Within a week then, two seismic events had rocked our little world. The gleaming primary-coloured blocks that had flown out to form the graphic figure 4 which made up the channel's logo seemed, with their smooth, computer-generated motion, to usher in a brave new world, and when Ade Edmondson as Vyvyan punched his way through the kitchen wall in the opening five minutes of The Young Ones The Young Ones it felt as though a whole new generation had punched its way into British cultural life and that nothing would ever be the same again. it felt as though a whole new generation had punched its way into British cultural life and that nothing would ever be the same again.

The Young Ones was an instant success in exactly the way was an instant success in exactly the way Alfresco Alfresco, whose first series wasn't broadcast until mid-1983, manifestly wasn't. Rik Mayall especially soared into stardom as the new King of Comedy: the brilliantly childish, Cliff-Richard-obsessed character of Rick in The Young Ones The Young Ones with his exaggerated derhotacizations and uncontrolled giggling snorts sealed a reputation that had grown from Rik's original 20th Century Coyote act with Ade Edmondson and his sublime appearances in with his exaggerated derhotacizations and uncontrolled giggling snorts sealed a reputation that had grown from Rik's original 20th Century Coyote act with Ade Edmondson and his sublime appearances in A Kick Up the Eighties A Kick Up the Eighties as Kevin Turvey, the Chic Murray of Kidderminster. as Kevin Turvey, the Chic Murray of Kidderminster.

The wild divergence I felt between this hot lava stream of new talent and the constipated conventional and constricted tradition from which I derived was extreme and has, I am sure you will feel, been dwelt on enough. From the distance of thirty years it seems self-indulgent and paranoid to harp on about it, but the distinction did at least lead to one fruitful conversation in the bar of the Midland in January 1983. Ben, Rik and Lise had already started work on a second series of The Young Ones The Young Ones, and the thought had struck me, having spent so much time in Granadaland and having watched lines of undergraduates queuing up, as I had three years earlier, for canteen lunches in between rounds of University Challenge University Challenge, that perhaps Rick, Vyvyan, Neil and Mike, being a student foursome, might themselves be entered for the quiz, with, as the Radio Times Radio Times might phrase it, hilarious consequences. I suggested this to Ben, who instantly enthused. He and the others produced 'Bambi', in which the Young Ones, representing Sc.u.mbag University, come up against Footlights College, Oxbridge, in the snooty, privileged persons of Hugh, Emma, Ben and me. My character was called Lord Snot, an insanely shiny toff based on the might phrase it, hilarious consequences. I suggested this to Ben, who instantly enthused. He and the others produced 'Bambi', in which the Young Ones, representing Sc.u.mbag University, come up against Footlights College, Oxbridge, in the snooty, privileged persons of Hugh, Emma, Ben and me. My character was called Lord Snot, an insanely shiny toff based on the Beano Beano's Lord Snooty.

Ben may well have a different memory of the genesis of that episode. It is one of the known eternal truths of comic creation that a good idea has a dozen parents while a duff one remains an orphan. From wherever or whomever this idea derived the show was recorded a year or so later with Griff Rhys Jones as Bambi Gascoigne and Mel Smith as a Granada TV security guard. It is still considered, I think, one of the most memorable of The Young Ones The Young Ones episodes, in part because of an unusually strong and coherent narrative and in part also because the parricidal revenge of the new and radical upon the old and reactionary is played out so literally and satisfyingly. Footlights College are routed and humiliated as completely in fiction as we felt we were being in fact. episodes, in part because of an unusually strong and coherent narrative and in part also because the parricidal revenge of the new and radical upon the old and reactionary is played out so literally and satisfyingly. Footlights College are routed and humiliated as completely in fiction as we felt we were being in fact.

The Young Ones. Comic heroes.

I have mentioned that we were all Hugh and I to a crippling extent hobbled by self-consciousness and a foolish desire to avoid what we considered had been done before. But did we have any kind of a theory of comedy, any banner that we wanted to raise?

