Reg’s own account of what happened, if true, was shocking. He was leaning against a balustrade outside the restaurant, looking out to sea, when Ollie came up from behind, grabbed his ankles and hurled him over the side. There’s no doubt Oliver thought the tide was in, and Reg had lost count of the number of times he’d been thrown into swimming pools. But the tide was out and the result was that he broke his back in two places.
Ollie’s account of events, however, differed radically from Reg’s. It was, he said, the result of an argument and scuffle that went too far, and when Reg lunged violently towards him he had no option but to dodge out of the way and over he went. It was difficult to know exactly whose story to believe since no eyewitness came forward and both men were so intoxicated that the events of that fateful day were a bit of a muddle. ‘I don’t think Ollie deliberately went out to hurt Reg,’ says Simon. ‘But I don’t think he was very careful.’
The next thing Oliver heard was that Reg had sold his story to the tabloids, claiming that he was now virtually a cripple, unable to walk without the aid of a walking stick and that his career in movies was over. He also spoke of his intention to sue Oliver for damages. ‘My father felt very let down,’ admits Sarah. ‘He couldn’t really understand why Reg went to the press. If he’d wanted money he would have given it to him, he would have helped out.’ But Reg was filled with a rage and a bitterness that could not be so easily contained. What else explains his reason for one night arriving at Pinkhurst, armed with a knife, to do who knows what damage to his former employer and best friend? Luckily both Bill and Josephine were in the house and they managed, in Josephine’s words, ‘to talk him down’, even though, at one point, Reg had the knife at Ollie’s throat.
Worse was to come. Basing its story largely on an interview with Reg, the Sun newspaper made allegations that Oliver had beaten and assaulted Josephine. Usually Ollie never gave a monkey’s toss what the press said about him. ‘He would just go, “If that’s what they want to write, that’s what they want to write”,’ says Josephine. ‘It bothered him of course, but he was philosophical enough to know they were always going to print that kind of stuff.’ But this was different and he sued. ‘That was the one time when he wasn’t prepared to let it go because he didn’t want my family hurt by the allegations. He stood up and said, “No, this is wrong.”’ The case was eventually heard in January 1991 and very quickly settled out of court, with the Sun’s lawyers agreeing to pay substantial damages and make a full apology, which meant the most to Ollie. It was an episode that deeply upset Josephine, who, despite her husband’s propensity to lose his temper and embrace violence, never felt frightened or threatened in his presence. ‘I always felt he was extremely protective of me.’
When in December 1993 Reg’s case for damages came to court, both men stuck to their original stories and after four days the judge dismissed Reg’s claims, believing that, ‘through the mists and vapours of drink’, neither man knew what the truth was any more. Ollie and Reg never spoke to or saw each other again. ‘It was sad that their friendship ended in such an acrimonious way,’ says Mark. ‘My father wouldn’t have dreamt of hurting him. They truly loved each other and it was just an awful shame to watch something that had true value and had been so meaningful for both of them end up so broken.’
While Ollie and Josephine were in the Seychelles for Castaway they were also busy buying a new house. David had confronted his brother with the stark truth that since his earning power had decreased since his seventies heyday he needed to downsize yet again. That didn’t just mean selling Pinkhurst: he was being advised to leave Britain altogether and reside somewhere more tax-efficient. All through his tough tax years Ollie had defiantly remained a British citizen. As late as 1981 he was telling reporters, ‘I just couldn’t be a tax exile. I could pay a lot less in taxes if I moved, but I must live in Britain. It’s my culture, my home, my heritage.’ But the financial reality now facing him was such that he no longer had a choice.
The ideal location was Guernsey, an island Oliver knew well from his stays there for tax purposes and where over the years he’d accumulated a few friendships. So David was instructed to find them a suitable property and Ollie drove away from Pinkhurst to work on Castaway knowing he would never see that house again. Every week photographs and property details would arrive in the post for the couple to peruse, but nothing caught their interest. The house they finally decided on was bought unseen. David made all the arrangements. ‘It was a very ugly house,’ Josephine says of it now. ‘I think it was probably one of the only red-brick houses in Guernsey. The rest were all beautiful granite buildings. But it had a lovely garden, and of course David knew that Oliver loved gardens.’
