Los Angeles, November 18th 1997 - January 31st 1998

In diving headlong into my Green Card period I've overlooked a couple of (innocent) cruises, a month as chief conductor of Sunset Boulevard in Germany and inducing a stroke in my mother-in-law when I finally met her at the end of October, 1997. She was so excited that her daughter was finally coming home (with new boyfriend) that she went the whole hog the day after we pitched up and had to be taken to hospital. Thankfully, she turned out OK and is going strong to this day, February 25th, 2012.

I'd been invited to join the music staff of The Phantom of the Opera on tour in the USA. First stop was Los Angeles (yeah, I know: bummer), a place whose legend was bigger than its reputation, but sufficiently honeypot-esque to nearly induce a seizure on the scale of my future mother-in-law's, so off I went. My ex was fabulous and played ball superbly so I could go. Courtesy of Air India (Extract of conversation with booking clerk: "Can I smoke on the flight?" "You can do anything on our planes") I landed at JFK, then Burbank, picked up my little Pontiac Sunfire which was literally waiting outside the door for me, and set off to find Barham Boulevard. "Head straight down to Warner Bros. on Olive and turn right". These seemingly anodine instructions containing words of legend took me to my new apartment, whose complex I then shared with Pierce Brosnan and Brad Pitt (for a while). Coyotes patrolled the car parks, high-octane porn stars showed up at the store for breakfast. I was a long way from home. And loving it.

One of these days…

…I'll get around to talking about touring the USA with The Phantom of the Opera and sharing a house in Providence, RI with ex-cons and heroin addicts, bumping into Diane Keaton on Rodeo Drive and appearing on the Jerry Springer Show. No extra-curricular shagging, though; I was a saint in God's Own Country. How could I behave otherwise, knowing my Green Card may be at stake, arf arf. That year was split between Los Angeles, Providence, RI, Chicago and Minneapolis, and a great time it was, too, not least because our time in Illinois coincided with the very last Seinfeld episode, a deal up there with the capital city's all-conquering Bulls team, led by no other than His Airness himself, who were also crowned champions that year (1998). He retired fairly soon after and seems to have since descended into obscurity. Sport is not kind to its stars.

Some time soon…

There are a few holes to fill, metaphorically speaking, in this story, so do keep abreast of developments should you be so inclined. We've not yet addressed anal sex in the Pacific or appalling shenanigans in the Azores, so don't give up if you've a life to spare or time to barter on eBay; I just need to be ready…

Now it gets serious.

Meeting the lady who has been my better half for the last fifteen years was a sea change in my life, even if the early period wasn't without its ups and downs. Complete and utter fidelity started a little later but has been unchallenged since 1997, so there. The composition of my blood will determine how candid I manage to be in the coming months, so it's in your interests (if there's anyone who reads this) to send me a few crates of the best cuvés available. No return without investment, as you all well know (unless you live in France, where you get everything for nothing anyway, or so it appears).

Andrea and Maria

Must just mention these two before leaving Singleworld. Andrea took a shine to me during my time at Les Mis. I told her I wasn't interested in any type of commitment, having just seperated from my wife but she remained undeterred. It was easy and uncomplicated: Andrea loved every type of sex you could imagine and was easily the most uninhibited girl I've ever known. In the tradition of a fine plasterer it seemed her motto was 'All holes are there to be filled' and her appetite to live this credo was insatiable. She wanted it to go further but I resisted and she ended up backing off, but not before we'd had a wonderful 'one for the road' in my new flat in Highgate which resulted in my having to phone the landlord to replace the bed. Whoever is with Andrea now is a lucky man, indeed.

