Assembly, was to be (drumroll please) . . . The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom.
What? What on earth was that?
The Roman Invasion of who?
Couldn’t we do Oliver! I was really hoping we could do Oliver! and then I could play the Artful Dodger. Or Starlight Express? We could do it in the round in the dining hall. Hell, I know we’re a boys’ school, but couldn’t we even do Annie? I’ll play Sandy the dog, I don’t mind. Anything but The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom, whatever that is.
The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom was, it turned out, a daft comic romp that had been written a few years earlier for the National Youth Music Theatre, about the regulars of a Lancashire pub and how they successfully thwarted an attempt by the Romans to build a motorway through it.
This time the auditions took place on a Sunday afternoon in the school drama room. Mr Rossotti was joined by an intriguing figure, a warm, garrulous dandy with a head of wild, wavy curls and lashings of presence. I instantly adored him, for this was no mere English teacher. This was a man of the theatre.
He took us through our paces, getting us all to sing ‘Consider Yourself’ from Oliver! pounding away at the piano, bellowing directions. He invested in us, sought to get the best out of all of us. Some of the boys visibly withdrew from this attention, but not me. Hell, no. I was going for it.
For I had decided, given that we were singing songs from Oliver!, that this must surely be the great Lionel Bart himself.
I was wrong. I later found out it was actually Jeremy James Taylor, the co-writer of The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom (which I will just call Ramsbottom from now on because I clipped my nails earlier with rather too much gusto, my index finger is a little tender and it pains me to type).
Sometimes you just know. You just know. And this time I just knew. I didn’t run to the house corridor. I didn’t need to. I sauntered over to the noticeboard, where a group of boys were studying the cast list.
And there in black and white . . .
ACCRINGTON STANLEY – MATTHEW LUCAS
I didn’t know who Accrington Stanley was and it didn’t matter. Details weren’t important. I had been cast in the Haberdashers’ Aske’s Junior School play. I was in The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom. (Yes, I know I said I was going to abbreviate it from now on, but honestly I felt at that moment it was important to really sell it, do you know what I mean?)
I turned to Andrew, triumphant. His expression told a different story. He hadn’t got a part. I offered what words of consolation I could muster. He started to cry and wandered off. Unsure whether to be happy or sad, I decided in that moment it was okay to be both.
Rehearsals took up a lot of time. I was told by Mr Wilson, the Junior School Head, that I was not to let the academic side of things slide just because I was in the play. Actually, my confidence at a high, I started to do a little better in class. I made more friends. I had even joined Weight Watchers shortly after my bar mitzvah and was losing weight. Everything seemed to be coming together.
Accrington Stanley wasn’t the lead, but he was the star comic character, a boisterous, hearty Northerner. I had Brian Glover in mind when I played him. He didn’t appear in the first half at all, but in the second act, set in the pub, he had plenty of jokes to crack.
He also had a solo number. Eek. I was terrified at the prospect of singing solo. During music lessons in the first year I had sung very badly on purpose, on the advice of my street-smart older brother Howard (at the same school), who had warned me that any boy with any semblance of being able to sing in tune would be coerced into the school choir, which often rehearsed on Saturdays, which meant one less lie-in and missing the Arsenal match. Bugger that.
So I had avoided the choir but in the process had convinced myself that I couldn’t sing. Now I’m no Alfie Boe or even Alfie Moon, but I can hold a tune. I just didn’t know that then.
The musical director of the show was Mr Barker, a kind, diligent teacher who would call me Matthew during rehearsals and Lucas again during lessons. A few weeks earlier I had set my friend Jake Moore the challenge of looking at Mr Barker and thinking of a potato without laughing. He had failed in his endeavours, as had all of my classmates. Now I too was so distracted during these one-on-one rehearsals with him that I found my face creasing at regular intervals. To make matters worse, Mr Barker had decided that I should sing the song in falsetto, which was perhaps his revenge.
I bottled it. Blamed it on my voice breaking. Michael Bourne sang it instead. Beautifully.
I loved rehearsals even more than I had enjoyed drama lessons at school. There was a purpose, an end result – the world’s eyes would finally see the glory of the coming of the Matthew.
And then, one Sunday afternoon, as we rehearsed in the main hall, we were each handed a photocopied letter, explaining that the National Youth Music Theatre – of which Jeremy James Taylor was in charge – was taking a production of The Roman Invasion of Ramsbottom (again, it just felt right, sorry) to the Edinburgh Festival that summer. According to the letter there was a chance that one or two kids from our cast might be invited to take part.
Well now, this was something else. Suddenly the school play became a sideshow. I had my eyes on a bigger prize. From that point on I could think of little else. Even though I had never heard of the National Youth Music Theatre before, it sounded VERY IMPORTANT INDEED.
‘Hi, Jeremy,’ I would say, in as casual a voice as possible, ‘um, hey, just kinda checking in about that Glasgow . . . Edinburgh thing you guys might want me to do. I’m kinda interested, but you know summer’s coming soon and we’re thinking of booking a family holiday so I just thought I’d throw that out there, you know. Because I’d really hate for your people to come to me and then it’s too late.’
We were not thinking of booking a family holiday. The last family holiday we’d been on was five years earlier, when my parents were still together.
One afternoon, a week before the school production was to open, I dropped JJT my customary hint. He had been waiting for it. He led me out of the main hall and into one of the music rooms. I sat next to him at the piano as he played those familiar opening chords to ‘Consider Yourself’ and sang my bestest singing.
‘Jolly good. You’d better come to Edinburgh then, old chap.’
I gasped.
But first, the small business of the school production.
I paced backstage, listening intently to the first act, and then waited onstage behind the curtain during the interval.
The band started to play. The curtains opened and I was born.
And now I would like to take this opportunity to apologise wholeheartedly to anyone else who may or may not have been in the show with me, because I didn’t see you. I saw only my glorious reflection in your eyes. And I didn’t hear you. I heard only my voice and the audience’s laughter. I trod on lines, jokes, feet and bits of the set. I stood where I fancied. I gurned and grimaced and improvised and ignored pretty much everything we had so studiously rehearsed – and just had the time of my life. It was selfish and innocent and wonderful, and again I’m sorry. It was the only time in those first two years at that school that I felt good enough to be there. And the audience played their part perfectly, indulging me at every turn.
As
