Jeffrey Bernard Is Unwell

The columnist is imagined on one of his leavetakings. Stuck in a pub after closing, from five in the morning until the landlord arrives at his beck, he gulps vodka and seltzer (Bloody Mary for breakfast) and reminisces with a small troupe of actors who play the various parts of his colloquy.

Old Vic from the stalls and occasionally the stage, O’Toole in his element, absolutely.