Conspicuous Consumption

Country Cottages, Cheques, Credit Cards and Cla.s.sic Cars Back in London, the run of Forty Years On Forty Years On continued through Christmas and the New Year. I had started to cross off the days on a chart in the dressing-room like a prisoner scratching on the wall of his cell. There is something quite dreadful about what enforced repet.i.tion of action and speech does to the brain. Experienced stage actors all know how common it is to suffer a kind of out-of-body experience on stage where you look down and helplessly watch yourself from above. The moment comes to speak your lines and you will either freeze and dry up or say the same speech three or four times in a row without noticing. Only a pinch or a kick from a fellow actor can save you. continued through Christmas and the New Year. I had started to cross off the days on a chart in the dressing-room like a prisoner scratching on the wall of his cell. There is something quite dreadful about what enforced repet.i.tion of action and speech does to the brain. Experienced stage actors all know how common it is to suffer a kind of out-of-body experience on stage where you look down and helplessly watch yourself from above. The moment comes to speak your lines and you will either freeze and dry up or say the same speech three or four times in a row without noticing. Only a pinch or a kick from a fellow actor can save you.

There was one scene in Forty Years On Forty Years On in which I had to tick a boy off for something or other. I would strike the corner of a desk hard with my index finger in time to the rhythms of my reprimand. One half-empty matinee I looked down and saw that the varnish on the desk had been worn away by the striking of my finger. For some reason this upset me greatly, and I resolved that evening to strike another part of the desk. When the moment came I raised my hand, aimed a good six inches to the left of the scuff mark and brought my finger down with a bang in which I had to tick a boy off for something or other. I would strike the corner of a desk hard with my index finger in time to the rhythms of my reprimand. One half-empty matinee I looked down and saw that the varnish on the desk had been worn away by the striking of my finger. For some reason this upset me greatly, and I resolved that evening to strike another part of the desk. When the moment came I raised my hand, aimed a good six inches to the left of the scuff mark and brought my finger down with a bang on exactly the usual place on exactly the usual place. For the next few days I tried again and again, but some form of extreme and insane muscle-memory insisted that my finger had always to hit the same spot. This disturbed me deeply, and I began to look upon the two or three weeks remaining as a hideous incarceration from which I would never escape. I didn't share this sense of suffocating torment with David, Phyllida or Paul, as they seemed, with their greater experience, serene and at ease.

Doris Hare, who was eighty by this time, had more energy than the rest of us put together. She was the only princ.i.p.al in the cast who didn't go straight home as soon as the show ended. She and I would go most nights to Joe Allen's. Doris had a way of entering the restaurant that made one convinced that it was not a woollen shawl about her neck, but a fox fur fastened with an emerald clasp, and that her companion was not a gawky and self-conscious young actor but a sleek compound of Noel Coward, Ivor Novello and Binkie Beaumont.

'The secret, dear,' she would tell me, 'is to enjoy yourself. Why would we be in the theatre if we didn't love every minute of it? Casting, rehearsals, matinees, touring ... it's all marvellous. marvellous.' And she meant it.

Joe Allen's, an American diner-style restaurant, is a popular hangout for actors, dancers, agents, producers and playwrights. The famously rude waiters and waitresses are often drawn from the ranks of s...o...b..siness themselves. An American producer is notorious for once having got impatient at the slow service. He clicked his fingers for a waiter, calling out, 'Actor! Oh, Actor!'

I sat there in Joe Allen's one evening with Russell Harty, Alan Bennett and Alan Bates. All eyes were upon our table until suddenly heads swung towards the door. Laurence Olivier and Dustin Hoffman walked in. Our table no longer existed.

'Well, that's us told,' said Russell.

Olivier walked past, beaming at everyone in a general way.

'Why don't you go and say h.e.l.lo to him?' Alan Bennett said to Russell. 'You know him well.'

'I couldn't do that. Everyone would say, "Look there goes that odious Russell Harty sucking up to Larry Olivier."'

Harty and Bennett were very good friends. They each had a house in North Yorkshire. Alan would drive them up in his car at weekends. On one such journey, so the story goes, Alan said, 'Why don't we play a game of some kind to beguile the hours?'

'What about Botticelli?' said Russell.

'Ooh no! That's too compet.i.tive.'

They thought for a while, then Alan piped up, 'I know. We each have to think of the person whose underpants we would least like to have to wear on our head.'

'Colin Welland,' said Russell without a moment's hesitation.

'Ooh, that's not fair,' said Alan, 'you've won already.'

On another occasion, as they were driving through Leeds, Russell wound down the window and called out to a morose-looking woman waiting for a bus in the pelting rain, 'h.e.l.lo, love! All right?'

As she looked up in bewilderment he wound the window back up, leant back and said with great satisfaction, 'The privilege of being able to cast a golden ray of sunshine into an otherwise dull and unremarkable existence.'

As soon as I was free from the fetters of Forty Years On Forty Years On my life seemed to triple in speed and intensity. I moved out of the Bloomsbury flat and into a large furnished house in Southgate Road on the fringes of the de Beauvoir Estate between Islington and the b.a.l.l.s Pond Road. Nick Symons, Hugh, Katie and I shared this excellently eccentric house for the better part of a year. It looked, to Hugh's approving eye, like the kind of house the Rolling Stones might have rented in 1968. It was crammed to every corner with Benares bra.s.s trays, alabaster lamps, buhl cabinets, stuffed birds and waxed flowers in gla.s.s domes, lacquer screens, papier-mache bowls, mahogany chiffoniers, oil paintings of varying quality in chipped gilt plaster frames, indecipherable objects of sinister Dutch treen, impossible silvered wallpaper and madly tarnished mirrors. Our landlord, who dropped by only occasionally, was a spongey-nosed individual by the name of Stanley. He seemed very relaxed and unconcerned about a group of what were little more than students living their disordered lives amongst his antique bibelots and whatnots. my life seemed to triple in speed and intensity. I moved out of the Bloomsbury flat and into a large furnished house in Southgate Road on the fringes of the de Beauvoir Estate between Islington and the b.a.l.l.s Pond Road. Nick Symons, Hugh, Katie and I shared this excellently eccentric house for the better part of a year. It looked, to Hugh's approving eye, like the kind of house the Rolling Stones might have rented in 1968. It was crammed to every corner with Benares bra.s.s trays, alabaster lamps, buhl cabinets, stuffed birds and waxed flowers in gla.s.s domes, lacquer screens, papier-mache bowls, mahogany chiffoniers, oil paintings of varying quality in chipped gilt plaster frames, indecipherable objects of sinister Dutch treen, impossible silvered wallpaper and madly tarnished mirrors. Our landlord, who dropped by only occasionally, was a spongey-nosed individual by the name of Stanley. He seemed very relaxed and unconcerned about a group of what were little more than students living their disordered lives amongst his antique bibelots and whatnots.

