Alex de Campi: Gojira!

***

WHO

FILM & TV

COMICS & BOOKS

25.7.05 Peter O'Toole Is My Hero

Blew my last 3.50 on a copy of Peter O'Toole's (out of print) autobiography, Loitering With Intent, from the used-book sellers under the bridge at the NFT. It's sheer joy, like an extended night in the pub in the company of the most charming man in the world. The below is O'Toole on waiting for Santa Claus when he was six years old:

"Now, in the days before the modern architect decided that we had no practical use for the street and Christmas trees were small and put up only on the actual eve of the event, the ways of towns and cities were often lined with various shops selling goods to customers and putting the purchases into brown paper bags. If you puckered the opening of the bag between an encircling thumb and finger, blew deeply into it, squeezed the pucker tightly and then gave the inflated paper bag a fair old smack with the flat of your free hand, it would explode with a delightfully loud report.

I am sitting in my pyjamas at the bottom of the stairs, inspecting the dark living room through the crack left after I'd opened the door just a touch. Someone is coming into the room, all right, but not down the chimney. The door from the passageway has opened, letting in some figures and a little light, but now the door has been shut again and all is dark once more. Bumpings about I can hear and my mother's voice chuckling and giggling. Daddy's voice I can hear now, praying aloud to Jesus Christ and then gurgling out quietly my mother's pet name, 'Connie', he wheezes, 'Connie.' The light snaps suddenly on and there is Daddy, sitting on the floor, his bowler hat tilted over one eye, cradling in his arms a Christmas tree. Mummy is standing with one hand on the light switch, her legs are crossed, and she is shaking and crying with silent laughter, her arms are through the handles of carrier bags, there are other bags on the carpet and brown paper bags strewn all the way to where Daddy sits. The determined little sight of me seems to quiet and surprise them a bit, as it quite rightly should. When I firmly ask of them if Father Christmas is coming, they are, at first, silent but very shortly Daddy begins praying again while Mummy now bends double making hooting noises.

Marching up to my father, I repeat: 'Is Father Christmas coming?' Daddy lays aside the Christmas tree, picks up a brown paper bag from the floor, unburdens it of its contents, slowly rises still holding the bag, walks in a curious way to the door, which he opens, and ten exits the room, shutting the door behind him. There is a sort of silence for a second or two, a silence which is burst by a loud bang. The door opens and Daddy comes back into the room. He stands above me and looks solemnly down at me before pronouncing very clearly to me: 'Father Christmas has just shot himself.'"

( 10:37 AM )

0 Comments: