Still Standing: The Savage Years
Read Still Standing: The Savage Years Online
Authors: Paul O'Grady
Tags: #Biography, #Humour, #Non-Fiction
ABOUT THE BOOK
Lilian Maeve Veronica Savage, international sex kitten, was born on the steps of The Legs of Man public house, Lime Street, Liverpool on a policeman’s overcoat. Her mother, the lady wrestler Hell Cat Savage, had no such luxuries as gas and air. She just bit down on the policeman’s torch and recovered afterwards at the bar with a large pale ale . . .
Paul O’Grady shot to fame via his brilliant comic creation, the blonde bombsite Lily Savage. In the first two parts of his bestselling and critically acclaimed autobiography, Paul took us through his childhood in Birkenhead to his first, teetering steps on stage. Now, in
Still Standing
, for the first time, he brings us the no-holds-barred true story of Lily and the rocky road to stardom . . .
Paul pulls no punches in this tale of bar-room brawls, drunken escapades and
liaisons dangereuses
. And that’s just backstage at the Panto . . . Along the way, we stop off at some extremely dodgy pubs and clubs, and meet a collection of exotic characters who made the world a louder, brighter and more hilarious place. From the chaos of the Toxteth riots and the Vauxhall Tavern police raid, to the mystery of who shot Skippy and the great chip-pan fire of Victoria Mansions, Paul emerges shaken but not stirred.
Still Standing
will make you laugh and make you cry. Some of the stories might even make your hair curl. But it stands as a glorious tribute to absent friends and to a world which has now all but vanished.
CONTENTS
For all those London cabbies who have ever asked, ‘How
did you get started in this game, then?’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to all the people who helped jog my memory in the writing of this book.
David Dale, Vera, my sister Sheila and cousin Marje, Joan Marshrons, the late Peter Searle, and everyone else who received a phone call with me asking, ‘Do you remember when …’ And also thanks to Doug Young at Transworld for his patience.
PROLOGUE
JANUARY 2011. SOUTHAMPTON
. It’s been five years since I swore I’d never do panto again yet here I am, staggering against a biting, icy wind down the small lane that leads from my rented digs to the Mayflower Theatre for a matinee performance as the Widow Twankey in
Aladdin
.
I like Southampton and the Mayflower is one of my favourite theatres. The last time I appeared here in panto was ten years ago, stomping around the stage as the Wicked Queen in
Snow White and the Seven Dwarves
. So much has changed for me since then yet the flat I’ve rented, which just so happens to be the same one that I stayed in last time, hasn’t altered in the least. Same telly and video player that required any first-time viewer to plough their way through a couple of instruction manuals the size of two New York telephone directories, same washing machine in the kitchen with but one temperature setting – boil – and a slowest wash cycle of nine hours, and on the bathroom shelf, a tiny ceramic half-moon that had fallen off the front of a pottery oil burner I’d bought for want of something to buy at a local craft fair and left on the shelf a decade ago. Walking into this flat again, I
felt as if I’d never been away and for a brief moment I experienced a rush of affection for the old place as I surveyed the living room, overcrowded with the same familiar furniture. I forgot that last time I was here I’d lost my deposit, and a susbstantial one at that, to pay for what the landlord had described as ‘damages to the furniture, appliances, carpets, walls and ceiling’. I’ll admit to throwing a few parties during my stay but to the best of my knowledge I can’t recall anyone sticking to the ceiling. We were a particularly lively company, it’s true: David Langham, the actor who played the Queen’s henchman, aptly summed it up after another night of carnage in the pubs of Southampton when he wryly described us as ‘the Rolling Stones do
Snow White
’.
Sherrie Hewson, playing the part of Ms White’s nurse, had conveniently rented the flat next door to mine. I’ve known Sherrie for years and our combined flats quickly became the gathering place for those cast, crew and band members who were still raring to go and fancied a drink after the pubs had closed.
One night – or should I say early morning – after a particularly rowdy shindig that might just possibly still be going on today, Sherrie, in a rare display of sensibility, reminded us all that we had a matinee that afternoon and that we needed to get some sleep. Just as I was drifting off into a drunken coma in my bed I felt something tugging on my duvet. I opened one eye but couldn’t see anyone. Buster, my dog, was flat on his back with his legs in the air fast asleep so I knew it couldn’t be him, yet the mysterious tugging continued. Eventually I peered over the side of the bed and, attempting to focus in the gloom without my specs, I encountered what appeared to be a naked dwarf hanging on to the duvet. Was this what they called the DTs? If so I was never touching anything stronger than tea again.
A few of the cast had stayed over as the hour was late and it
was easier to crash on the floor and sofa than trek back to their digs. Among the seven actors who played the dwarves were a few real party animals and it wasn’t an uncommon sight to find them kipping on our floor after an impromptu post-show party.
I really enjoyed working with the dwarves: they were a lot of fun and, even though it was my name that was above the title on the posters outside the theatre, as far as I was concerned the seven dwarves were the undisputed stars of the show. Now here was one of them naked in my bedroom and seemingly trying to pull the duvet off me. Had he been consumed by an overwhelming urge to ravish me? And if so, was I up for it?
‘I wanna pee and I can’t get in the bathroom,’ he said politely, scotching any thoughts I had about a sexual proposition.
‘Why not?’ I asked, for it seemed the only appropriate response at the time.
‘Because Snow White has collapsed behind the bathroom door,’ came the answer – a line you don’t hear in panto, kiddies, delivered in a tone that implied Snow White’s demise somehow might have been my responsibility.
‘What do you mean, Snow White’s collapsed?’ The edges were starting to blur. Was our fantasy life on stage somehow bleeding across into real life?
I fell out of bed and, putting my glasses on, made my way to the bathroom, and gave the door a good push. Somebody was indeed lying against it. I pushed again, only harder this time, until I managed to open it just enough to get my head inside. Lying on the floor and sleeping contentedly was Andrew, our Prince, curled up on a pile of towels, with the pedestal mat substituting for a pillow.
‘It’s not Snow White, it’s Prince Charming,’ I snorted matter-of-factly, as if sleeping princes on bathroom floors were a common occurrence in the O’Grady household. ‘Go back to bed.’
‘But I wanna pee,’ the naked one beside me pleaded.
‘Then use the lav in my bathroom, or pee over the balcony,’ I snapped, making my wobbly way back to bed. ‘I don’t care where you do it.’
He took advantage of my ensuite in the end. But during the night someone did pee over the balcony, because the resident of the ground-floor flat told me the next day as I was leaving for the theatre that she thought the overflow pipe from my toilet wasn’t working properly as she’d heard it pouring outside her bedroom window at around 4 a.m.