Located ten miles from the island’s capital, St Peter Port, the couple moved in after Castaway was finished. As a housewarming gift Ollie presented Josephine with a lovely gold chain which, after a few glasses of wine, she draped around her pet terrier. Ollie saw it on the dog and went, right, and buried it in the garden when Josephine was asleep. The next morning she couldn’t find her chain anywhere. ‘It’s all right,’ said Ollie. ‘I’ve buried it, because I was very cross.’ They never found it. ‘We got metal detectors out, you name it,’ Josephine recalls. ‘I don’t know where it went.’ Years later when they moved to Ireland Ollie’s house-warming gift to Josephine was a hammer.
Along with their furniture good old Hornby was shipped over from England too. At Pinkhurst the rhino was kept in the garden, although for a time he was out on the verge until the council asked them to move him in because it was a dangerous bend and a bit of a shock to drivers. ‘He was also kidnapped a few times,’ says Josephine. ‘We’d get a note – if you want to see Hornby alive again you have to come down to such and such a pub and buy a round of drinks – and so we’d have to go down and get him back. Eventually we put concrete boots on him to stop him being taken.’ In Guernsey Keith Moon’s mad gift was located in such a way that its horned head protruded from the garden bushes. There was also a new Ollie family heirloom, courtesy of Johnny Placett, a heavy brass knocker cast in the unmistakable shape of a thrusting penis that swivelled on hinges, attached to two equally impressive balls.
While some of the interior of the house was changed and modernized, special attention was paid to the loft above the double garage: Ollie had it totally gutted and rebuilt as a pub christened the Garage Club. It served local draught beer and featured piped music and settees for relaxation. Directly opposite the bar hung a framed blow-up portrait of Ollie as Father Grandier. As well as being a haven for Ollie, the place guaranteed Josephine some peace when her husband’s drinking pals came round, whom she didn’t especially want in the house: off they’d go to the Garage Club to wreak their havoc. And for her there was no mystery as to what they got up to. ‘We’d bought a little camcorder and they used to muck around with it. One day they left it on by mistake and I watched it and I’d never seen such drivel. They were all pretending to be cowboys and sliding drinks down the bar and talking this utter nonsense. I showed it to Ollie and said, “This is what you do.” At least they were happy.’
The only thing missing in Guernsey was Bill and Jenny, who had decided to stay put in England, but Oliver made sure they had a house in which to enjoy their retirement.
One of the first guests to visit Ollie and Josephine in Guernsey was Simon. At the airport Ollie was waiting at the Arrivals gate, waving to him. ‘We’ll go to the bar,’ he said. Simon’s favourite drink was gin and tonic, and ten gin and tonics were lined up on the bar waiting for him – welcome to Guernsey. ‘A thought flashed through my mind,’ he recalls. ‘Always with Ollie you had to have an escape route, and here I was on a fucking island where you can’t get off and I thought, this is dangerous, this could be a problem, especially when I saw ten gin and tonics, but I thought, just go for it.’ They went out to eat and had a wonderful evening. Back at Oliver’s home, they chatted and talked over old times until 2 a.m. ‘And I remember at six in the morning
being woken up and Ollie was with Katie, my youngest, and they were out in the garden together and Ollie was taking her round, saying, “I’ve got a little goblin who lives here.” And then we were off at lunchtime for another session. I had a really good time there.’
Sarah also came to visit as often as she could. She was still a shy teenager and her relationship with her father had not much improved. ‘As I got older we had fun times, usually when I was old enough to get drunk with him. It sounds terrible, but those were the moments when the awkwardness went and we could actually have a real giggle.’
Josephine had cottoned on quite early to her husband’s awkward relationship with his daughter and often told Sarah, ‘You do know your dad is really proud of you.’ It was just a shame that he was never particularly good at saying it himself. Giving praise wasn’t something that came naturally to Oliver, largely because he’d never received it as a child. He never learned how praise was given. ‘Occasionally he would come out with, you know, “I love you, girlie, don’t ever doubt that,” but there was never regular praise or feedback,’ Sarah says. ‘He would say he was proud but there was a lack of consistency. I figure we just parent differently these days. He did try, though – we both did – but I doubt that either of us was comfortable with these exchanges. I feel there was so much unsaid, unresolved, and very sad that we missed our time.