The second series of Alfresco Alfresco had been aired nationally by this time, making not the slightest dent upon the public consciousness. I was busy enough with the had been aired nationally by this time, making not the slightest dent upon the public consciousness. I was busy enough with the Listener Listener, radio, tweaks for Me and My Girl Me and My Girl's West End transfer and my first proper film role. Directed by Mike Newell, the picture was called The Good Father The Good Father, adapted from a Peter Prince novel by Christopher Hampton.

At the read-through I glanced nervously around and tried to look as if I belonged at the table. There was Simon Callow, whose controversial new book Being An Actor Being An Actor had served as the first blast of the trumpet against the monstrous regiment of tyrannical stage directors; next to him sat one of my favourite actresses, Harriet Walter; next to her, Joanne Whalley, who was just about to make a name and earn enduring teenage-fantasy status for herself bringing Michael Gambon off in had served as the first blast of the trumpet against the monstrous regiment of tyrannical stage directors; next to him sat one of my favourite actresses, Harriet Walter; next to her, Joanne Whalley, who was just about to make a name and earn enduring teenage-fantasy status for herself bringing Michael Gambon off in The Singing Detective The Singing Detective; and next to her sat one half of the National Theatre of Brent, Jim Broadbent. And finally there was the film's star, Anthony Hopkins, a man from whom charisma, power and virility radiated with a force that was frankly frightening. I had been faintly obsessed with him ever since his blue eyes burnt out of the screen at me in Richard Attenborough's Young Winston Young Winston.

Too late for the preliminary introductions, Miriam Margolyes had burst in like a beaming pinball just in time for the start of the read. When it was over she approached me.

'How do you do? I'm Mir ...' She stopped and plucked at her tongue with her thumb and forefinger, '... Miriam Margolyes. Sorry about that, I was licking my girlfriend out last night and I've still got some c.u.n.t hairs in my mouth.' Miriam is perhaps the kindest, most loyal and incorruptibly decent person on the whole Equity roll, but she is certainly not someone to take out to tea with the archdeacon.

In the film I played a man called Creighton, divorced and beaten down by the crushing weight of life, children and alimony. I had only one scene, but since it was with Hopkins himself it was in my mind as good a role as Michael Corleone and Rhett Butler combined. The plot required me to have been at school with Simon Callow, which wounded me a little, as I knew he was a good eight years older than me. To someone in their twenties, eight years is a lifetime. I knew that I was not the type ever to be asked to play lissom youths or handsome lovers, but it did seem a little hard to be plunged into middle age for my first-ever film role.

People are strange about casting.

We hold a party at Southgate Road about this time. I go around with a Nebuchadnezzar of champagne topping up the guests and trying not to breathe in the fumes myself being well aware of what my allergy to champagne might bring on. As I pa.s.s by, an actor friend asks what I am up to and I mention The Good Father The Good Father.

'What sort of role?'

'Oh, I play this rather defeated father and husband who's going through a divorce.'

'You!' the actor is unable or unwilling to hide the contempt, outrage and disapproval in his voice. 'What the h.e.l.l would you you know about that?' know about that?'

I grin tightly and move on. So I should be playing nothing but celibate gay men? Is that how acting works? I suppose the actor, who is married, with a second child on the way and not very much in demand, is peeved that he should be out of work while juicy parts are going to lucky b.u.g.g.e.rs like me: his savage t.i.tter of disbelief must be his way of coping. People who didn't go to drama school, have enormous holes in their Chekhov technique and are given parts that they cannot possibly play out of any true experience must be excessively aggravating to proper actors. I can see that, but I am still a little hurt.

We are rather excited tonight to have Kate Bush at the party. Hugh has just been in a video of her newest song. Two Nebuchadnezzars of champagne last the evening perfectly, and for those, like me, who don't drink it, we are all still of an age where guests bring bottles and there is enough red wine to keep us merry too. Talking of red wine, parked in the street outside the house is my new pride and joy, a claret-coloured Daimler Sovereign. How perfect is my life. I want to weep when I look back. Enough money to keep me in cigarettes, shirts and a nice new car, but not so much as to isolate me from this charmed studenty existence of Bohemian house-sharing and irresponsible fun. Experiences are still new and exciting, my palate is not jaded, life is not stale.

We were happy and lucky, but this was Thatcher's Britain, and we did not let a moment pa.s.s without giving Thatcher's Britain a searing indictment. Forgive the phrase. We were still children really and Thatcher's Britain seemed to us to be something that needed searingly to be indicted, the searinglier the better. You might imagine that it had treated us so well that we should be on our knees thanking it for the film roles, job opportunities, affordable property prices, Daimler Sovereigns and burgeoning prosperity that had come our way with a minimum of effort. We certainly did not see it that way. Firstly, our educations and upbringings had been received under Labour and Edward Heath's more liberal and consensus-based dispensations. The new callousness and combative certainty of Thatcher and her cabinet of vulgar curiosities were alien to the values we grew up with, and it smelt all wrong. I know that if you are flourishing in a regime you are supposed not to bellyache about it. Seems ungrateful. Cake and eat it. Biting the hand that feeds. The moral high ground is easy to perch on if you're in a cashmere sweater. Chattering cla.s.ses. Trendy liberals. Bah. I do see that. Bad enough from someone in an ordinary job, but to hear searing indictments of Thatcher's Britain from an actor actor ... ...

The world finds it difficult to credit the breed with enough brains or the qualities of seriousness, understanding and worldly experience required for a political statement to which they can attach the slightest value. Daffy airheaded twazzocks, every one of them, is more or less the accepted view; one from which it is hard to dissent, and I speak as a fully paid-up member of Equity and the Screen Actors Guild myself. This is partly because, love them/us as I do hard to find a kinder, funnier, more loyal bunch, etc., etc. there are probably more embarra.s.sing featherheads and ludicrous naifs in the acting profession than in any other. Perhaps because to penetrate a role properly you first have to empty the brain of all cynicism and self-awareness and such irrelevant impedimenta as logic, reason and empirical sense. Certainly some, but not all, of the very best actors I have known are innocent of any such enc.u.mbrances. I have noticed that, whenever I have made the mistake of getting myself embroiled in some public controversy or other, the side that holds the opposing view will always refer to me as an actor. It successfully devalues whatever it is I might have said. I have spent more time writing than acting, but 'After all, he's only a writer,' doesn't have quite the same sneering finality as 'Why should we pay any attention to the views of an actor actor?' I am not always such an imbecile as to be surprised by that, or even aggrieved. We all choose whatever weapons are at hand in a fight and when we get close in we jab and kick at the weakest and most vulnerable parts.

