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Monday 13 October 2008

Diary

Dianna Rigg on the joys of being out of work and why she is a fatist

For a time, when my parents were abroad, my brother and I spent our holidays with Granny. She had bright blue eyes, curly white hair and a rounded, cuddly figure, all of which belied her nature which was crabbit in the extreme. Every evening I was bidden to walk round the block with her, arm in arm, and whenever we passed a house where the curtains weren’t drawn I was forced to linger, in an agony of embarrassment, until Granny had gazed her fill. I hated her behaviour and ever since have had a horror of that kind of curiosity. On being informed that there are 1,150,000 websites on the internet which contain my name, to which (apart from quotes) I have not contributed a word, Granny and the horror were resurrected. I find it inexplicable that anyone would actually want to post details of their lives and career online at all. Presumably it’s to encourage fans and feed their curiosity. How Granny would have loved the internet.

One of the joys of being out of work — and cross my heart I really do enjoy it — is the freedom in the evenings to go to the theatre and watch my fellow thesps strut their stuff. Programmes nowadays are much more interesting than they used to be — and so they should be at the price charged! But I am always amazed by how much detail some actors stuff into their biographies. Parts in obscure or long-forgotten plays are listed and appearances at long-dead repertory theatres. Some years ago when I appeared at the National with Dennis Quilley I got bored with having to press rewind and simply contributed: ‘Diana has been around for a long time and married to Dennis Quilley seven times.’ I am now toying with a better idea: the insider story. For example: ‘The last production Diana appeared in was with X (and what a pompous ass he turned out to be), directed by X (well, he might call it direction but the actors tell a different story), designed by X (I will never forgive her for that monstrous dress she put me into), lighting by X (otherwise known to the cast as The Prince of Darkness)’, etc. Think what fun reading a programme would be.

Thank goodness it is winter and I am spared the sight of huge women waddling the streets of London in leggings or hipsters with rolls of fat escaping from over-stretched clothing. Last summer, on Ken High Street, I got an eyeful of crack for Chrissake. We all have our weaknesses, I smoke and am not proud of it, but Fat Pride has a lot to answer for on the question of aesthetics. Hands up, I am fattist.

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