‘I was proud of him, though. Hugely proud. As a child I was accused of boasting about my famous dad but I just wanted to talk about him. Especially when he was absent. And now, despite our sometimes tricky relationship, I am proud of how he embraced life and coloured his surroundings. He touched people from all walks of life. If I could earn half the loyalty that he earned from his friends I would be happy. For those who knew him, the lights were truly dimmed when he went.’
Every morning Ollie’s mantra was, go to school and be as naughty as you can. And that was it. It wasn’t, work really hard today, darling. No, it was, be as naughty as you can, and if you get expelled that’ll be great. As far as he was concerned, Sarah was a woman, so although her education did matter, it just didn’t seem a priority. ‘My father was quite sexist, really. He used to tell me this time and time again, that education was important, but perhaps not academia for a woman. I was not academic, so luckily was off the hook in that respect. But he did take great pride in my achievements, especially sporting achievements. “You’re just going to get married, have babies, and sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,” was, I suspect, said tongue in cheek, but I believe this is what he expected.’
A few of Ollie’s old friends would also pop over the Channel to visit, among them Alex Higgins, who again relied on Oliver to give him safe haven when things weren’t going right in his life. ‘But Alex was very hyper,’ says Josephine. ‘Very wound up all the time. So he was quite exhausting. In small doses they got on fine and then they’d get on each other’s nerves and he’d be asked to leave.’
During one now legendary drinking session Ollie poured Josephine’s Chanel No. 5 into a glass, informing Higgins it was a fine malt whisky. ‘I don’t drink whisky,’ said Alex. ‘It sends me crazy.’
‘Chicken!’ screamed Ollie. ‘Chicken boy. Chicken.’
Higgins grabbed the glass and downed it in one. His face twisted up in pain and he spat it out. He was ill for two days. But he had his revenge by treating Oliver to a crème de menthe laced with washing-up liquid. ‘Ollie was burping bubbles for weeks,’ says Higgins.
Michael Christensen visited a few times and he and Ollie would have lobster-eating contests in one of the island’s many seafood restaurants. Christensen was also present when Ollie drank 100 pints from opening time to closing time (which was all day in Guernsey) and finished with a parallel handstand on the bar. It started as a bet. Someone had said, ‘Ollie, you really should stop drinking, it’s killing you.’
‘I only drink beer. That’s good for you.’
‘Look,’ this guy said. ‘Any more than three or four pints a day can be harmful.’
‘Bollocks. It’s only hops and water. I can drink 100 pints and I’ll be all right.’
And so a bet was struck that Ollie couldn’t do it. The press got involved and people started to come down, and pretty quickly the pub filled up. ‘And he bloody did it,’ confirms Christensen. ‘The only stipulation was, he couldn’t be sick. But he did choose a low-alcohol, flat beer, because he couldn’t do 100 pints of strong lager. You’d be dead. But he did it. He was out peeing every ten minutes and didn’t eat anything. He was doing it quite methodically, timing his intake. It was extraordinary.’
Chat Show Suicide
It’s very clear that, after years of appearing in mediocre films in roles that were clearly beneath his talents, Castaway represented a real return to form. As Gerald Kingsland Oliver gave one of the best performances of his career, in a film that was both a commercial and critical success. Nicolas Roeg was another of those directors whom he respected, and consequently he’d raised his game. However, according to Selwyn Roberts, Oliver and Roeg seriously fell out one night on location. ‘They had a fist fight in the hotel when the pair of them were drunk as skunks. And Nic was a feisty little bugger, and they ended up falling in the water.’ But for the vast majority of the time they’d got on well and Ollie’s achievement should have put him back on top, with producers queuing up again for his services. So why didn’t they? The answer is simple: Ollie hit the self-destruct button. In the lead-up to the UK release of Castaway at the beginning of 1987 Ollie seemed to sabotage his own career, either through ego, self-confidence issues, vanity, mischievousness, the bottle, or sheer bloody-mindedness. He was effectively the sniper at his own assassination.
