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Ron & I did two seasons of the Two Ronnies at the London Palladium in 1978 and in 1983,
they were at a time when we were at the height of our success and we packed the theatre for
these two twelve week seasons, although the second season wasn't such a happy one for
me; i'l explain that later.
It was in the second season of The Two Ronnies at the London Palladium in 1983 that I had
a confidence-shattering experience which was really to scar me for years afterwards. It
occurred during one afternoon performance when we were doing "Hello Sailor", the big
musical number which closed the first half. Ron and I were dressed as Wrens and we were
accom-panied by a troupe of naval ratings as we sang and marched about the stage. We
sang Ronnie's words to the tune of "A Life on the Ocean Wave" and "Hearts of Oak" and
"Drunken Sailor" and "Bobby Shafto" and "Rule Britannia". I realised quite soon after the
beginning of the number, that something was badly wrong. The brightness and the heat of
the lights were affecting me and I was feeling quite giddy when I got to my bit of the chorus:
Heigh ho, and up she rises She's got knees of different sizes One's very small, but the
other wins prizes Early in the morning. It wasn't helping me that I was wearing my
Wren's high-heeled shoes. As I got more wobbly I became more alarmed. Somehow, I managed
to get to:
Bobby Shafto's gone to sea, He'll be back in time for tea, He's in charge of the W.C.
On the channel ferry. After that I felt I was going to fall into
the orchestra pit and I don't know how I got to the end of the number. I tried to recover
during the interval and I came on and did the second half of the show, but, by then,
it was just a matter of survival_ The stage was spinning, the auditorium was a swaying
blur, the lights seemed to lurch towards me then suddenly pull back. I felt more panicky
all the time and my hands were running with sweat. Harold Fielding, the producer, called
in a doctor, named Martin Scurr, to see me after the matinee and Martin Scurr put me
on a drug called Ativan. Half an Ativan — and then another half if the first half didn't
work. It just got steadily worse, so I was sent to see a neurologist called Nigel Legg
who told Harold he would have to close the whole show for a fortnight to allow me to
rest and unwind. It turned out that I had labyrinthitis, an infection of the inner ear
which affects the balance. I came back to my home in Addington and rested, and I continued
with my medication, but I was behaving most oddly. I just sat in a chair for hours and
stared out of the window at the garden. I was probably going through something like
a breakdown although I didn't realise it at the time. Anne was really concerned.
During my second week at home Martin Scurr came to see me and told me to forget about
the show and just relax. "Then go out on Saturday night," he said, "have a lovely dinner and
a nice glass of wine, enjoy yourself, then spend a quiet Sunday at home and start again
refreshed at the Palladium on Monday." So, on the Saturday night, Anne and I went to
this place kat called The Lodge, in Limpsfield. I had
more than one glass of wine and I started to talk to Anne about Martin Scurr, actually
describing him as "the Messiah" for the way he saved my life. Anne thought this was a
bit extraordinary and extreme and became more concerned. Martin Scurr was (and still is)
a marvellous doctor but being the Messiah was not one of his qualifications. I must
have been deranged in some sort of way. In fact, I got so carried away at that dinner
that I actually had four puddings. Now, I hardly ever have any pudding at all, let alone
four. I don't think I finished them all, but still, it was a warning to Anne and a sign
that I was still rather odd. I went back to finish the season at the Palladium but it
was really too soon and I was struggling all the way through the last three weeks. I couldn't
walk down the steep steps on to stage for the big opening number, but had to make my
entrance from the side. I felt that at any moment the stage would tilt sharply and tip
me into the orchestra pit. The memory of these attacks, and the fear of them recurring, haunted
my life for up to 10 years afterwards. Every time I did something in the theatre I would
get halfway through the run and become a bit tired and the balance problem would return.
The odd thing was that it only happened in the theatre. It got so bad that it even affected
me when I was in the audience. I would sit in the stalls look at the actor on the stage
and think "Gosh, I couldn't do that, standing up there with nothing to lean on."• Most
people have heard of stage fright, but this was a case of the much more rare affliction,
audience fright. Every time I went to the theatre to get ready to perform, the awful
fear came back. I used to have to time it carefully so that I would arrive at the theatre,
and be able to go straight to the dressing room and then straight out on to the stage,
and we decided to contact a psychiatrist we knew in Sydney called Ken Dyball. We had met
the trouble was coming back, I would just casually mention, as part of my act, "It's
Order. I was really more affected by the fear of it, but when I got tired it would raise
manage eight performances a week any more. But cabaret is still fine and, oddly enough,