Actors should never read reviews. At least, that’s what they taught me at drama school. Why bother? Critics, by definition of their profession, are poxy, parasitic failures. Why read something negative? It might upset you. You might even take it on board and jeopardise your finely balanced Hamlet — why risk contamination of your art?

Actors still like criticism, of course. About other people — friends, in particular. “It’s wonderful when it isn’t you,” said John Gielgud, and it really can be. I have wallowed in deeply poisonous passages written about some of my dearest pals. It’s one of my most repulsive traits. But it isn’t niche. Relishing the criticism of others is broadly universal.

I never needed to be told to ignore reviews. Like most world leaders worth their salt, I have tended to dismiss all critics out of hand — from the cricket master who disparaged my batting technique as stylish but woolly to the guy from Time Out who called me “l(fā)ong and weedy”, to my very first driving instructor. And looking back, I was right. Except perhaps with the driving.