Elizabeth Hurley deserves a damehood
With the boiling, broiling summer here in Provence now at an end, it’s time to start thinking about rehearsing for the tour of my one-woman show based on my new book, Behind the Shoulder Pads. The show opens in Newcastle next week. I’m looking forward to revisiting some of the places that I was evacuated to during the war. Cheltenham, for instance, where as a terrified six-year-old I had to start a strange new school all those years ago. In Brighton, I remember standing at the balustrade with my aunts, seeing the pebbled beach covered with barbed wire and wishing I could go swimming.
It’s always fascinating to interact with audience members during the shows and the most fun part of the evening for me is when the audience ask me questions. Live audience interaction can, on occasion, be tricky to handle. A new season of Strictly Come Dancing has begun so it feels like the right time to recall the day a very drunk Craig Revel Horwood insisted on coming on to the stage during my show. He kneeled at my feet and directed a torrent of praise at me. It was most flattering, but after about five minutes the audience started yelling: ‘Get ’im orf!!’ Craig, a tip for the future: brevity is the soul of wit.
Travelling the length and breadth of the UK really opens one’s eyes not only to the beauty of the countryside, but also the sad side effects of all the road regulations, the cycle lanes, one-way systems, Ulez and mystifying traffic signs that make our cities a nightmare to drive in. I travel by train when I can, but that has its own irritations. I don’t relish being stuck in Whatstandwell or Wait-A-Bit.
Christopher Biggins, the most amusing of house guests, came to stay with us at the same time as lovely Elizabeth Hurley. Great fun and laughter ensued, but I was particularly impressed by Elizabeth’s handiness. At breakfast one day, while I was bemoaning the fact that our French gardener had thrown me the old Gallic shrug when I asked him to trim the leaves off an overgrown palm tree, Elizabeth said she would do it…and she did! I was amazed to watch her and Percy chopping away until the palm triumphantly emerged, divested of its overgrown foliage. When I’m asked what I would take with me to a desert island, I’ve always in the past said Percy. Henceforth I will say Elizabeth too. During her sojourn, she gave us more invaluable gardening tips, taught Biggins how to do various things on Instagram, and even managed to detangle some backcombed knots from my hair.
Ican’t understand why Christopher Biggins, who has done more for charity than anyone I can think of (royals aside), has not been awarded a gong. The man has travelled the length and breadth of Britain supporting, among hundreds of others, Barnardo’s, Comic Relief, Childline, Make-A-Wish Foundation UK and Heart Research UK. Come, on King Charles! And if you’re feeling munificent you can add Elizabeth Hurley for services to this Dame.
Party season in Saint-Tropez was a bit of a washout this year because of the intense heat and the mistrals. However, we did visit the trendy nightclub restaurant L’Opéra, where contortionists, trapeze artists, opera singers and tap dancers strut their stuff while the diners eat fine food and quaff jeroboams of rosé. Unfortunately, the night we went, the stage lights failed and the performers were left in the dark. We asked our waiter what the problem was, and he told us ruefully that the lighting director had gone for the night and no one could access the main panel to repair the fault. ‘Do we get a refund?’ joked one of our guests. ‘No,’ he snapped, ‘the show is still going on.’ At that very instant, he dropped a tray of tequila shots which spilled all over three of our guests.
So many memories flooded back about my dear friend Nolan Miller, the costume designer of Dynasty, while I was writing my book. He had a wicked sense of humour. One day while fitting me for a lavish gown, his assistant came in and whispered in his ear. ‘Help,’ he exclaimed, ‘My wife’s ovulating. I’ll have to go make love to her.’
‘But what about my fitting?’ I wailed.
‘I’m sorry, it’ll have to wait. She’s desperate for a child.’
‘And you?’ I asked.
He sighed. ‘Guess I’ll have to lash it to a toothbrush!’
Behind the Shoulder Pads is published this month and tickets for the tour are available now. Visit joancollins.com.
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