It’s summer 2021 and I am sitting in the front room of a terraced house in Southend owned by my favourite rock star of all time. Someone who is, according to the Guardian, “a 100-1 shot to be our Greatest Living Englishman”.
I am about to read Wilko Johnson my play about his life, but I am extremely nervous as a) it’s very much a warts-and-all job, b) Wilko is, as usual, looking very scary indeed and c) I am playing all the parts myself and, perhaps unwisely, am going full Wilko, accent-wise: a vowel-stretching Essex-cum-Cockney drawl.
