This Much Is True

Cambridge was a competitive place; in Footlights, that became toxic. It was the first time in my life that I experienced that sort of competition. During the entire run of that 1962 revue directed by Trevor Nunn, they treated me as if I were invisible and did not speak to me at all. I was sent to Coventry: someone had decided I was not to be spoken to offstage. I would go on to do my bits, and then the minute I stood in the wings, I was ignored: silence and cold stares. Initially, I had no idea why. It hurt a lot. When I say ‘they’, I refer to that most distinguished group of John Cleese, Graham Chapman, Bill Oddie, Humphrey Barclay (who became the Head of Light Entertainment for ITV), Tony Hendra and Tim Brooke-Taylor. Only two cast members continued to talk to me: Robert Atkins and Nigel Brown.

I’d not met studied cruelty like that before. I was nineteen and it was painful. I used to go back to my Newnham room and weep, but I got over it… sort of.

In truth, my dislike of that whole, largely male, world of comedy has never left me. I feel awkward, admitting to such bitterness sixty years later — it seems absurd, it shouldn’t matter; I should have got over it. But I haven’t. The treatment I received by those boys at Footlights was diminishing, pointed and vicious. On reflection, it is they who diminished themselves. I admire the Monty Python creation and I think they were men of genius but they were not gentlemen. Cleese, Oddie and Graham Chapman were total shits — and they have never apologised bar Tim Brooke-Taylor. All the perpetrators went into light entertainment and I went into drama so, thankfully, our paths were to seldom cross.

The crowning nastiness of that whole ghastly experience was that I wasn’t invited to the traditional end of production cast party. I was furious. I went to the then president of Footlights, a pleasant chap called Chris Stuart-Clark. (The Monty Python team used his name later for one of the characters in a programme they wrote.) I told Chris that I hadn’t been invited. He seemed surprised but said it was probably ‘an oversight’.

‘No, it isn’t an oversight. It’s completely deliberate. But I would like an invitation.’ I got one and I went to the party. Oddly, I can’t remember a single thing about the party, except for my determination to attend. When I see a wrong, I will confront it; I strongly believe in sticking up for what is right. Injustice offends me, deeply.

And, nearly sixty years later, I haven’t forgotten.

Saved by the Beeb

I turned up to my Finals in a green ball gown carrying an apple — I was determined to put a brave face on failing my exams. But I left Cambridge with a 2:2 Bachelor of Arts in English (there’s a reason it’s called the actor’s degree).

I like to think I missed out on my 2:1, or my first even, because I did so much acting. By my second year at university, I knew that I wanted to be an actress. I had not been sure of it before, but by then I was resolved.

When I was in the Footlights, everybody said, ‘You must get people down.’ I had no idea what they meant, but learned that I had to ask agents and producers and directors of the BBC to come and watch the show — ‘That’s how you will get work.’ The Footlights, even then, was a known repository for future talent. So I sent a letter to a radio producer at the BBC, John Bridges. He came down and watched the show, and afterwards, kindly told me that he thought I was talented. He gave me his card and said, ‘When the time comes, will you write to me?’

And so, I wrote to John Bridges and said, ‘I’ve left Cambridge, and I really would like to join the BBC Drama Repertory Company. Could you help me?’ The company was so sought-after that you had to wait a long time to get an audition. It wasn’t until some months later that I actually got the call.