I mention all this because I am teeing up a section in which I have to take you through more sickening examples of my good fortune, dissipation, wanton wastefulness and sheer cheapness of spirit and lowness of social or moral tone.

Me and My Girl transferred to the Adelphi Theatre. Matthew Rice, David Linley and I made our way on foot from the stage door in Maiden Lane to the first-night party at Smith's in Covent Garden. As we walked, paparazzi closed in on David like wasps at a picnic. 'This way, Lord Linley.' Flash. 'Lord Linley, Lord Linley!' Flash, pop, flash. Every now and then he would bat them away with a growl. They would shrink back, ma.s.s and swarm again. This continued for the length of our walk. transferred to the Adelphi Theatre. Matthew Rice, David Linley and I made our way on foot from the stage door in Maiden Lane to the first-night party at Smith's in Covent Garden. As we walked, paparazzi closed in on David like wasps at a picnic. 'This way, Lord Linley.' Flash. 'Lord Linley, Lord Linley!' Flash, pop, flash. Every now and then he would bat them away with a growl. They would shrink back, ma.s.s and swarm again. This continued for the length of our walk.

'What can it be like?' I asked David.

'You'll know soon enough,' he said.

This was a charming remark, but not one I could set much store by. My name was beginning to mean a little more in the world, but there was still no danger of photographers shouting it out on the red carpet. As soon as I had understood that a few appearances on television, especially in a show like Alfresco Alfresco which appealed to so few, would not generate instant fame, I had relaxed into life and work without troubling myself too much about the whole business. Letters had started to come in, a few from which appealed to so few, would not generate instant fame, I had relaxed into life and work without troubling myself too much about the whole business. Letters had started to come in, a few from Alfresco Alfresco ... watchers, I won't say fans, and some from ... watchers, I won't say fans, and some from Loose Ends Loose Ends listeners or readers of the magazines for which I wrote. Once or twice I would be stopped in the street. listeners or readers of the magazines for which I wrote. Once or twice I would be stopped in the street.

'You're that ... that man ...' Fingers would be clicked and feet stamped at the effort of memory.

'I know I look like him, but I'm not,' I tried saying once or twice. I soon learnt that whether or not they knew my name or where they had seen me they knew perfectly well that I was not anybody's doppelganger. For good or ill my features are unmistakable, and since that time I have accepted that pretending not to be me is no good. Some can get away with it, but not I. Sungla.s.ses, pulled-down beanies and m.u.f.fled-up scarves make no difference. I might as well be carrying a sign with my name on.

As 1985 wore on, and Me and My Girl Me and My Girl clearly established itself as a major hit, royalty statements from Noel Gay Music began to arrive. The 'backend' that Richard Armitage the agent had strong-armed Richard Armitage the producer into accepting was beginning to bear fruit. clearly established itself as a major hit, royalty statements from Noel Gay Music began to arrive. The 'backend' that Richard Armitage the agent had strong-armed Richard Armitage the producer into accepting was beginning to bear fruit.

Martin Bergman said to me with his usual a.s.sured omniscience, 'Oh yes, Stephen, you'll get at least a million out of it, no question.'

I didn't believe him for a second, but the weekly arrival of cheques was a delightful new feature of my life.

The first thing I did as soon as I fully understood that my 'net worth' was increasing was to sign up for every conceivable kind of plastic. When you applied for a Diner's Club card you could ask to be sent two, one for personal use and one for business. I needed no such distinction to be made in my life, but two cards, hurrah! I had a gold American Express Card, at that time the ultimate status symbol, as well as an ordinary green one. I had the usual bank card, two Mastercards (Access, your flexible friend, being one) and two Visa cards. Added to these were sundry store, subscription and membership cards. Do you remember Clifton James as Sheriff J.W. Pepper in Live and Let Die Live and Let Die and and The Man With the Golden Gun The Man With the Golden Gun? Big, pot-bellied American in a Hawaiian shirt forever chewing and dabbing his brow with a bandana? There's a scene where he takes out his wallet, and its concertinaed compartments flip down almost to the ground exposing dozens of credit cards. That was my wallet.

Why? Well, I am distrustful of too much certainty in self-a.n.a.lysis, but I do not think this fatuous and infantile display of 'worth' can have been unconnected to the crime that got me arrested. Aged seventeen, I had run riot around England with someone else's credit cards a Diner's Club and an Access card. That is what had got me sent to Pucklechurch prison. I suppose eight years later I still found it hard to believe that I merited my own cards. I was now creditworthy. These cards were daily reminders that the long nightmare was over and that I was at last a proper, decent citizen solidly placed on the right side of the law. Not that this was to be anything like an endpoint for me. By no means. The same old self-destructive urges were only just below the surface. In all too short a time those same credit cards, symbols of legitimacy and respectability or not, would be chopping endless lines of far from legal and less than respectable cocaine. I suppose eight years later I still found it hard to believe that I merited my own cards. I was now creditworthy. These cards were daily reminders that the long nightmare was over and that I was at last a proper, decent citizen solidly placed on the right side of the law. Not that this was to be anything like an endpoint for me. By no means. The same old self-destructive urges were only just below the surface. In all too short a time those same credit cards, symbols of legitimacy and respectability or not, would be chopping endless lines of far from legal and less than respectable cocaine.

For the meantime I clung to these tokens of worth, worthiness, credit and credibility. I spent 7,000 on a laser printer for my Macintosh computer. It was a staggering sum and in the eyes of most people unjustifiable and absurd. No one had ever seen before such extraordinary print clarity and quality from a computer. The standard machines were the dot-matrix kind, usually taking special paper that had punched holes down the sides; they produced type that was composed, as the name suggests, of dots, resulting in a fuzzy, low resolution. In the radio studio I was now able to brandish Trefusis scripts that looked as if they had been professionally typeset. With great solemnity I would tell the guests and contributors around the Loose Ends Loose Ends table that I wrote my script in longhand and then dropped it off at the printer's who produced three copies, one for Ian Gardhouse, one for the sound engineer and one for me. I would be stared at as if I were tragically and perhaps dangerously insane, but the fact that they could swallow such a ludicrous story shows how rare laser-printed pages were back then. table that I wrote my script in longhand and then dropped it off at the printer's who produced three copies, one for Ian Gardhouse, one for the sound engineer and one for me. I would be stared at as if I were tragically and perhaps dangerously insane, but the fact that they could swallow such a ludicrous story shows how rare laser-printed pages were back then.

