A Comedy of Errors | An Evening with James Purefoy in Somerset

James Purefoy in conversation at Lamyatt Village Hall

First impressions

Before I set off for Lamyatt Village Hall, I wasn’t entirely sure I knew who James Purefoy was.

Then I Googled him.

Oh. That James Purefoy.

One of those faces you instantly recognise once prompted

One of those actors who doesn’t shout about his fame but has quietly been everywhere. Hollywood films, major TV dramas, Shakespeare. The kind of face you instantly recognise once prompted, like a word that sits on the tip of your tongue until someone else says it out loud.

Lamyatt Village Hall and Take Art were hosting Custard Pies & Curtain Calls, an evening of conversation with James Purefoy, Somerset born and bred. Taunton born, raised around Yeovil and Martock, former hospital porter, Royal Shakespeare Company actor, global career. The full arc.

And I was heading there with my brand new microphone, about to conduct my first ever celebrity interview.

No pressure.

The microphone situation

The microphone arrived earlier that day...

My brand new microphone. Confidence sold separately.

...in a box roughly the size of a microwave, containing a box the size of a shoe, containing a microphone the size of my confidence at that moment. Excitement and mild panic set in immediately.

I left the house with a windscreen that had technically been cleaned, but only in the sense that it had been smeared into a more abstract interpretation of 'clear'. I decided lateness was worse than impaired vision and drove on.

After Bruton, the roads narrowed, then narrowed again, until they stopped feeling like roads at all and became something closer to compacted mud with grass growing down the middle. Darkness closed in. No stars. No houses. Just the quiet realisation that if anything went wrong, I would simply become part of rural Somerset.

Eventually, Lamyatt Village Hall appeared. Warm. Lit. Reassuringly real.

Lamyatt Village Hall by day (not quite so daunting at night!

Canapés before courage

Inside, I introduced myself to Lisa, one of the organisers, who kindly offered to introduce

me to James. She was busy, so I did the sensible thing and went in search of canapés.

Excellent decision. Tostadas, pâté, Marmite swirl biscuits, black olive tapenade. Possibly. I was distracted.

Then I spotted James. He spotted me. He was walking towards me.

I did what any composed professional would do and slightly intercepted him.

'Hi, I’m Becky from the When if Frome podcast. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions before the talk?'

He said of course. Warm. Open. Immediately disarming.

My brain, however, promptly left the building.

The interview that wasn’t

I forgot to introduce where we were. I forgot to introduce who I was with. I forgot, briefly, how to pronounce his name. James very kindly coached me through the basics of interviewing while I nodded as if this was all part of the plan.

Then my phone rang.

I declined the call instantly. What I did not realise was that even declining a call while recording in Hindenburg stops the recording entirely.

So when James wandered off to mingle and I checked my audio, I found fifteen seconds. Fifteen seconds of me explaining that I needed to start again, and James gently explaining how introductions work.

A masterclass. Sadly unrecorded.

Mortified, I told Lisa, who said, with great calm, 'Oh don’t worry. Just do it again.'

So I did what any sane person would do and went back to James to explain that the interview had not recorded and ask if we could redo it later. I fully expected mild irritation. Instead, after a flicker of something I probably imagined, he said yes. After the talk.

An unexpectedly funny evening

The talk itself was wonderful. The room laughed constantly. He was funny in a way I hadn’t expected from someone whose roles skew serious. Stories about his mother, his garden, his veg patch. A man who has worked all over the world and is now quite content back in Somerset. There was something grounding about that.

During the interval, I attempted a vox pop with a man who had once worked with James when he was a hospital porter. Rookie error number several hundred. I had too many canapés, too much to hold, and put my microphone down on a windowsill. I then conducted the interview holding my phone like a microphone instead.

The recording was, generously, 'usable'.

The second interview attempt (and a spilt drink)

By the time the Q&A finished, the audience had asked every question I had originally planned. The woman running the Q&A nodded towards me at the end, clearly signalling that James needed to come and talk to me again.

He stood up, walked towards me, and then time slowed down in that sort of Disney cartoon way knocked over my glass of water directly into my bag.

Perfect.

After much apologising and faffing, we finally recorded a second interview. This one was better. Looser. The talk had sparked new questions, more local ones. About Frome. About Somerset. About why he likes being here.

'Come on,' he said when I asked what he loves about Frome. 'Don’t be silly. What’s not to love?'

Leaving with exactly what I needed

In his fisherman’s jumper, raising money for village halls across Somerset through a series of talks, James Purefoy felt exactly right for that room. Human. Unshowy. Funny. Present.

I left with wet belongings, a bruised ego, a salvaged recording, and the sense that I’d been part of something quietly lovely. Not just a talk, but a reminder that fame does not have to be loud, and that good stories often happen in village halls, on muddy roads, with imperfect equipment.

And that sometimes, even when everything goes slightly wrong, you can still get exactly what you needed.

Listen to the interview

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