Write to James Leavey

Many years ago, when I was a young drama student in London, I decided to quit my habit of smoking four packs of cigarettes a day – I simply couldn't afford it.  A week later, the principal gave me the role of a cigar-smoking producer in Noel Coward’s comedy, ‘Present Laughter’.  The play’s director, who was working for the British TV and film mogul – the late, great, cigar aficionado, Lord Lew Grade – used to hand me a double corona every night, just before I went on, which he borrowed from Lord Grade's humidor. Which is how I found myself being weaned off cigarettes with Havana cigars.

 At that time, lovers of fine comedy and drama were not allowed to light up their favourite tube of tobacco in any of Britain’s theatre auditoriums, although most still allowed smoking in the foyer and bar. This situation has grown worse in recent years, especially on Broadway, where some theatres would prefer you didn’t smoke in the street outside, never mind in the crush bar during the interval.

 Jump forward to one non-matinee afternoon, a couple of years ago, when I found myself trying not to set fire to the set of ‘Guys and Dolls’ at the Royal National Theatre in London.  It was a brilliant production – the show, not the cigar - that later toured the UK and, I believe, other parts of the world.

 Niall O’Reilly, the South Bank theatre company’s fire and security manager, was standing to my right, collecting the residue from my cigar in a large glass ashtray. On my left was Alan Davies, one of the theatre’s twelve fire persons (at that time, they employed eleven men, and one woman), with a bucket of sand.

They had earlier informed me that Frank Loesser’s famous musical was probably the most smoker-friendly production in Britain.  Fifteen herbal cigarettes, a couple of joints, and Harry the Horse’s Havana were smoked during every performance.

“Is it true that an actor can smoke on a British stage,” I projected into the empty auditorium, “only if at least one fireman or firewoman is in the wings with a fire extinguisher?”

O’Reilly looked at me, resisted the urge to light up another cigarette, and replied, “Yes, according to the large book of rules left to us by the former Greater London Council, a copy of which you can see in my office.”

“And yet,” I continued, grateful for the fact that these two kind-hearted stalwarts had allowed me to smoke on their beloved stage, “as a member of the audience I cannot light up anywhere in your auditorium, even though I may enjoy the occasional waft of tobacco smoke across the footlights if I’m sitting in the front row of the stalls?”

“Not unless the director directs you to do so,” replied O’Reilly, “having requested me to fill in the details on a special form.”

Davies, the fireperson, then explained that smoking is only allowed on Britain’s stages if it is a necessary part of the dramatic action.  It is even banned from the wings, except, apparently, when it soothes the First Night nerves of world famous actors.

“I’ve seen Anthony Hopkins puff a cigarette just before he goes on,” admitted Davies, “but I didn’t want to be the person to tell him to stub it out and put him off his stroke.”