The first night of Ann Jellicoe’s The Sport of My Mad Mother at the Royal Court in the spring of 1958 was a truly riotous affair. I was one of the original cast, alongside Wendy Craig, Philip Locke, Sheila Ballantine and Avril Elgar. We wore leather and spoke blank verse and street rhymes with cockney accents. We constituted the most avant-garde gang that had ever appeared in the English theatre. We loved the play, although we were mystified by parts of it. Ann directed it with the help of George Devine, who was convinced that it would be a triumphant success.
The shouts of “Rubbish!” began pretty early in the evening, and the sound of seats being slammed accompanied us as the play proceeded. Ann came backstage in the interval to assure us we were doing wonderfully. We returned to the fray, to an audience determined to mock and humiliate us. At the curtain call, a few brave souls cheered our efforts, but they were drowned out by the concerted booing. We felt wretched, but Ann was exhilarated. “It’s like the first performance of Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring,” she said. “You can’t ask better than that.”
