The Fry Chronicles Part 15

'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.

Conspicuous Consumption

Country Cottages, Cheques, Credit Cards and Cla.s.sic Cars Back in London, the run of Forty Years On Forty Years On continued through Christmas and the New Year. I had started to cross off the days on a chart in the dressing-room like a prisoner scratching on the wall of his cell. There is something quite dreadful about what enforced repet.i.tion of action and speech does to the brain. Experienced stage actors all know how common it is to suffer a kind of out-of-body experience on stage where you look down and helplessly watch yourself from above. The moment comes to speak your lines and you will either freeze and dry up or say the same speech three or four times in a row without noticing. Only a pinch or a kick from a fellow actor can save you. continued through Christmas and the New Year. I had started to cross off the days on a chart in the dressing-room like a prisoner scratching on the wall of his cell. There is something quite dreadful about what enforced repet.i.tion of action and speech does to the brain. Experienced stage actors all know how common it is to suffer a kind of out-of-body experience on stage where you look down and helplessly watch yourself from above. The moment comes to speak your lines and you will either freeze and dry up or say the same speech three or four times in a row without noticing. Only a pinch or a kick from a fellow actor can save you.

There was one scene in Forty Years On Forty Years On in which I had to tick a boy off for something or other. I would strike the corner of a desk hard with my index finger in time to the rhythms of my reprimand. One half-empty matinee I looked down and saw that the varnish on the desk had been worn away by the striking of my finger. For some reason this upset me greatly, and I resolved that evening to strike another part of the desk. When the moment came I raised my hand, aimed a good six inches to the left of the scuff mark and brought my finger down with a bang in which I had to tick a boy off for something or other. I would strike the corner of a desk hard with my index finger in time to the rhythms of my reprimand. One half-empty matinee I looked down and saw that the varnish on the desk had been worn away by the striking of my finger. For some reason this upset me greatly, and I resolved that evening to strike another part of the desk. When the moment came I raised my hand, aimed a good six inches to the left of the scuff mark and brought my finger down with a bang on exactly the usual place on exactly the usual place. For the next few days I tried again and again, but some form of extreme and insane muscle-memory insisted that my finger had always to hit the same spot. This disturbed me deeply, and I began to look upon the two or three weeks remaining as a hideous incarceration from which I would never escape. I didn't share this sense of suffocating torment with David, Phyllida or Paul, as they seemed, with their greater experience, serene and at ease.

Doris Hare, who was eighty by this time, had more energy than the rest of us put together. She was the only princ.i.p.al in the cast who didn't go straight home as soon as the show ended. She and I would go most nights to Joe Allen's. Doris had a way of entering the restaurant that made one convinced that it was not a woollen shawl about her neck, but a fox fur fastened with an emerald clasp, and that her companion was not a gawky and self-conscious young actor but a sleek compound of Noel Coward, Ivor Novello and Binkie Beaumont.

'The secret, dear,' she would tell me, 'is to enjoy yourself. Why would we be in the theatre if we didn't love every minute of it? Casting, rehearsals, matinees, touring ... it's all marvellous. marvellous.' And she meant it.

Joe Allen's, an American diner-style restaurant, is a popular hangout for actors, dancers, agents, producers and playwrights. The famously rude waiters and waitresses are often drawn from the ranks of s...o...b..siness themselves. An American producer is notorious for once having got impatient at the slow service. He clicked his fingers for a waiter, calling out, 'Actor! Oh, Actor!'

I sat there in Joe Allen's one evening with Russell Harty, Alan Bennett and Alan Bates. All eyes were upon our table until suddenly heads swung towards the door. Laurence Olivier and Dustin Hoffman walked in. Our table no longer existed.

'Well, that's us told,' said Russell.

Olivier walked past, beaming at everyone in a general way.

'Why don't you go and say h.e.l.lo to him?' Alan Bennett said to Russell. 'You know him well.'

'I couldn't do that. Everyone would say, "Look there goes that odious Russell Harty sucking up to Larry Olivier."'

