Peter Rhodes on accent discrimination, a bloody new play and the passing of a much-loved moggie

AND now over to the World at One (Radio 4) where Tony Blair will spend another 20 minutes telling us why a second EU referendum is a good idea. . . .

WE all love a good hard-luck story but Christopher Eccleston's tale of flat-vowel discrimination is enough to make your heart bleed. Eccleston claims he has been discriminated throughout his career and denied Shakespearean roles, on account of his North Country accent. He says: "You don’t hear many accents like me, and it’s discrimination and I loathe it." Indeed, when he heard the Royal Shakespeare Company was planning a new production of Macbeth, the former Dr Who actor felt obliged to write "an old fashioned letter" asking to be considered. Eeh, 'ecky thump, just imagine the trauma, the humiliation, the abject shame of having to write for a job, instead of being offered it. Anyroadup, Eccleston got the title role. You can put your hankies away now.

MEANWHILE, I can exclusively reveal that "gory" does not begin to describe the RSC's production of The Duchess of Malfi starting next month. The company has ordered 40 litres of fake blood for every performance of John Webster's grisly yarn. It will presumably end up in the local drains. I seem to see the River Avon foaming with much blood.

A SAD day. We had to take our old cat to be put to sleep. He was diagnosed with cancer six months ago and the day came came when he'd clearly had enough. I have written about him a few times. He was a fine cat, a big, noisy, self-confident tabby who hated other cats but adored human company. He'd recognise you 50 yards away and his thick, bent tail would shoot up like a signal as the talking began. He was a great talker. His conversation was a long, impassioned jumble of yowls and growls in a vast range of tones; sometimes you'd swear he was speaking English. He wandered into our house one Bonfire Night and was twice reunited with his legal owner who lived a mile away. But the cat kept coming back and the owner eventually gave him to us. The tabby had a name but we never used it. He was simply The Cat. Because he was so noisy, the house now seems terribly quiet. Because he was so perfectly camouflaged, I keep thinking I see him, flitting across the garden or on the log pile where he would sit and virtually vanish into the dappled, tabbyish shadows. He was a wanderer, often away for a few nights in the summer, and I never thought he'd stay long or live long. But he lived with us for nine years and it was a privilege to share that time not with a cat but with The Cat.