I’m a musician. I was never going to be anything else. A trumpet player – and more recently a producer. When I was sixteen I enrolled on a week long residential course in Yorkshire for big band playing – my first love. The week culminated in a concert at a local theatre, for the parents and anyone else who was interested. I had a featured solo which went down very well, and I was quite pleased with myself. Afterwards the course participants dispersed with their respective parents and as arranged I met up with mine front of house. After the smiles and congratulations my father grabbed my arm and said, “Come and sit over here a minute”. I allowed him to usher me to a seat. He sat next to me in an aisle seat and produced the programme and a pen from the inside of his coat. “You look terrible” he said, and with the pen drew the following on the back of the programme ? “You’ve got to address your posture. You look like a question mark”.

Around the same time, I was getting headaches and had also developed migraine. I visited several osteopaths, one of whom was an avuncular old chap called Hackworthy. The first thing he ever said to me - and the only thing I remember any of them ever saying to me was: “You have PPP…Piss Poor Posture”. He continued, “Nothing looks better than a tall man who stands up straight. Nothing looks worse than a tall man who stoops”

Thirty years later I found myself at the Iyengar Yoga Institute in Deptford - ready to address my PPP. The beautiful Brazilian came and inspected my tadasna pose. She laughed. “So Jonathan. “What’s it like having a chest?”

A puffed out chest is not a nice thing...unless you're doing yoga.

I have an embarrassingly huge number of talents. If I applied myself to anything I’d be brilliant at it. Except self-promotion. I’m crap at that.

I do worry about Theo. His set-up is in his bedroom so there’s not a great deal of room. Next to his bed piled a foot high are about twelve mind-fuck Philip K. Dick novels. Never seen him this angry…noisy neighbours. They’ll kill you without laying a finger on you.

I liked old Lionel [Blair].  Always looked immaculate and remarkably nimble for his age. Incredibly thin.  I was always intrigued by his trousers. They looked like they had no legs in them - just two lengths of trouser leg flapping around.  He was fronting a show I was doing on the road called 'Simply Ballroom'.  One of the best shows I ever did - lots of beautiful dancers.  He would do this number called 'The Soft Shoe Shuffle' - a gentle routine.  At one point he produces a beautiful scarlet-coloured silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dinner jacket.  It's a trick handkerchief and on activating a spring release it is instantaneously transformed into a solid black cane.  One night he caught the spring release accidentally and the cane whacked him in the face.  Took him by surprise a bit.  Needless to say I fell about laughing.  Lionel didn't like that much.  He reeled around.  "Stop laughing!" he shouted.  "I'm sorry Lionel",  I replied. "Nothing personal.  It was just very funny".  He seemed quite upset though.  Got to the interval.  I decided to apologise to Lionel.  It wasn't my intention to upset him.  Knocked on his door and was invited in.  "Hello" he said in that friendly sing-song voice he has.  "Lionel I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to fall about laughing with the old cane.  The thing is, Tommy Cooper used to do exactly that gag.  He used to release the spring by accident and the cane would whack him in the face.  I used to love that gag, but I shouldn't have laughed and if I upset you, I apologise Lionel".  So that's what I said.  To be honest I'm not even sure if Tommy ever did do that gag.  But I thought it might soften the situation a little if I somehow likened him to a genius.  It seemed to work.  "Oh stop it", he replied.  "You don't have to apologise. D'ya want a sweetie?"  He nodded in the direction of a box of 'Celebrations'.  "No thanks Lionel.  I'm OK".  So that was that.  The show finished its run shortly after  although due to its great success it did go out again a few months later.  I wasn't asked back to do it however.

One afternoon I found myself sat outside a tea room in Eastbourne -  enjoying some sunshine with Lionel. An elderly couple approached and spotted him.  They made a bee-line for him and started some chat in which I had no interest.  After two or three minutes they continued on their way. When they left Lionel seemed downcast.  He said, "Do you know I can't go anywhere without someone coming up to me and wanting a chat".  "Well Lionel - that's the price you pay", I replied.  My attempt to console him was met with silence and a stare into space.

Love the bus lanes....love the bus lanes - 'cos I'm the only person in London who knows when to use them.

Perfection comes at a cost - settle for excellence.

My father is a great fan of Somerset Maugham. I went to Singapore where Maugham resided. I thought a nice gift for my Dad would be something related to aforementioned author. I was recommended the 'definitive biography' by Justin Myers. Three days after I presented this gift to my father I was mortified to read an article in The Independent which informed me that Maugham's final act of defiance before he died was to go and defecate behind the settee.

So there I was at The London Palladium - having returned safely from The Dog and Trumpet directly across the road from the stage door. All set. Get to my position and settle into my chair. I reach down into the darkness under the music stand for my trumpet. Have a feel around. Strange. Not there. Stretch my neck down to look. "Where's my trumpet?..... "WHERE'S MY FUCKING TRUMPET!" I turn to Cussy. "Where's my trumpet? I left it here". "I dunno". I start to panic. Less than a couple of minutes to curtain up and my trumpet's missing. How professional.... By now consumed with adrenalin and not thinking straight I found myself marching into the wings stage left. I can make out Pete Long [MD] in the gloom. I head straight for him. "Pete I can't believe this. Someone's moved my trumpet. I can't find it". Pete showed little concern. He said, "I wouldn't worry about it old boy. There are more pressing matters to be dealt with right now". He nodded his head in the direction of the floor somewhere off to my left. I followed the direction of his nod and squinted into the shadows. What did I see? Jerry Lewis collapsed on the floor, lying in a pool of his own piss. Paramedics. Apparently he'd drunk a bottle of brandy and it wasn't the ideal chaser for the medication he was on. Rumour has it that Jerry was feeling a bit low, and knowing the potentially lethal cocktail of his medicine and alcohol, he thought he'd attempt to go out in style with the headlines, "Jerry Lewis dies on stage in London". Probably sounded better than Broadway. [Why wouldn't it? London is better than Broadway]. Anyway, Jerry failed in his attempt to die on stage in London. Although having worked with him before I know he can do it.