When I was the press officer for London Festival Ballet (now English National Ballet), I used to travel ahead of the company to drum up publicity. One of my favourite visits was always to Manchester, where the company regularly played the Opera House, then run by Tommy Appleby. One year I knocked on his door and was greeted with: “Come in, Tony, I’d like you to meet Bobby Charlton” (Obituary, 22 October).
“Good to meet you, young man,” the footballer said. “I trust you are a football fan as well as a dance fan.” I replied rather tentatively that I couldn’t honestly claim to be its greatest follower, but having been a student in the city, I had actually seen him play. “Well, that’s a start. Next time you are up here, you must be my guest at Old Trafford.” I said I’d be thrilled to. “So, what’s the company dancing on this visit?” “Sleeping Beauty, Mr Charlton,” I replied. “Well that sounds great, and it’s Bobby, by the way. My wife and I would like that.”
