Thanksgiving is always a huge deal in the US and this year was no different, except for the fact that the media were full of dire warnings about the inconveniences travellers would face at the airports due to the new regulations imposed by the Transportation Security Administration in the US, and the new body-scanning techniques and the euphemistically named ‘pat-down’, which is not so much a pat-down as a feel-up.
Thanksgiving is always a huge deal in the US and this year was no different, except for the fact that the media were full of dire warnings about the inconveniences travellers would face at the airports due to the new regulations imposed by the Transportation Security Administration in the US, and the new body-scanning techniques and the euphemistically named ‘pat-down’, which is not so much a pat-down as a feel-up. Watching a news programme, I was treated to the sight of a lady whose breast implant had been poked so violently that it became dislodged and slid down to her diaphragm. Then I listened to a poor soul whose colostomy bag had sprung a leak due to a severe going-over. Rather than face the indignity of the pat-down when flying back to London last week, I decided in advance to choose the body scan, but I needn’t have worried. At JFK there were no new x-ray machines or indeed pat-downs, just a laconic TSA employee who politely waved me through the metal detector, then asked if I was Joan Collins. As I had stripped myself down to bare minimum — no shoes, hat, sweater, jewellery or sunglasses — I was surprised he recognised me. Not so polite were some of my fellow travellers — one, after removing his belt, flourished it like a lariat and nearly garrotted me. But our flight to Heathrow was excellent, landing on time in spite of doomsday prophecies about England being completely frozen over. Two days later I was complaining about my overheated apartment.
I was in Manhattan to perform my one-woman show, One Night with Joan, at Feinstein’s at the Regency Hotel for two weeks and it was a joy — not only to me, but to the world (joke!). It was fun, fabulous and, most importantly, full. Every night the audience was packed with friends, some famous, some not, some who I knew were attending and some who were a total surprise, but all of them to a fault wonderfully supportive and appreciative and delightfully enthusiastic. New York was more glorious than ever, clear blue skies, crispy cool days and exquisitely and tastefully decorated throughout all the shop windows and avenues, bringing the Christmas spirit alive. Nowhere is more glamorously festive than Manhattan in the holiday season.
I’m a sucker for Christmas in all its over-commercialised, over-the-top glory. With a ticket price of $170 a seat and no discounts for children, the Radio City Music Hall’s annual Christmas Spectacular was worth every cent. The show was beautifully conceived, executed and choreographed — and gorgeous and joyful in the extreme. Even my six-going-on-26-year-old granddaughter admitted it was ‘cool’ — ah, the understatement of the young. I counted at least eight costume changes made by the Rockettes with astonishing speed. Since each troupe performs two shows a day out of the maximum four performed each day, I calculated that makes 32 costume changes per person per day — whew! My three costume changes twice a day in Dick Whittington will be positively effortless by comparison. The newsreel clips showing the Rockettes in the mid-1930s fascinated me. The girls were at least half a foot shorter, their legs were stumpy and their dancing not a patch on today’s glamorous and professional chorus line. But my finest hour came that evening, when my granddaughter stayed up to see my show, and sat rapturously quiet in the front row. At the end she came up to me and hugged me fiercely. ‘I loved it so much more than the Rockettes!’ she exclaimed. Bribes do work.
And now, back in Blighty, I’m surrounded by the unique Christmas spirit that only an elf can provide — elf-n-safety, that is. A friend who manages several theatres in the West End was regaling us with the new regulations he must abide by to mollify the overpaid, underworked bureaucrats enforcing the ridiculous new euro-rules. It seems that the general populace has become so moronic nowadays that they complain if a sign does not alert them well in advance that the theatre aisle veers slightly to the right or to the left. In addition, my friend is being forced to replace the traditional red EXIT signs with placards displaying a little green man running like the clappers away from flames. Clearly this is the wrong message to convey in a crowded theatre. It reminded me of an ‘In case of fire’ placard backstage upon which a wit had crossed out the instructions and replaced them with the word ‘PANIC’. The icing on the cake came when an extremely officious inspector turned to my friend after scrutinising every inch of his theatre and remarked, ‘You do realise that stairs are dangerous, don’t you?’
I was sad to hear my dear friend Ned Ryan had passed away, as had Leslie Nielsen (with whom I had done some steamy love scenes in the Opposite Sex, which ended up on the cutting-room floor), and also Elaine Kaufman, eponymous owner of the famous restaurant where Woody Allen and other luminaries ruled the New York nights. As Michael Caine said recently, ‘They’re bowling in our lane now.’ Speak for yourself, Sir M — I’ve got a panto to do!