I was a working-class kid who’d failed my exams and done a series of nothing jobs before I discovered Shakespeare in my 20s. I was bored out of my head most of the time, working nights in a bank as a computer operator, watching tapes going round. A respite came three times a year when my girlfriend at the time, Sandra, and I would drive from our rented flat in Ealing to Stratford-upon-Avon and queue at the RSC for cheap returns or standing tickets. The plays were so good it made life bearable.
In June 1978, we went to see Jonathan Pryce as Petruchio in The Taming of the Shrew, with David Suchet. The sunny Saturday matinee coincided with Scotland playing in the World Cup and as the audience made its way into the Royal Shakespeare Theatre foyer, a Scottish supporter with a six-pack of lager was getting rowdy and rude, singing football songs outside. He grabbed me, saying, “Have a drink with me, brother”, and did a double-take as if he recognised me. I turned away, feeling I’d die of embarrassment in this posh and genteel crowd focused on the business of being civilised and arty.
