Kenneth Connor. As a lowly extra, I had no dealings with these luminaries, and in fact was existing on a different plane entirely: I was so broke that I had to return a pile of empty bottles to afford the petrol to get to the set.
After hanging around for a couple of days in Tudor dress, my big moment came during a serfs’ meeting addressed by Kenneth Connor, when I had to shout: ‘What about the workers?’ I was pleased with how it went, but this cinematic land-mark was destined to hit the cutting-room floor. Like the failure of ‘Thigh High’, maybe it was for the best.
My backroom team had a bit of a reshuffle, with Leslie Grade delegating his son, Michael, to be my agent. Michael Grade, of course, was to go on to become chairman of the BBC thirty years later, but as my agent at the dog-end of the sixties he was – as he freely admits himself – bloody useless.
Michael only ever secured me two jobs and the first was to be the walk-on understudy for Tommy Steele, the veteran British singer and light entertainer, in the London Palladium’s 1969 Christmas panto,
Dick Whittington
. Prior to this, I had never heard the phrase ‘walk-on understudy’, but it transpired to mean that I would learn the role but only play it if Steele were ill or indisposed.
The upside to this was that I would have regular money coming in for the three months that the production ran. The downside was that it was monumentally, insufferably boring. I realised I would prefer to have the most minor, inconsequential extra role imaginable in a drama, and actually have something to do, than this sorry, shadowy existence of interminably waiting around for … nothing.
The understudies would rehearse two mornings each week and then vanish back into the void. Tommy Steele appeared in rude health, yet every day I had to go through the meaningless ritual of turning up at the stage door thirty-five minutes before curtain to report to the stage manager just in case of any mishap.
I tried to fill the dead time constructively: watching and re-watching the show, intensely observing Tommy’s part, hanging out in the Palladium dressing room with a couple of old lag actors who regaled me with tales of music hall, variety and days gone by. I even took judo lessons at a polytechnic over the road. But lethargy set in, and eventually I wasn’t even bothering to shave before I ambled into the theatre.
This all changed on 19 March 1970. Sauntering down Oxford Street before the matinee performance ten minutes late and turning into Argyll Street, the home of the Palladium, I saw a gaggle of wardrobe and production people frantically waving at me. ‘Tommy Steele is sick!’ said the stage manager as he shoved me into the theatre and through to dressing room number one. So this was it! My moment had come.
It was hard to catch my thoughts as people swarmed around me, dressing me in Dick Whittington’s costume and micro-phones, and co-stars such as Kenneth Connor put their heads around the door to wish me luck. But it was not exactly confidence building to hear a Tannoy announcement – ‘Due to Tommy Steele being unwell, the part of Dick Whittington will be played by David Essex’ – being followed by a huge groan of disappointment in the auditorium.
The dressing room emptied and I had a few precious moments to stare at myself in the mirror surrounded by light bulbs. ‘You can do this,’ I told myself. ‘This is why you’ve been wasting your time here every day for weeks.’ Yet I felt as if I couldn’t remember a single thing about the part, until the sound of the overture jolted me into action.
The half-hearted understudy rehearsals to rows of empty seats suddenly seemed hopelessly inadequate as I took the stage to a begrudging round of applause. The spotlights beaming down on me felt as bright as the sun, the orchestra blasted from the monitors and everything was overwhelming. My knees knocked and my mind froze. Could I do this?
Somehow I got my
After hanging around for a couple of days in Tudor dress, my big moment came during a serfs’ meeting addressed by Kenneth Connor, when I had to shout: ‘What about the workers?’ I was pleased with how it went, but this cinematic land-mark was destined to hit the cutting-room floor. Like the failure of ‘Thigh High’, maybe it was for the best.
My backroom team had a bit of a reshuffle, with Leslie Grade delegating his son, Michael, to be my agent. Michael Grade, of course, was to go on to become chairman of the BBC thirty years later, but as my agent at the dog-end of the sixties he was – as he freely admits himself – bloody useless.
Michael only ever secured me two jobs and the first was to be the walk-on understudy for Tommy Steele, the veteran British singer and light entertainer, in the London Palladium’s 1969 Christmas panto,
Dick Whittington
. Prior to this, I had never heard the phrase ‘walk-on understudy’, but it transpired to mean that I would learn the role but only play it if Steele were ill or indisposed.
The upside to this was that I would have regular money coming in for the three months that the production ran. The downside was that it was monumentally, insufferably boring. I realised I would prefer to have the most minor, inconsequential extra role imaginable in a drama, and actually have something to do, than this sorry, shadowy existence of interminably waiting around for … nothing.
The understudies would rehearse two mornings each week and then vanish back into the void. Tommy Steele appeared in rude health, yet every day I had to go through the meaningless ritual of turning up at the stage door thirty-five minutes before curtain to report to the stage manager just in case of any mishap.
I tried to fill the dead time constructively: watching and re-watching the show, intensely observing Tommy’s part, hanging out in the Palladium dressing room with a couple of old lag actors who regaled me with tales of music hall, variety and days gone by. I even took judo lessons at a polytechnic over the road. But lethargy set in, and eventually I wasn’t even bothering to shave before I ambled into the theatre.
This all changed on 19 March 1970. Sauntering down Oxford Street before the matinee performance ten minutes late and turning into Argyll Street, the home of the Palladium, I saw a gaggle of wardrobe and production people frantically waving at me. ‘Tommy Steele is sick!’ said the stage manager as he shoved me into the theatre and through to dressing room number one. So this was it! My moment had come.
It was hard to catch my thoughts as people swarmed around me, dressing me in Dick Whittington’s costume and micro-phones, and co-stars such as Kenneth Connor put their heads around the door to wish me luck. But it was not exactly confidence building to hear a Tannoy announcement – ‘Due to Tommy Steele being unwell, the part of Dick Whittington will be played by David Essex’ – being followed by a huge groan of disappointment in the auditorium.
The dressing room emptied and I had a few precious moments to stare at myself in the mirror surrounded by light bulbs. ‘You can do this,’ I told myself. ‘This is why you’ve been wasting your time here every day for weeks.’ Yet I felt as if I couldn’t remember a single thing about the part, until the sound of the overture jolted me into action.
The half-hearted understudy rehearsals to rows of empty seats suddenly seemed hopelessly inadequate as I took the stage to a begrudging round of applause. The spotlights beaming down on me felt as bright as the sun, the orchestra blasted from the monitors and everything was overwhelming. My knees knocked and my mind froze. Could I do this?
Somehow I got my
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