I became the first non-businessperson I knew to have a carphone. I would sit in traffic, wallowing back against the Connollized leather of the Sovereign, and call people for the sheer pleasure of being able to say, 'Hang on, the lights are turning green,' and hearing my interlocutor turn green too, with envy. Of course, they probably just thought, 'What a w.a.n.ker,' but I was too happy to care.

I decided that I should have a house in the country. Look, I can't keep apologizing, but I will say one more time, I know how horrible this must be to read. A cat that keeps falling on its feet, even one that had a rather problematic kittenhood, does not make a very interesting or admirable hero. I have to lay out the facts as I recall them in the full knowledge that they reflect little or no credit on me. The cash was flying in, and I was a victim of nothing but my own saucer-eyed cupidity and trashy delight in the riches the world seemed so keen to offer me.

Having run away as a child from what I could now see was a blissful country home, I wanted to make one of my own. The country meant only one thing to me, Norfolk. There was one small problem, however. I knew that my parents, particularly my father, hated display and swagger and sw.a.n.k. I was too embarra.s.sed to let them know quite how much I was earning. It seemed obscene and unjustified. My father I a.s.sociated with a crippling work ethic and a contempt for money, or at least a complete lack of interest in it. For me to be running about the garden of life with my pinny spread open to catch all the gold coins raining down on me would have struck him, I believed, as grotesque and disgusting. This would be income almost as dishonestly come by in his eyes, or so I told myself, as the money I used to steal in my badolescence.

Stephen's way with embarra.s.sing problems has ever been either to run away or, as in this case, to lie his way out of trouble. You do not need to have lived many years on the planet to know that this means to lie your way into into trouble. I decided to tell my parents that I wanted to buy a place in Norfolk which I would open as a restaurant. It seemed less sybaritic and self-indulgent than to buy one purely as a second home. My parents appeared to believe me, or at least were as usual kind enough to pretend to and not call the lie at once. trouble. I decided to tell my parents that I wanted to buy a place in Norfolk which I would open as a restaurant. It seemed less sybaritic and self-indulgent than to buy one purely as a second home. My parents appeared to believe me, or at least were as usual kind enough to pretend to and not call the lie at once.

I am the world's quickest and least patient shopper. I pluck from shelves like a Supermarket Sweep Supermarket Sweep contestant on crystal meth. I never try clothes on for size. Queues and waiting drive me insane with impatience. It turned out that I was like this with houses too. I contacted a Norfolk estate agent and bought the third house I looked at. The first two were tempting but needed too much work. The one I settled on was a solid six-bedroom farmhouse, originally sixteenth-century but mostly overclad with Victorian brick in the rather yellowy grey characteristic of that part of Norfolk. I showed my parents round. Restaurant tables were imagined in the large dining-room and drawing room, and there was talk of the knocking-through of hatches, the construction of a bar and cold room and the hiring of a chef and waiting staff. Tactfully this was never really mentioned again. It was obvious that the house was for me to live in, and that if I ever did entertain the notion of being a restaurateur it was no more than a pa.s.sing fantasy. Embarra.s.sed by how inappropriate the house was for my age and single state, I told people that I had a 'country cottage' in Norfolk. Just a little place for weekends. contestant on crystal meth. I never try clothes on for size. Queues and waiting drive me insane with impatience. It turned out that I was like this with houses too. I contacted a Norfolk estate agent and bought the third house I looked at. The first two were tempting but needed too much work. The one I settled on was a solid six-bedroom farmhouse, originally sixteenth-century but mostly overclad with Victorian brick in the rather yellowy grey characteristic of that part of Norfolk. I showed my parents round. Restaurant tables were imagined in the large dining-room and drawing room, and there was talk of the knocking-through of hatches, the construction of a bar and cold room and the hiring of a chef and waiting staff. Tactfully this was never really mentioned again. It was obvious that the house was for me to live in, and that if I ever did entertain the notion of being a restaurateur it was no more than a pa.s.sing fantasy. Embarra.s.sed by how inappropriate the house was for my age and single state, I told people that I had a 'country cottage' in Norfolk. Just a little place for weekends.

So there I was, a celibate man with a ludicrously big house and a ludicrously big car. A A ludicrously big car? It was surely time to put that right. I embarked upon what was to turn into a six- or seven-year cla.s.sic-car spending spree, starting with an early seventies Aston Martin V8. It was a garish Yeoman Red when I bought it, so I had it resprayed a sleek and understated Midnight Blue. I cannot remember which I loved more, my little house in the country, my Aston Martin, my Apple computer or my gold AmEx card. What a styleless a.r.s.ehole I was, what a prodigal t.i.t, what a flash f.u.c.khead. I look back and see only waste, vanity, emptiness and puerile conceit. That I was happy offers me no compensation now. ludicrously big car? It was surely time to put that right. I embarked upon what was to turn into a six- or seven-year cla.s.sic-car spending spree, starting with an early seventies Aston Martin V8. It was a garish Yeoman Red when I bought it, so I had it resprayed a sleek and understated Midnight Blue. I cannot remember which I loved more, my little house in the country, my Aston Martin, my Apple computer or my gold AmEx card. What a styleless a.r.s.ehole I was, what a prodigal t.i.t, what a flash f.u.c.khead. I look back and see only waste, vanity, emptiness and puerile conceit. That I was happy offers me no compensation now.

In the replay of regret that flickers through my mind I picture how I might have used the money that poured in so prodigiously. Wasn't I happy enough in London? Hugh, Katie, Nick and I loved Southgate Road and now we were ready to pool our resources and buy our own house together. Why did I need a large place in the country too? I loved my Daimler Sovereign, why should I need another car and another and another? A man can only drive one vehicle at a time, for heaven's sake. I loved my Macintosh, so why did I need to replace it every time Apple came up with a new model? Why did I need any any of the baubles I s.p.u.n.ked my money on? What the h.e.l.l was I playing at? I could have saved the money, invested it, husbanded it. I might just as well tell myself that I could have sung Don Giovanni at Covent Garden or opened the batting at Lord's. As Dirty Harry tells Hal Holbrook in of the baubles I s.p.u.n.ked my money on? What the h.e.l.l was I playing at? I could have saved the money, invested it, husbanded it. I might just as well tell myself that I could have sung Don Giovanni at Covent Garden or opened the batting at Lord's. As Dirty Harry tells Hal Holbrook in Magnum Force Magnum Force, 'A man's gotta know his limitations.' I will never be provident, prudent or prescient. Never. I do not have it in my genes to be so. I believe that change, improvement, heuristic development and the acquisition and advancement of learning and wisdom through experience are all possible and desirable. I also believe that leopards will always be spotty, skunks smelly and Stephens idiotically wasteful and extravagant. Some things are not susceptible to change.

