I’ve had my ‘me too’ moments

A hand on the knee and – ooh no, missus – a pass by Frankie Howerd

Me too. I have not forgotten the night when I first felt an unexpected hand touch my knee. It was at a corner table in the main dining room at Simpson’s, the celebrated restaurant in the Strand that has been serving traditional English fare since the 1850s. This was the 1960s. I was about sixteen and being entertained by an older woman – the glamorous godmother of a schoolfriend.

The trolley bearing Simpson’s famous roast had just arrived at our table when under it, beneath the tablecloth, I suddenly felt my hostess’s right hand gently touching my left knee. I said nothing. She said nothing as softly, slowly her hand made its way up my thigh. Flattered but confused, I slipped my left hand under the table cloth to arrest hers and, as our fingers touched, I realised she was pressing a coin into the palm of my hand. It was a heavy coin. It felt like a half-crown.

‘Oh God,’ I thought, ‘is she hoping to buy my affections?’

I turned towards her, wide-eyed, and she leant towards me and whispered in my ear, ‘Give the money to the waiter when he’s carved the joint. It’s a Simpson’s tradition. You’re supposed to tip the carver.’

More than half a century on, I shall be back at Simpson’s to host The Oldie of the Year Awards on 30th January. When the judging panel (which I’m honoured to chair) met to consider this year’s potential candidates, once we’d done our work, over coffee, we fell to sharing ‘me too’ moments from our back catalogues.

John Lloyd (creator of QI and multiBafta award-winner) kicked off with an account of the time when, as a young TV producer, he visited the dressing-room of the great Frankie Howerd and found himself suddenly wedged between a lubricious comic and an ironing board. Titter ye not. Young Lloyd quickly made his excuses and left.

The Oldie

I was in my early thirties when I had my close encounter with Frankie – or Frank, as he preferred to be called. We’d had a happy lunch (I was helping him write a book) and he had suggested we spend the afternoon at work in his agent’s office. Once there, he locked the door, dropped his trousers, exposed himself and, collapsing on the sofa and closing his eyes, murmured, ‘You know what to do.’ ‘I don’t,’ I blanched. ‘You do,’ he insisted. ‘Haven’t you seen one before? It’s perfectly harmless. Treat it like a muscle.’

I couldn’t make my excuses and leave because the door was locked and the key was in Frank’s trouser pocket, and his trousers were round his ankles on the floor. I walked to the window and stood there, staring out. Gradually, I heard him getting to his feet and pulling up his trousers. Moments later, it was as if nothing had happened – and, for a time, I wondered if I had imagined it all. I now know I hadn’t because, in the years since then, almost anyone I’ve met who knew Frank – from Max Bygraves in the 1950s to Griff Rhys Jones in the 1980s – had a similar tale to tell. What’s curious is that, in all the cases I know of, he picked on married men who invariably rejected his advances.

For Christmas, I am giving my chums my anthology On Christmas because it’s full of good things (seasonal pieces from Dickens, Queen Victoria, Jerome K Jerome, P G Wodehouse, Will Self, Kathy Lette et al) and is packaged like a proper present. It’s a beautifully bound little book, hand-stitched, printed in two colours, with a silk bookmarker and claret-coloured end-papers.

I am giving myself a book by one of my friends, former theatrical agent Michael Whitehall. He is now famous as the father of the brilliant young comedian and actor Jack Whitehall, and the book, Backing into the Spotlight, trades amusingly on the fact.

I have known Michael since before Jack was born, and treasure the story Margaret Thatcher’s daughter, Carol, told me about the time she and Michael were dating in the 1980s. One evening, he went to No 10 to take Carol out and asked to use the phone to ring for a cab. ‘Where are we picking up from, guv?’ ‘Downing Street,’ said Michael. ‘Oh, yeah?’ said the voice, ‘No 10 is it?’ ‘Yes,’ said Michael. ‘Oh, yeah?’ repeated the voice, ‘And what name is it?’ ‘Whitehall.’ ‘Oh yeah. A likely story.’ At which point, Carol grabbed the phone and said, ‘We’d like a taxi for Whitehall at 10 Downing Street, please.’

‘Oh yeah. And I suppose you’re called Thatcher, are you?’ ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’ The taxi never came.

At Christmas 1955, when I was seven, I fell in love for the first time. My parents took me to see Alice Through the Looking Glass at the Palace Theatre in Chelsea. Michael Denison and Dulcie Gray played the White Knight and the Red Queen. Playing Alice was the fourteen-year-old Juliet Mills and the moment I saw her, I was smitten.

My treat of 2017 was meeting Juliet Mills in person for the first time and finding her quite as enchanting today as she seemed to me 62 years ago.

Incidentally, the other passion of my pre-teen years was Brigitte Bardot. Incredible as it may seem, Brigitte Bardot and I now follow one another on Twitter. That’s my end-of-year message: it is never too late for dreams to come true.

'On Christmas' by Gyles Brandreth is published by Notting Hill Editions

Follow Gyles on Twitter: @Gylesb1