Simon is hounded by a gigantic hound

‘I obeyed – I’m always obedient when I’m nearly naked’

NEXT MONTH, THE MILL at Sonning Theatre is presenting my adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles. It’s going to be a really exciting production, with an award-winning special-effects team bringing the hound to life.

Alas, not so when the show was first staged, 15 years ago. An animatronics expert designed a hound to be operated by a man lying inside it, controlling the computerised movements of its head and limbs – the rolling eyes, the gnashing teeth etc. It was going to be ‘awesome’, the producer told me – mind you, with a price tag of £50,000, I’d want it to also cook like Heston Blumenthal and sing like Frank Sinatra.

During the dress rehearsal, we tried everything to make the darned thing look lifelike: we covered it in mud, we painted its teeth, we lowered the lights and filled the stage with dry ice. To no avail. At the first performance, tension was mounting on the moonlit moor: the audience were on the edge of their seats, and we hoped they’d scream – or at least gasp –whenourhoundappeared. There was a promising howl offstage, then on it lumbered, a cross between an arthritic Basil Brush and a tiny JCB. Its eyes were like brake lights rolling in the dark. There was no scream from the audience, no gasp – just a warm-hearted ‘Aaah’, as though Bambi had appeared. After a brief prowl ’n’ growl, the computer got jammed and two stagehands had to drag the hound off by its tail – the Eddie the Eagle of the theatre.

Faced with the show’s failure, the producer was upbeat, ‘ No worries,’ he told me, ‘I’m going to get the effing thing converted into a cat for Puss in Boots in Huddersfield at Christmas.’ There’s ‘diverse’ for you – the first transspecies animal in theatre history. It’s probably understudying in The Lion King by now.

I thought I’d been through the full menu of stinky minor ailments, from chilblains to chicken pox, but I’ve just come across a new absolute corker – sciatica. It really should be on the à la carte. My GP gave me a full diagnosis: ‘It’s a real bugger.’

She’s not wrong – it’s like barbed wire being twisted inside your thigh. The kindly physiotherapist said she could see me at short notice, so I had a quick shower, changed and set off. ‘Let’s have a look at you,’ she said, meaning strip to my pants. I did. ‘Turn round and put your arms in the air so I can see your spine.’ I obeyed – I’m always obedient when I’m nearly naked. ‘Well, I can see there’s clearly something wrong here,’ she said. I trembled. ‘You’ve got your underpants on back to front, Mr Williams.’

Elementary, my dear Watson.

The Hound of the Baskervilles plays at The Mill at Sonning Theatre, 1 February to 17 March; millatsonning.com