Society
"You've got something hanging down," I pointed to his trousers. It wasn't his belt
Published 29 April 2002
When I was in my teens, my friends thought I was the luckiest kid alive because I spent summers with the wonderful actress Pat Phoenix (my stepmother at the time). The joy of being with such a great lady, a true star, was tempered by access behind the scenes to other celebrities. The shenanigans going on behind the scenes of Coronation Street in them days made Dallas look like an episode of Sunday Worship. The cast at the time included a couple of alcoholics, two sex-mad actors and half a dozen ego-crazed divas. At a cast party, one of the actors chatted with me for ages. I felt flattered - how kind. He was wearing shorts, and one leg rested high up on a chair, cowboy style. My 15-year-old eyes were suddenly drawn to what looked like a piece of cord hanging between his legs. I innocently pointed to it. "You've got something hanging down," I smiled. It wasn't his belt. I ran to my Dad's side feeling sick.
That, and an equally unpleasant experience with a group of England cricketers when I was just 13, ended any girlish ideas that those in the media eye are inherently admirable. Yet very occasionally you meet a "household name" and you know you have met a star.
At the Old Vic in London last week, I watched as Tony Benn effortlessly gave a masterclass in political showmanship. If there weren't any new Labour advisers present, there should have been: they could have learnt a lot.
In the dress-circle bar before Benn's show, his fans were, in the main, at least half his age. The socialite socialists were out to play - women with long, elegant scarves, men with trendy specs.
Neil Tennant of the Pet Shop Boys drew some glances, but the biggest surprise of the night was that the Hamiltons, Christine and Neil, had the brass neck to turn up. Presumably, they were there to gawp at an ex-MP who maintains that parliamentary rules are not simply there to be twisted for cash.
We took our seats in the mini-splendour of the Victorian auditorium. There below us, Tony greeted the audience, showing them to their seats. He set the tone for the evening: "Forget the hype, the theatre and all that," he insisted, "this is a public debate."
The set was sweet: an armchair and a table, a pipe and a flask of tea. This was "Tony Benn Unplugged", and he smoothly ran through all his biggest political hits. There was "Why I reject the powers of the crown", followed by everyone's favourite, "The Levellers made me the man I am today".
There were some belly laughs, too. Benn regretted that he had to tell "17 lies" by taking the oath of allegiance in order to become an MP. He revealed that Dennis Skinner avoided outright lying by completing his vow to do the Queen's bidding with the words "when she pays her income tax".
Towards the end, the great raconteur became choked. Talking about the culture of revenge among warring tribes from Ireland to the Middle East, he quoted from a plaque dedicated to the Republican hunger strikers. It says: "The best revenge is our children's laughter." He couldn't speak for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, "that has overwhelmed me."
Afterwards there was a little gathering. Benn did the rounds, shaking hands and listening with sheepish humility as people insisted "you're my hero".
Then it was my turn. I hung back, shyly, the way I would have in my teens had Sting been in the room. I almost lost my nerve. It was all too much. Then, the man who still says what so many of us need to hear, to believe, to remember, came over to me and said: "Lauren, I'm honoured you came to listen to me this evening." He pecked my cheek, signed the book I offered, and was off.
I'm never, ever washing my face again.
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
