All my friends are completely fed up with this story, so you lot can suffer instead.

My first job was Concerts Manager of the English Sinfonia in Nottingham, back in 1970 when I graduated there. That's not the elevated position held by the CEO of a large symphony orchestra, but I used to do the publicity, book the players, put out the music stands. You know the sort of stuff.

John Ogdon came up once, to play the Shostakovich Piano and Trumpet Concerto with John Wilbraham - they were as big as each other! Anyway, during the afternoon I asked John if he wanted me to turn the pages for him, and he said not, because he was shortly going to be recording the work for Argo, and so wanted to try to play from memory. So I didn't worry. But then in the evening, after the concert had started, he found me and apologised profusely (he had a tendency to do that, bless him), and asked if I would turn after all, because he didn't feel quite confident enough. I thought ruefully that I had never heard the work before, that the bits I had heard in the background during the afternoon had seemed awfully fast, but I was a headstrong youngster, and anyway, he would probably have dug me in the ribs if I missed the place. So of course I agreed.

After the overture, whatever it was, we had to move some of the string desks out of the way, in order to bring the piano from the side of the stage to the centre, and then resettle everyone. At the last moment I realised that there was no chair for me, because I was always very careful to set exactly the right number of seats, since they look untidy if there are more than the number of players. So I called backstage, which at the Albert Hall in Nottingham, a non-conformist church, was also front of house, and a wooden chair was duly passed up.

I sat down and pulled the chair in towards the piano slightly. But, my right hand seemed to stick to the chair. I pulled it away, grimly thinking it would be chewing gum, and me about to turn pages. Well, boy, it wasn't chewing gum. I could see that straight away, and I could most certainly smell the fact. Someone had come in to the hall, clearly, with something very nasty on their shoe, and had discreetly used my chair to scrape it off.

News travels fast. At this point the front desks of strings all had big grins on their faces. I'm sure I had made their day. My immediate thought was, I must get off the stage and wash my hands. Not a chance; the leader was making his entry, followed by soloists and conductor. I suppose you really could say I was in the sh*t. In the end, the deputy leader, a real gentleman, gave me his top pocket handkerchief, which he only had for show, and I wiped the thick of it off, and flushed it down the gents at half-time.

I was helped in my quandary by two things. Firstly, it was my right hand which was affected, and on stage one turns with one's left hand. Also, John Ogdon, being such a large man, tended to perspire freely as he played, and so he wore a great quantity of aftershave, which smothered the canine aromas. I shall remember that night for the rest of my days!

I'm not sure whether this is what you wanted to hear, Tommo, but you got it anyway.

Cheers, Pianola

Pianola - that'll do nicely!


Thanks Reiner.  I feel I have an annual reduced opera production where I shall be performing under the name S.E. Thompson.

Or perhaps Izzy Toveryet?

Tommo