delivered in the cemetery scene. I was one of the 12 extras on stage holding umbrellas painted with headstones and instructed to be as still as the grave. ‘Yup, it was a real fart smarm,’ was what I swear Roger said one fateful performance.
My umbrella was the first to start shaking. Then the one next to me began to shake, and the next. Soon all 12 of us were laughing out loud and rolling around the stage. I suppose if you’re going to corpse on stage you might as well do it in a cemetery scene. But at the end ofthe night I was ready for a bollocking for my bad example. Roger, to his credit, had seen the funny side. And our friendship grew from there. Today I’m godfather to his son and I’ve been with him through a lot of the ups and downs of his life.
By 1969, Roger had moved on from Salisbury and become artistic director of a new company he had formed in Derby. He asked me to join the cast in Lysistrata and then join his Rep full-time. He said he could afford to pay me something like £30 a week – so much less than I could have got if I’d stuck with my dad’s antique shop. But I could just about survive, so I said yes without a second thought. At least in the theatre I had people to talk to pretty much 24 hours a day.
In Derby I moved into a classic theatrical digs. I had a tiny single bed in a boxroom, shared the family bathroom and had to be up and out just after breakfast each morning. As soon as I shut the front door I would head off to meet a fellow company member who lodged nearby. We would gossip away as we headed to the theatre together. But our journey didn’t always go smoothly. Does anything?
One morning an old female tramp leaped out at us as we turned a corner. I nearly had a heart attack with fright. ‘Can you spare something for some food, sir?’ she asked me as I tried to breathe normally. I found a few coins.
‘Ow, Gawd bless you, sir. You’re a true gentleman. I won’t forget you,’ she squawked. ‘Your lady friend is blessed to have you.’
One week later the same grubby little lady popped up again. ‘Sorry, love, I don’t have any change today,’ I said, with a relaxed smile.
‘You shit. You horrible fat man. You’re a disgrace, you should rot in hell,’ she spat out in fury as we scuttled away.
It was a good lesson for the rest of my professional career. You can be hot one week, ice-cold the next. No one remembers your last review. You truly are only as good as your last performance.
In Derby I met another set of marvellous people, and worked on ever more powerful plays. I also learned another life lesson, this time without the aid of abuse in the street. I learned the old chestnut that it’s not what you know but who you know – and most importantly of all it’s who knows you.
Another old pal from Salisbury knew me. He was the actor and writer David Wood and he asked me to come to London to do a musical play he had written. The Owl and the Pussycat Went to See… was based on Edward Lear’s poem and was moving to London after a tryout in Worcester. It was a wonderful opportunity and Roger Clissold agreed that I should take it. So two weeks later I moved out of my digs, left Derby Rep and headed south. It was 1969 and The Owl and the Pussycat was opening at the Jeanetta Cochrane Theatre in the strange no man’s land of Holborn. Our audiences were vast, noisy crowds of school kids. I played Head Jumbly and a bluebird. No, it wasn’t King Lear . But it was London. It was bliss.
I celebrated my 21st birthday in that company. Patsy Rowlands, the wife of our musical director, made me laugh, and nearly made me cry, when she presented me with a cake. ‘You’re lucky to get it. This was my seventhattempt and if it hadn’t worked I would have gone to the shop,’ she said as she lit the candles. All the others had burned, failed to rise or fallen prey to some other kind of culinary disaster. I was in tears that someone had taken so much trouble over my
My umbrella was the first to start shaking. Then the one next to me began to shake, and the next. Soon all 12 of us were laughing out loud and rolling around the stage. I suppose if you’re going to corpse on stage you might as well do it in a cemetery scene. But at the end ofthe night I was ready for a bollocking for my bad example. Roger, to his credit, had seen the funny side. And our friendship grew from there. Today I’m godfather to his son and I’ve been with him through a lot of the ups and downs of his life.
By 1969, Roger had moved on from Salisbury and become artistic director of a new company he had formed in Derby. He asked me to join the cast in Lysistrata and then join his Rep full-time. He said he could afford to pay me something like £30 a week – so much less than I could have got if I’d stuck with my dad’s antique shop. But I could just about survive, so I said yes without a second thought. At least in the theatre I had people to talk to pretty much 24 hours a day.
In Derby I moved into a classic theatrical digs. I had a tiny single bed in a boxroom, shared the family bathroom and had to be up and out just after breakfast each morning. As soon as I shut the front door I would head off to meet a fellow company member who lodged nearby. We would gossip away as we headed to the theatre together. But our journey didn’t always go smoothly. Does anything?
One morning an old female tramp leaped out at us as we turned a corner. I nearly had a heart attack with fright. ‘Can you spare something for some food, sir?’ she asked me as I tried to breathe normally. I found a few coins.
‘Ow, Gawd bless you, sir. You’re a true gentleman. I won’t forget you,’ she squawked. ‘Your lady friend is blessed to have you.’
One week later the same grubby little lady popped up again. ‘Sorry, love, I don’t have any change today,’ I said, with a relaxed smile.
‘You shit. You horrible fat man. You’re a disgrace, you should rot in hell,’ she spat out in fury as we scuttled away.
It was a good lesson for the rest of my professional career. You can be hot one week, ice-cold the next. No one remembers your last review. You truly are only as good as your last performance.
In Derby I met another set of marvellous people, and worked on ever more powerful plays. I also learned another life lesson, this time without the aid of abuse in the street. I learned the old chestnut that it’s not what you know but who you know – and most importantly of all it’s who knows you.
Another old pal from Salisbury knew me. He was the actor and writer David Wood and he asked me to come to London to do a musical play he had written. The Owl and the Pussycat Went to See… was based on Edward Lear’s poem and was moving to London after a tryout in Worcester. It was a wonderful opportunity and Roger Clissold agreed that I should take it. So two weeks later I moved out of my digs, left Derby Rep and headed south. It was 1969 and The Owl and the Pussycat was opening at the Jeanetta Cochrane Theatre in the strange no man’s land of Holborn. Our audiences were vast, noisy crowds of school kids. I played Head Jumbly and a bluebird. No, it wasn’t King Lear . But it was London. It was bliss.
I celebrated my 21st birthday in that company. Patsy Rowlands, the wife of our musical director, made me laugh, and nearly made me cry, when she presented me with a cake. ‘You’re lucky to get it. This was my seventhattempt and if it hadn’t worked I would have gone to the shop,’ she said as she lit the candles. All the others had burned, failed to rise or fallen prey to some other kind of culinary disaster. I was in tears that someone had taken so much trouble over my
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