We had a wonderful memorial for David Robins at the Royal Court on Friday. The speeches of his friends in journalism, psychotherapy, education and the John Lyon’s Charity were all brilliant and informative. But who would lighten the load with a breath of musical magic? Maria Friedman would, that’s who.

She sang Kurt Weill’s “My Ship” and Cole Porter’s “Every Time We Say Goodbye” with such grace and beauty the audience was reduced to one big blubbing organism. And she had expert accompaniment, too, from Simon Lee, taking time out from working on the Phantom sequel with Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Poems by Nigel Williams and David’s daughter Sophie were read superbly by William Hoyland, making much of David’s DIY habit: “Unlock my heart with a plumber’s wrench,” wrote Williams, “Dave was a warrior, Dave was a mensch.”

Over wine and a vegetarian lunch in the Court’s cafe downstairs, I asked Simon how Phantom Two was coming along. “At a rate of knots,” he said, “we should be in production in early 2009.” But who’s written the book and lyrics? “No-one yet, but when they do, they’ll have to move at the speed of light, that’s for sure.”

We know that Freddie Forsyth has long departed the lists. Maybe the fact that Ben Elton sat between Lloyd Webber and Madeleine at the first night of Hairspray is some kind of hint? I’m sorry that the hugely talented Charles Hart, who wrote eighty per cent of the lyrics on the first Phantom, is no longer in favour. I wonder if you can get any sort of odds on Tim Rice?

Very jolly party on Saturday night given by two of my son’s best friends to celebrate their thirtieth birthdays. The dress code in the Groucho Club was “The good, the bad and the 1930s,” so I just went along in my usual mufti.

The hosts had hired some dashing Regency costumes from the National Theatre. I didn’t really see how Beau Brummel fitted their chosen theme, but other guests came as flappers, gangsters and various bad omens. My son came, rather brilliantly I thought, as Ghandi, complete with wire specs, big white sheet and a little white moustache.

One slip of a girl in a silk sheath said she was Tallulah Bankhead. I said she couldn’t be, as she wasn’t nearly drunk enough. “I know, but I’m not wearing any knickers,” she chirruped gamely. Another chap was either Rudolph Valentino or Doctor Kildare, I couldn’t quite decide. “Who’s Rudolph Valentino?” he asked when I told him of my quandary. Either way, his headgear looked like a condom, so he agreed he was probably a bit of a prick.

The musical side of things was well taken care of by the Ronnie Scott All-Stars. We sidled off home at a reasonably early hour. I just wonder how the gallery of flappers, Vikings, gorillas, Elvis lookalikes and mini-skirted lady cops in rubber, latex and fishnet tights fared on their early morning homeward promenades through the mean streets of Soho.  

This entry was posted on Sunday, November 18th, 2007 at 2:20 pm and is filed under Michael Coveney. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.