I have a friend who has no ambition left. Consequently he is happy because he is never disappointed. Yet he is anything but cynical. In fact he is one of the most genuine and generous people I know. It surprised me when he said he didn't mind what people thought of him because this meant to me that he didn't feel he had anything left to prove. In anyone else this would have sounded complacent. But he didn't sound complacent, nor resigned, nor angry, nor pleased. He was simply offering a point of view without colour. 

And I thought what a wonderful attitude to possess. And then I wondered if he was lying to me to make himself better. And then I dismissed that thought as unworthy. And then the little green-eyed monster began to mock in earnest. 

"He is so very happy" said the monster, "but how are you at the moment?". 
"Well" said I, "I am relatively happy". 
"Do not dissemble!" he barked.
"I'm not. I'm happy"
"Really?"
"Yes"
"If you say so" said the god, green eyes dripping with cynicism.
"I am. Why shouldn't I be? Eh?" 
He smiled, no, he smirked, and said "Only you can know that."


That's when I began the familiar process of comparison. The monster soon would slope away to torment someone else [for which I would be grateful], leaving behind him a slimy trail of innuendo, but he was hard at work on me presently. The odious process kick started itself. Every bit of life and work was examined and found wanting. Although 100 people love me, they love someone else better. Although lots of people like my work, they like the work of other people more. Although I am clever, there are cleverer. Although I am paranoid, some are far more paranoid than I. Everything is fuel for the fire. 

When I tell friends and colleagues that this is what I do on a regular, and very self-indulgent, basis, they assume that I am looking for sympathy. They are not wrong. It's an odd kind of sympathy though. I want them to allay my jealousy by telling me how absolutely marvellous I am.

Jealousy is an unquenchable fire which feeds on highly toxic and volatile insecurity. But it also feeds on a realisation that this insecurity is borne of a knowledge that, deep down, there is truth in the suspicion that there is someone more lovable than I, better at my job than I am, cleverer than I and far more dramatically paranoid.

My friend doesn't worry about this stuff any more. He says this state of mind comes with the attainment of a bus pass. Only ten years to go then.

Those who live by the sword are also supposed to die by it. A truism, truly. 

I remember as a child hoping against hope that I would be famous. At first I wanted to be the next David Broome, a show-jumper who rode the curiously named, but very effective chestnut horse Mr Softee. I could think of nothing I wanted more. Public acclaim for doing what I loved most in the world. I believed that with success would come recognition, acclamation even, devotion exceptionally, all of which would contribute to ultimate self-validation. Of course I didn't think of it in those terms then, I just wanted to be famous and for people to recognise me in the street and ask me for my autograph.

Bizarrely, for a sane individual, which I believe myself to be, although the ambition to be a show-jumper receded, the desire to be famous didn't. All through my youth and teenage years I aspired to it - firstly as a jockey, the equine theme continuing as John Francome replaced David Broome as my hero, then as a conductor with the glamorous Carlo Maria Guilini taking on the heavy mantle of my adulation. I never wanted to be a pop or rock singer nor a statesman. Frankly who wanted to look like Marc Bolan or Harold Wilson? I toyed with the idea of TV celebrity and found it not unattractive.

Too lazy to be a proper academic I failed to gain access to Oxbridge [to my parents' chagrin] and tumbled into drama as a relatively easy option. Despite the insecurity of transition from successful public school career through late teenage failure to salvation in the cod and herring rich atmosphere of Kingston upon Hull, complete with its independent telephone company and white phone boxes, the flame was still alight - just.

A course which kept insisting it was non-vocational, but whose alumni include so many who have gone into 'the industry' in one form or another simply fanned the flames. After graduation and consistent work in theatre and radio as an actor I achieved my lifetime's ambition and became famous as a regular character in The Bill. People did recognise me in the street and they did ask me for my autograph. I was even once on the front cover of the TV Times. 

And that was when it began to pall. How could I have wanted this? People criticized me and tried to knock me down. I remember a particularly cruel cartoon in the paper which gave me a double chin. I was affronted. Here I was giving pleasure [I thought] to millions and they were having a go!  Gradually the appeal of celebrity waned and died. The flame went out. Luckily. For after six years I was written out and celebrity was automatically withdrawn.

That was over thirty years ago. I've had modest success since but have been happy to languish in relative obscurity. There are enough people around ready to have a pop without sticking one's head above the parapet.

Until someone decided to make a TV programme about Arts funding and featured me quite a lot - there was even a picture of me as a policeman all those years ago. It was bizarre experience which culminated in a programme in which I felt misrepresented and, yes I'll use the word, betrayed by the programme makers. 

But then what did I expect? It is TV and those who live by the sword usually die by it as well.

Luckily it was screened over the Jubilee weekend and was scheduled against the final of The Voice so it is probably safe to come out already!