A range of Stratford anecdotes

This article is taken from the March 2026 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Get five issues for just £25.

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Going full Celt

Voicing “antipathy” towards the British flag, Mancunian A-lister Mr Coogan proves the latest in a long line of English-born theatricals trumpeting romantic Hibernian ties. 

Having myself preferred to be billed an actor of “Irish stock” circa 1977/1978, before exposure to the contrary (Great-Uncle Rupert’s Galway holiday residence being deemed insufficient), one understands all too well the lure of the Emerald Isle.

After 56 years in the trade, this trouper can confidently state that pretending to be Irish in the profession continues to win hands down, followed by a notable number of would-be Scots and a smattering of fake Welsh.

One was naturally appalled to read reports of cyber villain Mr Grok, now enabling folk to discreetly observe doctored images of favourite celebrities disrobed for their own viewing pleasure.

As a part-time columnist of advancing years, this technophobe must patiently await the assistance of some 21st century type able to advise — all in the name of investigation — how one judges these disgraceful spectacles for himself.

Having long enjoyed those telly biopics exposing shamed public figures of the day, one thoroughly looks forward to Mr Clunes starring as dastardly BBC newscaster Mr Edwards!

With quality control assured courtesy of Channel 5, a spokesman promises (yet another) “important and shocking story of a man in a position of power”. 

Those of us who can’t get enough of this sort of thing in the scandalous 2020s can confidently expect similarly jaw-dropping accounts of Messrs Brand/Walliams/Mandelson/suchlike before the decade’s out — with at least one of them played by Michael Sheen.

Though initially wary after receiving the cocksure nephew’s invitation to “hang out” in Los Angeles, duty eventually compelled me to depart from Heathrow against better instincts.

 With the boy officially riding high since landing the small-to-middling telly role last “fall”, this jet-lagged pensioner was confronted by an unsettlingly buoyant figure on arrival, bearing only passing resemblance to the morose West Londoner of old. His public school mockney fast succumbing to transatlantic vowels of no fixed abode, my host was insistent we seize the day with all manner of introductions at a friend’s opulent hillside residence, naturally untroubled by good taste.

Two or so margaritas down the hatch, reservations at last gave way to a more pleasing state of affairs, courtesy in the main of those charming American actresses repeatedly assuring yours truly he was the first bona fide “English hellraiser” they’d encountered! With inhibitions conquered, one felt emboldened enough to regale his Californian audience with a surefire range of Stratford anecdotes, meeting with notable enthusiasm throughout.

Having also explained to an appreciative and influential producer just why the self-penned stage farce Needless to Say!, debuted long ago in Mauritius with Derek Nimmo, would prove a perfect “vehicle” for myself and the presently marketable protégé, one was eventually escorted off the premises with a sense of happy hours well spent.

Certainly a far cry from the endless obstacles encountered in gloomy London!

Still touring his one-lady Hamlet — often misunderstood by British critics — Madame Izzard proudly advertises a “spectacular” endorsement from Dame Judi Dench. With the great lady regrettably blind as a bat for many a year, we can merely imagine the Shakespearean triumph she was watching at the time.

Avon calling

News of the Blake’s 7 reboot ironically came just as this one-time guest player was weighing up a lucrative offer to appear with fellow original cast members at the Copthorne Hotel, Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

Though previously loath to overplay one’s association — despite the popularity of said cameo! — a cursory glance at the list of surviving “stars” already signed up for the August event confirmed the most tenuous of involvements would suffice.

The notable absence of “Blake”, teleported for the last time long ago, makes participation all the easier for those of us at odds with this difficult fellow in his pomp. 

Post-lunch monologues by the thirsty Welshman, castigating the creaking sci-fi saga’s failings on returning to the set, were worth a show all in itself.

Continuing to operate in plain sight, beaming vampire Mr Brandreth officially declares his allegiance to the elderly is drawing to a close. 

Having spent years sinking fangs into doddery theatricals of similar vintage to himself, before cheerfully hogging proceedings at their respective memorial services, this relentless fellow makes no secret of fresh plans to feed on the lifeblood of the young.

As yet another suitor falls, the body count now boasted by the outwardly sweet Ms Fox — an impressive résumé claiming all manner of theatricals, telly comedians and celebrity chefs — indicates a formidable vixen England can be proud of.

As you like it … 

After the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust declared last year that it was being forced to “decolonise” Stratford-upon-Avon amidst “white supremacy” fears, one’s practical calls in this very column for a rebrand, ensuring a “more relatable Bard of fittingly diverse origin”, met with jaded dismissal from ageing co-stars incapable of grasping the way of things.

Suffice to say, this forward-thinking veteran — still hopeful of further employment from the modern-day RSC! — must now only champion much-publicised revelations said plays were (of course) the unheralded work of a heroic “female of colour” and nothing to do with an uncouth loan shark from the Midlands.

Honoured with a star on the (grotty) Hollywood Walk of Fame, sparkly Scotsman Alan Cumming uses the occasion to fashionably lambast a 1980s drama teacher for failing to foresee his greatness at the time. “I’d like to say: ‘Who’s on top and who’s on bottom now!’” shrills Alan to delighted fans. A telling insight into what makes Mr Cumming the kind of national treasure he is today.

Delightful diva Richard E. Grant reports he’s severed ties with a treacherous “best friend” of 30 years, after she inadvertently copied him into an email disparaging his work. 

With obligatory showbiz backstabbing all the more hazardous since the tragic onset of digital communications at our expense (silly old Robert Powell hasn’t spoken to me since a similar computer mishap in 2009), heartfelt sympathies to the blundering betrayer in question.

Apropos the earlier item regarding hospitality of Californian hosts — displaying noisy appreciation during one’s pitch for the two-hander with his “celebrity” nephew — I must of course clarify in the cold light of day (Earl’s Court) that American show folk will forever remain shiny liars.