Julian Lloyd Webber: That's no pianist, sadly that's my wife

So many readers enjoyed the round-up of my favourite musical jibes that I have come up with a few more. As usual, conductor Sir Thomas Beecham leads the way. Sadly, Sir Thomas' opinion of his pianist wife Betty Humby Beecham's playing was none too high.

After they had performed a Mozart concerto together, the orchestral manager asked Beecham whether he wanted the piano taken off the platform before the start of the second half. "Oh, you may as well leave it," replied Sir Thomas, "it'll probably slink off on its own anyway."

German conductor Otto Klemperer provided a useful insight into the music profession when a friend of his was lamenting how many great conductors had died that year. Lugubriously, he began to list their names. "Ja, ja," interrupted the irritable Klemperer, "it's been a good year, hasn't it?"

Another maestro, Arturo Toscanini, was renowned for his temper. During one fraught rehearsal, he flung his baton to the ground and yelled at the orchestra: "When I die I will return to Earth as the doorman of a brothel and I won't let you in!"

Instrumentalists have their moments too. The great composer and pianist Sergei Rachmaninov gave some memorable concerts with violinist Fritz Kreisler, but the duo did not get on too well backstage. Midway through a Beethoven sonata in New York, Kreisler - who was playing from memory - forgot the music. Rachmaninov, however, had the music on his piano stand.

In a desperate attempt to recover his place, Kreisler began to creep behind Rachmaninov to try to catch a glimpse of the music over his shoulder. Still he could not find his place. "Where are we?" he whispered frantically. "Carnegie Hall," replied Rachmaninov.

* How much say does the average concert-goer have in the music they hear? Or in who plays it? The answer is: none. The music we hear in the concert hall - and the performers who play it - are chosen by the orchestra's conductor.

Make no mistake, if a composer falls out of fashion with conductors they will not be performed, no matter how much the public likes their music.

Take Delius. At one time a generation of Britain's finest conductors - Beecham, Sargent, Barbirolli - loved his music. Now nobody seems to. Perhaps Sir Simon Rattle could be persuaded to take a Walk To the Paradise Garden in Berlin? * What should you do if your musical child suddenly refuses to practise? Should he or she be forced to play all those boring scales and arpeggios?

Music educationalists have argued for years about the desirability of parental input into their offspring's practising. My feeling is that a child has to love music enough to want to express themselves on their chosen instrument and that means enduring all those painful hours of practice.

Perhaps, if they are finding the going a bit tough, a little gentle parental persuasion is in order, but forcing them to practise is more than likely to put a child off music for life. * The days when a soloist could turn up, play the concerto and be 30km back down the road before the orchestra had even returned to the platform for the second half have long since disappeared.

Nowadays, something more akin to blood is required. You need to give a pre-concert talk, meet a group of schoolchildren who play whichever instrument you play during the interval, and attend a sponsors' dinner afterwards.

All of which is fair enough, I suppose, in these cash-strapped times for the arts. But there are occasions after a concert when all you want to do is sit somewhere quietly on your own.

Especially when - as happened to me - you have just discovered a magnificent hostelry near the hall serving ale from the cask and a juicy, chewy, succulent welsh rarebit over the bar.

So I am not ashamed to say I made my excuses to the assembled masses: "I am so tired and I must be fresh for tomorrow's rehearsal," I said, and set off happily to the pub.

Several pints and a couple of rarebits later and my reveries were interrupted by a stout tap on my shoulder. The sponsors had finished their meal and arrived at the pub for a little nightcap.