Just as Alec Guinness resented being seen as Obi-Wan Kenobi for the rest of his life, Ian Richardson might have resented Francis Urquhart, the Machiavelli of Michael Dobbs’ House of Cards trilogy, whose catchphrase gives this book its title. Urquhart was a much better part to be identified with, of course; but it is a pity that an actor of such versatility and presence should be remembered only as a ruthless political operator.

In his RSC days, he had a high reputation for comedy, typified by his Ford in The Merry Wives — an unpromising role, in which he stole the show as an incompetent avenger. He had a fine singing voice and made several memorable appearances in musicals, notably as Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady, and as Tom Wrench in Trelawny — in which part he stole my teenage heart. A notably physical actor, he spent many hours in a tin bath as Marat in the Marat/Sade, the first actor to show his bare behind on Broadway; apparently the clicking sound as opera glasses hit spectacles was clearly audible. Above all, there was his amazing voice, capable of almost infinite shading and inflection, brilliantly described by John Sessions as ‘a viper gliding through velvet’.

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