Fry_ A Memoir Part 14

Meanwhile, still with radio, The Colour Supplement The Colour Supplement soon folded. Ian invited me to partic.i.p.ate in yet another piece of Sherrinry, this time a live Sat.u.r.day-morning show called soon folded. Ian invited me to partic.i.p.ate in yet another piece of Sherrinry, this time a live Sat.u.r.day-morning show called Loose Ends Loose Ends, or 'Loose Neds' as the regular contributors preferred to call it. Over the years these included Victoria Mather, Carol Thatcher, Emma Freud, Graham Norton, Arthur Smith, Brian Sewell, Robert Elms and Victor Lewis-Smith. The format was always the same. Around the table, whose top was laid with green baize cloth, sat the regular contributors and a couple of guest authors, actors or musicians who had some new release to plug. Ned would open with a monologue in which the week's news was jokily reviewed. He was always very good at crediting the monologue's author; in the early years this was usually Neil Shand or Alistair Beaton, his collaborator on a pair of satirical Gilbert and Sullivan adaptations, The Ratepayer's Iolanthe The Ratepayer's Iolanthe and and The Metropolitan Mikado The Metropolitan Mikado, romping satires on the Ken LivingstoneMargaret Thatcher face-off which played to great applause in the mid-eighties. After the monologue, Ned introduced some feature which would have been pre-recorded by a regular contributor.

'Carol, I believe you went off to investigate this phenomenon?'

'Well, Ned ...' Carol would say and give a little preamble to her recorded pa.s.sage.

'Emma, you braved the dawn on Beachy Head to get a first-hand view, is that right?'

'Well, Ned ...'

I christened Emma, Carol and Victoria the WellNeds, and they stayed with the programme for as long as anyone.

For my first few contributions to Loose Ends Loose Ends I presented a range of characters much as I had on I presented a range of characters much as I had on The Colour Supplement The Colour Supplement. One week there was a news story about an academic who had been made to watch hours and hours of television in order to compile a report on whether or not the programming was injurious to the British public, especially its youth. There was much talk in those days about the evils of scenes of violence in cop shows and their deleterious influence on the impressionable minds of the young. For reasons which now seem difficult to reconstruct imaginatively, Starsky and Hutch Starsky and Hutch of all programmes was singled out as a major culprit, a symbol of all that was wrong. 'The Nice Mr Gardhouse', as Ned called Ian, suggested that I do a piece as an academic forced to watch television, so I tapped away that Friday afternoon and came in the next day with a piece written in the persona of a Professor Donald Trefusis, extraordinary Fellow of St Matthew's College, Cambridge, philologist and holder of the Regius Chair of Comparative Linguistics. Trefusis, it turned out, was indeed horrified at the violence of British television. The violence done to his sensibilities and the sensibilities of a young and vulnerable generation by Noel Edmonds and Terry Wogan and others made him shudder and shake. Thank goodness, he concluded, for the jolly car-chases and fight scenes where actors dressed as policemen pretend to shoot each other without innocent merriment of that kind television would be insupportably damaging to the young. of all programmes was singled out as a major culprit, a symbol of all that was wrong. 'The Nice Mr Gardhouse', as Ned called Ian, suggested that I do a piece as an academic forced to watch television, so I tapped away that Friday afternoon and came in the next day with a piece written in the persona of a Professor Donald Trefusis, extraordinary Fellow of St Matthew's College, Cambridge, philologist and holder of the Regius Chair of Comparative Linguistics. Trefusis, it turned out, was indeed horrified at the violence of British television. The violence done to his sensibilities and the sensibilities of a young and vulnerable generation by Noel Edmonds and Terry Wogan and others made him shudder and shake. Thank goodness, he concluded, for the jolly car-chases and fight scenes where actors dressed as policemen pretend to shoot each other without innocent merriment of that kind television would be insupportably damaging to the young.

