I attended my first A-List London Awards Ceremony last week. I may be off the alphabetical list of theatre industry importance but I tottered up that red carpet with a wiggle of my butt and a mic in my hand. It’s amazing what a press pass can do for one’s social life. Beneath the flashing cameras (okay, NOT in my direction) I entered the London Hilton Park Lane to mix it with the West End greats during the 2006 Olivier Awards.

Obviously my glad rags did me justice because I was in the door a mere five minutes before being accosted by a diamond broker in his early (maybe late) seventies. He came complete with an invitation of post award cocktails and the added ‘bonus’ of his services as my host for the night. Fortunately for me I had interviews to conduct… and Christian Slater positioned directly in my firing line. What a tasty target.

I’ve never been on a movie set before but I suspect awards nights are much the same – just with more alcohol and fancy costumes. Ewan McGregor made an early dash for the safety of his table, whilst Neve Campbell pierced the background chatter with her signature laugh and genuine smile. She stunned in a deep green strapless number, always the glamour puss. Thankfully she didn’t encounter the aforementioned senior diamond broker… we may have had a coronary on our hands.

As the orchestra picked up their shining instruments, the lights zoned in and cast a mysterious shade of blue over the stage and the gentlemen adjusted their bow ties. Meanwhile, back in the press pit, there were adjustments of an altogether different type-taking place. Mental adjustments on my part…

I’ve seen my fair share of press gatherings. Daredevil cameramen perched atop ladders in an attempt to grab that perfect shot of a young diva’s cleavage. Pushing, shoving, yelps of “over here!”, “no.. over HERE”, “perfect, that’s the shot of the year”, and mutterings of “stupid un-photogenic cow” are all part of the deal. Not however, at the Oliviers. The ball-breaking PR girls wouldn’t hear of it.

Like cattle to the slaughter, we were designated our ‘standing zones’, cautioned with “get your shots then step away” and set free to earn our livings. It looked inevitable; withering stares were going to stop the paps… on the verge of slaughter or not, they were going to die clicking.

And then came the winners… as Jane Krowkowski basked in ‘Best Actress in a Musical Glory’, she widened her smile and repositioned her sequin endowed boobs. The balding rabble of photographers sprang to life and put their trigger-happy testosterone levels to the test. Forget fast cars and Viagra… these guys are driven by cameras and deadlines.

Christian Slater wore a baseball cap – maybe a new black-tie fashion statement… more likely a direct result of a long haul flight only hours earlier. Above all, a reminder that A-listers can wear whatever they damn well please. I chatted to him about his return to the West End in ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ and discussed the video diary he’ll be sending me throughout rehearsals. He assured me that he’ll “try to make it as interesting and dramatic as I possibly can”. Take the camera along to the pub with you Christian – now THAT would make for some interesting viewing.

Sir Ian McKellan was obviously way over the interview scene and true to the Gandalf within, floated through the evening in regal oblivion. Standing next to him bought out the hobbit in me… the man is a giant. A gentle one, nonetheless. When an annoying journalist asked him the deadly question – “what do you do in your spare time?”
His monotone response was “well, I go to the theatre”. Surprise, surprise. What were they expecting? Tabletop dancing in Mordor? Honestly…

The true stars of the night were the winners of the ‘Best Actor in a Musical’ winners. Teenage Billy Elliots George Maguire, Liam Mower and James Lomas beat Ewan McGregor to the post. They also charmed the low-slung briefs off the photographers. The exuberance of youth, a love of the camera and delightfully free of attitude and arrogance, they were a trio of pint sized charmers.

The photographers laughed with the boys and taught them how to take happy snaps with equipment larger than their heads. In bittersweet victory we watched rattled managers try in vain to control the little firecrackers. Too much red cordial in the interval perhaps?

A trio of support dancers watched on in awe, smitten with their Billy Elliot co-stars but assured me “we don’t fancy them… ewwwww!”. For me, the girls were the highlight of the night. Not much smaller than me, wide eyed and full of awe at seeing “That girl from umm… THAT show”. I assume they meant Alex Kingston from ER. Their squeals of joy pierced the air and their happy little faces showed what the night should be about – bringing the theatre to the everyday people.

That saying, the champas didn’t go astray either…