Harty and Bennett were very good friends. They each had a house in North Yorkshire. Alan would drive them up in his car at weekends. On one such journey, so the story goes, Alan said, 'Why don't we play a game of some kind to beguile the hours?'

'What about Botticelli?' said Russell.

'Ooh no! That's too compet.i.tive.'

They thought for a while, then Alan piped up, 'I know. We each have to think of the person whose underpants we would least like to have to wear on our head.'

'Colin Welland,' said Russell without a moment's hesitation.

'Ooh, that's not fair,' said Alan, 'you've won already.'

On another occasion, as they were driving through Leeds, Russell wound down the window and called out to a morose-looking woman waiting for a bus in the pelting rain, 'h.e.l.lo, love! All right?'

As she looked up in bewilderment he wound the window back up, leant back and said with great satisfaction, 'The privilege of being able to cast a golden ray of sunshine into an otherwise dull and unremarkable existence.'

As soon as I was free from the fetters of Forty Years On Forty Years On my life seemed to triple in speed and intensity. I moved out of the Bloomsbury flat and into a large furnished house in Southgate Road on the fringes of the de Beauvoir Estate between Islington and the b.a.l.l.s Pond Road. Nick Symons, Hugh, Katie and I shared this excellently eccentric house for the better part of a year. It looked, to Hugh's approving eye, like the kind of house the Rolling Stones might have rented in 1968. It was crammed to every corner with Benares bra.s.s trays, alabaster lamps, buhl cabinets, stuffed birds and waxed flowers in gla.s.s domes, lacquer screens, papier-mache bowls, mahogany chiffoniers, oil paintings of varying quality in chipped gilt plaster frames, indecipherable objects of sinister Dutch treen, impossible silvered wallpaper and madly tarnished mirrors. Our landlord, who dropped by only occasionally, was a spongey-nosed individual by the name of Stanley. He seemed very relaxed and unconcerned about a group of what were little more than students living their disordered lives amongst his antique bibelots and whatnots. my life seemed to triple in speed and intensity. I moved out of the Bloomsbury flat and into a large furnished house in Southgate Road on the fringes of the de Beauvoir Estate between Islington and the b.a.l.l.s Pond Road. Nick Symons, Hugh, Katie and I shared this excellently eccentric house for the better part of a year. It looked, to Hugh's approving eye, like the kind of house the Rolling Stones might have rented in 1968. It was crammed to every corner with Benares bra.s.s trays, alabaster lamps, buhl cabinets, stuffed birds and waxed flowers in gla.s.s domes, lacquer screens, papier-mache bowls, mahogany chiffoniers, oil paintings of varying quality in chipped gilt plaster frames, indecipherable objects of sinister Dutch treen, impossible silvered wallpaper and madly tarnished mirrors. Our landlord, who dropped by only occasionally, was a spongey-nosed individual by the name of Stanley. He seemed very relaxed and unconcerned about a group of what were little more than students living their disordered lives amongst his antique bibelots and whatnots.

The second series of Alfresco Alfresco had been aired nationally by this time, making not the slightest dent upon the public consciousness. I was busy enough with the had been aired nationally by this time, making not the slightest dent upon the public consciousness. I was busy enough with the Listener Listener, radio, tweaks for Me and My Girl Me and My Girl's West End transfer and my first proper film role. Directed by Mike Newell, the picture was called The Good Father The Good Father, adapted from a Peter Prince novel by Christopher Hampton.

At the read-through I glanced nervously around and tried to look as if I belonged at the table. There was Simon Callow, whose controversial new book Being An Actor Being An Actor had served as the first blast of the trumpet against the monstrous regiment of tyrannical stage directors; next to him sat one of my favourite actresses, Harriet Walter; next to her, Joanne Whalley, who was just about to make a name and earn enduring teenage-fantasy status for herself bringing Michael Gambon off in had served as the first blast of the trumpet against the monstrous regiment of tyrannical stage directors; next to him sat one of my favourite actresses, Harriet Walter; next to her, Joanne Whalley, who was just about to make a name and earn enduring teenage-fantasy status for herself bringing Michael Gambon off in The Singing Detective The Singing Detective; and next to her sat one half of the National Theatre of Brent, Jim Broadbent. And finally there was the film's star, Anthony Hopkins, a man from whom charisma, power and virility radiated with a force that was frankly frightening. I had been faintly obsessed with him ever since his blue eyes burnt out of the screen at me in Richard Attenborough's Young Winston Young Winston.

