Life & Society
Julian's week
Published 01 November 2007
Unless Sheila had a moustache and a whiff of creosote about her, I don't think I impregnated anyone
Generally speaking, the convention in the theatre is that you do a show, the audience claps and then everyone goes home. Job done. Some provincial types occasionally wander to the stage door to get their programmes signed, and we actors happily oblige, before we scurry off down Shaftesbury Avenue to catch the bus home.
I was saying goodnight to my co-stars the other night while chuffing on a well-earned cigarette when a couple approached. "I was about to ask you for a fag," said a woman with a northern accent, "but there's no knowing what you might give me!"
This joke wasn't as funny as she thought it was, but I autographed the programme she shoved under my nose all the same.
As I scribbled away I foolishly asked if she had enjoyed the show.
"Well," she said, frowning, "how did you feel it went?" I must have winced.
"You're getting on his nerves," said her husband, sounding pleased.
"Yes, you are," I said ungraciously, and left. People should know you must never express anything other than praise and wonderment to a performer after they come off stage. We feel ridiculously vulnerable.
If we've been dire and you cannot tell a lie then say something ambiguous like "Words fail me!" or "You've done it again!" Don't, whatever you do, plant the seeds of doubt that will have us self-mutilating before the night is out.
To recover myself, I went to the pub. There I was approached by a young woman who told me I used to share a flat with her mother in Norwich in the early 1980s. “Do you remember someone called Sheila? Very pretty with long curly hair? You were a bit of a hippie in those days,” she said, before adding meaningfully, “You weren’t as gay then as you are now . . .”
I looked her in the eye. I got the feeling she was implying that she might be my long-lost daughter. She was certainly blessed with fine cheekbones, and we both had blue eyes, but I felt no paternal pangs. No child of mine would wear a beige turtleneck, surely?
I've been to Norwich to do some gigs over the years, but I have no recollection of setting up home there in some sort of free-love commune. I may even have had 20 minutes of intimate contact with a shadowy figure by the old city walls late one frosty night, but unless Sheila had a moustache and a whiff of creosote about her, I don't think I impregnated anyone.
Yet as I stood before this girl, I felt inexplicably guilty. "I don't remember, I'm afraid," I said .
"Oh, I see," she said crossly. "Well my mother remembers you!" I decided I'd better remove myself from the situation. I ran out the door and jumped on a bus, but she followed me. "Julian! Come back!" I heard her shouting, as the bus sped away. I'm such a cad. Don't be surprised if I'm summoned on to The Jeremy Kyle Show for DNA tests and a spot of bear-baiting from the host.
Working six nights a week in the theatre makes it difficult to spend time with a loved one. On Saturday after the show I arrived home at midnight. The boyfriend was already asleep. He got up at 7am to catch the train to Paris for some business meeting. (I’m not sure what he does but he has three mobiles and a BlackBerry.)
Naturally, I was fast asleep at such an ungodly hour. The dog and I spent a pleasant enough Sunday pottering about the garden in the rain. I was asleep again when he got back late Sunday night, and still in the land of nod when he sprang out of bed Monday morning. I think we managed three half-conscious “hellos” over the weekend. If it hadn’t been for the dent in the pillow and the whiff of Right Guard in the bathroom I wouldn’t know he’d been in the same room. It’s the perfect relationship.
Julian Clary
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