by Roger Moore
Sadly, cinemas did attract an element of the ‘wrong sort’ – or perverts, if you prefer. On another outing, my mother was at the Brixton Empress with my father, and a man on the other side of my mother started moving his hand along the top of her leg. She leant towards my father and said, ‘George, this man is touching me.’
The man realized she was talking to her husband and quickly jumped up to leave, but my father was faster. He jumped over a row of seats and cornered him. Grabbing the chap around the throat he said, ‘You’ve picked the wrong woman here, you silly bugger!’ and, if it hadn’t been for the usherettes pulling him off, my father may well have throttled him.
Aunt Nelly later married a chap called Peter Collis who, as a child, while hanging onto the back of a moving cart, fell off and broke his thighbone. After doctors had reset the bone, he sadly developed osteomyelitis, a very nasty infection, and eventually Peter had to have the leg amputated. They replaced it with a metal limb and although he could walk with it fine, he couldn’t control it when sitting down. One day on the bus a woman suddenly screamed, ‘You dirty beast!’ His false leg had leaned sideways and was touching her leg. He rapped on it with his knuckles, showing her it was hollow, and she was just as embarrassed as he was. So that goes to show that while some may deserve punishment, not all leg-touchers are up to no good.
Ah, the wicked weed. A filthy habit – but so cool.
Before the end of the war I, sadly (well, I wasn’t sad at the time!), started smoking. It was seen as the thing to do back then, and in every film you would generally see the leading man or lady with a cigarette, looking all sexy and alluring. Regular brands were in high demand and consequently hard to get hold of, and I’d often have to make do with a ‘mixed’ packet containing two Turkish, two Woodbine, two camel dung (well, it tasted like it); or, if I was lucky, a pack of Joystick, which were eight inches long and the tobacconist cut them in half. When I had a bit of extra dosh, I graduated to Passing Cloud and liked people to notice them by lighting up and wafting them around very publicly on the top deck of the bus. Ah! The bad old days, when it was acceptable to inhale the filthy weed. I suppose after many years of rationing and shortages, we all craved a bit of luxury and sadly found it in a fag packet. Now, of course, we know too well how damaging they are to our bodies and to our health, and I actually find the smell quite repulsive these days – there’s nothing worse than a smoker talking up close to you, the smell on their breath, their clothes ... awful!
Another war that has played a big part in my life has been the Cold War. Having been embroiled, on screen at least, with the Cold War over many years as Jimmy Bond, the world suddenly changed for the better when the Berlin Wall fell in 1989. Following World War II, there was very much a ‘them and us’ feeling between the Western world and the Eastern Bloc of the Soviet Union and its states, and I think it probably reached its scariest height in the late 1950s and early 1960s.
Politics and filmmaking – a toxic mix in 1950s.
I remember in 1957, politics raised its head at Warner Bros when a film crew came over from Russia to coincide with the premiere of The Cranes Are Flying – an important World War II film from the Soviet point of view. The right-wing studio executives weren’t best pleased that we were to be ‘overrun by communists’ and, in the wake of McCarthyism, none of the Warner Bros contract players would have their pictures taken with the Soviets for fear of having their political leanings questioned or, worse still, being blacklisted for work. I thought it was crazy – we were all filmmakers, after all – and so insisted that Dorothy Provine, who was filming The Alaskans with me, and I would come to lunch with our visitors. We were the only two westerners in the commissary that day.
The JFK–Richard Nixon presidential election of 1960 also sticks in my mind. It was Nixon’s first election run and we contract players were ‘requested’ by the Warner Bros management to vote for him as our best bet against communism spreading – not that I had a vote as a foreigner! This was a remarkable election for many reasons but I was fascinated by the televised debate between the two, the first debate of its kind, which pitched the handsome Kennedy up against the much more experienced vice-president Nixon. However, on the night Nixon was nervous and sweaty, especially in front of the TV cameras. It just shows you the power of television, as apparently if you listened on the radio you thought Nixon had won, but if you watched it on TV, Kennedy was the obvious choice – take heed politicians! Nixon learned his lesson: after a bit of coaching, when he successfully stood for office again in 1969, he gently wiped his lips with a handkerchief every now and again.
So, back in 1961, Kennedy was sworn in as President and the following year, in October 1962, the Cuban Missile Crisis presented the West with a thirteen-day scare. I was in Europe making the first series of The Saint by then, but remember so well the TV and media reports of how Russia had installed missiles in communist Cuba, just ninety miles off the coast of Florida, which could have been operational within two weeks and risked sparking World War III. Mercifully, it was avoided.
Jimmy Bond on the Berlin Wall in 1983.
(© 1962-2017 Danjaq LLC and United Artists Corp.)
The Cold War period and communism was certainly a worry, as there was always a threat of nuclear war hanging over us all, and some questioned if it would ever thaw so that we might live in relative harmony. We lived in hope, but it didn’t seem terribly likely.
Having filmed in Berlin, alongside the dividing wall, in 1983, I had my own first-hand glimpse at just how the Iron Curtain had split a great city. A mere six years later the wall fell, the death knell of the Cold War and communism was sounded and the free movement of people across Germany was swiftly followed by reunification.
Right now, the forty-year membership the UK has enjoyed within the EU (EEC and Common Market, as was) is coming to an end. The people spoke, and the majority called for an exit. It has saddened me because I always thought it was a good move, bringing Europe closer together. Although I am proudly British, I’ve always thought of myself as a European too – after all, I’ve lived in France and Monaco since the late 1970s – and fervently believe that by coming together as member states of the EU we avoided another world war. Living and trading together in harmony has seen borders open and prices fall.
On an everyday level, being part of the EU has seen the establishment of guaranteed rights for workers; it gave new fathers the right to paid paternity leave; low-cost flights were suddenly possible and family holidays affordable; it’s seen mobile phone operators drop relay charges so you can use your phones for calls and data roaming just as you would at home ... and while yes, I agree, the EU hasn’t got everything right, I do believe more good than bad has come out of the UK being a member state.
The older I get, the more open-minded I get, the less judgmental I get.
GWYNETH PALTROW
Though Britain never joined the euro, I do remember the last major upheaval in our currency when we turned decimal in 1971, though for those aged under fifty it will be hard to imagine accounting in pounds, shillings and pence! The old system I grew up with had twelve pennies in a shilling and twenty shillings in a pound. It was complex arithmetic we all wrestled with at times, but it was a system people were reluctant to see disappear. While there was much puzzlement getting used to the new pounds and pence, and claims of shops rounding up prices rather than taking them down to the nearest halfpenny, we all seemed to cope. However, I still can’t get used to metric weights and measures. When I’m asked my height in metres, I’m afraid really don’t know. I think it’s 1.83m. Weight: 12.5 stone – what am I in kilos? I’m not too sure, something like 80?
Answers on a postcard, please!
All I can say is, I’m glad I wasn’t at the front!
THE JOY OF TRAVELLING
Once upon a time, travelling was a real joy and something to look forward to. People used to hop into their cars for an evening or afternoon drive out, without fear of cameras clocking them making a wro
ng turn or entering a yellow box by an inch too much, both resulting in a fine arriving in the post. Certainly there is little joy nowadays in driving a car around London – or any big city – what with congestion charges, bus lanes and prohibited manoeuvres, though my dear departed friend Michael Winner used to say, ‘Bus lanes are marvellous, there’s hardly any traffic using them and it only costs me sixty pounds!’
I remember friends who used to take an evening drive out to London Airport (now Heathrow) for dinner and to enjoy the surroundings. Can you imagine doing that now? For one thing the parking charges would be more than the cost of a meal.
I also remember a wonderful day out, in the early 1970s, when I was invited to drive down towards Swindon with my children Geoffrey and Deborah to visit a brand new Concorde plane. It hadn’t yet come into service, but they were taking some test flights and invited people to join them on short trips. Sadly, when we got there the flight was cancelled for weather reasons, but we were shown all around the plane and were totally awe-inspired.
My first-ever flight was to New York in 1952. They were the days of flying in style aboard BOAC (the British Overseas Airways Corporation), where the stewards wore white gloves and there were proper sleeper seats. Oh, and there was a bar downstairs! You couldn’t fly directly, and had to stop off in Greenland or Iceland to refuel. I guess you were talking about twelve hours on board in all.
I remember being on the first non-stop flight from New York to Los Angeles in 1953, and as we approached the Rockies the pilot said, ‘We’ve lost an engine! I could go on but would rather not!’ So we landed in Denver. The flight behind us – the second non-stop flight – was then made to land in Denver too, and the passengers were asked to get off to allow us to continue. They really resented that!