'You'll never have to work again,' someone said to me at a party. To me this was like being congratulated on becoming tetraplegic 'Hurrah! You'll never have to walk again! You can stay in bed all day.' Perhaps that is why I spent money so freely, so that I always had the incentive to work.

Another incentive to work was the example of Ben Elton. The second series was the last the world ever saw of Alfresco Alfresco, but between putting the finishing touches to the final sketch of the hundred or so he wrote for it and completing his co-authorship of the second series of The Young Ones The Young Ones he had somehow contrived to write all six episodes of an entirely new comedy drama of his own invention which he called he had somehow contrived to write all six episodes of an entirely new comedy drama of his own invention which he called Happy Families. Happy Families. It starred Jennifer Saunders in the five roles of an old grandmother and her four lost granddaughters. Ade Edmondson, shortly to become Jennifer's real-life husband, played the hapless grandson who must search the world to reunite them all. I was cast as the same nonchalantly callous Dr de Quincy I had played in a few It starred Jennifer Saunders in the five roles of an old grandmother and her four lost granddaughters. Ade Edmondson, shortly to become Jennifer's real-life husband, played the hapless grandson who must search the world to reunite them all. I was cast as the same nonchalantly callous Dr de Quincy I had played in a few Alfresco Alfresco sketches, with Hugh as Jim, my Kiplingesque friend and companion. The series was directed by sketches, with Hugh as Jim, my Kiplingesque friend and companion. The series was directed by The Young Ones The Young Ones producer-director, Paul Jackson. During the shoot, which took place in and around Denstone in Staffordshire, not five minutes from the charms of Uttoxeter and the horrors of Alton Towers, Paul mentioned that next year he would be putting together a new live comedy show for Channel 4. He wondered if Hugh and I would be interested in contributing to it. We conferred nervously with each other in the bar that evening. The new world of youthful stand-up comedy was going to be represented on this 'edgy' 'alternative' and 'ground-breaking' show. Stand-up was another string to Ben Elton's bow: he appeared regularly compering at the Comedy Store and he was certainly going to do a session or two in the new series. Other comedy teams would be appearing, such as Mark Arden and Steve Frost, who performed as the Oblivion Boys, and Rik Mayall and Ade Edmondson, who had come together again, this time as the Dangerous Brothers. Hugh and I wondered if we would stick out like sore and inappropriately tweedy thumbs. Despite our characteristic fears and forebodings we decided that we should do the show. In the end, somewhere at the bottom of our churning wells of nonsense Hugh and I knew that we could and should do comedy together. It was a kind of destiny. producer-director, Paul Jackson. During the shoot, which took place in and around Denstone in Staffordshire, not five minutes from the charms of Uttoxeter and the horrors of Alton Towers, Paul mentioned that next year he would be putting together a new live comedy show for Channel 4. He wondered if Hugh and I would be interested in contributing to it. We conferred nervously with each other in the bar that evening. The new world of youthful stand-up comedy was going to be represented on this 'edgy' 'alternative' and 'ground-breaking' show. Stand-up was another string to Ben Elton's bow: he appeared regularly compering at the Comedy Store and he was certainly going to do a session or two in the new series. Other comedy teams would be appearing, such as Mark Arden and Steve Frost, who performed as the Oblivion Boys, and Rik Mayall and Ade Edmondson, who had come together again, this time as the Dangerous Brothers. Hugh and I wondered if we would stick out like sore and inappropriately tweedy thumbs. Despite our characteristic fears and forebodings we decided that we should do the show. In the end, somewhere at the bottom of our churning wells of nonsense Hugh and I knew that we could and should do comedy together. It was a kind of destiny.

Back in London after filming, Hugh, Katie, Nick Symons and I each bought a share in a large house in St Mark's Rise, Dalston. Situated just off the Sandringham Road, which on account of its predominantly drug-dealing Yardie population was known as Da Front Line, the house was in need of some repair, and we set about improving it straight away. Which is to say we hired a team of perky young plasterers and decorators to do it for us. They were very good, and I should tell you about them.

Oh my G.o.d, Stephen is going to talk about the quality of work done by the team who came to decorate his house. WTF?

As they say on helplines, bear with me caller ...

One of the plasterers, Martin, was really very, very expert indeed. Marvellous at ceiling roses and all kinds of moulded ornamental plasterwork. The other two, Paul and Charlie, were more than competent at the rendering, skimming, bonding, sanding, painting and other ancillary skills that might be expected from a general builder, but they had another quality. They were quite extraordinarily funny. I brought them coffee, as you do when you have the builders in, and I chatted with them in what I hoped was a friendly and unpatronizing manner but just couldn't get over how much they made me laugh. They had been at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, which seat of higher education they had quickly vacated, dropping out and moving to London, working in the building trade and wondering if comedy might ever be an attainable goal. Charlie was the lead singer in a punk outfit which apparently had a cult following. Paul entertained our household with impressions of London types, the especial favourite being a Greek c.o.c.kney who had an eccentric way with very c.o.c.kneyfied English. This character was based on a real-life Hackney kebab-shop owner called Adam. Hugh and I believed that, excellent as Paul and Charlie were with the bonding, skimming, rendering and so forth, they really should have a stab at making their way in comedy. Paul wasn't sure he would like performing but thought that perhaps, one day, he might see if he could make it as a writer.

The most successful comedy writer I knew lived just up the road in Islington. He was Douglas Adams. The success of the radio series, books and television adaptation of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy had earned him international regard, reputation and riches. He was a gigantic man, at least three inches taller than me, although it seemed much more. When he ran up and down the stairs the whole house shook. He was curious about and amused by all kinds of inanimate articles and objects, by living plants and creatures, by himself, by other people, by the world and by the whole universe. The most fundamental laws, principles and accepted systems that underlie everything and are taken for granted by almost all of us were to him fascinating, funny and appealingly odd. More than anyone I have ever known he combined childlike simplicity with a great sophistication of understanding and intelligence. had earned him international regard, reputation and riches. He was a gigantic man, at least three inches taller than me, although it seemed much more. When he ran up and down the stairs the whole house shook. He was curious about and amused by all kinds of inanimate articles and objects, by living plants and creatures, by himself, by other people, by the world and by the whole universe. The most fundamental laws, principles and accepted systems that underlie everything and are taken for granted by almost all of us were to him fascinating, funny and appealingly odd. More than anyone I have ever known he combined childlike simplicity with a great sophistication of understanding and intelligence.