It was clear to me that Hugh had a more complete canteen of comic cutlery in his drawer than the pitiful selection of plastic coffee-stirrers and archaic horn-handled knives that I felt capable of wielding. As I have said, I was aware without envy, but with a measure of sorrow and self-pity, that Hugh was a master of three enormously important elements of comedy in which I was an embarra.s.sing incompetent. He had music. He could play any instrument that he picked up and he could sing. He had physical control of his body. As a natural athlete he could roll, fall, leap, dance and jig to comic effect. He had an amusing, appealing face that made him a natural clown. Big sad eyes, a funny chin and a hilarious upper lip. And I? I could be verbally adept and I could play pompous authority figures and ... er ... that was it, really. Could I cut it as an actor, or had my commitment to comedy cut that avenue off? In the comic world I had no social or political axe to grind, no new stylistic mode to advance. I liked the old-fashioned sketch comedy for which it was beginning to look as though the world had little time.

I worried that I was going to have to be primarily a writer. Why worry, you might ask? Well, although it is true that one feels fantastic when one has finished finished a writing task, it is mostly horrible while one is a writing task, it is mostly horrible while one is doing doing it. You will see therefore that writing, ghastly at the time but great afterwards, is exactly the opposite of s.e.x. All that keeps one going is the knowledge that one will feel good when it's all over. I knew, as all writers know, that performers have a much easier life. They swan about being admired, recognized, pampered, praised and told how wonderful they are and what it. You will see therefore that writing, ghastly at the time but great afterwards, is exactly the opposite of s.e.x. All that keeps one going is the knowledge that one will feel good when it's all over. I knew, as all writers know, that performers have a much easier life. They swan about being admired, recognized, pampered, praised and told how wonderful they are and what energy energy and and resource resource and and strength strength they have to cope with all that they have to cope with all that pressure pressure. Pah. They only work while they are in rehearsal, on set or on stage; for the rest of the time they can get up late and laze and lounge about like lords. Writers on the other hand are in a permanent state of school exam crisis. Deadlines croak and beat their wings above them like sinister rooks; producers, publishers and performers nag for rewrites and improvements. Any down time looks like evasion and indolence. There is no moment at which one cannot, and should not it seems, be at one's desk. It is also a desperately lonely calling.

There are compensations. You only have to write a play once and then you can sit back and let the money roll in, while the actors have to perform eight times a week for six months to earn their pay packets.

Hugh and I were writer-performers writer-performers we wrote the material that we performed. I could not decide whether this meant we had the best of both worlds or the worst. To this day I cannot be sure. It is obvious, however, that in terms of employment it doubles one's opportunities. Whatever I lacked in physical attributes as a natural clown I seemed to make up for in gravitas, to use Hugh's word. It seemed that people did have faith in my ability to write, although I had produced nothing up until that point except we wrote the material that we performed. I could not decide whether this meant we had the best of both worlds or the worst. To this day I cannot be sure. It is obvious, however, that in terms of employment it doubles one's opportunities. Whatever I lacked in physical attributes as a natural clown I seemed to make up for in gravitas, to use Hugh's word. It seemed that people did have faith in my ability to write, although I had produced nothing up until that point except Latin! Latin! And, with Hugh, the material in And, with Hugh, the material in The Cellar Tapes The Cellar Tapes and the handful of and the handful of Alfresco Alfresco sketches that had made it through to transmission. sketches that had made it through to transmission.

Four things now happened in a succession rapid enough to be called simultaneity and which served to bolster the self-esteem that the Alfresco Alfresco experience was doing so much to undermine. experience was doing so much to undermine.

Cinema In the late summer of 1982 I was sent to meet a woman called Jilly Gutteridge and a man called Don Boyd. Boyd had produced Alan Clarke's cinema version of Sc.u.m Sc.u.m (the original 1977 BBC television production had been Mary Whitehoused off the screen) as well as Derek Jarman's (the original 1977 BBC television production had been Mary Whitehoused off the screen) as well as Derek Jarman's Tempest Tempest and Julien Temple's and Julien Temple's The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle and he now planned to direct his first major feature film, which was to be called and he now planned to direct his first major feature film, which was to be called Gossip Gossip. He imagined a British compendium of The Sweet Smell of Success The Sweet Smell of Success and and La Dolce Vita La Dolce Vita infused with the spirit and manner of Evelyn Waugh's infused with the spirit and manner of Evelyn Waugh's Vile Bodies Vile Bodies. This was to be a film that would capture a new and horrible side to Thatcher's Britain: the recently confident, arrogant, vulgar Sloaney world in which night-club narcissists, trust-fund trash and philistine druggie aristos cavorted with recently cherished icons of finance, fashion and celebrity. It was a soulless, squalid, valueless and trashy milieu that believed itself to be the stylish social summit at whose dazzling peaks the lower world gazed with breathless envy and admiration.

