A man of many parts

‘Heroin?’ I say to Simon Russell Beale. ‘Sorry?’ he says. ‘To relax after a show. To come down off the high. You take heroin?’ ‘Oh yes, yes,’ he says. ‘Yes… if only. Well, as you can probably tell from my shape I like my beer. I can’t imagine a performance without a pint or two afterwards.’ ‘Which brand?’ ‘Oh cheap stuff. Stella or Export, yes, cheap as chips, cooking lager.’

The man widely regarded as the finest theatrical talent of his generation has surprisingly simple tastes. Before we met I’d expected an imposing physical presence and some hint of the fierce energies he can unleash on stage, but Simon Russell Beale is small and unobtrusive, rather cuddly looking and very softly spoken.

I find him tucked away in a demure corner of the National Theatre café in a low-visibility overcoat, reading the Guardian. He has a fine mop of ash-grey hair and wears Reggie Kray-style specs with black frames which give him a faint resemblance to Charlie Whelan.