Too late for the preliminary introductions, Miriam Margolyes had burst in like a beaming pinball just in time for the start of the read. When it was over she approached me.

'How do you do? I'm Mir ...' She stopped and plucked at her tongue with her thumb and forefinger, '... Miriam Margolyes. Sorry about that, I was licking my girlfriend out last night and I've still got some c.u.n.t hairs in my mouth.' Miriam is perhaps the kindest, most loyal and incorruptibly decent person on the whole Equity roll, but she is certainly not someone to take out to tea with the archdeacon.

In the film I played a man called Creighton, divorced and beaten down by the crushing weight of life, children and alimony. I had only one scene, but since it was with Hopkins himself it was in my mind as good a role as Michael Corleone and Rhett Butler combined. The plot required me to have been at school with Simon Callow, which wounded me a little, as I knew he was a good eight years older than me. To someone in their twenties, eight years is a lifetime. I knew that I was not the type ever to be asked to play lissom youths or handsome lovers, but it did seem a little hard to be plunged into middle age for my first-ever film role.

People are strange about casting.

We hold a party at Southgate Road about this time. I go around with a Nebuchadnezzar of champagne topping up the guests and trying not to breathe in the fumes myself being well aware of what my allergy to champagne might bring on. As I pa.s.s by, an actor friend asks what I am up to and I mention The Good Father The Good Father.

'What sort of role?'

'Oh, I play this rather defeated father and husband who's going through a divorce.'

'You!' the actor is unable or unwilling to hide the contempt, outrage and disapproval in his voice. 'What the h.e.l.l would you you know about that?' know about that?'

I grin tightly and move on. So I should be playing nothing but celibate gay men? Is that how acting works? I suppose the actor, who is married, with a second child on the way and not very much in demand, is peeved that he should be out of work while juicy parts are going to lucky b.u.g.g.e.rs like me: his savage t.i.tter of disbelief must be his way of coping. People who didn't go to drama school, have enormous holes in their Chekhov technique and are given parts that they cannot possibly play out of any true experience must be excessively aggravating to proper actors. I can see that, but I am still a little hurt.

We are rather excited tonight to have Kate Bush at the party. Hugh has just been in a video of her newest song. Two Nebuchadnezzars of champagne last the evening perfectly, and for those, like me, who don't drink it, we are all still of an age where guests bring bottles and there is enough red wine to keep us merry too. Talking of red wine, parked in the street outside the house is my new pride and joy, a claret-coloured Daimler Sovereign. How perfect is my life. I want to weep when I look back. Enough money to keep me in cigarettes, shirts and a nice new car, but not so much as to isolate me from this charmed studenty existence of Bohemian house-sharing and irresponsible fun. Experiences are still new and exciting, my palate is not jaded, life is not stale.

We were happy and lucky, but this was Thatcher's Britain, and we did not let a moment pa.s.s without giving Thatcher's Britain a searing indictment. Forgive the phrase. We were still children really and Thatcher's Britain seemed to us to be something that needed searingly to be indicted, the searinglier the better. You might imagine that it had treated us so well that we should be on our knees thanking it for the film roles, job opportunities, affordable property prices, Daimler Sovereigns and burgeoning prosperity that had come our way with a minimum of effort. We certainly did not see it that way. Firstly, our educations and upbringings had been received under Labour and Edward Heath's more liberal and consensus-based dispensations. The new callousness and combative certainty of Thatcher and her cabinet of vulgar curiosities were alien to the values we grew up with, and it smelt all wrong. I know that if you are flourishing in a regime you are supposed not to bellyache about it. Seems ungrateful. Cake and eat it. Biting the hand that feeds. The moral high ground is easy to perch on if you're in a cashmere sweater. Chattering cla.s.ses. Trendy liberals. Bah. I do see that. Bad enough from someone in an ordinary job, but to hear searing indictments of Thatcher's Britain from an actor actor ... ...

