A cone of white light appeared around Lesley like a spotlight from an invisible lamp. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she called, ‘boys and girls. I think it’s time to go out and play.’

One of my mum’s uncles once had tickets to Arsenal v Spurs at Highbury, and took me when his own son couldn’t make it. We were down among season-ticket holders, the hardest of the hard core football fans who went there for the game, not the violence. Being in a crowd like that is like being caught in the tide – you might try going in the other direction but it drags you along all the same. It was a dull game, style wise, and looked to be heading for a nil – nil draw when suddenly, in injury time, Arsenal made a late surge. As they got into the penalty area I swear the whole stadium, sixty thousand people, held their breath. When the Arsenal forward put it in the back of the net I found myself screaming with joy along with the rest of the people around me. It was entirely involuntary.

That’s what it felt like when Henry Pyke let the audience loose at the Royal Opera House. I must have let go of the curtain and fallen the last couple of metres, but I only know that I was suddenly lying on the stage with a shooting pain in my ankle and a sudden desire to smash someone’s face in. I pulled myself to my feet and found myself face to disfigured face with Lesley.

I flinched. Up close, the ruin of Lesley’s face was even harder to deal with. My eyes kept sliding away from the grotesque caricature. On either side of her stood the principal cast, all male, all tense and, except for the boyish baritone, much tougher-looking than you’d expect among practitioners of high culture.

‘Are you all right?’ she squeaked. ‘You had me worried there.’

‘You tried to hang me,’ I said.

‘Peter,’ said Henry Pyke. ‘I never wanted you dead. Over the last few months I’ve come to think of you as less of an arch-enemy and more as the comic relief, the slightly dim character that comes on with the dog and does a funny turn while the real thespians are getting changed.’

‘I notice Charles Macklin didn’t make an appearance,’ I said.

The Punch nose twitched. ‘No matter,’ said Lesley. ‘The gout-ridden bastard can’t hide for ever.’

‘And in the meantime, we …’ it was a good question. ‘What are we doing?’ I asked.

‘We are playing our role,’ said Lesley. ‘We are Mr Punch, the irrepressible spirit of riot and rebellion. It is our nature to cause trouble, just as it is your nature to try and stop us.’

‘You’re killing people,’ I said.

‘Alas,’ said Lesley. ‘All art requires sacrifice. And take it from one who knows – death is more of a bore than a tragedy.’