Heavy steamroller irony, I suppose, but issuing from the querulous mouth of a gabbling tweedy don too old to care whom he might offend, it seemed to work well, well enough at any rate to encourage me to keep the character and try something similar the following week. Soon Trefusis became my sole weekly contributor. A paragraph of introduction would suggest the fiction that I, Stephen Fry, had gone round to his rooms at St Matthew's to interview him. The Professor started to get a trickle of fan mail. One piece, in which he savagely tore into the fad for Parent Power in education, turned the trickle into a flood of hundreds of letters, most of them asking for a transcript of the talk, or 'wireless essay' as he preferred to call them. Trefusis's age and perceived wisdom and authority allowed me to be ruder and more savagely satirical than I could ever have been in my own vocal persona. The British are like that, especially the middle-cla.s.s Radio 4 audience: a young snappy, angry person annoys them, and they shout at the radio for him to show some respect and get the spiritual and intellectual equivalent of a haircut. But let the same sentiments exactly, word for word, be uttered in high academic tones, as if by a compound of G. E. Moore, Bertrand Russell and Anthony Quinton, and they will roll on to their tummies and purr.

For the next four or five years I fed Loose Ends Loose Ends on an almost exclusive diet of Trefusis. Just occasionally I might appear in the guise of another character. Ned's favourite alternative to the Professor was Rosina, Lady Madding, a kind of crazed old Diana Cooper figure. Her voice was a compound of Edith Evans and my prep-school elocution teacher: on an almost exclusive diet of Trefusis. Just occasionally I might appear in the guise of another character. Ned's favourite alternative to the Professor was Rosina, Lady Madding, a kind of crazed old Diana Cooper figure. Her voice was a compound of Edith Evans and my prep-school elocution teacher: I hope you don't mind sitting in here, at my age you get rather fond of draughts. I know you young people feel the cold terribly, but I'm afraid I rather like it. That's right. Yes, it is is nice, isn't it? Though I wouldn't really call it a cushion, Pekinese is a more common name for them. No, well never mind, he was very old just throw him on the fire would you? nice, isn't it? Though I wouldn't really call it a cushion, Pekinese is a more common name for them. No, well never mind, he was very old just throw him on the fire would you?

Colonel and Mrs Chichester In April 1984 I drove down to Suss.e.x to start my summer of Forty Years On Forty Years On. I'll run through the cast list.

Paul Eddington had been promoted to the part that he had watched John Geilgud play nearly sixteen years earlier, that of the headmaster. Eddington was, of course, a big star of television situation comedy, well known and loved as Penelope Keith's hara.s.sed husband in The Good Life The Good Life and more recently as Jim Hacker, the hopeless and hapless Minister for Administrative Affairs in the immensely popular and more recently as Jim Hacker, the hopeless and hapless Minister for Administrative Affairs in the immensely popular Yes, Minister. Yes, Minister. He had been very friendly during the rehearsals in London, but I couldn't help being slightly in awe of him. I had never worked in daily proximity with someone quite so famous before. He had been very friendly during the rehearsals in London, but I couldn't help being slightly in awe of him. I had never worked in daily proximity with someone quite so famous before.

John Fortune took the role of Franklin that Paul had played in the original production. John was one of the greats of Cambridge comedy with John Bird, Eleanor Bron and Timothy Birdsall back in the late fifties. He had created with Eleanor Bron the legendary (and wiped) series Where Was Spring? Where Was Spring? His partnership with John Bird was to achieve great prominence again in the late nineties and beyond with their wildly intelligent and prescient satirical contributions to His partnership with John Bird was to achieve great prominence again in the late nineties and beyond with their wildly intelligent and prescient satirical contributions to Bremner, Bird and Fortune Bremner, Bird and Fortune.