In a dark and lonely hour at Les Mis I'd contacted Maria, she of Antarctic fame. She replied almost by return, berating my silence, calling me every name under the sun but including a recent photo of herself, all the same. A few days later I picked her up at Heathrow Airport. I'd just left Les Mis and Sunset had still not reared its head, so there was nothing to do all day except...you've guessed it. Maria still refused to have penetrative sex until she'd seen a crispy, new HIV-Negative certificate, so we spent the days finding a hundred other ways to skin a cat. I woke every morning to the most gentle and sensual alarm clock you could imagine and it wasn't long before it was me going off. Maria was incredibly resourceful and permanently thirsty for anything I could provide, so I acted like a perfect host should and kept her glass topped up as often as I could manage it. It was only when I let slip that I'd had another affair since last seeing her that she clammed up, called herself an idiot and promptly flew home. Everything in this London period seemed apocalyptic, nothing seemed destined to endure and I was majorly responsible for that. It was only after meeting my future wife at Sunset that things started to stabilise. Everything in its time, really. We were all adults and we all knew the rules. I might not always have acted honourably but I never lied.

Les Mis and the rest.

...And yet, it was here that my indiscretions were discretely ushered into the antechamber of their demise. Little did I know, but I was soon to meet the latest object of my desires who would prove to be my second wife, fit as hell, brighter than a 100-watt bulb and sharper than a brand-new Sabatier. In short: my match, and welcome, my dear; please come this way. As an aside: as I write, my wife is 40 with the body of an 18-year-old, a fabulous mother to our two daughters and as shaggable as a coked-up, 21-year-old Marilyn Monroe. Envy me; it's worth the effort, however vicarious.


Our first meeting was at Sunset Boulevard: I was Assistant MD, she worked Front of House, yet had to pass me on her way to the Side Bar every evening as I played the vocal warm-up for the cast on stage. One evening, I sat there as usual with my mobile and my cigarettes on top of the piano when she walked by. Then came the comment: "Mobiles and cigarettes; what other bad habits do you have?". I thought: 'I'm in love.' I'm a sucker for feisty women. We agreed to meet to meet at Caffé Nero, on the corner of Maiden Lane and Southampton Row (No idea if it's still there). She (G) was reading a book about Israel; I'd just been there. G was on the verge of going for an interview for a job on the Isle of Bute in Scotland...the message was clear: this babe was soon to be out of here and I had to make some decisions, and fast. She got the call to go North. Was I interested in coming? Duh! But we were still just 'friends'; this could be embarrassing...

We went to Scotland together. The company had - diplomatically - booked two single rooms for us but I had a perma-boner from Euston to Rothesay (those unfamiliar with UK geography, please check the route. Then you'll understand how painful it was). G got the job, we got together, the rest is almost history (I wasn't a complete saint; at least not in the first year) and now I couldn't imagine life any other way. I tell you (providing you want to 'listen'): Making love with someone you know really well just gets better and better, providing you stick to two basic tenets:

1)    You really believe in the relationship:
2)    You both stay fit.

As soon as beer guts and bingo wings make their presence felt, it's over. Fruit, veg and lots of affection. There's no secret. MacDonalds, Ladbrokes and Liverpool FC will kill anyone's sex life. Here's my recipe:

1)   Fresh fruit, cereal and fish;
2)   Excellent wines from the south-west of France;
3)   Oodles of conversation;
4)   Gorgeous children;
5)   Fit wife:


= High-Quality Shagging.

It ain't rocket science. Bonne nuit à vous tous.

Basel, Switzerland, 1995.