A script had been written by the brothers Michael and Stephen Tolkin. Although their screenplay had been set in Britain, Don felt that, as Americans, they had not quite captured the world of London 'society' such as it was in the early eighties and he was after someone who could rewrite it in an authentic English voice. Jilly Gutteridge, who was to be location manager and a.s.sistant producer, was instantly affectionate and charmingly enthusiastic about my talents, and I walked away from the meeting having been given the job of rewriting the script for the princely sum of 1,000. I had three weeks in which to do it. The part of the lead character, a beau monde beau monde gossip columnist, was to be played by Anne Louise Lambert. Anthony Higgins, who had starred opposite her in Peter Greenaway's gossip columnist, was to be played by Anne Louise Lambert. Anthony Higgins, who had starred opposite her in Peter Greenaway's The Draughtsman's Contract The Draughtsman's Contract, would be the man with whom she falls in love and who would rescue her from the unworthy world she inhabits. Simon Callow and Gary Oldman were also cast. It was to be Oldman's first film appearance.

I rewrote in a fever of excitement, and Don seemed pleased with my efforts. His preparations were well advanced for what I soon learnt was known as the 'princ.i.p.al photography'. In the meanwhile, he suggested, I might enjoy a meeting with Michael Tolkin, who just happened to be in town. As one of the original writers he had read my anglicizing rewrites with great interest and might even have one or two valuable suggestions ...

I a.s.sented to this idea, and Tolkin and I met in an Italian restaurant called the Villa Puccini which was just yards from the Draycott Place flat.

'The Villa Puccini,' said Kim. 'Named, one must suppose, after the famous composer Villa-Lobos.'

The lunch was not destined to be the feast of reason and the flow of soul of which P. G. Wodehouse and Alexander Pope wrote so fondly. Tolkin was very disapproving of what I had done to his beloved story. He was outraged at my excision of a synagogue scene.

'The focal point of the narrative. The pivot about which the entire movie revolves. The centrepiece. The keystone. The emotional heart. The whole picture is meaningless without that scene. There is is no picture without it. You couldn't no picture without it. You couldn't see see that?' that?'

I tried as best I could to explain why I had felt it was wrong and unconvincing.

'And as for your ending ending ...' ...'

I suspect he may have been right about my ending. As far as I recall I had Claire, the heroine, escape into the arms of a Cambridge don, which was neither very Fellini nor very Evelyn Waugh and in its own way was probably as sentimental as the synagogue scene. Nonetheless I attempted to defend it.

'It is obvious,' said Tolkin, 'that we have nothing in common and no basis for further discussion.' He left the restaurant before the primi piatti primi piatti arrived. He has since had a highly successful writing career with credits that include arrived. He has since had a highly successful writing career with credits that include The Player The Player, Deep Impact Deep Impact and and Nine Nine. Maybe he was right. Maybe I had ruined Gossip Gossip with my cynical British resistance to the possibilities of emotional change and with my inept ending. In any event the film never got made. The story of its disaster is complicated but, I am happy to say, has nothing to do with my screenplay, good or bad as that may have been. with my cynical British resistance to the possibilities of emotional change and with my inept ending. In any event the film never got made. The story of its disaster is complicated but, I am happy to say, has nothing to do with my screenplay, good or bad as that may have been.

It seems that Don Boyd had been hoodwinked by two plausible characters who claimed to represent something they called the Martini Foundation. Rich with funds accrued from the sale of the vermouth business, this foundation wanted to branch out into film financing. The two promised that $20 million would be made available to Don for a whole slate of feature films. In the meantime he could finance Gossip Gossip by raising money against 'certificates of deposit' that were lodged in a bank in the Netherlands. For their investment the Martini people would receive 50 per cent of the profits and a 600,000 upfront fee. by raising money against 'certificates of deposit' that were lodged in a bank in the Netherlands. For their investment the Martini people would receive 50 per cent of the profits and a 600,000 upfront fee.