Almost every day when I was not working I would go round to his house off Upper Street and, like a shy schoolboy, ask his wife, Jane, if he might be free to play. He was never free to play, of course, being eternally under the shadow of a writing deadline and so, naturally, we would play. Douglas's remark about deadlines has become the final word on the subject. 'I love deadlines, I love the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.'

In what manner did we play? What was the substance of our play? Scalextric? Trains? Jam sessions? Dressing up? No I fear that you might already have guessed. Douglas was the only person I knew who, like me, owned a Macintosh computer. Like me, he upgraded to a new machine every time Apple brought one out. Like me, he more than just liked it, he loved it, believed in it, wanted to shout out its pioneering, world-changing importance from the rooftops. Like me, he could not believe how so many people could be chained to IBM-compatibles running CP/M or the new operating system, MS-DOS, both of which did nothing but put text up on the screen. We believed that the mouse, icons, drop-down menus and whole graphical-desktop idea had had to be the way forward and were easily upset and enraged by those who failed to see it. Like all fanatics we must have been quite dreadfully boring, boorish and bothersome. Together we moved from the 512 'Big Mac' to the Mac Plus with its magical SCSI connectors and thence to the all-colour Mac II and beyond. Douglas could well afford it, and I was beginning, as to be the way forward and were easily upset and enraged by those who failed to see it. Like all fanatics we must have been quite dreadfully boring, boorish and bothersome. Together we moved from the 512 'Big Mac' to the Mac Plus with its magical SCSI connectors and thence to the all-colour Mac II and beyond. Douglas could well afford it, and I was beginning, as Me and My Girl Me and My Girl money continued to roll in, to be able to match his spending pound for pound. Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be monied was very heaven. money continued to roll in, to be able to match his spending pound for pound. Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be monied was very heaven.

Any meaningful kind of internet was, of course, years off. Not only was there no World Wide Web, even servers, services and protocols like WAIS, Gopher, Veronica, Jughead, SuperJANET and Archie, today long moribund, were then a futurist's dream. There had been Prestel, an early online service run by the Post Office which ran very happily on my old BBC Micro and allowed simple mail and messaging, and there was also Compuserve, a commercial online service that the ordinary enthusiast could log on to using a simple acoustic coupler modem. The exciting parts of the burgeoning internet, like electronic mail, Telnet and FTP, were tantalizingly out of reach, available only to those in academia and government. Most of Douglas's and my time was spent downloading small programs (especially kinds called 'inits') and trying them out on our machines until they crashed. There was no real purpose behind it all. If Jane asked us why we needed to do what we did and what the point point was, which as a keen-brained, hard-nosed realist of a barrister she did from time to time, we would look at each other in wonderment. was, which as a keen-brained, hard-nosed realist of a barrister she did from time to time, we would look at each other in wonderment.

'Point?' Douglas would roll the word round in his mouth as if it was new to him.

I would quote King Lear's 'Reason not the need'.

For some people, computers, digital devices and machines of that nature will be functional objects whose purpose is to serve by performing specifically needed tasks. If there is a little tweaking required to ensure that such functions can better be fulfilled, then so be it: let there be a little tweaking. For other people, people like Douglas and me, the tweaking is is the function. Using a computer to write a book, fill in tax returns or print out an invoice is something you the function. Using a computer to write a book, fill in tax returns or print out an invoice is something you could could do, but how much less fun than messing around. People like Douglas and me bond with digital devices as owners bond with dogs. Unless you are blind, or a shepherd, policeman or security guard, dogs do not have a function, they are there to be loved, tickled and patted to bring joy. I suppose the more common affliction of this kind is the one people have with cars. Rowan Atkinson, Steve Coogan and Robbie Coltrane, for example. They use their cars to go to the shops, drive home and so forth, of course they do, but that is not what dominates their att.i.tude and relationship to them. If you have not been blessed or cursed with deeply emotional feelings for machines you will set me down as a dork and a geek, much as you might set them down as petrol-heads and boy racers. Enthusiasts are used to being mocked, maligned and misunderstood. We don't really mind. In truth, there is every probability that Douglas and I relished being esoteric hobbyists who spoke a recondite language and devoted hours to fruitless projects. I am ashamed to confess that a little bit of regret entered the soul when Microsoft finally got the point and started to offer their own graphical interface. They called it Windows, and by 1992 version 3.1 had reached the stage where it was almost usable. Another three years were to pa.s.s before Windows 95 could finally be called an operating system, rather than an add-on to MS-DOS. That was eleven years after the introduction of the Mac, a lifetime in computer terms, and Douglas and I felt on the one hand vindicated and on the other a little deflated, as though the crowd had found their way into the secret garden. One of the most unattractive human traits, and so easy to fall into, is resentment at the sudden shared popularity of a previously private pleasure. Which of us hasn't been annoyed when a band, writer, artist or television series that had been a minority interest of ours has suddenly achieved mainstream popularity? When it was at a cult level we moaned at the philistinism of a world that didn't appreciate it, and now that they do, but how much less fun than messing around. People like Douglas and me bond with digital devices as owners bond with dogs. Unless you are blind, or a shepherd, policeman or security guard, dogs do not have a function, they are there to be loved, tickled and patted to bring joy. I suppose the more common affliction of this kind is the one people have with cars. Rowan Atkinson, Steve Coogan and Robbie Coltrane, for example. They use their cars to go to the shops, drive home and so forth, of course they do, but that is not what dominates their att.i.tude and relationship to them. If you have not been blessed or cursed with deeply emotional feelings for machines you will set me down as a dork and a geek, much as you might set them down as petrol-heads and boy racers. Enthusiasts are used to being mocked, maligned and misunderstood. We don't really mind. In truth, there is every probability that Douglas and I relished being esoteric hobbyists who spoke a recondite language and devoted hours to fruitless projects. I am ashamed to confess that a little bit of regret entered the soul when Microsoft finally got the point and started to offer their own graphical interface. They called it Windows, and by 1992 version 3.1 had reached the stage where it was almost usable. Another three years were to pa.s.s before Windows 95 could finally be called an operating system, rather than an add-on to MS-DOS. That was eleven years after the introduction of the Mac, a lifetime in computer terms, and Douglas and I felt on the one hand vindicated and on the other a little deflated, as though the crowd had found their way into the secret garden. One of the most unattractive human traits, and so easy to fall into, is resentment at the sudden shared popularity of a previously private pleasure. Which of us hasn't been annoyed when a band, writer, artist or television series that had been a minority interest of ours has suddenly achieved mainstream popularity? When it was at a cult level we moaned at the philistinism of a world that didn't appreciate it, and now that they do do appreciate it we're all resentful and dog-in-the-manger about it. I am old enough to remember the cool long-haired boys at school who were seriously annoyed by the success of appreciate it we're all resentful and dog-in-the-manger about it. I am old enough to remember the cool long-haired boys at school who were seriously annoyed by the success of Dark Side of the Moon Dark Side of the Moon. They went around muttering 'sell-out' when a month before they had bored anyone they could find on the subject of the misunderstood brilliance of Pink Floyd and how the world was too stupid to recognize their genius.

