I still feel like Paula Radcliffe at the wobbly end of a marathon

Casting directors and directors are young and under the influence of fashion. That is why Gary Oldman played Mankiewicz, Cillian Murphy played Oppenheimer; Helen Mirren, Golda Meir; or Bradley Cooper – in prosthetic nose, played Leonard Bernstein; even Steven Spielberg cast Michelle Williams as his mother in The Fabelmans... and as for Mrs Maisel…. the Lehman Brothers? This is not schadenfreude – I have no illusions about my lack of a film career… I don’t have the bones – and they are wonderful actors all, but did the discussion ever take place?

In my days in the Old Vic Company I recall my relief that Olivier shunned wearing a false nose for his portrayal of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. Of course, it didn’t stop him donning a set of horse teeth instead. Horses for courses.

The reason for my attempted boycott, as I understand it, was because I am a publicly acknowledged Zionist – or at least I believe in Israel’s right to exist. Outside the theatres, were no more than 12 pinch-faced activists with placards, loud hailers, the odd percussion instrument and leaflets demanding I leave their city because “Maureen Lipman supports Genocide”.

The fact that there is no genocide according to the definition of genocide has escaped them, as, indeed, it has the risible UN. I do not feel responsible for Netanyahu’s actions. Nor do I support the settlers, yet somehow I am held responsible. As far as I know, no Turkish people in Wood Green are being sidelined and abused because the nasty dictator Erdogan has been persecuting the Kurds in genocidal manner and is about to turn his activities on to the Israelis.

Still, needs must. Post Jo Cox and David Amess one can’t ignore the criminally insane or the groomed bigot. Therefore, on the tour, I was escorted everywhere by Mark, my security guard, and had to spend my days in my hotel room, watching every single game in the World Cup, instead of visiting the galleries, fashion houses and historic sites of these interesting cities.

Once we reached London, the protests stopped. A delightful group called “Mensch”, largely non-Jewish, protested against the no-show protesters. Still, Mark checked every handbag, profiled and studied the audiences and brought me my food rather than let me face scrutiny or worse at the stage door.

One night there were three women in full burqas in the front row. It made me very nervous. Why would they want to see a show like this, I wondered, where I sang Tiptoe through the Tulips and danced to Singing in the Rain on a coffee table? I stumbled on my lines a bit and generally failed to enjoy my time on stage, wondering internally what could be concealed under their flowing gowns. It was humbling at the curtain call to see that they were the first to stand up clapping and cheering and the last to leave.

The last week was like a rock concert. I have never been so sad to lose a character as I was to say farewell to Allegra. So, I shall be putting on the compression socks, over-packing and hitting a terminal of my choice next week. Several Greek islands will be sailed into.

My phone knows I’m going and is besieging me with adverts for jelly bras and bathing suits. I don’t know what a jelly bra is and the one I sent for would have fitted an elk and has gone straight back to China. My fellow actors had all lost up to a stone during the run of the show. I had retained every pound. Trying bras and bathing costumes on in a cubicle with overhead lighting would have turned me into krusha – (a form of meat jelly, known also as wobbly foot….or aspic if you’re posh.)

Apropos of which, my mother always had a jelly in the fridge. She crumbled a cube or six into an enamel bowl, added boiling water, stirred and stood back. I don’t suppose she ever looked at the ingredients to see if the gelatine was kosher. Shortly after having Covid in ’23, I wanted a sharp mouth cleansing desert to counteract eating nothing but chicken soup for the week of confinement.

The lemon mousse I received from Sainsbury’s was a refreshing treat and only when I glanced at the ingredients on the tub did I notice, with horror, that it contained “Pork gelatine.” I was livid. I would have scraped out my mouth with a scalpel if I’d got one handy.

I got on the phone to Sainsbury’s, went through six or seven sessions of “we value your custom” and “Raindrops keep falling on your head,” before I reached a human, whom I then berated remorselessly;

“Pork! Pork? Pork Gelatine! In a Lemon mousse? How many minorities would you like to offend at once? I yelled, “I mean, aside from the inappropriate ethics who the hell in their right mind wants to taste PIG in their.. pigging lemon MOUSSE?”

She assured me that the firm had searched high and low for vegetarian gelatine, but to no avail.

“ARE you telling me that vegetarians don’t eat jelly?’ I spluttered.

“Go, Google! Pectins!”

In David’s Shul last Saturday, I was overwhelmed by people of my age who wondered what drug of choice I was on, to get through Allegra. They were all so entranced by the show. I told them it was hard every night to sing well, however breathless I was.

Of course, the comment I will have ringing in my ears, more than all the compliments, was from a former singing teacher who stood backstage, and whilst people were saying nice things about the songs cooed, “Yes, super…and so clever, the way you contrived to sing them all off key.”