From Dewsbury to the stars

What does superstardom look like? Well, nothing at all. Like anonymity personified. The seriously big celebs, the ones for whom walking down the street is either irksome or potentially hazardous, develop a knack for blending into the background. When Patrick Stewart arrives to meet me at the Young Vic, I scarcely notice him. The jacket and scarf are regulation winter­wear. His blue jeans are unexceptional, and his natty trilby is hoiked downwards to conceal his face. Only when he lifts the brim and reaches out to shake my hand does the sonorous magnitude of Sir Patrick coalesce, like magic, before me.

He apologises for arriving 45 seconds late and sits down to sip coffee and eat a chocolate croissant. ‘Bingo,’ he begins. ‘Bingo is a lifelong obsession. Whenever I used to meet theatre producers, here or in the United States, where I lived for 17 years, they’d say, “Is there anything you want to do, Patrick?” And always, always, I would say, “Bingo”.