Annette Crosby played the school matron. She is now best known as Victor Meldrew's wife in One Foot in the Grave One Foot in the Grave, but I remembered her as a fiercely glamorous Queen Victoria in Edward VII Edward VII and an almost impossibly perky and delicious Fairy G.o.dmother in the and an almost impossibly perky and delicious Fairy G.o.dmother in the The Slipper and the Rose. The Slipper and the Rose. Doris Hare appeared as the old grandmother. She was seventy-nine and a magisterial trouper of the old school, much loved for her years of playing Reg Varney's mother in Doris Hare appeared as the old grandmother. She was seventy-nine and a magisterial trouper of the old school, much loved for her years of playing Reg Varney's mother in On the Buses On the Buses. A fine young actor called Stephen Rashbrook took the part of the head prefect, while the rest of the school were played by local West Suss.e.x boys.

From Forty Years On Forty Years On, Chichester, 1984. Self, Doris Hare, Paul Eddington and John Fortune.

The Chichester Festival, begun in the sixties by Leslie Evershed-Martin and Laurence Olivier, presented each year a long summer of plays and musicals in a large, purpose-built, thrust-stage theatre. The 1984 season offered The Merchant of Venice The Merchant of Venice, The Way of the World The Way of the World and and Oh, Kay! Oh, Kay! as well as the as well as the Forty Years On Forty Years On that I had come down for. A tent, since replaced by a fully fledged second house called the Minerva, served as a s.p.a.ce for smaller experimental productions. As a gig, as a booking, Chichester was much prized by old-school actors who liked the relaxed atmosphere of a prosperous south-coast town, a long season in repertory that didn't make too many demands and the security of guaranteed festival attendance. This regular local audience was known collectively as Colonel and Mrs Chichester on account of their severe and hidebound tastes Rattigan seemed to be the only post-war playwright they were able to stomach. Colonel and Mrs Chichester were not afraid to impart the exciting news that they went to the theatre to be that I had come down for. A tent, since replaced by a fully fledged second house called the Minerva, served as a s.p.a.ce for smaller experimental productions. As a gig, as a booking, Chichester was much prized by old-school actors who liked the relaxed atmosphere of a prosperous south-coast town, a long season in repertory that didn't make too many demands and the security of guaranteed festival attendance. This regular local audience was known collectively as Colonel and Mrs Chichester on account of their severe and hidebound tastes Rattigan seemed to be the only post-war playwright they were able to stomach. Colonel and Mrs Chichester were not afraid to impart the exciting news that they went to the theatre to be entertained entertained.

Patrick Garland was a delightful director, courteous, intelligent, benign and delicately tactful. In rehearsal, he had an endearing habit of addressing the perplexed boys in the cast as if they were members of an Oxbridge common room. 'Forgive my mentioning it, gentlemen, but I do feel myself constrained to observe that the dilatory nature of the communal egress immediately consequent upon Paul's second act exordium is injurious to the pace and dynamism of the scene. I should be so grateful if this deficiency were remedied. With grateful thanks.'

The play's designer was Peter Rice, whose son Matthew soon became a lifelong friend. When not a.s.sisting his father he dug the garden of the little house he had hired for the season, shot rabbits and pigeons, skinned and plucked same and cooked them into exquisite suppers. He played the piano, sang songs, sketched and painted. His voice was not unlike Princess Margaret's: high, grand and piercing. Perhaps he had spent too much time in her presence, being a close friend of her son, David Linley, with whom he had been at Bedales.

Unlike Matthew, whose cottage was a charming rural retreat in the Earl of Bessborough's estate, I had taken a rather dull modern flat a short walk from the Festival Theatre. I devoted my spare time to the script of Me and My Girl Me and My Girl. Once or twice Mike Ockrent came down to work on it with me. Robert Lindsay had been duly cast as Bill, and the part of Sally was to be taken by Leslie Ash, subject to her taking lessons in tap and singing. The major character role of Sir John had been given to Frank Thornton, better known as the Grace Brothers floorwalker Captain Peac.o.c.k in Are You Being Served? Are You Being Served? The show's opening was all set for autumn in Leicester if I could just deliver a final rehearsal script within the next month. The show's opening was all set for autumn in Leicester if I could just deliver a final rehearsal script within the next month.

