JOAN COLLINS
So my show will no longer go on Sadly, Over the Moon — an unfortunate title considering what the critics had to say about this comedy — closes on 1 December, amid much press speculation about the reasons. Joan and her co-star are 'not getting along' was one, followed by snide comments about me 'parading around in my underwear' and even snider comments about the play itself. It's about time I set the record straight, since I'm getting fed up with being the fall gal. When Bill Kenwright, our producer, asked me to pose for 'one quick shot' from the play, holding a sword, wearing a 1950s-style corset and stockings and 16th-century ringlets, I balked. 'I only wear the bloody thing for less than two minutes!' I reminded him. 'It's gratuitous and undignified to use it for publicity.' For the next two days my agent, Peter Charlesworth, and Anna Arthur, Kenwright's press agent, badgered and pleaded with me to do the photo, which, they insisted, would 'help sales'. I finally and reluctantly gave in, insisting that the snapper would only get three minutes with me on stage before the show. I was amazed when this rather camp and curious picture appeared on the front page of several newspapers, side by side with reports of the Taleban's latest activities. (I wonder what their take would be on this example of disreputable Western decadence at its most louche?) And our box office did improve, temporarily, until three days later the critics got out their pre-sharpened cutlasses. Many of the scathing reviews focused on how outrageous I was to have posed for that picture, and even delved into my personal life. Needless to say, even though our audiences seemed to love the show, the critics, whining like little Torquemadas, sounded the death knell and our sales dramatically dwindled. At the same time a 'deep-throat-in-training' saboteur connected to the production kept feeding lies and exaggerations to the gossip columnists, which didn't help, and we weren't helped either by the fact that there are 40 per cent fewer American tourists in town and fewer tour buses bringing theatre-goers in from the provinces. But as long as the media are there to defend our freedom from the evils of new theatrical works, I suppose the demise of the West End is a small price to pay. In spite of internal problems, however, we were rewarded by massive laughs from appreciative audiences each night, although making people laugh is not as easy as it looks. As the venerable Edmund Kean lay on his deathbed, a young actor knelt by his side and whispered to him softly, 'Sir, what is dying like?' My boy,' boomed the old performer, 'dying is easy — comedy is difficult.'
Ater the silly photograph had been printed all over the world, I ruefully realised I should have listened to my own common
sense rather than the advice of others who have the less than altruistic motive of making money. One good thing to come out of this was that the sweet photographer, Nigel Norrington, said he had never made as much money from one picture in his life. Similarly, but at the other extreme of the personality spectrum, some years ago, one slime-ball paparazzo — who snapped me exiting Peter Jones in a headscarf sans maquillage and accessorised only by several bulging plastic shopping bags — boasted on a television documentary, made ten thousand quid on that one.' I'm so glad I've helped to bankroll the scum of the earth.
Ifeel sorry for footballers. Please don't faint with surprise, dear reader. As a child of five, ratchet in hand and striped scarf proudly displayed, I, often reluctantly, accompanied my father on Saturday afternoons to watch Arsenal or Tottenham Hotspur strut their stuff. They played every game with all their heart, and showed me how much they loved the sport. I don't mean I feel sorry for stars like David Beckham (although I do have some pity for him because of the bizarre outfits his wife gets him up in). No, the footles I empathise with are the young secondand third-division players, whose shelf-life of between five and ten years is, in the case of the lucky ones, often subsidised by day jobs. Those boys will never he able to make enough money in their short careers to get them through the rest of their days. Seventyfive per cent of footies are out of the game by the age of 21, having invested as much time and commitment to their club as the higherpaid stars, but have no training or resources
left left with which to maintain a decent standard of living. There are relatively few Beckhams and Owens, and I think the rest of them should get a cut of the huge amounts television companies pay to screen matches, which in turn garner hefty sums from advertisers.
My union, the Screen Actors' Guild, last year hit the same brick wall that the Professional Football Association is now encountering. Faced with the mounting costs of providing pensions and care for the less fortunate actors (95 per cent earn less than £5,000 a year) and watching the inflated profits that the studios receive from TV and Internet distribution and advertising revenues, we came to the brink of a strike. It was averted at the eleventh hour by a tuppence tossed back at us. Realising that a strike would probably do more harm than good to the interests of the people SAG was trying to protect, we accepted the agreement and life went on, much as it had before. In LA, 50 per cent of the waiters are out-of-work actors. So what is wrong with those second-leaguers trying to get a slice of the pie? Birmingham's chairman, David Gold, seems particularly obtuse when he states, 'They don't need help from the union when their career finishes. They should just go out and get a proper job.' How are they supposed to get a 'proper job' when they've been playing football all their lives?
The most expensive item I ever bought, relatively speaking, was a massive, state-ofthe-art, 41-inch flat-screen television set manufactured by the German company Loewe. I thought long and hard before forking out a ridiculous five-figure sum for such a toy, but I coveted it madly and, rationalising that I deserved it (having just been well compensated for a movie), I bought it. The Loewe's representative at Harrods assured me that if anything went wrong, it would be fixed within 24 hours. About three years later, the machine I had so desired upped and died on me, I reported its demise to Harrods but, in spite of repeated telephone calls, my set languished in the bedroom, its black face staring at me menacingly. It was two weeks before they were able to locate the part to make the pesky thing function again. Why is it normal today for everything technological to break down? Fridges, radios and so on are almost guaranteed to stop working shortly after the guarantee expires. Gone are the days of my father, who could spend Sunday afternoons tinkering under the bonnet of his Jaguar fixing anything that went awry. Before the war, my mother had a fridge that still worked in the mid-Sixties. Technology has not made my life easier, but has complicated it so much that I am the only person who knows how to use the Panasonic landline in my apartment.
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