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A sermon before the university, King's College Chapel, Cambridge, 1st of June 2014.

Preaching is a hazard when writing plays.

One isn't supposed to preach and gets told off if one does.

Poets are allowed to, but not playwrights, who, if they have naked opinions, do better to clothe them in the decent ambiguities of their characters,

"'or conceal them in the sometimes all too thin thickets of the plot.

"'Just don't speak to the audience.'

"'I've always found this prohibition difficult.

"'John Gilgud, who was in my first play, thought talking to the audience was vulgar.

Then he was prevailed upon to try it, and thereafter would seldom talk to anybody else.

I understand this, and even in my most naturalistic plays, have contrived and relish the moments

when a character unexpectedly turns and addresses the house,

and, in a word, preaches.

This may be because as a boy and a regular worshipper at St. Michael's Headingley,

I heard a lot of sermons.

I also used to go to Saturday matinees at the Grand Theatre in Leeds, though on occasion the sermons were more dramatic than the

plays. This was particularly so when they were preached, as they quite often were, by visiting fathers

from the community of the resurrection at Merfield,

who were almost revivalist in their fervour and the spell they cast over the congregation.

So when, as a young man, I first had thoughts about what nowadays is called stand-up,

it's not surprising it took the form of a sermon.

Like all parodies, it was born out of affection and familiarity, and the Anglican services

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