In 1967 I went to drama school.
I had never slept away from home, never eaten sushi, never walked alone in Leicester Square.
In 1967 I was eighteen, singing along with ‘Lucy in The SKY with Diamonds’ and buying the ‘Evening Standard’ for the classified ads.
Scouring the back pages for flats was exciting. In 1967 we students were given grants – yep a free government loan, a free pass for education – we had free pickings to clean, handsome accommodation.
My first home away from home was in Temple Fortune in North London. The landlord was a musician and the mother a bustling housewife. They had an autistic son who, aged seven, had made the solar system out of plasticine and stuck it on the ceiling.
I left when they had the child assessed by a medium who said he was a reincarnation of Mozart. It’s not that I don’t like Mozart but sharing the house with a genius was too, too intense.
My descent into culture took place against the backdrop of the Vietnam War and HAIR. The musical opened in the autumn in America, nudity and hashish opened my innocent eyes. A college chum auditioned, got the part and a year later opened at The Shafstbury Theater.
I never got to see her. I was giving my avant-garde performance at The Arts Lab in Drury Lane. Whilst Cindi was belting out ‘Aquarius’ I was playing a boy being hung twice nightly in a French play. I bandaged up my boobs in the same dressing room as Lindsay Kemp, Bowies mate.
I worked with the late Pip Simmons, who went on to produce extraordinary theatre. We rehearsed in my lounge – huge and eleven quid a week shared with three others – and encouraged me to leave drama school and tour the world with him. Even now I’m surprised at how responsible I was. I refused his invitation and stayed on to get my degree.
I didn’t know I had a degree until I was 52, having walked out of the last exam.
‘When the clock strikes three put down your pen, shout bollox, and walk out.’
So demanded a lunatic friend. He became an award winning radio producer. As the clock struck three we both slammed down our pens and left. I suppose it was some sort of protest, but to this day I don’t know what for. I wrote on my exam paper a quote by Jaques Prevert;
‘On the blackboard of life he wrote the word happiness.’
I thought I was being a rebel.
Thirty odd years later I was teaching at East Sussex Music Service. They asked whether I had a degree. I didn’t know. I called my contact at the drama school. Two hours later he telephoned to tell me that I had indeed got a BA.
I called my mother.
Aged 52 I screamed down the phone to my Jewish mother
‘I’ve got a fucking ology’ Finally I had realised her dream.
The Arts Lab was my second home for most of 1967.
I snogged an artist, wearing an English flat cap, from Barcelona. Leant against a wall, on the top of a high ladder, he painted a mural . With dark Spanish charm he pressed me to live with him on Las Ramblas and kissed me all day long. I turned him down.
I still can’t understand how responsible I was.
Now I would be nagging him to get down off that ladder, it was too high and dangerous.
Ten yers later I met the old git.
He introduced me to Steve wonder. Steve wonder introduced me to “Songs in the Key of Life’
From Mozart to the Beatles to soul and funk.
‘Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky (Always)
Until the OCEAN covers every mountain high (Always)
I’ll be loving you always.’
And so it was that the Northern git with his musical taste crept into my life. Drums, bass and Stevie. Roll ups and beer. Black tea and bacon. He was a breath of fresh air and was sick on my behalf. We were touring in Denmark. Dismantling the show, up and down stairs with bits of the set. Packing the van. The director of the show was rude and insulting. I took it on the chin being the hard nose daughter of a bully. The old git carried out the bass amp. In the canal outside the Danish venue the Northern musician chucked up his Bratwurst.
‘Are you ok?’
‘Yerrgh’ he spluttered.
It appears that he had witnessed the directorial mauling and it had gone to his stomach.
The romance of it all.
It was the first and last time anybody has chuntered on my behalf.
Although the ‘oosbind does say, quite regularly, that I make him sick.