and encouraging us to get involved. On one occasion we were in Istanbul and James came along with David and me for a look around the town. He says now that we were forever trying to give him the slip; I don’t remember it like that, but I do remember thinking that he was always around, a few yards behind us, puffing and panting as he caught up. In Venice he joined a group of us one lunchtime in the famous Harry’s Bar and we were asked to leave when our singing (in my opinion, our rather beautiful singing) disturbed some of the other customers.
In Venice with David. James is tagging along.
The first time I noticed his talent was when we were filming the scene where I realize that he’s the son I didn’t know I had. We were in a cabin, the windows covered up to simulate night, and I vividly remember playing the rather intimate, two-hander scene and thinking to myself, Bloody hell, he’s good! I’d better pull my socks up . Just at that moment the boat lurched violently one way, then the other, and a loud scraping sound was heard. We looked at each other in shock. That can’t be normal, can it? It wasn’t – we’d hit a rock. Opening the cabin door revealed crew members, normally the model of composure, panic-sticken and running through the narrow corridors. Within minutes, we were all up on deck wearing our life jackets. The official term is ‘mustering’, and we mustered with some degree of anxiety until being told that, while the boat wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon, we were in no immediate danger of sinking.
One night, while filming at the infested beach resort, we were walking back from a taverna together along a dusty road in the darkness. James was telling me how he wanted to write, but didn’t know how to start. I told him to just get on with it. I wonder if he did?
The last notable in this remarkable cast was a very young, slightly chubby and entirely unknown Russell Brand, playing one of the fans on the boat – more or less an extra, with maybe two lines. He was a remarkable boy even then, and would hold me spellbound on the deck each morning as he recounted his adventures of the previous night when he’d ventured off the ship and explored the seamier side of Istanbul.
‘I confidently predict that one day you will remake Dudley Moore’s Arthur .’
‘Her hand shot out from the darkness, a finger beckoning me onward … Should I enter hither? Behind me, gunshots filled the night air … I leapt on to a nearby canopy and began my escape across the rooftops of Istanbul …’
Listening to him tell these wonderfully vivid and absorbing tales, as the ship chugged on around the Mediterranean and the wind blew through our hair, was like watching Peter Pan flying around the rigging of Captain Hook’s Jolly Roger . Although he was just an extra on the shoot, I took the unprecedented step of predicting that he would one day be a big star. Well done, me.
Nineteen years earlier, I was continuing my mammoth daily bus journeys to school right through to the end of my time at Porthcawl Comprehensive, an occasion marked by spectacular failure at A level. This didn’t matter, as I’d really been staying on solely to enjoy more school shows and to keep on resitting O levels until I had the five required for a university grant. The A levels were never really needed. Academic historians might wish to note that I eventually walked away with O level passes in English Language, English Literature, Drama, Economics and Maths.
Throughout these long-distance commutes I was involved in the various unrequited yearnings detailed earlier in this book, and it was while on the bus that I would build up a modicum of confidence and belief that I might be in with a chance. This was due to the darkened plastic sheet that hung behind the driver’s cab, a device originally employed solely to separate the driver from his passengers but nowadays primarily used to protect the driver from his passengers. When
In Venice with David. James is tagging along.
The first time I noticed his talent was when we were filming the scene where I realize that he’s the son I didn’t know I had. We were in a cabin, the windows covered up to simulate night, and I vividly remember playing the rather intimate, two-hander scene and thinking to myself, Bloody hell, he’s good! I’d better pull my socks up . Just at that moment the boat lurched violently one way, then the other, and a loud scraping sound was heard. We looked at each other in shock. That can’t be normal, can it? It wasn’t – we’d hit a rock. Opening the cabin door revealed crew members, normally the model of composure, panic-sticken and running through the narrow corridors. Within minutes, we were all up on deck wearing our life jackets. The official term is ‘mustering’, and we mustered with some degree of anxiety until being told that, while the boat wouldn’t be going anywhere any time soon, we were in no immediate danger of sinking.
One night, while filming at the infested beach resort, we were walking back from a taverna together along a dusty road in the darkness. James was telling me how he wanted to write, but didn’t know how to start. I told him to just get on with it. I wonder if he did?
The last notable in this remarkable cast was a very young, slightly chubby and entirely unknown Russell Brand, playing one of the fans on the boat – more or less an extra, with maybe two lines. He was a remarkable boy even then, and would hold me spellbound on the deck each morning as he recounted his adventures of the previous night when he’d ventured off the ship and explored the seamier side of Istanbul.
‘I confidently predict that one day you will remake Dudley Moore’s Arthur .’
‘Her hand shot out from the darkness, a finger beckoning me onward … Should I enter hither? Behind me, gunshots filled the night air … I leapt on to a nearby canopy and began my escape across the rooftops of Istanbul …’
Listening to him tell these wonderfully vivid and absorbing tales, as the ship chugged on around the Mediterranean and the wind blew through our hair, was like watching Peter Pan flying around the rigging of Captain Hook’s Jolly Roger . Although he was just an extra on the shoot, I took the unprecedented step of predicting that he would one day be a big star. Well done, me.
Nineteen years earlier, I was continuing my mammoth daily bus journeys to school right through to the end of my time at Porthcawl Comprehensive, an occasion marked by spectacular failure at A level. This didn’t matter, as I’d really been staying on solely to enjoy more school shows and to keep on resitting O levels until I had the five required for a university grant. The A levels were never really needed. Academic historians might wish to note that I eventually walked away with O level passes in English Language, English Literature, Drama, Economics and Maths.
Throughout these long-distance commutes I was involved in the various unrequited yearnings detailed earlier in this book, and it was while on the bus that I would build up a modicum of confidence and belief that I might be in with a chance. This was due to the darkened plastic sheet that hung behind the driver’s cab, a device originally employed solely to separate the driver from his passengers but nowadays primarily used to protect the driver from his passengers. When
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