Don set to work on the construction of a huge Andrew McAlpine-designed night-club set in Twickenham Studios, and filming began some time in late October, using money that had been advanced by a third party against the arrival of these certificates of deposit. Hugh Laurie, John Sessions and others had also been cast, and about a fifth of the whole movie had been committed to celluloid by the time the terrible truth emerged that there were no certificates of deposit, that those two plausible figures with their Mayfair flat and Cannes yacht had no connection with Martini Rosso or its money and that Don had been ruthlessly swindled. They imagined, one supposes, that they would get their 600,000 finder's fee and skedaddle. Fortunately the whole house of cards collapsed before they could profit from their deception, but it was small consolation. The film collapsed. The technical unions and the acting union Equity demanded blood. Many of the crew and cast salaries, and many of the production costs had not yet been met (the Tolkins and I had had been scrupulously paid as it happens) and all was ruin, recrimination and wrath. The upshot was that poor Don, one of the kindest and best of men, was effectively blacklisted and prevented from partic.i.p.ating in film production for three years. Even that didn't end it, for once Don managed to start up again the unions insisted he continue to pay over what negligible producing fees he did earn. By 1992 he was financially wiped out. If he had declared himself bankrupt the moment disaster had struck he might have saved his house and possessions. In fact he sold most of what he had to repay debts because he believed that to be the honourable course. been scrupulously paid as it happens) and all was ruin, recrimination and wrath. The upshot was that poor Don, one of the kindest and best of men, was effectively blacklisted and prevented from partic.i.p.ating in film production for three years. Even that didn't end it, for once Don managed to start up again the unions insisted he continue to pay over what negligible producing fees he did earn. By 1992 he was financially wiped out. If he had declared himself bankrupt the moment disaster had struck he might have saved his house and possessions. In fact he sold most of what he had to repay debts because he believed that to be the honourable course.

Don Boyd was ill-treated, cold-shouldered and bad-mouthed by many in the British film industry who blamed him for being either foolishly naive, or worse, being somehow implicated in the smoky business of the fraudulent Martini Foundation. Many wiser and better heads than his had advised him that the financing deal was sound and that he was right to proceed. It was a catastrophic error to go into production without a sight of these 'certificates of deposit', but so talented, idealistic and pa.s.sionately committed a film-maker did not deserve the opprobrium and pariah status he was accorded for so many years. It was certainly a h.e.l.l of a way for me to be dunked, a year after leaving university, into the murky waters of the film business.

Church and Chekhov A few months after the Gossip Gossip imbroglio a theatrical producer called Richard Jackson called me up and invited me to his offices in Knightsbridge. He had seen imbroglio a theatrical producer called Richard Jackson called me up and invited me to his offices in Knightsbridge. He had seen Latin! Latin! in Edinburgh and had a desire to produce it at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, with a very young Nicholas Broadhurst directing. I made it clear that my commitments to in Edinburgh and had a desire to produce it at the Lyric Theatre, Hammersmith, with a very young Nicholas Broadhurst directing. I made it clear that my commitments to Alfresco Alfresco meant that I would be unable to play the role of Dominic, the part I had written for myself, but this did not seem to put Jackson off. I was immensely gratified by this. You might think my actor's self-esteem might be dented to hear a producer take so blithely the news that I was not available, but actually my meant that I would be unable to play the role of Dominic, the part I had written for myself, but this did not seem to put Jackson off. I was immensely gratified by this. You might think my actor's self-esteem might be dented to hear a producer take so blithely the news that I was not available, but actually my writer's writer's self-esteem was immensely boosted by the idea that a professional man of the theatre believed the play to be strong enough to merit a life without me. self-esteem was immensely boosted by the idea that a professional man of the theatre believed the play to be strong enough to merit a life without me.

Many months earlier I had had a conversation with a television director called Geoffrey Sax, who was keen to make a small-screen version of Latin! Latin! I underwent the nervous excitement of a phone conversation with the great Michael Hordern, who had expressed an interest in the part of Herbert Brookshaw and who listened kindly and calmly to my incoherent plans for the adaptation. Nothing came of this, although I was to see Geoffrey Sax eight years later, when he directed an episode of I underwent the nervous excitement of a phone conversation with the great Michael Hordern, who had expressed an interest in the part of Herbert Brookshaw and who listened kindly and calmly to my incoherent plans for the adaptation. Nothing came of this, although I was to see Geoffrey Sax eight years later, when he directed an episode of The New Statesman The New Statesman in which I made a guest appearance, and again almost twenty years after that, when he directed me in a small role in the film in which I made a guest appearance, and again almost twenty years after that, when he directed me in a small role in the film Stormbreaker Stormbreaker. Few people in one's life ever go quite away. They turn up again like characters in a Simon Raven novel. It is as if Fate is a movie producer who cannot afford to keep introducing new characters into the script but must get as many scenes out of every actor as possible.

