Gamboning in Wales

It would be really excellent if I could say that I learnt very well from the experience I wrote about last week about my disastrous audition in Bromley where I lost the plot on the telephone to me father, and never again have I become utterly hysterical whilst driving in my car. Sadly not. The experience was repeated a few years later when I was driving to a recording session in Wales. I was in plenty of time and was quite clear about where I was going. That was not the problem. As I got closer to the Welsh border, I saw that I was running a bit low on the petrol front. I decided to pull into a service station and it was as I pulled up to the pump that I suddenly realised that I could not remember putting my wallet into my bag. I started to root around, but to no avail. I suddenly realised that I knew exactly where it was. It was in the pocket of my other coat back at my house in Banbury.

Bugger.

Now, why on earth I did what I did next is mystifying. I decided I had better carry on with my journey and try to get to my destination on what little petrol I had left - my reasoning being that as they were paying me in cash, if I got there, I could just use some of my earnings. So I left the petrol station having not filled up, and carried on with my journey. However, no sooner had I left the petrol station than my petrol light came on, and the onset of panic arrived. Then I realised that I had completely forgotten about the £4 toll charge at the Severn Bridge to get me into Wales. The panic tightened around my chest and I began to feel sick. I telephoned Michael, my husband who was at home, with my wallet. I was – once again – hysterical:

“I’ve…(sob)…left…my…wallet…in…my coat…and…I’ve…no…petrol…and…(sob)…I can’t…pay…the…toll.”

“Why are you crying?” said Michael.

I think the reason I was crying was that I had decided that without any money, I was going to be arrested and would end up running out of petrol, missing the recording and having to sit there whilst Mike drove to Wales to bring me my purse and release me from police custody. The Severn Bridge was approaching. I was still hysterically crying. I rang off from Michael and prepared to meet my fate:

“Oh, whatever’s the matter dear?” said the woman at the kiosk.

Response: hysterical sobbing and whimpering about not having my wallet and running out of petrol and my wallet being with my husband in Banbury, etcetera, etcetera.

“Oh dear,” she said, “You’ve got yourself into quite a state, haven’t you? Go on – on your go. Don’t worry about the four pounds. Now I’m sure if you go to the petrol station and get your husband to give your bank card details over the phone, they’ll be able to process the payment for your petrol.”

Oh right. Well that seemed simple enough. What a lovely lady. I got back on the phone to husband and explained the situation:

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? What a nice woman. Why are you still crying?”

By this stage, all was lost. I went into the petrol station, and despite the fact that a solution had been found, I was, once again, unable to be consoled. The pre-pubescent cashiers processed the transaction as I blubbered my way through my card details, looking at me as if I had completely lost the plot – which frankly I had.

The following is an extract from Gambon: A Life in Acting, by Sir Michael himself, to show that even the very best of the profession can sometimes get themselves into a little bit of a pickle, which makes me feel a little better about the Bromley/Wales debacle:

“There’s a bit of a prima donna in me. I was playing Oscar Wilde in a three-part television adaptation about his life. We were shooting a scene down in Bristol. They wrapped about four o’clock and were supposed to go to Oxford. I was not happy with the scripts, so I was in a state anyway. We went back to the hotel; I was still dressed as Oscar Wilde – full make up, big black wig and Edwardian clothes, boots, silk cravat, a silver-tipped cane. I got back to the hotel and my room had been let and my civilian clothes had been lost. So I threw a moody. I ran through the streets of Bristol dressed as Oscar Wilde with the production manager chasing after me in his car. I managed to get away from him by leaping over the central barrier of a motorway that runs through the middle of Bristol. I crossed the motorway as Oscar Wilde, went into the main station and bought a first-class ticket to London. And all the while I was shouting obscenities at this man whenever he caught up with me.

I got into the train and went to London as Oscar Wilde. I was dying with unhappiness. I went into the buffet car and got completely pissed. When I got to Paddington station, the BBC big boys were at the barrier, waiting. The anger had died in the train, but when I got to the barrier, I managed to get it back up again, and I threatened to kill them. I handed the inspector the ticket, and I ran, and they ran after me. I jumped into a cab and went home. And by that time I was in deep shit. You know you do these terrible things, and they get worse and worse, and you regret it, but you won’t give in...”