I came across Lynne Perrie many moons ago, when she was a singer on the
Northern "pie and mash" circuit. (In the south I suppose you'd call it
'cabaret', but obviously without the spit 'n sawdust, not to mention
the occasional splash of blood across the walls). She was the
archetypal 'little belter', and rumour has it that she once opened for
the Beatles.
Her role in Kes - art imitating life, to tell you the truth - was the
best thing she ever did, and old 'Champagne' Perrie had great hopes for
the future: Hedda Gabler; Queen Elizabeth the First; Anna Karenina -
you name it, she planned to play it. Rumour has it that she was even
earmarked to play the predatory l*sbian Mercy Croft in "The Killing of
Sister George", but had to decline because of a fish allergy.
And then came the Street and the plum role of Ivy Tilsley. From the
outset, "La Perrie" as she liked to be known, considered herself the
star of the show. "Renee," she used to say - because we were on first
name terms - "I've walked many a street in my time, but there's no
street like My Street." For the first few years, "Girly" (an epithet
given to her by a drunken Ringo Starr, apparently) was riding high, the
veritable toast of Manchester. Gradually, however, she began to develop
a rather spooky supernatural side, claiming that her dressing room was
haunted by the ghost of 19th century explorer Mungo Park, and that the
spirits of a number of famous actresses were trying to channel through
her. "Renee," she used to say, "Thank your lucky stars that you're a
nobody. It's no fun being famous when you've got Flora Robson inside
you, arguing with Cicely Courtnedge."
And then the drink took hold, and the wild parties. (Well, I say
'drink', but I'm not sure whether Zoflora actually passes as alcohol).
Soon, burning the candle at both ends reduced poor Lynne to a shell of
a woman, and she realised that she was going nowhere fast. Nor was she
getting any younger, which is where the disastrous collagen lip job
came in. "Renee," she said, just hours before she went in for the
procedure, "thank your lucky stars you're not beautiful, because
retaining that beauty always comes with a price."
Two days later, she was called into the producer's office. She phoned
me later that afternoon. "Eeny," she said, "E uckin astas a iyin a ki
e!"
No, I didn't understand either, and that was the last time she ever
rang me. The next time I saw her was on satellite TV, putting a man's
p*nis in her mouth.
Ivy Tilsley/Lynne Perrie RIP - we shall never see your like again.
your friend,
Renee