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Saturday 22 November 2008

I was starstuck by David Cameron

In the week of the Spectator Summer Party, Steven Berkoff recalls another of our celebrations at which he sought out the Tory leader and forgave his confusion of Brando and Dean

He seems to float through the room surrounded by a small gaggle of satellites that are eagerly feeding on the little verbal tit-bits he throws out. He looks a model of composure, cool, elegant and relaxed and is accompanied by his lovely wife, no doubt freshly exhilarated after his weekly thrashing of Gordon Brown’s ample backside.

I must complete my evening by speaking to him. But not so easily and not so enthusiastically as I have with the others whom I did at least have some claim to, no matter how slender that may be thought to be. I’d like merely to congratulate him on that speech since it was a veritable sermon on the mount and imbued with a certain ‘messianic’ fervour.

I stride boldly across the room, placing my carcass almost in his line of vision. I introduce myself — ‘I am Steven B...’, but he cuts me off and gallantly fibs, ‘Of course I know who you are.’ Oh, how charming he is... I then deliver my oratorio briefly summing up my admiration for that now famous speech and how as an actor I could admire it all the more for the delivery. He seemed to accept my slightly oily hyperboles with gracious charm and confessed to me that at one time during his turbulent youth he had even entertained the idea of trying the acting profession.

Pride now puffed itself into my cheeks. Mr Cameron even had the manners to enquire what I was up to. Fortunately this time I had something to say. ‘I have just directed the stage version of the famous movie On the Waterfront. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I remember it well... and how good James Dean was.’ Of course I couldn’t correct his little error since Brando and Dean were buds of the same tree so to speak, so his mistake was perfectly natural. We smiled at the thought of the film and parted with a manly handshake. I felt as if champagne was fizzing through my veins as I strode back eager to see the look of beaming admiration in the eyes of my new young friend, the ‘undercover’ journalist.

She had gone. Just disappeared into the throng. Where did she go and why, at my moment of glory? After all she was, in a sense, the springboard whence I entered into the fray. However, even if she was the stimulus to free me from my wallflower habit, I was glad to meet old friends and even make a new one who will be, barring accidents, the next prime minister of this country.

Now I decide to leave. I leave a great sea of white faces, grinning, smiling and still chattering furiously. I hand in my ticket and my car is restored to me. ‘Nice evening sir?’ Oh yes, excellent!

© Steven Berkoff

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