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Authors: Sheila Hancock
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ones. Young John enjoyed all this.
5 June
John still not made doctor’s appointment. When I nagged him he did his usual ‘Oh, never mind. Go on, show us your knickers.’
The entertainment world led the public into a revolution. Anything goes. The Goons were anarchic and incomprehensible to the
older generation. Zaniness was unleashed: ‘See you later, alligator. In a while, crocodile.’ In his drainpipe trousers, huge
suede shoes with crêpe soles, floppy jumper and cravat and sporting a long cigarette holder, a teenage John felt possibility
in the air. He wanted money so that, like Liberace had in 1954, he could say to his critics, and maybe his mother: ‘What you
said hurt me very much. I cried all the way to the bank.’
Look Back in Anger opened in 1956 and when John read it, he recognised himself in Jimmy Porter. Film and theatre, although he had still only
seen variety shows, were his obsessions. TV was not part of his ambition. In 1955 the BBC was joined by ITV but John was not
one of the mere 340,000 in the country who owned a set. Olivier was his god. He spent hours listening to recordings of his
performances and delighting in the idiosyncrasies of his delivery.
6 June
Went to see Dr Grimaldi about John’s voice. Immediately sent him over to Harley Street to see a specialist. He said one vocal cord was frozen and ‘something’ was causing it. He ordered a chest x-ray. What the hell is it? I am pretending calm but I have a fearful foreboding.
Much as he wanted to act, he did not think it was a possibility. No one from his world went into the theatre. Instead, he
left school at fifteen and tried other things. His brother was doing well as an apprentice plumber but John was positively
dangerous with a soldering iron. He worked in the fruit market and nearly broke his back carrying sacks. He trained with a
baker but was appalled at the thought of a lifetime putting jam in doughnuts. He passed the preliminary examination to be
an electrician, but judging by his inability to change a light bulb without causing an explosion, lives were saved when he
progressed no further.
Even though he had left school, his teachers rode to his rescue, believing that acting was the path John should pursue. His
old headmaster, Sam Hughes, moved heaven and earth to wangle a grant from Manchester Council, should John succeed in getting
into RADA. It seemed unlikely that a boy from a council flat in Burnage, with an accent you could cut with a knife, could
enter those hallowed halls.
Finally John was summoned for an audition. The whole family got excited about it. Jack took a trip to the pawn shop to pay
for some quick elocution lessons and buy him a new suit. His Auntie Beattie accompanied John into Manchester for the important
purchase. She could not dissuade him from a complete teddy boy outfit, in which he thought he looked the bee’s knees. His
father expressed approval of it, despite grave misgivings, knowing how much bolstering his son needed to go to London for
the first time and face all those toffs. ‘Aye, lad, that’s very good. Very smart.’
At six on the morning of the audition Uncle Charlie drove up to Daneholme Road in his white van. Jack got into the front to
direct Charlie on the best route. Sandra and Beattie squashed up in the back to make room for Ray and John, taking care not
to crease his suit. Four hours later John clambered out in Gower Street. Beattie brushed the cement dust off his trousers
and he remoulded his duck’s arse hairstyle in the wing mirror. His knees buckled under him as he passed between the stone
figures of Drama and Comedy that flank the door of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. The others in the waiting room stared
at him like he was something from another planet. He realised his suit was not like theirs. The fashion was obviously different
down south. He was tempted to leave. It was all a big mistake. But how could he face that
5 June
John still not made doctor’s appointment. When I nagged him he did his usual ‘Oh, never mind. Go on, show us your knickers.’
The entertainment world led the public into a revolution. Anything goes. The Goons were anarchic and incomprehensible to the
older generation. Zaniness was unleashed: ‘See you later, alligator. In a while, crocodile.’ In his drainpipe trousers, huge
suede shoes with crêpe soles, floppy jumper and cravat and sporting a long cigarette holder, a teenage John felt possibility
in the air. He wanted money so that, like Liberace had in 1954, he could say to his critics, and maybe his mother: ‘What you
said hurt me very much. I cried all the way to the bank.’
Look Back in Anger opened in 1956 and when John read it, he recognised himself in Jimmy Porter. Film and theatre, although he had still only
seen variety shows, were his obsessions. TV was not part of his ambition. In 1955 the BBC was joined by ITV but John was not
one of the mere 340,000 in the country who owned a set. Olivier was his god. He spent hours listening to recordings of his
performances and delighting in the idiosyncrasies of his delivery.
6 June
Went to see Dr Grimaldi about John’s voice. Immediately sent him over to Harley Street to see a specialist. He said one vocal cord was frozen and ‘something’ was causing it. He ordered a chest x-ray. What the hell is it? I am pretending calm but I have a fearful foreboding.
Much as he wanted to act, he did not think it was a possibility. No one from his world went into the theatre. Instead, he
left school at fifteen and tried other things. His brother was doing well as an apprentice plumber but John was positively
dangerous with a soldering iron. He worked in the fruit market and nearly broke his back carrying sacks. He trained with a
baker but was appalled at the thought of a lifetime putting jam in doughnuts. He passed the preliminary examination to be
an electrician, but judging by his inability to change a light bulb without causing an explosion, lives were saved when he
progressed no further.
Even though he had left school, his teachers rode to his rescue, believing that acting was the path John should pursue. His
old headmaster, Sam Hughes, moved heaven and earth to wangle a grant from Manchester Council, should John succeed in getting
into RADA. It seemed unlikely that a boy from a council flat in Burnage, with an accent you could cut with a knife, could
enter those hallowed halls.
Finally John was summoned for an audition. The whole family got excited about it. Jack took a trip to the pawn shop to pay
for some quick elocution lessons and buy him a new suit. His Auntie Beattie accompanied John into Manchester for the important
purchase. She could not dissuade him from a complete teddy boy outfit, in which he thought he looked the bee’s knees. His
father expressed approval of it, despite grave misgivings, knowing how much bolstering his son needed to go to London for
the first time and face all those toffs. ‘Aye, lad, that’s very good. Very smart.’
At six on the morning of the audition Uncle Charlie drove up to Daneholme Road in his white van. Jack got into the front to
direct Charlie on the best route. Sandra and Beattie squashed up in the back to make room for Ray and John, taking care not
to crease his suit. Four hours later John clambered out in Gower Street. Beattie brushed the cement dust off his trousers
and he remoulded his duck’s arse hairstyle in the wing mirror. His knees buckled under him as he passed between the stone
figures of Drama and Comedy that flank the door of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. The others in the waiting room stared
at him like he was something from another planet. He realised his suit was not like theirs. The fashion was obviously different
down south. He was tempted to leave. It was all a big mistake. But how could he face that
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