My parents came down to Chichester from Norfolk for Forty Years On Forty Years On's first night. I proudly introduced them to Alan Bennett and Paul Eddington. Alan in turn introduced us to his friends Alan Bates and Russell Harty.

'I love a play where there are laughs and sobs,' said Alan Bates, in a much camper voice than I would have imagined could ever issue from the lips of The Go-Between The Go-Between's Ted Burgess and Far From the Madding Crowd Far From the Madding Crowd's Gabriel Oak, two of the manliest men in all of British film. 'I mean, you've got to have a giggle and a gulp, haven't you, or what's the theatre for?'

Russell Harty, with anagrammatic diablerie diablerie, referred to Alan Bates as a.n.a.l Beast, or, in mixed company, Lana Beast.

First-night party for the Forty Years On Forty Years On 'transfer', Queen's Theatre, London, 1984. Katie Kelly (back to us, shiny bun), boys from the cast, self, Hugh Laurie, sister Jo. 'transfer', Queen's Theatre, London, 1984. Katie Kelly (back to us, shiny bun), boys from the cast, self, Hugh Laurie, sister Jo.

I think I was disappointing as Tempest. In my mind I believed that I could play the part and play it with brilliance, but something held me back from being any better than competent. I was OK. Perfectly good. Fine Fine. That last is the worst word in theatre. When friends come backstage and use the word 'fine' about a play, a production or your performance you know they hated it. Often they preface it, out of nowhere, with the word 'no', which is fantastically revealing.

'No, it was fine fine!'

'No, really, I thought it was ... you know ...'

Why would they open a sentence with 'No' when they have not even been asked a question? There can be only one explanation. As they walk along the backstage corridors towards your dressing-room they have said inside their own head, 'G.o.d, that stank. Stephen was embarra.s.singly awful. The whole thing was ghastly. ghastly.' Then they enter and, as if answering and contradicting themselves, they instantly say, 'No, I thought it was great ... no, really, I ... mmm ... I liked it.' I know this is right because I so often catch myself doing exactly the same thing without meaning to. 'No ... really, it was fine.'

The production as a whole was considered a success, however. Colonel and Mrs Chichester enthused, and word soon got out that we were going to 'transfer'.

'Excellent news,' Paul Eddington said to me one evening as we stood waiting to go on. I nearly wrote 'as we stood in the wings', but Chichester had an ap.r.o.n stage that thrust out into the auditorium on three sides, so we must have been standing behind the set.

'Ooh!' I said. 'What good news?'

'It's official. We are going to transfer.'

'Wow!' I did a little dance. I had no idea what he was talking out.

It took me two days to work out the meaning of 'transfer'. The boys in the cast seemed to know, the women who served in the cafeteria knew, the tobacconist on the corner and the landlady of my flat knew, everyone knew except me.

'Wonderful news about the transfer,' said Doris Hare. 'The Queen's, I believe.'

'Er ...?' Did a transfer mean a royal visit? Now I was even more puzzled.

'I've played most of the houses on the Avenue, but this will be the first time I've played the Queen's.'

The Avenue? I pictured us in some tree-lined boulevard giving an outdoor performance to a bored and affronted monarch. The idea seemed grotesque.

Later, Patrick said to me, 'You will have heard the good news about the transfer?'

'Indeed. Yup. Great, isn't it?'

'This will be your West End debut, I think?'

So that that is what it meant! The production would be is what it meant! The production would be transferred transferred from Chichester to the West End. A transfer. Of course. D'uh. from Chichester to the West End. A transfer. Of course. D'uh.

I finished the Chichester season in a frenzy. Mike Ockrent came to collect my final draft of Me and My Girl Me and My Girl a week before we closed. a week before we closed.

