STEVEN BERKOFF'S DYING

I never did find out what he was going to say. "Take the keys. It's the green metro in Tesco's car park and..." then the ambulance doors slammed and it nee-nah'ed off to Carry On Doctor in 1961, turning black & white at Ealing Broadway. Of course, I'd never be able to find a green car now, especially one that hadn't even been manufactured in a car park to a still as yet obscure supermarket.

Dirk Bogarde swung open the theatre doors and lowered his face mask before coughing to clear his throat of an upturn in the class struggle.

- Ahem. I'm sorry to say we lost Mr. Bond in the first scene.

- Did he get to say anything?

- Something about Edinburgh milkmen getting more of their fair share of skirt. More than us fancy Oxbridge types with our floppy fringes or some such rot. .. I'm sorry. Are you family?

- No, just the same socio-economic group.

- That's not good enough I'm afraid. I'm going to have to ask you to remain outside the main body of the narrative.

As the subplot left the building, he managed to slip the keys into Dirk's coat pocket.

The subplot was wearing white socks, oxblood red brogues and had a tattoo that read Made In The East End Of London underneath a Union Flag. He'd only ever had bit parts in massive gang fights and wasn't used to being a top Harley Street surgeon. He thought he'd try out the public schoolboy accent before the adverts for Bisto, Smash, Home Pride, Hovis, Fairy Liquid and PG Tips.

- Can you ride tandem? he ventured, sounding more like a Lancastrian chimpanzee than a likeable Harrowian rogue.

To make matters worse, the microphone kept dipping into shot. At this rate he'd never get to undermine the status of the posh art historian who diddles the old dears out of their cash in the busy ITV schedules in the run up to Christmas. The revolutionary road to socialism is paved with good intentions.