The world finds it difficult to credit the breed with enough brains or the qualities of seriousness, understanding and worldly experience required for a political statement to which they can attach the slightest value. Daffy airheaded twazzocks, every one of them, is more or less the accepted view; one from which it is hard to dissent, and I speak as a fully paid-up member of Equity and the Screen Actors Guild myself. This is partly because, love them/us as I do hard to find a kinder, funnier, more loyal bunch, etc., etc. there are probably more embarra.s.sing featherheads and ludicrous naifs in the acting profession than in any other. Perhaps because to penetrate a role properly you first have to empty the brain of all cynicism and self-awareness and such irrelevant impedimenta as logic, reason and empirical sense. Certainly some, but not all, of the very best actors I have known are innocent of any such enc.u.mbrances. I have noticed that, whenever I have made the mistake of getting myself embroiled in some public controversy or other, the side that holds the opposing view will always refer to me as an actor. It successfully devalues whatever it is I might have said. I have spent more time writing than acting, but 'After all, he's only a writer,' doesn't have quite the same sneering finality as 'Why should we pay any attention to the views of an actor actor?' I am not always such an imbecile as to be surprised by that, or even aggrieved. We all choose whatever weapons are at hand in a fight and when we get close in we jab and kick at the weakest and most vulnerable parts.

I mention all this because I am teeing up a section in which I have to take you through more sickening examples of my good fortune, dissipation, wanton wastefulness and sheer cheapness of spirit and lowness of social or moral tone.

Me and My Girl transferred to the Adelphi Theatre. Matthew Rice, David Linley and I made our way on foot from the stage door in Maiden Lane to the first-night party at Smith's in Covent Garden. As we walked, paparazzi closed in on David like wasps at a picnic. 'This way, Lord Linley.' Flash. 'Lord Linley, Lord Linley!' Flash, pop, flash. Every now and then he would bat them away with a growl. They would shrink back, ma.s.s and swarm again. This continued for the length of our walk. transferred to the Adelphi Theatre. Matthew Rice, David Linley and I made our way on foot from the stage door in Maiden Lane to the first-night party at Smith's in Covent Garden. As we walked, paparazzi closed in on David like wasps at a picnic. 'This way, Lord Linley.' Flash. 'Lord Linley, Lord Linley!' Flash, pop, flash. Every now and then he would bat them away with a growl. They would shrink back, ma.s.s and swarm again. This continued for the length of our walk.

'What can it be like?' I asked David.

'You'll know soon enough,' he said.

This was a charming remark, but not one I could set much store by. My name was beginning to mean a little more in the world, but there was still no danger of photographers shouting it out on the red carpet. As soon as I had understood that a few appearances on television, especially in a show like Alfresco Alfresco which appealed to so few, would not generate instant fame, I had relaxed into life and work without troubling myself too much about the whole business. Letters had started to come in, a few from which appealed to so few, would not generate instant fame, I had relaxed into life and work without troubling myself too much about the whole business. Letters had started to come in, a few from Alfresco Alfresco ... watchers, I won't say fans, and some from ... watchers, I won't say fans, and some from Loose Ends Loose Ends listeners or readers of the magazines for which I wrote. Once or twice I would be stopped in the street. listeners or readers of the magazines for which I wrote. Once or twice I would be stopped in the street.

'You're that ... that man ...' Fingers would be clicked and feet stamped at the effort of memory.

'I know I look like him, but I'm not,' I tried saying once or twice. I soon learnt that whether or not they knew my name or where they had seen me they knew perfectly well that I was not anybody's doppelganger. For good or ill my features are unmistakable, and since that time I have accepted that pretending not to be me is no good. Some can get away with it, but not I. Sungla.s.ses, pulled-down beanies and m.u.f.fled-up scarves make no difference. I might as well be carrying a sign with my name on.