Back in London I decided, since Kim and Steve were so happy together at Draycott Place, that it was time for me to move out of Chelsea and set up on my own. For a hundred pounds a week I found myself the tenant of a furnished one-bedroom flat in Regent Square, Bloomsbury. Just me and the new love of my life.

Computer 2 Early in the year I had called Hugh up excitedly. 'I've just bought a Macintosh. Cost me a thousand pounds.'

'What?'

Hugh enjoyed about a week of relaying the news of my fantastic expenditure on something as absurd and unworthy of outlay as a raincoat before he discovered that this Macintosh was a new type of computer.

I was more insanely in love with this strangely beautiful piece of technology than anything I had ever owned before. It had a cable leading out of it that ended in a device called a 'mouse'. The screen was white white when you started it all up and loaded the system disk. The text that came up was black on white, like paper, instead of the fuzzily glowing green or orange on black offered by all other computers. An arrow on the screen could be activated by moving the mouse on the desk next to the computer. Images of a floppy disk and a dustbin appeared on screen and all along the top were words which, when clicked on with the mouse, pulled down a kind of graphical roller-blind on which menu options were written. You could double-click on pictures of doc.u.ments and folders and windowpanes would open. I had never seen or imagined anything like it. Nor had anyone. Only Apple's short-lived Lisa computer had used this way of doing things before and it had never had a place in the consumer or home market. when you started it all up and loaded the system disk. The text that came up was black on white, like paper, instead of the fuzzily glowing green or orange on black offered by all other computers. An arrow on the screen could be activated by moving the mouse on the desk next to the computer. Images of a floppy disk and a dustbin appeared on screen and all along the top were words which, when clicked on with the mouse, pulled down a kind of graphical roller-blind on which menu options were written. You could double-click on pictures of doc.u.ments and folders and windowpanes would open. I had never seen or imagined anything like it. Nor had anyone. Only Apple's short-lived Lisa computer had used this way of doing things before and it had never had a place in the consumer or home market.

While it was being developed this graphical user interface had been referred to as WIMP, standing for Windows, Icons, Menus, Pointing-device. I was instantly a slave to its elegance, ease, usefulness and wit. Most of you reading this will be too young to imagine a time when computers could have been presented in any other fashion, but this was new and revolutionary. Extraordinarily, it didn't catch on for ages. For years and years after the January 1984 release of the Apple Macintosh the rivals IBM, Microsoft, Apricot, DEC, Amstrad and others all dismissed the mouse, the icon and the graphical desktop as 'gimmicky', 'childish' and 'a pa.s.sing fad'. Well, I shall refrain from going too deeply into the subject. I am fully aware of how minority a sport my love of all this dorky wizardry is. All you need know is that I, my 128 kilobyte Macintosh, Imagewriter bitmap printer and small collection of floppy disks were all very, very very happy together. What possible need could I have for s.e.x or human relationships when I had this? happy together. What possible need could I have for s.e.x or human relationships when I had this?

Hugh, Katie and Nick Symons shared a house in Leighton Grove, Kentish Town; I had my Bloomsbury flat; Kim stayed on in Chelsea. We all saw each other as much as possible, but I was about to be busy performing eight times a week on the West End stage.

Richard Armitage had arranged with Patrick and the Forty Years On Forty Years On producers that in November I would be released from the run of the play for a few days, so that I could travel up to Leicester for the opening of producers that in November I would be released from the run of the play for a few days, so that I could travel up to Leicester for the opening of Me and My Girl Me and My Girl: this contractual clause was insisted upon not because Richard kindly believed I should have the treat of attending the first night of a musical to which I had contributed a script, but because he wanted to be sure that I would be on hand should the dress rehearsal and opening demonstrate a need for urgent, unforeseen rewrites.

