I've always fancied being in a musical. With the right lighting I could be the next Sarah Brightman
One area of my career as an entertainer that has been horribly neglected is musical theatre, so I’m having singing lessons from a nice woman called Mary. I stand in her bay window with my thumb stuck in my navel and make “Eeeeee!” noises for an hour. Apparently that’s all there is to it. If I’m a good boy she shows me photographs of a woman’s private parts, which she claims to be of a larynx. I nod politely and say how pretty it is.
I've always fancied being in a West End musical and I'm not going to let a little matter like tone deafness stand in my way. We mustn't let nature's shortcomings hold us back (ask Anne Robinson). Mind over matter, I say. With the right lighting I'm convinced I could be the next Sarah Brightman.
But which musical to plump for? You won't see me in Grease (unless you peer through my net curtains on a Friday night), and I wouldn't suit the drab costumes in Les Misérables - I don't have the right colouring. I think Cabaret would be ideal, if I could play the MC. My agent has been informed.
Mind you, I'm not sure about working for Bill Kenwright. I hear his office is decorated primarily in beige, and his secretary has a distinct whiff of Essex about her. Rumour has it you get paid in tokens that you can only spend in other Kenwright theatres.
On the other hand, he seems quite clean and it will get me out of the house. Let's face it, I've not been booked for panto, so . . . why not?
Last Thursday evening saw the excitement of the New Statesman party in Whitehall’s Banqueting House,
if you please. The ceiling is a bit busy, but that’s Rubens for you. Nothing a bit of Artex couldn’t fix. (He may have been the Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen of his day, but my dear, those thighs!)
Nice to bump into Rory Bremner who, more loyal subscribers will remember, used to write this column before me and Shazia took it on. Ever the topical comedian, he expressed amazement at Maggie Thatcher's visit to No 10, deftly mixed this with the latest grim foot-and-mouth news and said something clever about a new outbreak of conservatism. I forget the punchline, but it was rather brilliant.
I was reminded of our days together on the comedy circuit in the Eighties. Back then, rumour had it, Rory always performed with an erection. There was always a healthy crowd in the wings, as I recall. I glanced discreetly down below his waistline, but all was still and smooth. Maybe he was just warming up.
At the far end of the hall was a small stage and a microphone. Goody, I thought: it's going to be a karaoke evening. But no. Someone important-looking stood up and made an even more important announcement: the Prime Minister hoped to arrive at the party at 8.30pm. What a coup! I couldn't have been more excited if they'd said the Chippendales were on their way. What on earth would Gordon and I chat about? Would he offer me a safe seat? (Get it?) Seeing as he's such a party boy, should I invite him to round off his evening by accompanying me to The Hoist? (He could do a bit of canvassing for the pink pound while he was there.)
As I pondered the possibilities, a pang of hunger struck me. I scanned the room, looking for a waiter with a tray of delicious sushi or mini-burgers. But there was none. (I'm not saying it was a cheap party, but there was no glitter ball, either. Imagine!) All I could find to eat was two sad little glass-effect bowls on the window sill, one of pretzels and the other of strange, green, pea-like things that tasted like a mouthful of cheap jewellery.
To cut a long story medium-length, my peckishness got the better of me and I left in search of a kebab. I hope that Gordon doesn't think I snubbed him. I was saving my voice.
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