Nicholas and Richard were confident that they could mount Latin! Latin! with ease, but the role of Dominic turned out to be more difficult to cast than they had antic.i.p.ated. While I was up in Manchester for with ease, but the role of Dominic turned out to be more difficult to cast than they had antic.i.p.ated. While I was up in Manchester for Alfresco Alfresco Series Two they auditioned dozens and dozens of young actors, none of whom they felt to be quite right. At a meeting in Richard's office I nervously made a suggestion. Series Two they auditioned dozens and dozens of young actors, none of whom they felt to be quite right. At a meeting in Richard's office I nervously made a suggestion.

'Look, I know how pathetic this sounds. But there's someone I was at university with. He's a really good actor and very funny.'

'Oh yes?'

Richard and Nicholas were polite, but there are few phrases more certain to send a chill down the spine of a producer than 'There's this friend of mine ... he's awfully good ...'

I carried on. 'He's left Cambridge now and he's at the Guildhall School; actually he enrolled at the music school. To be an opera singer. But I heard that he's just switched over to the drama department.'

'Oh yes?'

'Well, as I say, I know it's ... but he really is very good ...'

'Oh yes?'

A week later Richard called up.

'I have to confess we are at our wits' end. What was the name of this friend of yours at RADA?'

'The Guildhall, not RADA, and he's called Simon Beale.'

'Well, I won't deny it. We're desperate. Nicholas will see him.'

Two days later Nicholas called up ecstatically. 'My G.o.d, he's brilliant. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.'

I knew he would be. Ever since I had shared a stage with his a.r.s.e-scratching Sir Politic Would-Be in Volpone Volpone I had known Simon was the real thing. I had known Simon was the real thing.

A snag was foreseen. Would the Guildhall actually let him play the part? He was a student following a specific course, and aside from the performances, which cut enough into his day (this was to be a lunchtime performance at the Lyric), there were the rehearsals to be considered too. Newly appointed as director of the Guildhall School of Music and Drama was the actor and founder member of the Royal Shakespeare Company Tony Church, and his permission to release Simon was sought.

The answer he gave was magnificent in its preciosity and absurd actorly self-importance.

'I can see that this is an engagement that Simon is keen to accept,' he said. 'It is an excellent role for him and, aside from anything else, it guarantees his provisional Equity ticket ...' In those days the acquisition of an Equity card was absolutely essential for any actor. The world of drama presented that exquisitely cruel Catch-22 bind common to all closed shops: only Equity members could get an acting job, and you could not become an Equity member unless you had an acting job. Hugh and I had secured our cards because we had a Granada TV contract and because as writerperformers we could show that no existing Equity member would be able satisfactorily to take our places. Tony Church was recognizing, therefore, the excellence of the opportunity that Simon Beale was being offered. 'Yes,' he said. 'I will not stand in his way. However However ...' ...'

Nicholas and Richard (I was not present) blanched nervously.

'However,' continued Church, 'for the period that he will be away rehearsing and performing he will exactly miss out on the three weeks in which we will be covering Chekhovian characterization and performance. So I am duty bound, I am duty bound duty bound to warn Simon that if he goes ahead with this play it will leave one heck of a hole in his Chekhov technique.' to warn Simon that if he goes ahead with this play it will leave one heck of a hole in his Chekhov technique.'

He was a fine man, Tony Church, and one endowed with an excellent sense of humour, so it is to be hoped he would not have minded my repeating this. The idea, the idea idea that any actor would somehow be left deficient by missing out on three weeks of drama-school Chekhov teaching is so preposterous, so frankly that any actor would somehow be left deficient by missing out on three weeks of drama-school Chekhov teaching is so preposterous, so frankly insane insane that one simply does not know where to begin. If ever I am asked by aspiring young actors or their parents whether or not they should go to drama school, the memory of Tony Church and his fear for Simon's Chekhov technique almost makes me tell them on no account to go anywhere near such useless palaces of self-regarding folly and delusion. Of course, I do not offer any advice at all other than suggesting that budding actors should follow their hearts and other such sententious and harmless ullage, but one does wonder, one really does. that one simply does not know where to begin. If ever I am asked by aspiring young actors or their parents whether or not they should go to drama school, the memory of Tony Church and his fear for Simon's Chekhov technique almost makes me tell them on no account to go anywhere near such useless palaces of self-regarding folly and delusion. Of course, I do not offer any advice at all other than suggesting that budding actors should follow their hearts and other such sententious and harmless ullage, but one does wonder, one really does.