We had partic.i.p.ated in some strange conversations over the preceding months in which Richard had proved himself capable of changing hats mid-sentence, shuttling between his ident.i.ty as the show's producer, the heir and manager of the composer's estate and, not least so far as I was concerned, my agent. 'I have had a word with myself,' he would say, 'and I have agreed to my outrageous demands as to your financial partic.i.p.ation in this project. I wanted to cut you out of any backend, but I absolutely insisted, so much to my annoyance you have points in the show, which pleases me greatly.'

Early on in the rehearsal process Leslie Ash had not responded well to her dance and vocal lessons and by mutual agreement she had dropped out of the cast. I sat in Richard's office one afternoon as he rubbed his chin anxiously. Who on earth could we cast as Sally?

'What about Emma?' I said. 'She sings wonderfully and, while she may not have done any tap dancing, she's surely the kind of person who can do anything she turns her mind to.'

Richard's personality once more split before my eyes. 'Of course. Brilliant. I want her,' he said, before riposting, 'Well, if you do, you'll d.a.m.ned well have to pay through the nose for her. Oh now, come on, be reasonable. She has no experience, no real name. That's as maybe, she is one of the greatest talents of her generation and, as such, she'll cost you.'

I left Richard to wrestle the matter. I understood that he fell short of actually beating himself up and managed before too long to end his tense negotiations by shaking his hand on a deal satisfactory to both of him.

Emma duly joined the cast. She knew Robert Lindsay well, having worked at the Royal Exchange in Manchester, where Robert had presented his excellently received Hamlet. In fact I believe I am right in saying that Emma and Robert had known each other very very well back then. Really jolly well indeed. Oh yes. well back then. Really jolly well indeed. Oh yes.

Me and My Girl. Emma's dressing-room on the first night. Emma's dressing-room on the first night.

Forty Years On had to undergo one or two cast changes for its West End run. John Fortune and Annette Crosbie were unavailable for the transfer, and their roles went to David Horovitch and Emma's mother, Phyllida Law. The boys were recast too: the local Chichester lads who had thrown themselves into their roles with such aplomb and good spirits were now replaced by London stage-school professionals, who were just as sparky and cheerful and a great deal more streetwise and experienced. had to undergo one or two cast changes for its West End run. John Fortune and Annette Crosbie were unavailable for the transfer, and their roles went to David Horovitch and Emma's mother, Phyllida Law. The boys were recast too: the local Chichester lads who had thrown themselves into their roles with such aplomb and good spirits were now replaced by London stage-school professionals, who were just as sparky and cheerful and a great deal more streetwise and experienced.

The day before the opening, during the interval between the technical run and the evening dress rehearsal, I walked out of the Queen's Theatre stage door with David Horovitch and a group of these boys, heading for a pasta restaurant that they with their Soho savvy had recommended. Alan Bennett was out in the street, attaching bicycle clips to his trousers.

'Are you going to join us for spaghetti?' I asked him.

'Yes, do!' said the boys.

'Oh no,' said Alan, in slightly shocked tones, as if we were inviting him to a naked orgy in an opium den. 'I shall cycle home and have a poached egg.' Alan Bennett is always excellent at being as much like Alan Bennett as you could reasonably hope. A keen mind, a powerful artistic sensibility, a fierce political and social conscience but a man of bicycle clips and poached eggs. Is it any wonder that he is so loved?

My name was now up in neon on Shaftesbury Avenue. I was too embarra.s.sed to take a picture, which now, of course, I regret. I do have a photograph of the first-night party. I should imagine I was very happy. I had every reason to be.

Paul Eddington was happy too, enjoying a ripe and fruity time in his career. He had just been elected to the Garrick Club, which gave him enormous pleasure, and he and Nigel Hawthorne had been paid a large sum of money for a TV commercial, which pleased him almost as much.

'A very very large sum,' he said happily. 'It's to advertise a new Cadbury's chocolate bar called Wispa. Nigel whispers in my ear in his Sir Humphrey character half a day's work for the most extraordinary fee.' large sum,' he said happily. 'It's to advertise a new Cadbury's chocolate bar called Wispa. Nigel whispers in my ear in his Sir Humphrey character half a day's work for the most extraordinary fee.'

