Interview with Henry Goodman

Photo shows Henry Goodman in Duet for One at the Almeida Theatre. By Bridget Jones

Henry Goodman is one of those actors whose faces you know, but whose names you don't.

I was lucky enough to interview him recently for work. It was over the phone, so I can't really say I've met him. However, he was pretty much charming, as well as worried he hadn't prepared, happily ready to giggle when he'd got a good answer for me, and finally, the victim of distraction.

There are so many fascinating things about carrying out interviews. (I don't think I'll ever get bored of it.)

The more you do, the more you learn, of course. This time's lesson was never, ever say "One last question...". By the time I'd finished my flawed final intro, his attention was gone, and the answer he gave was rambling and useless. Lesson learnt.

My previous lesson was to do as much research as you possibly can. (Yes, yes, I know. I should know this already.) Speaking to Jenna Russell, she told me about her husband being in Women Beware Women at the National, a show I'd seen. But I totally didn't know she was married to one of the leads: Raymond Coulthard. Oops.

So, I read and read and read about Henry. For once, I felt completely sure I'd done enough research to handle anything that came up in the interview. Ask me something about this Mr Goodman now, chances are I'll know the answer.

Was I able to talk to him about being a twin? Being born on Shakespeare's birthday? Being fired from a Broadway show? Whether his schizophrenic father had influenced his career choice? If his friendship with Imelda Staunton is as strong as it was last year? If he felt with this latest role has enhanced or lessened his feelings about being typecast as a Jew?

Nope, but that's the funny thing about the way we interview at work. The "My London" question formats are pretty much grown-up Smash Hits, to be honest. Favourites. Best. Most, etc. Sometimes I think I might as well be asking which is their fave member of Take That...

But I'm not saying that's a bad thing. Chances are Henry Goodman's been asked about his Jewishness before. And his twin. And his father.

Instead, I get the chance to get a giggle out of him while he's trying to explain his love for a yachting shop in Covent Garden. And when questions like that work, they're so much more satisfying. In this media-trained or, at least, media-savvy world, a slightly less common question can be nicely revealing of a real person behind the carefully presented persona.

Here's another picture of him looking a bit less serious as Sir Humphrey in Yes Prime Minister. Picture by Manuel Harlan

A Colourful Day in London Town

Firstly, I didn't realise you can get the 28 bus from just down the road at Wandsworth Town Station to Chelsea Football Club in 31 minutes. But that's what journeyplanner indicated at 8am this morning. The sun was shining, the pavements were skiddy with ice, and I was in an adventurous mood. It's nice going somewhere different in the mornings once in a while, especially if the weather's good.

Arrive at the bus stop as one shiny red 28 sped away from under the bridge: there is no way I am going to catch it. A damp wait for a second seems to take the edge of my mood. Under the bridge is just cold, wet, and you're well out of the sunshine. Once the bus finally arrives, as is stated in the Bus Impatience Law, all murderous, city-leaving, shit-climate-escaping thoughts disappear, and happiness is restored.

At the home of the Chelsea Blues (who am I kidding, I don't really know anything about the team, apart from their recent sacking of several managers), VL's hotshot, leaner, meaner, storming(!), norming digital team meet in a suite overlooking the pitch (it's less impressive than the one at Arsenal, where we spent our Christmas Party), and spend all day talking about what colour we are on Jung's personality spectrum.

(Sunshine Yellow, if you want to know: look out for enthusiasm, exuberance, exaggeration etc. Apologies if you're a Cool Blue, I don't mean to be rude.)

Followed by a rush into the West End to see Three Days of Rain, alone, as big sis has been struck down with a migraine.

A confession: I still struggle with London geography, and still get confused by the greeny / yellow District and Circle melange. So I struggle from Fulham Broadway to Embankment via a couple of hesitant, open-mouthed board reading moments (I still have a cold), and asking a friendly guard for help.

