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***
Last week, instead of pausing to address the nation outside the door of No. 10, I endured a slightly less majestic encounter with the British constitution when I was up before the beak in Northampton for speeding. Nothing remotely serious, I hasten to add, just a simple totting up of points over the past three years, all of which seem to have been earned by minuscule infringements of ruthlessly vicious (and inconsistent) speed limits. Consequently I felt my 28-day ban and £100 fine was about right, certainly not worth an exploding message to the DVLA. I was surprised, and flattered, after my sentence had been pronounced, to be asked for my autograph by the magistrate, so I gave her a signed copy of my memoirs (Vol. 1, temporarily out of print) which I happened to have with me. I have 983 more in my garage.
***
My brush with the law made the local front page and I featured there again the following day when a spotty barman from the pub next to the court revealed exclusively to the Northampton Echo that my last order before my trial was a typically sophisticated London toff snifter, viz. a Virgin Mary. It may have been my last order, but it wasn’t what I got, as the potential Dave voter behind the bar hadn’t a clue what a Virgin Mary was. I settled for a lime and soda. I don’t think there was a story about me on day three but I am delighted to have provided a boost to both the Northampton economy and society pages during my brief visit.
***
It’s nearly Oscar time again and we privileged voters are poised to make or break careers, although an inconvenient truth is that nothing any of us can do will prevent Al Gore romping home with the best documentary Oscar for his climate-change doomfest, An Inconvenient Truth, which I saw — inappropriately — on a plane. And why, when actresses the world over are insisting on being referred to as ‘actors’, are there still separate categories for male and female thesps?
***
My son is just finishing a short film, starring Bob Geldof, inspired by something that happened to me in 1985 when I was in New York working with Bjorn Ulvaeus and Benny Andersson on my musical, Chess, whose director was the late Michael Bennett, who lived out on Long Island. On the hottest day of the year, the producers kindly lent me a stretch limousine (and driver) so director and lyricist could have a creative get-together at the Bennett residence. After almost two hours it transpired that Hank, the driver, didn’t know where Mr Bennett lived, and I hadn’t a clue. So Hank stopped in a deserted lay-by which contained nothing but a pay phone (this was in pre-mobile days) in order to get directions. I nipped out the back of the limo to relieve myself in a handy copse, where there was an interesting plaque commemorating a Native American tribe which had clearly got there before me. Hank finished his business and clambered back into the cockpit as I strolled towards my end of the ludicrous vehicle, but not quickly enough. Hank sped off before I was on board and I spent an interesting hour wondering what the Native Americans in the area did for food or drink. I did not know where I was, nor where I was going, had no possessions, no money for the phone, no numbers to call anyway. I just had to wait for Hank’s return. He only found out I was no longer with him when he got to the Bennett HQ. Without explaining to a baffled Bennett why he had arrived with my luggage, and indeed jacket and sandwiches, but without me, he simply said, ‘I know where he is’ and zoomed off to find me. Bennett and Chess never worked out, and eventually the show was a disaster in New York. Hank should have directed it and Bennett done the driving.
***
What does a rocket scientist say to a colleague who has trouble understanding something really rather simple at the office? The cliché ‘It’s not rocket science’ would for once be mercifully inappropriate.
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