I overheard Barry Cryer’s minder announce to the theatre staff that his boss was waiting in the car outside. I followed him back out to the street, then asked him if he might be able to ask Cryer to sign a scrap of paper for me. This would make a great birthday present for TPR.
Cryer was delighted to contribute to the birthday celebrations. Rather than use paper, he signed his name on a white balloon (which looked rather like his head). When a gust of wind pulled the balloon out of his hands and sent it flying over a fence, I persuaded Cryer that an autograph on a thin sheet of paper from a receipt book would suffice.