Douglas and I had years of lonely pleasure ahead of us, however, and the two- or three-year period of our intense visiting, disk swapping and techie chatter counts as among the happiest of my life.

Douglas's writing routine was painful in the extreme. Sue Freestone, his publisher at Heinemann, would come round and beg, often almost with tears welling in her eyes, for pages from his printer. Douglas would hurl himself downstairs to the coffee machine, hurl himself back up again, thump to his desk and sit in front of the computer. After an hour or so twiddling with the screensaver, the wallpaper, the t.i.tle of the file, the placement on the desktop of the folder the file was stored in, the formatting, the font, the size, the colour, the margins and the stylesheets, he might type a sentence. He would look at it, change it to italics, swap the word order around, get up, stare at it some more. Hum, curse, growl and groan and then delete it. He would try another sentence. He would look at this one and now perhaps give a little puff of pleasure. He would stand up, stride across the room and hurl himself down to the kitchen, where Sue and I would be gossiping and smoking around the table, and make himself another incredibly strong coffee.

'Dare I ask?' Sue would say.

'Going well. I have the first sentence!'

'Oh.' It would be perhaps July with the new novel already overdue the previous September. One sentence written so far. Sue would smile tightly. 'Well, that's a start at least ...'

Douglas would nod enthusiastically and fling himself back up the stairs, coffee dripping in his wake. We would hear the feet thump across the floor above our heads and then an agonized cry of 'No! Hopeless!' would tell us that the proud first sentence was not, after all, up to snuff, and a banging on the keyboard would register its angry deletion. An author's day is tough enough, but the writing life of Douglas Adams was excruciating in a manner quite unlike anyone else's I have ever known.

Carlton Club Crustiness Ben Elton, meanwhile, whose creative flow knew no constrictions of the smallest kind, could not be expected to be content with his thousand Alfresco Alfresco sketches, two series of sketches, two series of The Young Ones The Young Ones, the creation of a whole new comedy drama serial and the prospect of Paul Jackson's Channel 4 show. On his return from Happy Families Happy Families filming in Staffordshire he immediately started work as a co-author on a new BBC situation comedy. Actually, to call it new would be wrong; it was in truth a second series, but one which wholly reworked the original. filming in Staffordshire he immediately started work as a co-author on a new BBC situation comedy. Actually, to call it new would be wrong; it was in truth a second series, but one which wholly reworked the original.

The Black Adder, starring Rowan Atkinson and written by him and his long-time collaborator and fellow Oxonian Richard Curtis, had been broadcast two or even three years earlier and, although crammed from end to end with simply superb performances and brilliant comic scenes, had been generally regarded as something of a disappointment. The BBC decided that, whatever else the show's qualities might be, it was certainly too expensive to continue with: its producer John Lloyd was later to describe it as 'the show that looked a million dollars and cost a million pounds'.

Rowan had already at this stage decided that, even if it did get picked up for a second series, he would no longer be a writer on it, which left his co-creator Richard Curtis to decide whether he wanted to go it alone or find a collaborator. He opted for the latter course, and the writer he chose was Ben Elton. Richard Armitage, who was Rowan Atkinson's agent, believed that Blackadder Blackadder certainly had potential enough to justify his pressuring the BBC to relent, but he entertained the gravest doubts about Ben Elton's suitability for the project. He called me into his office. certainly had potential enough to justify his pressuring the BBC to relent, but he entertained the gravest doubts about Ben Elton's suitability for the project. He called me into his office.

'Elton,' he said. 'Richard Curtis seems to want to work with him on the next Blackadder Blackadder.'

'That's a brilliant idea!'

'Really? What about all those farting jokes?' Richard had still not forgiven Ben for Colonel Sodom and his exploding bottom in There's Nothing to Worry About There's Nothing to Worry About.

'No, Ben is perfect for this, honestly.'

'Hm ...' Richard sucked at his Villiger cigar and pondered deeply for a while.

Ben is sweet-natured, kind, honest and true. He is one of the most extraordinarily gifted people I have ever met. As much as he is gifted he seems cursed with a woeful talent for causing people to disapprove of him and to wrinkle their nose in distaste and scorn. They distrust what they see as his faux c.o.c.kney accent (it isn't faux, he has always talked that way, as do his brother and sister), the earnest self-righteousness of his political views and the (perceived) unctuous manner in which he expresses them. Ben is all kinds of things but has never been a fool and knows this very well, yet the one accomplishment he seems not to have been granted is the ability to do anything about it. Richard Armitage was certainly one of those who found him hard to take, but he was too shrewd not to see that, if the decade could be said to have a comedy pulse, then no one had their finger on it more surely than this same Benjamin Charles Elton with his growly and unlovable accent and his predilection, to Richard's mind, for bottom, p.e.n.i.s and wind-expulsion humour.

'You really think so?' He looked at me with the blend of disbelief and disappointment you might expect to see on the face of the secretary of a Pall Mall gentlemen's club on hearing a member recommend Pete Doherty for election to the wine committee.

I was flattered to have my opinion so valued. My contribution to the success of Me and My Girl Me and My Girl, which had made Richard the happiest man in London, and the fact that I could be taken to any weekend gathering or dinner party without letting the side down, had led him to rely on me as a kind of intermediary between his world and the brave new one that was springing up around him.

'Absolutely,' I said. 'There really is going to be another series is there?'