'Gosh,' I said, 'and do Tony Jay and Jonathan Lynn get a good wedge too?'

'Ah!' Paul winced slightly at my mention of the names of the writers and creators of Yes, Minister Yes, Minister, a mention I had not made mischievously but out of genuine curiosity as to how these things worked. 'Yes. Nigel and I had a twinge of guilt about that, so we're sending them each a case of claret. Jolly good claret.'

There is a chasm between writers and performers: for each, life often looks better across the divide, and while I am sure Tony and Jonathan were pleased to receive their case of jolly good claret, I cannot doubt that they may have preferred the kind of remuneration Paul and Nigel were enjoying. As I was to discover, however, writing has its rewards too.

One night, as the curtain came down, Paul whispered in my ear with delighted triumph, 'I can tell you now. It's official. I'm Prime Minister.'

That night the final episode of Yes, Minister Yes, Minister had been broadcast. It ended with Jim Hacker succeeding to the leadership of his party and the country. Keeping the secret, Paul told me, had been the hardest job he had ever had. had been broadcast. It ended with Jim Hacker succeeding to the leadership of his party and the country. Keeping the secret, Paul told me, had been the hardest job he had ever had.

I settled into the run of the play. There were six evening performances a week with matinees on Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days. I would be saying the same lines to the same people, wearing the same clothes and handling the same props eight times a week for the next six months. Next door in the Globe Theatre (now called the Gielgud) a show set in a girls' school called Daisy Pulls it Off Daisy Pulls it Off was running, and the cast of schoolgirls and schoolboys in each got on was running, and the cast of schoolgirls and schoolboys in each got on very well together very well together, as you might imagine. Each Wednesday afternoon in the interval between matinee and evening performance there would be a backstage school feast, the boys hosting in the Queen's one week, the girls in the Globe the next. Further along the street stood the Lyric Theatre, where Leonard Rossiter was playing Truscott in a revival of Joe Orton's Loot. Loot. One evening we were stunned to hear that he had collapsed and died of a heart attack just before going on. Only a few months earlier both Tommy Cooper and Eric Morecambe had also died on stage. A small selfish and shameful part of me regretted the certainty that I would now never meet or work with those three geniuses at least as much as I mourned their pa.s.sing or felt for the desolation such sudden deaths must have brought their families. One evening we were stunned to hear that he had collapsed and died of a heart attack just before going on. Only a few months earlier both Tommy Cooper and Eric Morecambe had also died on stage. A small selfish and shameful part of me regretted the certainty that I would now never meet or work with those three geniuses at least as much as I mourned their pa.s.sing or felt for the desolation such sudden deaths must have brought their families.

November came, and it was time for me to go up to Leicester for the opening of Me and My Girl. Me and My Girl. The plan was to arrive on Thursday for the dress rehearsal, stay on Friday for the first night and be back in London in time for the Sat.u.r.day matinee and evening shows of The plan was to arrive on Thursday for the dress rehearsal, stay on Friday for the first night and be back in London in time for the Sat.u.r.day matinee and evening shows of Forty Years On Forty Years On. Who meanwhile would be taking my place as Tempest? I was horrified to discover that it would be Alan Bennett himself, reprising his original performance from 1968. Horrified, because I would, naturally, miss the chance to see him.

He came into the dressing-room I shared with David Horovitch on the Monday evening of that week.

'Oh, Stephen, I've got a funny request. I don't know if you'll want to accede, but I'll put it to you anyway.'

'Yes?'

'I know you aren't going till Thursday, but would you mind if I went on as Tempest on the Wednesday matinee and evening as well?'

