The London Palladium

Okay, so I'm a few days late, chickens. I do apologise. There's just so much going on at the theatre that it's been impossible to write anything...

Oh, and just for the record, the tech is going very well, thank you. Friends in other shows keep calling and asking me what's going on, why are we so behind. Are they going to have to delay press night? Apparently it's spread round the West End quicker than when Richard Dreyfuss got the sack from The Producers that we're running ten days late, the set's not working and we're going to open late...

Not so. The set changes are seamless; beautiful, even. There's an air of relaxed calm about the place and the faces dotted sporadically amongst the sea of equipment in the stalls are contented. Carline, our director, manages to stay buoyant even when things are perhaps a little slower than anticipated. No, all things considered, a good tech.

But as soon as anything goes wrong, Witch'll be the first to tell you.

So. The Palladium...

For a start, its very name is grand. As a substance palladium is as precious as gold or platinum. Rare and lustrous and highly valuable. An apt title for a building steeped in glamour. It's no stranger to sparkle.

Even the stage door is glamorous. Huge cast iron gates crowned with the words London Palladium in gold paint and a rather grandiose sloping walkway lead you down to a pair of heavy wooden doors. Their brass handles must have brushed with more celebrity than Parkinson and Letterman put together.

There's something about those vast iron gates that screams importance. We're not tucked away down some rancid back alley, hidden from public view like the hired help. Oh no. At the Palladium we're worn proudly like a badge, paraded like pageant contestants as we walk down the ramp. As I walked towards the entrance on Great Marlborough Street I could hear the cheers of fans from days gone by ringing in my ears. I half expected someone to unroll a red carpet for me as I slipped through the gates.

Sadly no one did. I was brought back to reality with a sharp whiff of bins and the sight of disused paint pots and a forklift truck. There's nothing as humbling as the smell of garbage...

We're doing the Paul O'Grady show tomorrow, at the London Television Studios. I'll let you know how it goes. I'm hoping to bump into Phil and Fearn, but I'll settle for Buster the dog.