When You Wish Upon A Large Vodka and Tonic...

I was involved in a very camp, bizarre Christmas show. It was in the wilds of Norfolk and you performed two three-hour shows a day. You lived on cottages in the surrounding villages, and aside from the fact that by the beginning of December, you were altogether Christmassed-out, I thought it was a wonderful job. It must be said though, that at that stage of my life, I was indulging far too heavily in the joys of alcohol. I certainly enjoyed a few glasses of the old Vino Blanco. I shared the viewpoint of Julie Walters:

“I have a rare intolerance to herbs which means I can only drink fermented liquids, such as gin.” (Julie Walters)

There was a pub a few miles from where we performed and myself, and a few other hard-core alcoholics from the cast, would regularly be found after hours, enjoying the pub’s nightly lock-in. Of course, what comes with a night of heavy drinking is of course, the inevitable morning-after and one of the reasons I have now pretty much given up drinking (the other reason being that I was a very annoying drunk) was that I was finding it harder and harder to deal with the hangovers. They were monstrous, and gave me a banging headache, extreme dizziness and great waves of nausea. How on earth I thought I could perform with these symptoms, I do not know. After one particularly heavy night, I was all set for the afternoon performance. I had made it through the first half – no doubt probably still slightly drunk – and was getting ready for the first song after the interval, which involved us all coming on in lovely evening dresses, with some fabulously bling evening jewellery and singing When You Wish Upon A Star – and the organiser said it wasn’t camp. I got to wear a rather classy black evening dress with an array of diamante jewellery, including a thick diamante choker. Just before the start of the Act Two opening number, I began to feel rather sick. There was nothing for it. I was going to have to make a dash for the bathroom. The music was beginning and I was running out of time. I quickly made myself sick, but the force of the convulsions caused my choker to fly off right into the lavatory bowl where I had just thrown up. There was nothing for it. The necklace would have to be retrieved, and rinsed off. I could hear our cue approaching. My dance partner was hopping, wondering where the hell I was. There are certain actions that are degrading to do, and there are certain actions where you bring that degradation all on yourself. I think that walking on that stage wearing this beautiful evening dress, wearing a diamante necklace freshly washed from being thrown up on, with lavatory water trickling down into my décolletage defines that level of self-degradation quite well. Why on earth they didn't hire me again, I really couldn't say. It is at memories such as that, when I think thank God I don’t bother drinking anymore. I wouldn’t want to turn into Olly Reed:

“It was alleged that during a stag weekend prior to his second marriage, Reed downed an unhealthy 104 pints of beer. However, Reed was quick to dispel this rumour: ‘The event that was reported actually took place during an arm-wrestling competition in Guernsey about 15 years ago.’”

It was also during that same production that I was coming back to the stage door for the evening performance, when I received my harshest criticism to date. During the Christmas show, you would do a matinee and then dash back to your lovely Norfolk cottage for supper before the evening show. I was making my way back, and as it was winter, I was kitted out in a tartan mini skirt, thick black tights, snow boots and a long green parka jacket. As I rounded the corner to go to through the stage door, a woman turned to her husband in absolute shock, pointed to me and exclaimed:

“Look Stan! That man’s wearing a skirt!”

I obviously need to work on my feminine charms.