Simon Beale, under his Equity name of Simon Russell Beale, has become almost universally recognized as the finest stage actor of his generation. For many, the greatest of his theatrical achievements have been his interpretations of yes, of course characters in the plays of Chekhov. His stunning performances in The Seagull The Seagull at the RSC, at the RSC, Uncle Vanya Uncle Vanya at the Donmar Warehouse (for which he won an Olivier Award) and at the Donmar Warehouse (for which he won an Olivier Award) and The Cherry Orchard The Cherry Orchard at the Old Vic and in New York have earned unanimous praise. I wonder if any of his Guildhall contemporaries, the ones lucky enough to have stayed in school for those vital lessons in technique, have enjoyed comparable success with Chekhov? at the Old Vic and in New York have earned unanimous praise. I wonder if any of his Guildhall contemporaries, the ones lucky enough to have stayed in school for those vital lessons in technique, have enjoyed comparable success with Chekhov?

The production of Latin! Latin! was, in its own small way, accounted a success. Simon was brilliant, and a glowing review from the great Harold Hobson made me very happy indeed. was, in its own small way, accounted a success. Simon was brilliant, and a glowing review from the great Harold Hobson made me very happy indeed.

c.o.c.kney Capers The weekend after Latin! Latin! completed its little run I stayed at Richard Armitage's house in Ess.e.x. The house was called Stebbing Park and it was a fine old mansion set in many acres of gently rolling countryside. The village of Stebbing is close to Dunmow in an area of Ess.e.x that belies the county's unfortunate and unjustified reputation. completed its little run I stayed at Richard Armitage's house in Ess.e.x. The house was called Stebbing Park and it was a fine old mansion set in many acres of gently rolling countryside. The village of Stebbing is close to Dunmow in an area of Ess.e.x that belies the county's unfortunate and unjustified reputation.

Stebbing Park came into its own every summer when Richard held a festival of cricket. David Frost, one of his first clients, would keep wicket, Russell Harty would lie on the boundary ropes and admire the thews of Michael Praed and other handsome young actors, Andrew Lloyd Webber would arrive by helicopter, the controllers of BBC1 and BBC2 would cl.u.s.ter in corners with Bill Cotton and the Director General. It seemed as if Richard could attract every important figure from British screen and stage. Rowan Atkinson, Emma Thompson, Hugh, Tony Slattery, Tilda Swinton, Howard Goodall and I came every year, as did dozens of other Noel Gay clients, Richard Stilgoe, Chris Barrie, Hinge and Bracket, Dollar, the Cambridge Buskers, Jan Leeming, Manuel and the Music of the Mountains, the King's Singers, Geoff Love it was a most eccentric mixture.

On this occasion, however, it was just me, Richard and Lorraine Hamilton, the sweet, shy young woman with whom he shared his life and who worked as his a.s.sistant. We had Richard's chef-butler, Ken, all to ourselves.

After an excellent dinner on Friday night, as Ken poured coffee in the drawing-room, Richard, greatly to my surprise, started to talk about his father. Reginald Armitage was the son of a pomfret-cake manufacturer in south Yorkshire. He had been educated at the Queen Elizabeth Grammar School in Wakefield, the Royal College of Music and Christ's College, Cambridge. His musicianship won him the place, at an early age, as music director and organist at St Anne's church, Soho. The ragtime, jazz and swing that permeated that part of London must have got into Reginald's blood, for he soon found he had an extraordinary facility with light, bouncy, catchy tunes in the modern manner. To avoid upsetting his worthy Yorkshire parents and the church authorities who employed him, he composed his songs under the pseudonym Noel Gay. An unfortunate name to our ears, but in the late twenties and thirties it suggested that happy, merry world of bright sunbursts that one sees in the surviving suburban front-door frames and wireless-set designs of the period. If there is a song that expresses that image perfectly it is his own 'The Sun Has Got His Hat On'.

