to pick up casual work. Black polish on their ears, looking like that had been wearing headphones a lot. Like South African migrants queuing for a mining job voice over artistes waited to be nabbed for an impromptu advert.
The likes of comedians like Steve Coogan, impersonators and clever clogs, worked their skill in front of a lone microphone. Famously the ever delightful Miriam Margoyles bought herself a house on the back of a Cadbury Bunny chocolate bar.
My voice has always been my ally.
Aged five I was set upon, on the top balcony of the flats I lived in, by a bunch of bullies who wrestled me to the ground, pinned me down and chanted
‘Your farver beats your muvvar. Your farver beats your muvvar’
Nasty little oiks. But they did me a favour
I wriggled free, ran down to the ground floor flat where we lived and made a life decision.
If I changed the way I spoke I could change my circumstances.
I put myself up for poetry and elocution exams and reading the Bible in school assembly.
Sight reading Dickens at junior school was my thing.
I set about working on my vowels.
I met a proper actor in my early twenties, he had come from a railway family and understood the need for Received Pronunciation, otherwise known as the Queens English.
At drama school I worked with Greta Coulson a theatrical voice coach.
‘You’ll have to get rid of that accent’ she said.
‘Your East End twang will be frowned upon, think of it as a dialect’ and she set about transforming my ‘O’s and ‘A’s
It was the real actor who continued Gretas’ work.
Alcohol was hard for me. Not the liquid the pronunciation.
Alcohol became alcawhole.
‘Hol not Whole’ said my mentor.
I’m still self conscious about booze.
After Helen asked me to make another characterful showreel I wrote various bogus adverts. Including one for Toblerone. The musical ‘oosbind edited my pieces, added music and we sent them off.
Low and behold Helen loved them and so it was I started in the voice over world.
It’s one of my favourite jobs. Sitting in a sound both, a glass of water and a pencil. A complete unknown script and a set of headphones.
Listening to your own voice coming through the cans, clear and precise is a treat. Knocking off nano seconds and working with talented engineer, is a joy.
Soho is mostly the location for the studio a delightful part of London.
I’ve done everything from ‘Elastoplast’ to ‘Heat’ Magazine.
I had to audition for the ‘Heat’ job, improvisation and call backs.
‘The higher the IQ the greater the need for gossip’ was the tag line. I never got free copies of the mag though
Who knew that ‘Heat’ would pay for my little red car and endless facials.
When we went onto the telly Mrs. Somerset, who was married to the chief cashier of the Bank of England – his signature was on all the old bank notes – stopped me and asked whether I had changed my profession.
‘Why? I was curious.
‘Because I keep seeing you on the television wearing a white coat. Have you become a doctor?
‘It’s an advert love’ I said, tossing my head like Miss Piggy.
So well rounded were my vowels I passed for a professor with an ‘ology.
I’ve been with Yakety Yak for over thirty years, working with actors in dark little sound booths, reading scripts and stopping for lunch in China Town.
When I started in the industry secrecy was the name of the game. Too embarrassed to admit my background my posh voice got me through doors.
When I started at LBC a caller asked me whether my father was called Mo.
‘Depends where he is’ I said ‘He has various aliases depend on what lorry he’s collecting knocked off toasters from;
‘Does he work in Walthamstow market?”
‘Yes.’ I said.
‘Does he sell levver coats?’
‘Thats the feller’. I said.
I’ve still got a blue ‘A’ line leather coat and a suede emerald green one, genuine 60’s clobber.
My cover was blown. No longer posh totty from Fulham I admitted to my birthright. I was from Petticoat Lane with a petty villain as a father.
There have been one or two voiceovers that have floored me.
It took 52 takes on a Spice Girl ad.
‘You’re too old’ Said the millennial producer. ‘Your voice is too old’ she moaned.
And the time I was told outright that I sounded rusty!!!
In the main my voice has held up well. Who knew the voice aged. I’m lucky I’ve still got the breath to pull it off.
My life is no longer a secret.
I can sound like a costa monster or a toff. Either way I am who I am.
When Hannah Spender won the Gorton and Denton by-election for the Greens
we all cheered. Then she told the nation she was a plumber and a plastered and we cheered louder
Are we finally returning to a time of honesty?
The reign of the orange kunt, starting wars and lying, maybe coming to an end.
And in my best East End dialect I will shout for him to shut his norf and sarf and fuck off to where the sun don’t shine.
Beautifully enunciated of course.