'Oh goodness, not at all. Not at all at all.' The dear fellow was obviously a little nervous and wanted to dip his toes in the water and feel his way back into the role with a smaller matinee audience. The wonderful part of it all was that I could now be in that audience and watch him. For two performances. It is not often that an actor gets to see a production he is in, and while many prefer not to watch someone else playing their own part, especially if it is a master like Bennett, I was too much the fan to care if the comparison cast me in the shade. Which I knew it would. After all, he wrote Tempest for himself and he was Alan, for heaven's sake, Bennett.

I watched him both times and went round to the dressing-room.

'Oh, Alan, you were astounding. Astounding.'

'Ooh, do you think so, really?'

'I'm so pleased you were on today, but you know,' I said, 'you absolutely didn't need to ease yourself in with a matinee performance, you were perfect from the start.'

'Oh, that isn't why I asked if I could go on today.'

'It isn't?'

'To be honest, no.'

'Well, then why?'

'Well, you know I've got this film?'

Indeed I did know. Alan had written the screenplay for a film called A Private Function A Private Function, which starred Maggie Smith, Michael Palin and Denholm Elliott. I was planning to catch it over the weekend.

'You see,' he said, 'it's the Royal Command premiere this evening, and I wanted a solid excuse not to have to go ...'

It is a very Bennetty kind of shyness that sees per-forming on stage in front of hundreds of strangers as less stressful than attending a party.

Leicester pa.s.sed in a blur. The dress rehearsal of Me and My Girl Me and My Girl seemed fine, but without an audience it was impossible to tell whether any of the slapstick and big comic routines would really work. Robert and Emma were wonderful together. Robert's comedy business with his cloak, with his bowler hat, with cigarettes, cushions and any other props that came his way was masterly. I hadn't seen physical comedy this good outside silent pictures. seemed fine, but without an audience it was impossible to tell whether any of the slapstick and big comic routines would really work. Robert and Emma were wonderful together. Robert's comedy business with his cloak, with his bowler hat, with cigarettes, cushions and any other props that came his way was masterly. I hadn't seen physical comedy this good outside silent pictures.

Me and My Girl. Robert Lindsay and Emma Thompson.

I went round the dressing-rooms with good-luck bottles of champagne, cards, bunches of roses and expressions of faith, hope and grat.i.tude.

'Well, we are waiting for the final director now ...' said Frank Thornton, adding in his most lugubrious manner the answer to my unspoken question, '... the audience!'

'Ah!' I nodded at this wise actorly thought.

In the end the final director jerked up their thumbs with a loud 'Lambeth Walk' 'Oi!'. They stood and cheered at the end for what seemed like half an hour. It was a most wonderful triumph, and everybody hugged each other and sobbed with joy just as they do in the best Hollywood backstage musicals. Mike Ockrent's magical and comically detailed direction, Gillian Gregory's ch.o.r.eography, Mike Walker's arrangements and a chorus and cast that threw themselves body and soul into every second of the two hours' running time ensured as happy an evening as I can remember in the theatre.

I would not want to be misunderstood. Musicals are still not quite my thing, and I am sure there are plenty of you who will wince at the thought of pearly kings and queens and larky high kicks accompanying a 1930s rum-ti-tum-ti score. Nonetheless I was pleased to be involved with something so alien to my usual tastes and which bubbled and bounced with such unaffected lightness of touch and warm silliness and unapologetic high spirits. We bucked the trend for self-regarding, high-toned, through-sung operatic melodramas. Not just bucked, buck-and-winged. I liked the fact that we were presenting an evening that paid homage to the origins of the word 'musical' as an adjective not a noun. From its beginnings the genre was Musical Comedy, and we had all hoped that there was still a demand for that kind of theatre. At the party I leant forward to a beaming Richard Armitage.

'Do you think,' I yelled in his ear, flaunting my theatrical jargon, 'that we will transfer?'

'Sure of it,' said Richard. 'Thank you, m'dear. My father is looking down and winking.'

I turned away, a tear in my eye. I knew how important it is for men to feel that they have finally earned the approval of their fathers.