In Good Company: Seeing Stars
"This is the amazing thing; love or hate, the thrill of meeting a famous face is still the same,'' writes Enid Blackburn.
When I was a juvenile ‘Babe in the Wood,’ one certain seat in the orchestra stalls at the Theatre Royal was occupied every Friday by the same worshipping face.
Was the attraction our flying ballet we fairies asked ourselves? After all, we never gave the same performance twice. The scene-shifters, who also piloted our high wires, appeared to be both blind and deaf that year. Our producer, dressed in his King Rat costume could be seen clawing the curtains twice nightly in hopeless exasperation as we flew across the stage missing ill-placed scenery by inches.
Some of our ancient manipulators were also chronic worriers; frightened to death they may miss a pint between scenes. We would be hanging in the air in our final pose – me in the centre, a fairy on either side holding my hands, and two below holding a foot each.
In their anxiety to be first to the bar, the stagehands would start pulling the fairies in from each side of me – while they were still clinging to my limbs. It was fascinating to watch, but terrifying to experience – if you could stop laughing. I almost became a split personality.
The bleary-eyed dipso who worked my wire was also a compulsive con-versationalist. Consequently, instead of making the rehearsed there-and-back flight, I often had to float around indefinitely waiting for a merciful lull in conversation.
At one point his view of my descent was blocked by part of the woodland glade and I was not fully grounded which meant having to balance gracefully on my toenails until it was time to rise again.
He frequently counteracted this by zooming me so high up into the flies that only my ballet shoes were visible. My mother’s pretentious reports to relatives of how high I flew ‘right up to the roof’ were not always an exaggeration.
But despite our famous aerial contortions, it later transpired, when our favourite fan became a perpetual pest, forever hanging around the principal boy’s dressing room that her interest alas was not in us.
‘She’s here again,’ we sneered every Friday, ignoring the fact that our own autograph books were piled on the same artists dressing table awaiting the signatures, that we spent hours examining afterwards for evidence which revealed that Big Star actually knew us.
We were shameless showbiz worshippers, and I have never outgrown this trait.
The year I suffered cartilage trouble and had to wear a horrid knee support was my happiest. All my autographs contained a ‘little miss legs’ message.
When Harry Worth walked into me once at Yarmouth I almost fainted with gratitude. ‘But you can’t stand his act,’ was my husband’s ignorant remark.
This is the amazing thing; love or hate, the thrill of meeting a famous face is still the same.
We were enjoying a drink in a Leeds hotel when my husband casually announced he had just seen Eddie Waring in the foyer. Before you could say ‘early bath’ I was on a pretend toilet visit. Yet his television appearances drive me mad.
Unknown to me until it was too late Dickie Henderson was also sitting chatting – merely an ashtray away. ‘Hey isn’t that Annie Walker serving on?’ Son likes his little joke.
In Blackpool’s Manchester Hotel I once smiled seductively at the late ace trumpeter Eddie Calvert. And whatever husband says – I know it was Eddie Calvert.
Should I ever be lucky enough to be introduced to a showbiz personality I don’t know what I would say.
When my sister-in-law and I saw commentator Peter Dimmock leaving a racecourse we sadly said the wrong thing. ‘Ooh, look,’ we exclaimed, pointing ecstatically, ‘It’s Richard Dimbleby!’
