first line out, and grew in confidence as the opening scene unfolded perfectly. This is all going to be fine, I thought, as I exited and headed back to my dressing room for a costume change – en route passing three giant brown bears that were crashing their way to the stage through a specially built tunnel cage, their German trainers prodding them along.
Now, I knew that Dick kissed one of the bears before going into a song, but the bruins had not attended understudy rehearsal so I had no idea how this worked. What was their motivation in the scene? I soon found out. As I returned to the stage, one of the Germans slipped a Polo mint into my mouth just as the largest of the bears waddled towards me.
The trick, apparently, was to grip the mint firmly at the front of your mouth between your teeth so the bear could easily remove it, but nobody had told me. The Polo was right at the back of my throat, so as the bear slipped the longest tongue I had ever seen through its muzzle and deep into my mouth, I endured the most obnoxious French kiss imaginable in front of 2,000 people in a sold-out Palladium.
The reek of the bear’s breath was revolting, and with its saliva plastered all over my face, I was sure I was about to throw up as it lumbered off with its prized mint. Meanwhile the orchestra struck up ‘There’s Gotta Be Something Better Than This’. You could say that again! The only plus point to this ordeal was that after that, anything else the performance could throw at me was a doddle.
By the interval I was enjoying myself, and the matinee audience seemed to appreciate me belting out Tommy Steele hits such as ‘Little White Bull’, ‘Flash Bang Wallop’ and ‘What a Mouth’ (which I first sang to my nan, aged five). By the curtain call, I was delighted to find that their disappointed groans had been replaced by enthusiastic cheering, and shouts of ‘Bravo!’
After this triumph, I felt elated. It had made up for the weeks of kicking my heels that had preceded it. The next three days’ performances went from strength to strength, partly because I knew to grasp the Polo between my teeth, and Tommy Steele rose from his sick bed to return earlier than his doctor advised, possibly because he heard I was going down rather well.
Michael Grade then produced his sole other booking for me as my agent: another pantomime, in Manchester. I was less than thrilled, and it reflects well on Michael that forty years on, when I occasionally bump into him, he still apologises and tells me: ‘I’m so glad you left me. I would have ruined your career.’
However, Derek talked me into taking the part by telling me the Manchester producer had seen my Dick Whittington and been impressed, and at least I wasn’t an understudy this time: I was to play Dandini in
Cinderella
, alongside music-hall legend Arthur Askey and singers Lonnie Donegan and Mary Hopkin.
I decamped to Manchester for a few weeks, renting a bedsit just outside the city. It was a rudimentary, student-digs sort of place, and so cold that when I took a bath, the steam in the bath-room was so thick that I couldn’t see myself in the mirror.
Cinderella
was a bit of a bore. Dandini was a wet character who didn’t do a fat lot except carry round a glass slipper and sing the occasional duet with the prince, Tony Adams, a friendly guy who later went on to play Adam Chance in
Crossroads
.
I might not have been going to the ball on stage but I had a good time in Manchester. I befriended two fellow cast members and northern comics, Dailey and Wayne, who both had superhuman capacities for alcohol, and our nights off frequently seemed to descend into a drunken stupor.
One evening they invited me with them to watch the opening night on tour of legendary British rocker Billy Fury. The nightclub was pretty packed but we had places reserved at a table with one of their mates, a livewire that I had not met before called Freddie Starr.
Freddie seemed fairly manic but Dailey
Now, I knew that Dick kissed one of the bears before going into a song, but the bruins had not attended understudy rehearsal so I had no idea how this worked. What was their motivation in the scene? I soon found out. As I returned to the stage, one of the Germans slipped a Polo mint into my mouth just as the largest of the bears waddled towards me.
The trick, apparently, was to grip the mint firmly at the front of your mouth between your teeth so the bear could easily remove it, but nobody had told me. The Polo was right at the back of my throat, so as the bear slipped the longest tongue I had ever seen through its muzzle and deep into my mouth, I endured the most obnoxious French kiss imaginable in front of 2,000 people in a sold-out Palladium.
The reek of the bear’s breath was revolting, and with its saliva plastered all over my face, I was sure I was about to throw up as it lumbered off with its prized mint. Meanwhile the orchestra struck up ‘There’s Gotta Be Something Better Than This’. You could say that again! The only plus point to this ordeal was that after that, anything else the performance could throw at me was a doddle.
By the interval I was enjoying myself, and the matinee audience seemed to appreciate me belting out Tommy Steele hits such as ‘Little White Bull’, ‘Flash Bang Wallop’ and ‘What a Mouth’ (which I first sang to my nan, aged five). By the curtain call, I was delighted to find that their disappointed groans had been replaced by enthusiastic cheering, and shouts of ‘Bravo!’
After this triumph, I felt elated. It had made up for the weeks of kicking my heels that had preceded it. The next three days’ performances went from strength to strength, partly because I knew to grasp the Polo between my teeth, and Tommy Steele rose from his sick bed to return earlier than his doctor advised, possibly because he heard I was going down rather well.
Michael Grade then produced his sole other booking for me as my agent: another pantomime, in Manchester. I was less than thrilled, and it reflects well on Michael that forty years on, when I occasionally bump into him, he still apologises and tells me: ‘I’m so glad you left me. I would have ruined your career.’
However, Derek talked me into taking the part by telling me the Manchester producer had seen my Dick Whittington and been impressed, and at least I wasn’t an understudy this time: I was to play Dandini in
Cinderella
, alongside music-hall legend Arthur Askey and singers Lonnie Donegan and Mary Hopkin.
I decamped to Manchester for a few weeks, renting a bedsit just outside the city. It was a rudimentary, student-digs sort of place, and so cold that when I took a bath, the steam in the bath-room was so thick that I couldn’t see myself in the mirror.
Cinderella
was a bit of a bore. Dandini was a wet character who didn’t do a fat lot except carry round a glass slipper and sing the occasional duet with the prince, Tony Adams, a friendly guy who later went on to play Adam Chance in
Crossroads
.
I might not have been going to the ball on stage but I had a good time in Manchester. I befriended two fellow cast members and northern comics, Dailey and Wayne, who both had superhuman capacities for alcohol, and our nights off frequently seemed to descend into a drunken stupor.
One evening they invited me with them to watch the opening night on tour of legendary British rocker Billy Fury. The nightclub was pretty packed but we had places reserved at a table with one of their mates, a livewire that I had not met before called Freddie Starr.
Freddie seemed fairly manic but Dailey
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