As 1985 wore on, and Me and My Girl Me and My Girl clearly established itself as a major hit, royalty statements from Noel Gay Music began to arrive. The 'backend' that Richard Armitage the agent had strong-armed Richard Armitage the producer into accepting was beginning to bear fruit. clearly established itself as a major hit, royalty statements from Noel Gay Music began to arrive. The 'backend' that Richard Armitage the agent had strong-armed Richard Armitage the producer into accepting was beginning to bear fruit.

Martin Bergman said to me with his usual a.s.sured omniscience, 'Oh yes, Stephen, you'll get at least a million out of it, no question.'

I didn't believe him for a second, but the weekly arrival of cheques was a delightful new feature of my life.

The first thing I did as soon as I fully understood that my 'net worth' was increasing was to sign up for every conceivable kind of plastic. When you applied for a Diner's Club card you could ask to be sent two, one for personal use and one for business. I needed no such distinction to be made in my life, but two cards, hurrah! I had a gold American Express Card, at that time the ultimate status symbol, as well as an ordinary green one. I had the usual bank card, two Mastercards (Access, your flexible friend, being one) and two Visa cards. Added to these were sundry store, subscription and membership cards. Do you remember Clifton James as Sheriff J.W. Pepper in Live and Let Die Live and Let Die and and The Man With the Golden Gun The Man With the Golden Gun? Big, pot-bellied American in a Hawaiian shirt forever chewing and dabbing his brow with a bandana? There's a scene where he takes out his wallet, and its concertinaed compartments flip down almost to the ground exposing dozens of credit cards. That was my wallet.

Why? Well, I am distrustful of too much certainty in self-a.n.a.lysis, but I do not think this fatuous and infantile display of 'worth' can have been unconnected to the crime that got me arrested. Aged seventeen, I had run riot around England with someone else's credit cards a Diner's Club and an Access card. That is what had got me sent to Pucklechurch prison. I suppose eight years later I still found it hard to believe that I merited my own cards. I was now creditworthy. These cards were daily reminders that the long nightmare was over and that I was at last a proper, decent citizen solidly placed on the right side of the law. Not that this was to be anything like an endpoint for me. By no means. The same old self-destructive urges were only just below the surface. In all too short a time those same credit cards, symbols of legitimacy and respectability or not, would be chopping endless lines of far from legal and less than respectable cocaine. I suppose eight years later I still found it hard to believe that I merited my own cards. I was now creditworthy. These cards were daily reminders that the long nightmare was over and that I was at last a proper, decent citizen solidly placed on the right side of the law. Not that this was to be anything like an endpoint for me. By no means. The same old self-destructive urges were only just below the surface. In all too short a time those same credit cards, symbols of legitimacy and respectability or not, would be chopping endless lines of far from legal and less than respectable cocaine.

For the meantime I clung to these tokens of worth, worthiness, credit and credibility. I spent 7,000 on a laser printer for my Macintosh computer. It was a staggering sum and in the eyes of most people unjustifiable and absurd. No one had ever seen before such extraordinary print clarity and quality from a computer. The standard machines were the dot-matrix kind, usually taking special paper that had punched holes down the sides; they produced type that was composed, as the name suggests, of dots, resulting in a fuzzy, low resolution. In the radio studio I was now able to brandish Trefusis scripts that looked as if they had been professionally typeset. With great solemnity I would tell the guests and contributors around the Loose Ends Loose Ends table that I wrote my script in longhand and then dropped it off at the printer's who produced three copies, one for Ian Gardhouse, one for the sound engineer and one for me. I would be stared at as if I were tragically and perhaps dangerously insane, but the fact that they could swallow such a ludicrous story shows how rare laser-printed pages were back then. table that I wrote my script in longhand and then dropped it off at the printer's who produced three copies, one for Ian Gardhouse, one for the sound engineer and one for me. I would be stared at as if I were tragically and perhaps dangerously insane, but the fact that they could swallow such a ludicrous story shows how rare laser-printed pages were back then.

I became the first non-businessperson I knew to have a carphone. I would sit in traffic, wallowing back against the Connollized leather of the Sovereign, and call people for the sheer pleasure of being able to say, 'Hang on, the lights are turning green,' and hearing my interlocutor turn green too, with envy. Of course, they probably just thought, 'What a w.a.n.ker,' but I was too happy to care.