Noel Gay the composer became a gigantic success. At one point he had four musicals running in the West End simultaneously, a feat only Andrew Lloyd Webber has matched. His most famous tune, 'The Lambeth Walk', remains the only song ever written about in a Times Times leader. It also, Richard told me, earned Noel Gay an entry in the legendary black book of names of those who would be first up against the wall in the event of a n.a.z.i invasion. Hitler did not take kindly, it was said, to a piece of newsreel that was very popular in British wartime cinemas which looped footage of the Fuhrer saluting a goose-stepping cadre of Stormtroopers to the sound of 'The Lambeth Walk'. leader. It also, Richard told me, earned Noel Gay an entry in the legendary black book of names of those who would be first up against the wall in the event of a n.a.z.i invasion. Hitler did not take kindly, it was said, to a piece of newsreel that was very popular in British wartime cinemas which looped footage of the Fuhrer saluting a goose-stepping cadre of Stormtroopers to the sound of 'The Lambeth Walk'.

I had known very little of this and was touched that Richard thought I would be interested in the exploits of his famous father.

'Of course, his greatest success,' said Richard, 'was the musical in which "The Lambeth Walk" featured, Me and My Girl Me and My Girl.'

'Right,' I said, thinking in a rather puzzled way of the Gene Kelly/Judy Garland standard, 'The bells are ringing, for me and my gal ...' surely that was an American song?

'Not to be confused, of course,' said Richard, 'with the Edgar Leslie number "For Me and My Gal".'

'No indeed. Of course not,' I said, shocked at the idea that anyone might do such a thing.

'Me and My Girl,' said Richard, 'was the most successful British musical of its day. It has only just been overtaken by Cats Cats.'

Richard had one of those endearing habits, very common to agents, producers and magnates generally, of describing everything and everyone he knew as being more or less the most important, successful and respected example of its kind anywhere, ever: 'certainly the most significant ch.o.r.eographer of his generation'; 'the top wine-merchant in Britain'; 'indisputably the most admired chef in all Asia' that sort of thing. It is especially impossible for people like Richard not to have the best doctor in London, the finest dentist in Europe and, favourite of all and endlessly trotted out whenever someone betrays the slightest dorsal twinge, 'the best back man in the world'. I was already wise to this trait in Richard so could not be quite sure how much of what he said about Me and My Girl Me and My Girl was true and how much a mixture of this signature hyperbole and understandable filial pride. For, in truth, I had not heard of the musical, nor its t.i.tle song. I knew 'The Lambeth Walk', naturally; it is one of the most famous tunes ever, an was true and how much a mixture of this signature hyperbole and understandable filial pride. For, in truth, I had not heard of the musical, nor its t.i.tle song. I knew 'The Lambeth Walk', naturally; it is one of the most famous tunes ever, an Ohrwurm Ohrwurm, as they say in Germany, an ear worm that once heard burrows its way into your brain and becomes impossible to dislodge. Actually I had always thought it a folk song, based on some ancient tune that had been handed down through the generations. It certainly never occurred to me that it might have been composed in the 1930s by a church organist.

Noel Gay had sent his son Richard to Eton, from where he had followed his father's progress to Cambridge. In 1950 the young Richard Armitage founded Noel Gay Artists, a talent agency that was designed to enhance his father's Noel Gay song publishing and production business by supplying singers to perform Noel Gay material. After six or seven years, as the 'satire boom' got under way, Richard found himself spreading into the new world of graduate comedy and took to trawling Cambridge each year for young comedy blades. He soon had David Frost on his books, then John Cleese and others. In the late seventies, in a wild, anarchic burst of originality, he looked westwards and from Oxford he took on Rowan Atkinson and Howard Goodall. By 1981 he was back at Cambridge and had scooped up Emma Thompson, Hugh Laurie, Paul Shearer, Tony Slattery and me.

Now in his mid-fifties, Richard found himself more and more often, he told me, looking back to the beginning of it all. This was all very interesting, and I was touched that someone usually so gruff, old-fashioned and unforthcoming about personal matters should favour me with the true story behind his father and the founding of Noel Gay Artists. I alternately nodded and shook my head in a manner that I hoped demonstrated how sensible I was of the honour he had accorded me and then started to make subtle yawn-stifling gestures designed to indicate that I was ready for bath, bed and book.

'So this brings me,' said Richard, choosing to ignore these signs, 'to my proposition.'

'Proposition?'

Richard's hand scrabbled at the flaps of his old leather briefcase. 'Take this.'

