I Don't Much Care For Hollywood, I'd

Your Motivation Is Your Pay Packet On Friday. Now Get On With It.

Fifty-four Years Of Love And Tenderness And Crossness And Devotion And Unswerving Loyalty. Without Her I Could Have Achieved A Quarter Of What I Have Achieved, Not Only In Terms Of Success And Career, But In Terms Of Personal Happiness.

The Theatre Should Be Treated With Respect. The Theatre Is A Wonderful Place, A House Of Strange Enchantment, A Temple Of Illusion. What It Most Emphatically Is Not And Never Will Be Is A Scruffy, Ill-lit, Fumed-oak Drill Hall Serving As A Temporary Soap Box For Political Propaganda.

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.

Work Is Much More Fun Than Fun.