From Embankment, I hit The Strand. And realise I have no idea where Three Days is playing. Not at the Vaudeville; my first prediction, Piaf having closed. Up into Covent Garden, grabbing a londonpaper to check their listings with cold, awkward, maroon gloved hands by the blue lights of Carluccios. No information about theatre, the shits. From Carluccios through back passages, I get to St Martin's Lane, and the brash, yellow Avenue Q. Three Days must be playing at Duke of York's. That's where I saw Orlando; this one's got McAvoy. Nope, it's Ken Stott in A View from the Bridge. I snatch a London Shite from a bloke outside Pret, the gloves come off, and I finally find Three Days is on at the Apollo. Where I saw Josh Hartnett. So, up through the cheap bright shops and bars of Charing Cross Road, left into Shaftesbury Avenue, past Gerrard Street, the great red gate to China Town, and there, beyond the Lyric and Les Mis, is the Apollo.

Time to duck into the familiar welcoming orange of Satsuma for some solo sustenance.

Requesting a table for one, I'm placed next to a couple, and try, as lone diners do, to make little eye contact with anyone, so you don't get asked to join people who feel sorry for you / want to confess all / hope you'll provide them with conversation.

Glancing round carefully, I realise WG, herman and K are sitting right.next.to.me. An amazing coincidence. I'd asked her to take my spare ticket earlier, but she'd declined: going to see La Clique that night instead. So a solo dinner became a great chance to catch up with old flatmate, herman and mate. What a result.

The play is excellent. Fast, modern, clever, funny, involving, great acting, nice script. Odd, after the day I've had, to see the first three characters, with their striking personality types arguing over their Cool Blue architect father's lack of communication; one son's Earth Green touchy-feely hurt at not being included; a sister's attempt at Fiery Red management; and Nigel Harman's fun exuberant Sunshine Yellow: "I'm lucky. I feel bad; I go to the gym; I feel better. Everything's tolerable if you just talk about it." I'm sure it's not all that simplistic, but after nine hours solid of this stuff earlier in the day, I suppose my reaction's inevitable.

Once over, it's back into the magical shiny Shaftesbury, down to the Comedy Theatre, past that red hotel bar on the dodgy darkness of Whitcomb street, and out into the breath of fresh air that is Trafalgar Square at night. A bright white, practically full moon shines onto the National Gallery's comforting pillars from London's never-dark, murky-brown sky; beyond Nelson, the red (Valentine's) lights of the London Eye twinkle. In front, Thomas Schütte's Model for a Hotel glows that odd yellow from its place on the fourth plinth. Suddenly, unrequested green men are ushering me over the crossroads to Charing Cross, past a bloke playing Careless Whisper on the sax outside the station. Over the bridge, the National Theatre is lit in red and yellow, its Travelex season advertising echoing the rest of my day.

On the train, I sit and exchange smiles with an elderly, slightly anxious American couple poring over a theatre programme. For Joseph.

Joseph, and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

I close my eyes, and hope they don't catch me grinning.

Sir Michael Caine

And here's the results of the 4 minutes, 30 seconds of tape I got from the guy.

It was late by the time I was able to get my 4min 30secs. About 10pm. Sir Mike (as TG and I have been calling him) had already spoken to a radio station (Capital?), the Standard and London TV. LTV had also been filming the whole of the Standard interview. So, what with the large TV camera and all the questions, Sir Mike was already getting a little bored of all the slightly awkward journo attention, I could tell.

I really didn't want LTV to film me talking to him.

Luckily, LTV packed up their camera just before I was introduced to the man, otherwise, I'd've been fairly distracted by the fact that three or four of my colleagues were hanging around watching me, and filming me "work".

In the end, it was fine. Fun, even. Trying to make him laugh a bit, while keeping going with the questions, and hoping he wouldn't get annoyed, or bored. Which is what I suppose it's like talking to most people who are famous.

He talks in soundbites. He almost talks in SEO keywords. One sentence at a time. One word answers, almost. If I asked him for a reason, or to elaborate he'd give me one more sentence, then stop. Nothing extra, noting wasted, nothing superfluous. If he's media trained, it's from a time when 4 minutes 30 seconds is long enough to get exactly what you want out of an interviewee.

It turned out to be one of the quickest, easiest write-ups ever.

On another note, I didn't get a picture with him.

Opinion is divided on the issue: my Mum was extremely disappointed. A couple of people at work were surprised.

JC thinks I did the right thing: "You're either a fan, or you're working, a professional journalist."

I'm glad JC said that. I'd watched the photographers and the guy from the Standard pushing themselves and their cameras this way and that to get a shot with him, and I just felt a bit uncomfortable. I'd already taken a chunk of this guy's evening; why should I get any more? Plus, I was working.