Ideas pitched by the actor down the years that never got the green light are brilliantly recast here as wry short stories… and a script

Not so long ago, Rupert Everett was sitting outside Bar Italia in Frith Street in Soho when the conga line of Hare Krishnas that frequents this part of London appeared from around a corner, jingling their bells like “transcendental morris dancers”. In days gone by, Everett would sometimes recognise a face en route to nirvana: “club world crashes” of his acquaintance often repaired to the Krishnas’ cafeteria, the better, as he puts it, to swap their methamphetamine for cucumber raita. But on this afternoon, he saw no one familiar until, just as the line was about to disappear again, he suddenly caught sight of a producer he’d last seen at the London office of a Hollywood studio.

“Rupert!” exclaimed this man, tambourine in hand. And then: “Hare, hare, hare!” – words that could hardly have been more doleful in context. The fellow in question, a straight white guy of a certain age, had been fired by the studio and, at a complete loss as to what to do next, had duly taken his place in this apricot-tinged, dhoti-wearing human caravan, eager to help broadcast its message of peace, love and saag aloo. Briefly, the two of them talked of a script of Everett’s – it had been rejected by the same studio – and then the line moved off again, until it was only a “swaying smudge” heading towards Chinatown.