Last night, an extraordinary happened at the theatre. The place is Plovdiv, in Bulgaria, reportedly the oldest city in Europe, estimated 5000-6000 BC.

I am sitting in the Roman amphitheatre that hosts ballets, opera, concerts and, for this night only, the musical Jesus Christ Superstar, by Tim Rice (lyrics) and Andrew Lloyd Webber (music).

It is a clear sky with many visible stars, and I ponder how many Romans have sat in my seat, witnessing the entertainment of their day.

The enormity of history – not to mention the irony of the subject being acted out in a city thousands of years before the world had even heard of him and yet bearing the ‘BC’.

I am two rows from the front, in the middle, and the music strikes up. I weep. And I mean, really, really weep. Not because I am sad, or happy; my body just goes into an involuntary state of reaction at so many levels.

Blimey. Jesus hasn’t even hit Gethsemane yet and I’m already a wreck.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that what followed was sublime: the most extraordinary theatrical experience of my life, and I will never forget it.

Before coming on to the show, there are some things you need to know about me and theatre.

I hate it. My dear friend and, the late Jack Tinker, adored it with a passion I have never witnessed in any critic in any genre. When he died in 1996, I lost a dear friend, but the world lost a heart that beat with what it was born to love: the seductive rhythm of live theatre.

It was never for me. I’m a TV person and, I’m afraid, prefer to sit on my fat arse with a curry and a bottle of wine watching Murder, She Wrote, in an environment in which I can press pause, go to the loo, put the kettle on, make a phone call etc.

To me, the theatre is very stressful. I don’t like the queues. Going in. Getting out. Queues for the bars. Queues for the toilets.

Then there are the seats. I am just five feet tall, and yet always manage to get the theatregoers’ equivalent of Lurch sitting in front me.

And the sweet eaters, wrestling with boiled sweet wrappers, syncopating their movements in an attempt to appear inconspicuous but sounding as if they’re bombing Russia.

But here’s the biggie. The talkers. Just shut it, people!

I once went to see Scrooge in a theatre and had the misfortune to sit next to child of about seven with her mother.

Every time someone walked on stage, she enquired ‘Is that a ghost?’ On and on and on. ‘Is that a ghost?’ ‘Is that a ghost?’ ‘Is that a ghost?’

I couldn’t take it. ‘Look, there are only three fucking ghosts and I’ll tell you when they come on, okay?’

I was hastily moved to a box. By myself.

I recall William Wycherly’s The Country Wife in Bath, where two old ladies sat in the front row, rustling their goddamned sweet papers, awaiting what the production, according to the programme, appeared to be about to deliver: green fields, flowers, sweet people.

The writer or director had decided to add a monologue, delivered by the lead, a black actor. He entered the stage with great presence, delivered his speech and, at the end, the ladies said, very loudly, in unison, boiled sweets poised at the ready . . . ‘OH, NO.’

I have no idea how that actor ever made it back for the rest of the play.

I happen to love the musical Blood Brothers, but that was ruined by a coach party from Newport, sitting in front of me. Just at the crucial emotional moment (*spoiler alert* here), when a gun is raised, the woman in front of me, Welsh accent at full barrels also, cries out: ‘Oooh, bloody ’ell nawwwww! ’E’s gonna shoot ’im!’

And don’t even get me started on the tedium that was Tom Stoppard’s award-winning play Liebfraumilch or whatever it was called.

I’m not such a Philistine that I hate all theatre. I saw Mark Rylance in Much Ado About Nothing when the Globe reopened, and I knew I was in the presence of greatness. Likewise, when I saw Joss Ackland play Falstaff in Henry IV Part One (my favourite Shakespeare play). Never have I seen that part played with such a heartbreaking sense of abandonment when Hal, soon to be king, casts him out as a bit of frivolity who has no place in his future life. This was 1982, when Joss’s eldest son had just died of a heroin overdose, and I am sure the pain of loss was at the heart of that performance.

But back to last night. I happen to love musical theatre, probably in no small part to my having been a member of the first National Youth Theatre of Wales in 1976. We performed Oh! What a Lovely War and I sang I’ll Make a Man of Any One of You. Clearly worked, because every man in my life buggered off to pastures new. Make a wimp, if you want to keep them, that’s what I say.

And back to last night. Before I stand accused of bias, I confess to being a friend of Tim Rice. We’ve known each other for decades after we appeared on a Channel 4 quiz show together and I’ve always been a huge fan. He even tolerated me when, with my dear friend Susan Boyd, we decided, after many wines, that what he did was a piece of piss and we could do it easily.

We spent hours writing our musical on a napkin and rang him to tell him about it – and sing it. How we are still friends is a tribute to a true gentleman.

So . . . I happen to love Jesus Christ Superstar. Although brought up Christian (and I was once a lay preacher), I have zero beliefs now. I am fine with Christ being an historical figure, albeit a bit of a weirdo, but as for the Son of God, crap . . . well, there is no God, so I don’t have to think about that one (I recommend you watch Ricky Gervais’s The Invention of Lying as a brilliant indicator of how this nonsense came about).

I’d always focused upon the ‘Jesus Christ’ bit of the musical, because he is, after all, the subject of the show. But last night, in a production that was as visually spectacular as it was emotionally moving, I saw something else: the notion of the ingredients that come together in the mix to lavish upon someone the accolade of superstardom.

I realised it’s always been there in the lyrics, but revisiting the show in 2024, it took on a new resonance. As ‘Swiftians’ hit the headlines on a daily basis, worshiping their idol, Taylor Swift, I was struck by the ‘Christians’ comparison. A cult following.

If you gather enough disenfranchised, dissatisfied people in one place at one time, what do they crave? A hero. And a hero with a unique talent. For one, it’s singing; for another, turning water into wine. I know which side I’m on,

There was a moment in the production, with a crowd waving drawings of Jesus as they went hysterical for even just a glimpse of him, that just hit home.

People are needy, and they are especially needy in a crowd of like-minded individuals who all want the same thing (someone to look up to) – and are united against a common enemy (authorities).

Over 50 years after its premiere on Broadway in October 1971, the show, for me, has taken on new resonance and meaning. That’s what all great theatre should do, but it’s not the norm for musical theatre. Hamilton is an exception, I suppose. Hate it, by the way, but that’s not to say I don’t value its importance and appeal.

The staging of JCS in Plovid was in keeping with the spirit of the physicality of the amphitheatre – three tube like rows down to the central stage, as if they, too, were part of the seat upon seat staging of the auditorium.

Individuals in caged boxes appeared behind the tubes, lit quite spectacularly and forming a beautiful contrast to the calm of the clear night sky.

The Last Supper was ingeniously staged with nothing more than a sheet (no wine, but hey, you can’t have everything. Where are Jesus’s miracles when you need them?).

Under 24 hours on, I can’t stop thinking about it. How does history create its superstars? Over 50 years ago, when Rice and Lloyd Webber wrote Jesus Christ Superstar, Swiftians were not born; social networking did not exist.

But this is a show that, aside from the poignant lyrics (  think I Don’t Know How to Love Him is one of the greatest songs of all time) recognised the nature of stardom way before its time – the need for it, the dangers of it and, ultimately the sacrifice that some make for it.

It is a testament to our times.

And, can I tell you, it was great, great theatre.