“Between you and me …”
Although officially concerned to hear Nigel Havers had “fallen ill” during his current theatrical tour, one was overjoyed when recently asked to step into the breach as his replacement in Noël Coward’s Private Lives. Having long been familiar with the play in question (possibly more so than Nigel!), I was confident this wouldn’t be the stretch my agent feared, after confirmation she’d been telephoned by the show’s panicstricken producer with 48 hours’ notice. Added incentive of course came in the form of Nigel’s co-star Patricia Hodge, whose enduring charms I hardly need to elaborate on. After eagerly arriving at the stage door on Sunday morning, confusion was soon rife when I was bluntly assured “Mr Havers” in fact remained in the rudest health and was indeed due to perform when the week’s run began that following Monday night. Protestations from yours truly — not least irate demands to “speak to Nigel immediately!” — eventually resulted in my being escorted off the premises by two burly types, while disgracefully mistaken for an unhinged fantasist. Not for the first time, dear friends, it now emerges the hopeless agent fell prey to an elaborate professional hoax at my expense, perpetrated by an as yet unidentified adversary. Having whittled down the list of suspects to 37 at the time of writing, Havers himself cannot be discounted.
NO SPECIAL VACANCIES
On deciding to return to the Scottish capital for the first time since 2019 for this summer’s festival, my early attempt to secure customary lodgings at dear old Mrs Archibald’s residence met with a dispiriting response when I instead encountered the “grandson” on the telephone.
Before completing my breezy introduction as one of “granny’s special regulars” (code for discount room rates for those in the know) I was bluntly informed she’d been dead for 18 months and that I was now to book online.
I subsequently discovered this charmless individual had not only ratcheted up prices to unseemly American tourist levels, but had also overseen the most unforgivable “refurbishment”.
A toast, then, to Mrs Archibald and the long lost age of the theatrical landlady up and down the land — when cooked breakfasts, gin-soaked sympathies and straightforward sexual favours were administered to many a travelling player.
★ news of Mrs Archibald’s passing serves as an unwelcome reminder that much of one’s “social life” is these days based around the funerals of fallen co-stars — attended in the main by spluttering types fast heading the same way and blank-faced youths yearning to be back on their mobile devices.
With myself and a fellow resting character actor having gone to the trouble of appearing at as many of these farewells as is logistically possible each week, it’s disappointing to learn such efforts are now being frowned upon.
Contrary to whatever small-minded types are presently saying about the pair of us, it’s long been perfectly acceptable in this business of ours to attend the wakes of fellow showfolk one in reality barely knew — not to mention enthusiastically enjoying the free wine and buffet in their honour.
LOVING BAG-CARRIER
Belated congratulations to Joan Collins and fifth hubby Percy, recently marking 20 years of happy matrimony in characteristically low-key fashion.
As Joan nears her 90th year, anyone who’s witnessed Mr Gibson manfully struggling with her vast airport luggage around the globe in recent decades will concur that here’s a young man committed to putting in the hard yards. Regrettable, however, to see their anniversary bash so ruthlessly overshadowed in the press by the sinister duo that is long-serving sexpot Ms Hurley and her pretty boy-double.
◆ Having only last year vowed to strictly remain in “boy mode” when it came to acting in the movies, I hear popular transgenderist Miss Izzard has already succumbed to an offer of a major lady part on screen. One can only imagine the delight behind closed doors of those battle-hardened menopausal actresses, resourceful enough to have survived this long in the trade, when they find the former Mr Eddie’s now intent on landing plum film roles at their expense after all!
★ after generously giving up time to participate in a read-through of a young buck’s new play, one’s irritation at the mumbling youths sitting around me was made loudly apparent to all concerned.
I calculate that drama schools stopped teaching students to properly “project” circa 1983, with the results evident on stages ever since.
On later meeting the agent to complain about this unsatisfactory afternoon at my expense, she callously pointed out I’d forgotten to put in the hearing aids.