In the musical Allegra, which has just finished its run, I ran around singing, dancing and jumping on tables for a couple of hours. I have a lot of elderly friends – by which I mean my age – who saw the show and they told me they felt exhausted just sitting there watching. ‘Oh,’ I’d say airily, ‘it’s just my job.’ I didn’t mention the mornings: the hollow, aching bones, the ferrety eyes, the corncrake voice and the need to stagger downstairs at 3 a.m. for calming milk and nutmeg. At one point, I tripped over halfway through ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’ and carried on singing on my knees like a restricted-growth version of Al Jolson. My granddaughter, 14, thought it was a brilliant stunt worthy of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
In the final few weeks, we added an extra matinee on Tuesdays and I reluctantly handed it to my worthy understudy, Helen Goldwyn. I knew that, after 13 solid weeks of touring and five weeks in the West End, four shows in two days would put me in a body bag. What with the ghastly news about the ghoulish undertaker Robert Bush in my home city of Hull, I wouldn’t want to risk that. Certainly not while I’m enjoying being a new, if slightly crepuscular, bride. (My husband David saw Allegra so many times, he could advertise himself as a prompter.)
The gang of protestors who tried to boycott me from theatres in Aberdeen, Glasgow and Bath for believing in the state of Israel’s right to exist went underground in London. They were replaced by an altruistic band of brethren of all faiths called Mensch, who turned up to protest against the protestors. G-d Bless them, they are the voice of sanity in the face of the activists behind Palestine Action. Meanwhile, a group of sanctimonious actors forced Boy George out of his contract to play King Herod in Jesus Christ Superstar. They allegedly pressured producer Michael Harrison into sacking George because he has, in a brave song called ‘We will Dance Again’, defended Israel’s right to defend itself after the Hamas pogrom. In other words, George has a different political stance from some of the cast. Powerful people. The show itself concerns a nice Jewish rabbi fighting prejudice from angry mobs in his ancestral home of Israel. Could this be the death of irony?
To a discreet Soho restaurant called Andrew Edmunds, where we discussed the play and also the protests, as we ordered food. It was a boiling night and the cold tomato soup seemed a good bet. ‘We’ll both have the Gestapo,’ I said, proving that Freud’s laws work on food as well as sex.
I am riveted by London Falling: A Mysterious Death in a Gilded City and a Family’s Search for Truth by Patrick Radden Keefe. Aside from knowing the family of the teenage fantasist Zac Brettler, who fell to his death from a luxury block of flats, I am getting a glimpse into London’s shady underworld, of which I was so naively unaware. The Brettler family are being besieged by offers to film their son’s story. It’s the last thing that they would want but in Zac’s crazy quest for fame, fortune and a spectacular image, it would surely have been his Nirvana.
I got my ears syringed, marvelled at the noisy new world and promptly lost my balance. That evening, after the show, the beautiful and eternal pixie that is Susan Hampshire insisted on delivering a bottle of organic apple juice to the stage door. ‘You live in Putney!’ I yelled at her departing, 89-year-old back. But the Lady Kulukundis is not for turning. It must have cost a small Duchy but it tasted like the nectar of the gods. My security angel Mark vetted all my guests and walked me like an Alsatian. How will I live without his support now the show’s ended? He has a bird feeding community land project. It’s on Facebook at ‘Beddington Park Bird Feeder Project’. If you have any bird or butterfly paraphernalia going to waste please support his charity. He is a scholar and a gentleman. I’ve always found that the most spiritual people in my business are the security and the stunt men. They know they have the power and their idea is never to have to use it.
My old friend Harry Shearer came to see the show. His J. Edgar Hoover musical won five-star reviews at the King’s Head. I introduced it to guests as ‘The Herbert Hoover musical’. Can brains be syringed?
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