There was once a great actor named Sir Warwick Hunt, who lived behind the gas works on Clegg Street, next to ‘er with dirty curtains. He had a monumental problem.
Stage fright had manifested itself. He could no longer remember his lines. His shed had gorn. In short, there was air getting in. The modem was lit, but he was not online.
Finally, after many years he finds a theatre where they are prepared to give him a chance to shine again. The limelight beckoned and Sir Warwick couldn’t resist. Oh! The roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd. Wahee!
The director says,
"This is the most important part, and it has
only one line, you must walk on to the stage
carrying a rose, you must hold the rose
with just one finger and your thumb to your nose,
sniff the rose deeply and then say the line
‘Ah, the sweet aroma of my mistress.’"
The actor is thrilled. All day long before the play
he’s practicing his line over and over again.
Finally the time came.
The curtain went up, the actor walked onto the stage,
and with great passion delivered the line;
"Ah, the sweet aroma of my mistress."
The theatre erupted, the audience was screaming
with laughter and the director was steaming!
"You bloody fool!" he cried, "You have ruined me!"
The actor was bewildered,
"What happened, did I forget my line?"
"NO!" the director screamed,
"YOU FORGOT THE BLOODY ROSE!"
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