What makes least sense of all is that Oliver knew full well the big chance he was blowing. As he said himself at the time, ‘Castaway has given me the strength to survive and hope that somebody with money in his pocket will see this film and maybe another important film will come out of it.’ This was one of the reasons why he’d thrown himself into promotion duties. But things got off on the wrong foot almost immediately. Castaway had been chosen to open the London Film Festival the previous November. During the screening Ollie could be heard from the back row giving out piercing whistles and, according to one reporter, ‘choice samples from the Oliver lexicon of invective’. Afterwards some of the participants in the film held a Q&A session in front of the audience. Ollie arrived five minutes late on the stage and in a bedraggled state, uttering gibberish before almost falling into the audience. After that he embarked on the chat show circuit and things would never be quite the same again. Following these appearances Oliver Reed the actor no longer existed and the public’s perception of him became something very different, a perception that he was never able to shake off and that persists to this day.
Oliver had always been a popular chat show guest during the seventies, though his appearances on them were sporadic. He placed chat shows very much in the same category as premieres: something he felt obliged to do rather than something he enjoyed. ‘They weren’t really his motivator,’ says Mark. ‘I never remember him relishing going on a Parkinson or a Russell Harty. It was dread, because of his shyness.’ And when in 1986 he was the subject of This Is Your Life, well, you can guess his reaction. Halfway up to London he’d worked it out and went, “It’s mine, isn’t it?” and his whole body language changed. ‘Doing that show would have been outrageously painful to him,’ says Sarah. ‘He hated every minute of it, except probably when Dadi [his driver in Barbados] was the surprise guest at the end. But the rest of it would have been completely grim to him. That was putting him out of his comfort zone.’ Probably because he had to be himself.
To combat this insecurity Ollie rarely appeared on chat shows as himself, but instead played some warped version of what he perceived the public thought Oliver Reed behaved like. ‘I can never not be a character,’ he once admitted to Simon, who says, ‘Oliver could be the most charming bloke, a trait that came to a certain extent from his
father, but he was just terribly shy. I used to do a lot of TV interviewing and Ollie would watch and say, “I could never ever do that. I can be on TV and I can act and I can be a character or I can go to a press conference and be the movie star, but I could never just be me.” That’s why he got pissed on chat shows or larked about, because you had to be yourself, and he just couldn’t do it, so he’d get slaughtered. He was very shy. I was always terrified whenever he went on a chat show.’
The result could sometimes be fun, like the time Ollie took his trousers off live on Pebble Mill at One and performed a Scottish reel up and down the studio floor to the accompaniment of Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen. Or when he turned up in a gorilla suit for Parkinson. Or leaped on top of Susan George on Ireland’s top chat show with Gay Byrne, pulling the actress off her chair and dragging her behind the set. And there was the occasion Terry Wogan was hosting Night of a Thousand Stars on ITV. When introduced, Ollie came striding down a specially built ramp on to the stage but carried on walking straight into the audience. After the show the producer accosted David to complain bitterly. The next day he phoned David, saying it had got a brilliant reaction and could he have him again? ‘He had a natural way of creating comedy or creating difference in something that was otherwise going to be rather mundane,’ says Mark. ‘He would change it and add spice to it. I think he had fun with it. He didn’t take it too seriously.’
But sometimes things could get really out of hand. When Castaway opened in America, Oliver made an infamous appearance on The David Letterman Show. Quite what he hoped to achieve with this performance, for performance it is, and a slightly lubricated one, is difficult to understand. Certainly it didn’t do Oliver any favours when it came to offers of work from Tinseltown. Letterman sees through the pretence fairly early on, quipping, ‘It’s fun to pretend, isn’t it?’, but is nevertheless unnerved by the strange apparition before him, who right from the off is in turn menacing, incomprehensible and surreal. At one point Ollie starts talking German for no discernible reason. Intriguingly, when Letterman repeatedly asks for anecdotes about drinking Lee Marvin under the table, Ollie seems to lose his cool. ‘You’d like to turn my lights out, wouldn’t you?’ says Letterman. Ollie smiles and his cobra eyes don’t blink.
What Fresh Lunacy is This? Page 42