Well, well, no well
Jogging on the heath over Christmas I overtook my old friend, financial journalist William Keegan, and jovially greeted him with a “Good morning, Sir William.” He was entitled, I now realise, to feel irked by this salutation as I note from the honours list today that he’s only been given a CBE.
Still, congrats to him, and to the Lady Vaizey, art critic mum of Tory politician Ed Vaizey, who’s been similarly gonged, and indeed to Michael Sheen, dubbed OBE for services to impersonation with special reference to David Frost and Tony Blair.
It’s been a wonderful few days of not quite knowing which day of the week it is. My highlight was a day trip to Whitstable and lunch in an oyster bar on the beach. And we’ve been singing carols for England, not in church, but in neighbours’ houses.
The Christmas dinner itself was interrupted by news of Harold Pinter’s passing and this had to be dealt with in between the goose and the pudding. But our toasts were full and hearty, as he would have wished.
By the time I’d made the melancholy journey on a deep midwinter night into Sky News on the wrong side of Shepherd’s Bush, Eartha Kitt had fallen off her perch, too, and I was compelled to comment on a brace of titans as though they were in some mysterious way related.
If anything, Eartha was more outspoken on American foreign policy than even old Harold himself, and paid a far higher price for her denunciation of the Viet Nam war at a 1968 White House luncheon than ever Harold did with his own “blow it out your ass” bad-tempered imprecations. She was, in effect, black-listed for years and slowly rebuilt her career starting with quite lowly gigs in this country.
But I hope she and Harold get together in the celestial Green Room. They were both sensual, sexy guys, and any music they make will be well worth hearing. Harold might not be Eartha’s exact idea of an “old-fashioned millionaire” but he’s not too far off. And he certainly knew how to treat a lady.
Returning to the real world with a bump, one side effect of a sparsely populated matinee of Well (which did not make me feel any better) at the Apollo was the chance to inspect more closely the new American Airlines-sponsored decorations in the front of house. These, it is safe to say, will not win any prizes over the Cameron Mackintosh refurbishment campaign.
The walls of the foyer bar are indeed covered in brown flock wallpaper — I couldn’t be sure on previous Press nights in the throng and bustle — giving the place the air of an Indian restaurant in Hendon. A charming bartender confirmed that this design is the same as in the American Airlines first class lounge at Heathrow and then offered me a poppadom with my glass of wine.
This was a far more amusing altercation than anything on the stage, and one of the many things ill about Well is that there is no interval for the customers to take further advantage of this happy chap and his merry banter midst the coffee cups and optics. A Happy New Year to him, and to you.