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I enjoy a chat, and if I can pop a bit of sex into it, I don’t think there’s any harm. Not a lot of gay women front up on TV, so I hope I give courage to young dykes to be proud and confident. If you tell the truth — and I always do — you shame the devil.

The Final Curtain

My grandmother Flora gave me a gold brooch shaped like a star that was almost like a talisman — an emblem of what my family thought of me. My mother always believed in me; when I was starting out, she gave me strength. She said, ‘Go forward. Don’t look at what other people are doing. Think about the road ahead. What matters is what you’re doing. You are gifted. You will go far; have faith.’ And because I believed and trusted her, I did.

One of the best moments of a performance is waiting in the wings after the curtain has descended, when you know you have given your all, remembered every line and cue and the audience has responded as you hoped, laughing at the right moments and being moved at others. There is always a hush and a caught breath as you wait for their reaction. It’s not like that with books. I don’t have a clue how the various acts and scenes of my life have gone down with you, my dear reader — I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it. I’ve enjoyed living it. But now I realise my days, like these pages, are numbered.

William Saroyan wrote: ‘Everybody has got to die, but I have always believed an exception would be made in my case…’ Given its inescapable nature, therefore, I want to do it well. In interviews now, I’m always asked, ‘Are you scared of Death?’ Of course, I fucking am! Absolutely shit-scared most of the time. But death itself is just the end of things; it’s the dying that’s the problem. The last two years have been particularly difficult to bear. As a fat, old person, the threat of the pandemic is immediate and real. During lockdown, I wouldn’t even leave the house to go to a shop; I was too nervous. That may be why I’m so rude and noisy a lot of the time — I’m trying to keep the Grim Reaper away. And so far, it’s working.

When I became the patron of the Coffin Club, based in Hastings, they persuaded me to try their one-size-fits-all coffin to prove the lid would stay on, even over my enormous breasts. It did. I am happy to confront the things that many people prefer to overlook. In The Life and Death of Peter Sellers, my lovely stand-in, Margery Lyons, awkwardly asked me if I’d mind actually getting into my character’s coffin as she couldn’t face it. I didn't mind at all. I will mind when it’s no longer optional, however.

Let me tell you though, I’m not even close to being done. At eighty years old I’ve kept (most of) my marbles and my career is still going strong. And if my work has entertained people, that makes me happy. I’m determined to keep stretching myself. I mustn’t fall back on the easy things. That’s my main aspiration, because after a certain point, people think you can’t do it, so you have to prove you can. So, for instance, while I love reading biographies, I left writing my own till this year and it turned the house arrest of lockdown into a great adventure, remembering all the people and experiences, good and bad, naughty and nice, I’ve come across in the last four score years.

One of the problems about being old today is that with the advances of technology, if you’re not computer literate you are excluded from modern life and thereby disenfranchised. A lot of my friends don’t use Zoom, WhatsApp and the other connecting technology because they don’t know how to — some of them can’t even turn on their smart televisions. My pet project, which I’ve tried to start a few times, is to present a government-run initiative on TV, to help older people use computers. I believe, in addition, that there should be a nationwide army of young people who volunteer to go in and help us oldies to set up our technology and teach us to use it properly. ‘Sponsor a Nanna’ is what I’d call it. It’s vital to have some technology for everyday life and it’s scandalous that those big, rich tech giants haven’t started one. If you read this, Bill Gates or Mark Zuckerberg, get in touch.

I’m still new to a lot of technology but for an eighty-year-old I’m not bad. I have a desktop computer, a laptop, and an iPad. I have my own website and I visit Facebook; it’s proved useful in my genealogical quest, allowing me to track down distant relatives. And, of course, being stuck in Italy during the pandemic, I was an enthusiastic Zoomer; at the moment I’m doing twenty Zoom calls a week. It’s difficult to keep track sometimes.

I won’t have anything to do with Twitter, though. Limit myself to 280 characters? Ridiculous.

As long as my body holds out, I would love to travel the British Isles, tracking down as many of my old friends as I can, not descending on them — I’d find a hotel — but just seeing again the people I’ve loved and worked with. I want to do more dockos in Australia and I’d love to visit the elephants and rhinos I’ve adopted in Africa and give them a hug. And I long to make a programme about Israel and Palestine, getting enemies to meet and discover their humanity together.

Yes, as I hurtle towards incontinence and immobility, there is still fun to be had. Extraordinary proof of this was given to me on my eightieth birthday this 18th of May. I had intended to spend it quietly, with Mahnaz, my dear friend of over sixty-five years, and have a delicious Persian supper and a videocall with her sister, Shanaz, in Vancouver. After the meal Saleem, Mahnaz’s son, connected his computer to my TV. Shahnaz appeared, we had a grand talk and then, quite suddenly, without warning, eighty-five of my closest friends bubbled up right in front of me on the screen,[25] all laughing and talking at once (try telling actors to mute themselves). I couldn’t believe it, especially when Richard E. Grant made an adorable speech, everyone shouted ‘Hear hear’, then Bobby Crush tuned up his piano and Stephen Fry led the crew into a heartfelt (if not wholly tuneful — it’s very hard for eighty-five people to sing in time) chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ and I overflowed with happiness and realised that my life’s achievement was there on screen, in the friends I’d made and kept through the years.

Best of all, my beloved Heather, has remained my rock and anchor throughout the roller-coaster ride of my life. Now you’ve read the stories (those the lawyers have allowed me to retain) of my adventures across the last eighty years — you might be as surprised as I am, that she has chosen to stick by me. I have been blessed. This much is true.

Acknowledgements

Georgina Laycock and Rose Davidson must be first in this list. They guided me through the writing of this book, gently but firmly. They call themselves editors, in reality they have needed to also be babysitters and care workers. No words can express my gratitude. My mistakes are mine, all the good bits they honed and burnished. Dear ladies — thank you.

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Masterminded by my amazing assistant of over twenty years, Denise Wordsworth.