'The question,' said Richard, s.n.a.t.c.hing blindly at the receiver hanging on the complicated switchboard behind his right shoulder, 'is whether we can persuade the BBC to give it a second chance. They want to decimate the budget.'

'That's not too bad. Only ten per cent.'

'Hey?'

'To decimate means to take away one in ten ...'

This kind of footling pedantry makes most people want to give me a good kicking, but Richard always enjoyed it. 'Ha!' he said and then, as a voice came on the line, 'Get me John Howard Davies. By the way,' he added to me as I stood up to leave, 'we must talk about Me and My Girl Me and My Girl on Broadway some time soon. Farewell.' on Broadway some time soon. Farewell.'

I was not, of course, privy to Richard Curtis, Rowan, Ben and John Lloyd's discussions as they created the second Blackadder Blackadder series, but I do know that the decision to reduce the scale of the show was, from Ben's point of view, a series, but I do know that the decision to reduce the scale of the show was, from Ben's point of view, a comic comic necessity; the fact that from the BBC's it was a necessity; the fact that from the BBC's it was a financial financial one might be regarded as a rare and happy collision of interests. When the executives saw the scripts that Ben and Richard came up with they breathed a sigh of relief. The budget was more than decimated, it was at the very least quartered. one might be regarded as a rare and happy collision of interests. When the executives saw the scripts that Ben and Richard came up with they breathed a sigh of relief. The budget was more than decimated, it was at the very least quartered.

It is not my job to speak for Ben, but this is how I interpret his conviction that it was comically necessary to pare the show back. The Black Adder The Black Adder had been shot on a grand scale, with many filmed exteriors and imposing locations. There were extras everywhere, there were populous battle scenes and much riding on horses and clanking of armour. The footage for each episode was edited and then shown to an audience, whose laughter was recorded on to the track. The resultant programme was without atmosphere, but more importantly without had been shot on a grand scale, with many filmed exteriors and imposing locations. There were extras everywhere, there were populous battle scenes and much riding on horses and clanking of armour. The footage for each episode was edited and then shown to an audience, whose laughter was recorded on to the track. The resultant programme was without atmosphere, but more importantly without focus focus. I have a theory about situation comedy that I trot out to anyone who is prepared to listen or, in your case, to read. I see sitcoms as like a tennis match, where the most important thing for the spectator is to be able to see the ball see the ball. It does not matter how athletic, supple, graceful, fast and skilful the players are if you can't see the ball all their athleticism is just so much meaningless gesture, inexplicable running and swiping and stroking; the moment you see the ball it all makes sense. The problem with The Black Adder The Black Adder, I thought, was that you never saw the ball. Wonderful and delightful were the mad shouting, conspiratorial whispering, machiavellian plotting, farcical hiding, dramatic galloping and wicked sword thrusting, but the ball of what was at stake from moment to moment, what the characters were thinking or saying or intending, was lost in the wealth of background: sentries at every gate, sweeping vistas, busy pages, squires and stewards busily paging, squiring and stewarding and, without meaning to, all taking the audience's eye off the ball. Ben wanted the whole thing stripped down to the essentials and he felt it imperative that the shows should be performed in front of an audience and taped in the true multi-camera studio-based sitcom style that had given us Fawlty Towers Fawlty Towers, Dad's Army Dad's Army (which he venerated) and all the great cla.s.sics of television comedy. (which he venerated) and all the great cla.s.sics of television comedy.

I do not go so far as to claim that I was instrumental in the series going forward, but I do know that Richard Armitage's influence over the BBC was enormous aside from anything else his boyhood friend Bill Cotton, the Managing Director of Television and Kingmaker in General, was one of the most powerful men in the corporation. They were both children of 1930s music stars. Billy Cotton the bandleader and Noel Gay the tunesmith were best friends who ran Tin Pan Alley, and their sons were best friends who ran much in the succeeding world of popular entertainment. Rowan and Ben were my friends, and I could not have been more pleased that the idea of a historical comedy series using their unique talents would be given another chance. I thought no more about it, other than nursing to myself the happy thought that I might have been responsible for persuading Richard Armitage that Ben was a good choice.

It came as a great surprise therefore to be asked if I would consider playing a regular character in the series. The first I heard about it was during the course of what Ben liked to call a 'crusty'.

For all his (utterly mistaken) reputation as a joyless, puritanical socialist Ben has always been, since I first knew him, inordinately fond of old-fashioned and very English style, manners and grandeur. He adores P. G. Wodehouse and Noel Coward and has a pa.s.sion for English history. I share much of this. I love the world of clubland, old established five-star hotels, the streets of St James's and mad traditional inst.i.tutions from Lord's cricket ground to the Beefsteak, from Wilton's to Wartski's, from Trumper's of Jermyn Street to the Sandpit of the Savile Club.

Perhaps, as we were both from European Jewish families who escaped n.a.z.i persecution, the ability to penetrate even occasionally and tangentially the fastnesses of the Establishment makes us feel more strongly anch.o.r.ed to the codes and culture we could so easily never have known. Perhaps, as with my insane collection of credit cards, being recognized by the hall porters and headwaiters of London's smartest inst.i.tutions helped convince me that I was not about to be arrested.

Since leaving university I had been a member of the Oxford and Cambridge Club in Pall Mall, a cla.s.sic St James's palace of smoking rooms, dimpled and winged leather armchairs and grand marble staircases. Fiery torches on the outside wall throw their flames upwards in the evenings, and in the courts below can be heard the thump and clack of racquet and billiard b.a.l.l.s. You had to be a member of either of the universities to join, of course, but more surprisingly, given the seventy-year co-educational status of both establishments, it was a male-only club, with women grudgingly being allowed to visit in a special wing and drawing-room reserved for them. Perhaps the greatest privilege of membership for me was the availability of other clubs in London and around the world. Reciprocal arrangements came into force during August when the Oxford and Cambridge closed for staff holidays. During that time the Reform Club (forever a.s.sociated in my mind with Phileas Fogg in Round the World in Eighty Days Round the World in Eighty Days), the Traveller's Club (home of the private oratory of the mysterious and sinister Monsignor Alfred Gilbey), the RAF Club, the Naval and Military (usually referred to as the 'In and Out'), the absurdly named East India, Devonshire, Sports and Public Schools Club in St James's Square and half a dozen others opened their doors to bereft Oxford and Cambridge members in need of clubly pampering. The Carlton Club, a High Tory edifice in St James's Street, more or less opposite the triple ancient glories of wine merchants Berry Bros and Rudd, Lock the hatter and Lobb the boot-maker, was also on the list of establishments offering us August and august hospitality.