So off I flew to Basel to put up the first Swiss production of The Phantom of the Opera. We were put up in a hotel, La Plaza, which, although fairly luxurious, had no experience of guests who stayed longer than 48 hours. This gap in their education proved fatal for them on a number of occasions, but for the time being, everything was OK: the cast, composed of Swiss, Americans, Brits and Germans, was extremely good, the music director a very able man, easy to work with and backed up by an American music staff with a lot of experience under its belt. I'd explore the town on my own, then some of us would take day trips out together, to Ribeauvillé, Freiburg (where my father went to university) and, eventually, further afield to the Alps proper, but other things were afoot in the city itself. Bizarrely, my feelings for SM began to cool almost as soon as I'd left Hamburg, something I couldn't fathom at all. It didn't have anything to do with the women in Switzerland; I got no more special attention there as I did anywhere else. We spoke on the phone and arranged for her to come down. She sensed something was up, but I decided to wait and see how I felt when I saw her before leaping to any conclusions. I picked her up from the station and her mistrust was palpable. Not surprising, really, and I couldn't blame her one iota. We made love, we laughed, we joked but there was something awry. Maybe it was the fact I'd decided to go to London and this was a tacit admission that the passionate period was over; I'd deposited my years of pent-up frustration into her and was now ready to move on. I hated feeling less for her but didn't know how to rectify the situation. Was our age difference suddenly assuming an importance it hadn't, before? SM was, admittedly, nine years older than I, but you'd never have guessed, and I looked young for my age even then. Anyhow, she travelled back to Hamburg with everything up in the air but it was clear to us both that the writing was on the wall. I still had a packed case to pick up from her flat, so it was imperative to remain on at least civil terms. I hadn't forced her to move house, emigrate, leave her job or anything like that, so ultimately any split would just entail healing emotional wounds, wounds which were, it has to be said, pretty deep, such was the intensity of our relationship.

One evening, after rehearsal, a group of us went up to my room and partied. One lady, LB, stayed a little longer than the rest and, after wild 'petting' we ended up in bed. I woke at around 8am with the two beds completely pushed apart, bedding all over the room and no sign of my mate. We caught up later and I found out I'd fallen asleep on the job. This needed to be rectified, not such an easy task I can assure you. Still, we ended up making love on a bench by the river. LB was married and anything we did was to remain sctrictly between us. I don't know to this day if she ever told her husband or not. Anyhow, a little later I found out that the harpist in the orchestra, LG, thought I was rather nice and wanted to get to know me a little better. She spoke only French so I had to dust off what I'd learned in school, and sharpish. Her uncle was a world-famous film director, truly a household name. I never managed to meet any of the family, but our gentle relationship played out my remaining two weeks in Switzerland before heading over to England. L had been in touch from London and smelt a rat one day whilost we were on the phone; LG had knocked on the door whilst we were talking and I'd let her in without making a sound, a pretty stupid move if ever there was one. I should have shown enough presence of mind to greet her as one would a member of staff who has come round to check the mini bar or some such. Still, I didn't and was well rumbled by my still-spouse, as I was to find out later in London.

LG's feelings for me didn't last, contrary to mine for her. We'd had a lovely day out in Geneva where she was teaching and a romantic trip back in the dining car of the Swiss train, accompanied by a plate of parma ham and some red wine. Her last words to me were "Don't forget me", though she pretty much did me, shacking up with a Canadian double-bass player almost as soon as I'd left the country. I understand she's still single to this day, a strange situation indeed, considering her talent and beauty. I had a couple of days back in Basel in early December, 1995, ostensibly to se how the show was shaping up but, in reality, to see LG, who, of course, didn't want to see me. It was a horrible few days, particularly as Les Mis was shaping up to be a political nightmare, so there was no enjoyment about any aspect of being in the Palace Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue in those days.

I went to see SM when I got back to Hamburg. Needless to say, the meeting was short and unpleasant. She gave me my case, saying if I ever found out what had caused an about-face in my feelings, then I should let her know. I drove home to Bahrenfeld, packed what was left of my belongings and drove off to Hamburg's ferry terminal. My furniture was already in storage and waiting for the nod to be delivered somewhere in London, my brother and sister-in-law expecting me sometime the following afternoon in their house in East London. After eight years, the German experience was about to end. There'd been pretty much everything packed into that time: I started out as a single, greenhorn pianist who'd never conducted in his life and was leaving quasi-married, quasi-adulterer, headhunted by the biggest musical theatre company in the world to be musical director of their flagship production. In terms of moving on in life it had been eight years at 100mph, and that was not going to change...