He handed me a thick foolscap typescript. Foolscap, for those under forty, was the English stationery paper size that preceded the now ubiquitous European A4 standard.

I examined the sheaf. Rust marks from the binders stained the cover page, but the double-underlined t.i.tle was plain enough. 'Oh,' I said, 'Me and My Girl! Is this the original script?'

'As a matter of fact,' said Richard, 'it is the copy that came back from the Lord Chamberlain. There is a French's acting edition, but what you are holding is, as far as I am aware, the version closest to the original text as performed in the Victoria Palace that there is in existence. I'd like you to read it. And then I would like you to consider rewriting it.'

The French's acting edition of Me and My Girl. Me and My Girl.

I tottered upstairs and read the foolscap typescript in bed that night. It was almost impossible to understand. The hero was a c.o.c.kney costermonger called Bill Snibson who turns out to be the rightful heir to an earldom. That I could make out. Bill arrives at Hareford Hall, the ancestral home, to take up his position and in a series of mysterious scenes is alternately seduced by an aristocratic vamp, taught his family history and soaked for loans by his wastrel connections. Throughout it all runs the thread of his attempts not to lose Sally, his girl of the t.i.tle. She is an honest c.o.c.kney with a n.o.ble heart as, au fond au fond, is he.

I describe it as almost impossible to understand and I call the scenes 'mysterious' because of the incomprehensible 'bus' that was appended to almost every line of liberally exclamation-marked dialogue.

BILL: What you talking about, girl? (bus) SALLY:Bill, you know very well! (bus) BILL: You come here! (bus) Or: SIR JOHN: (taking book) Here! Give me that! (bus) BILL: Oi! (bus) And so on. Every now and then, throughout the script, there were blue pencil marks in a strong hand that read No! No! Absolutely not. Rewrite. Wholly unacceptable! Absolutely not. Rewrite. Wholly unacceptable! and other furious expressions of crazed disapprobation. and other furious expressions of crazed disapprobation.

At breakfast the next morning, Richard was keen to know my opinion.

'Well,' I said. 'It is quite a period piece ...'

'Exactly! Which is why it needs to be updated for an eighties audience.'

'That c.o.c.kney rhyming slang stuff seems a bit ... well, a bit old hat ...'

There had been a scene of several pages in which Bill laboriously took the family through the principles of rhyming slang.

'Ah, but you see it was Me and My Girl Me and My Girl that first introduced the British theatre-going middle-cla.s.ses to rhyming slang,' said Richard. 'Up until then, it had never strayed beyond the East End.' that first introduced the British theatre-going middle-cla.s.ses to rhyming slang,' said Richard. 'Up until then, it had never strayed beyond the East End.'

'Ah, right. I see. But tell me, did the original producer really hate the script?'

'What do you mean?'

'All those comments. "Unacceptable", "cut this" and so on. What were they about?'

'I told you,' said Richard. 'This was the Lord Chamberlain's copy.'

My blank expression revealed the unpardonable depths of my ignorance.

'Until 1968 all plays performed in London had to be licensed by the Lord Chamberlain.'

'Oh, so he was the censor?'

'Effectively. The copy you have shows the cuts he, or rather his office, insisted upon in order to grant Me and My Girl Me and My Girl its licence in 1937. You will notice they blue-pencil words like "cissy".' its licence in 1937. You will notice they blue-pencil words like "cissy".'

'Literally blue-pencil.'

'Quite so. But what did you make of the script otherwise?'

'Gosh, it's tremendous but ... well ... I have to say I don't quite understand what the bus is doing there.'

'The bus?'

'I thought perhaps it was like the old word for to kiss, you know, to buss? But they can't keep kissing each other all the time. And besides there's often a bus in scenes between two male characters.'

Richard looked very puzzled for a moment and then a smile spread across his face. 'Ha!' His laugh always started with a whipcrack 'ha!' and then finished with a noise between his teeth that was half-way between the American 'sheesh!' and an attenuated, falsetto 'siss!'

I had pa.s.sed the typescript over to Lorraine Hamilton and I now stabbed my finger down at a 'bus'. 'There!' I said. 'Do you understand it?'

'Well,' said Lorraine. 'I'm not quite sure ... it does seem rather odd. Perhaps ... mm, no, I can't think ...'

Richard looked from one to the other of us with mounting amus.e.m.e.nt. 'Business, you imbeciles!'

'Sorry?'