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11th of January 2016. It's not to disparage David Bowie, but if even a fraction of the tributes being paid to him and his influence

were true, we would never have had a conservative government or indeed any government at all.

Hearing the news on the Today programme this morning, Rupert nearly cries.

I met Bowie only once at John Sledinger sometime in the 1980s, and remember him

as a slight, almost colourless figure, who was somehow Scots. A friend calls later and recalls how

someone he knew picked up Bowie when he was still David Jones.

He offered to come around, bringing his guitar as he wanted to try out some songs.

They had sex, and then he wanted to play.

Only his host pleaded another appointment and sent him away.

How long after this it was that Bowie had his breakthrough, I'm not sure.

Fifteenth of January, Alan Rickman dies.

In the first week of the rehearsals for the habit of art my play at the National in 2009,

Michael Gambon, playing Orden, was taken ill,

and rushed at St Thomas's. He recovered quite quickly, and indeed got out of the ambulance,

saying, I know what they're all doing now, sitting up in the canteen recasting,

which indeed we were, with my first thought, Alan Wigman, I suppose because the rasping quality in his voice echoed Auden's harsh tones. However, because Richard Griffiths

was available and indeed anxious to play the part, the role went to him. Emergency casting

sessions such as the one Gambon knew we were holding,

are always mildly hysterical and often very funny.

As assorted names, often wildly unsuitable, are put forward,

with the actors reacting variously,

...