Airports are not my favourite places now, I’m afraid. Back in the ‘golden age of travel’, it felt really luxurious and passengers were welcomed aboard as customers. Ah, to hark back to those heady days when Concorde was in the skies. Now, I really don’t look forward to flying on commercial airlines at all. There’s no joy in queuing up to check in, before joining another queue for the security lane then on to another queue to board the plane.
I know security is for our own benefit but more often than not you’re barked at by staff in whatever language they speak in said country, and the delivery is always curt: ‘Take your coat off, shoes off, belt off, empty your pockets ...’
Having experienced this just recently, and seeing the plastic trays with my worldly belongings moving off towards the scanner as I was left holding up my trousers with one hand, I explained I have a pacemaker and could not go through the metal detector.
‘Where’s your card?’ the person asked curtly, referring to the proof of my pacemaker.
‘In my wallet – over there,’ I pointed to the plastic tray disappearing into the machine.
A ‘tut’ and a shake of the head was then followed by another bark of, ‘Come this way,’ as the man led me to the full body scanner.
‘Put your hands up here, above your shoulders,’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ I replied, gripping my waistband tightly. ‘My trousers will fall down!’ Cue the onlookers getting their camera phones at the ready.
One of the good things about getting older is you find you’re more interesting than most of the people you meet.
LEE MARVIN
So they escorted me to another area where they had a hand-held metal detector, which they proceeded to rub all over me, before giving me a pat down and agreeing that I posed no threat.
‘OK,’ he said, as he gestured me on.
Of course, you have to tuck all your liquids, ointments, medication and other toiletries into a small, clear plastic bag; in goes the toothpaste, eye drops, my blood pressure pills, laxatives, Imodium (in case the laxatives prove too effective), aspirin, paracetamol, haemorrhoid cream, that stuff for dry lips and so on. But oh, wait! There’s one thing over 100ml! And so at the other side of the scanner they wanted me to empty out all my belongings in front of everyone so they could poke through them. How embarrassing! I mean, I don’t want people to think I have dry lips.
Panic over – the culprit was a larger-than-average tube of toothpaste. That had to be dispensed with forthwith.
As I say, I know security is for our own safety but has courtesy and politeness gone out the window?
At big airports, with mile-long corridors and concourses, I usually ask if I can have a little golf buggy. My old knees aren’t as good as they once were and it makes life so much easier. Sometimes it’s not possible and they offer a wheelchair. I’m not terribly keen on taking one as invariably a sea of camera phones appears on my route, all snapping away. I can see the Daily Mail headlines now: ‘007 TRADES IN LOTUS ESPRIT FOR WHEELCHAIR’.
However, on a recent trip out of Nice I had a slightly swollen ankle, and my wife, Kristina, was adamant I shouldn’t aggravate it by walking further than I had to, and so I accepted a wheelchair ride. I think the operative had been in training for the Monaco Grand Prix, as she pushed me so fast that Kristina couldn’t keep up and I found myself waving furiously and calling a warning to the people ahead, ‘Mind out of the way!’
We had allocated seats so thought we’d board after the mad rush, but my pusher had other ideas and parted the crowds at the check-in desk, ‘Pardon! Pardon!’
It brought a whole new meaning to speedy boarding.
On another recent flight, this time to Belfast, we booked the front two row A seats, as they offered a bit more leg room for my large frame in the tiny prop-jet plane. My two associates, Gareth and Mike, were in row B behind us. As we climbed up the few steps to board there was a bit of muttering and the cabin steward asked Kristina and me to swap with Mike and Gareth and sit in row B.
‘No, we’re in row B,’ said Gareth, politely. ‘We purposely booked row A seats for them.’
The steward was nonplussed and insisted we swap. When pushed as to why, she replied, ‘Well, they are rather elderly. Row A is an exit row, and I’m concerned they’d hinder other passengers in an emergency.’
Such charm!
So, we two ‘elderly folk’ – aware of a whole plane-full of faces staring at us – took row B.
After landing, as we gathered our bits and pieces from the overhead locker, Kristina quietly leaned in to the steward and said, ‘I used to do your job on SAS airlines. For many years. If you want someone to be a help during an emergency an ex-cabin steward would be much better in row A surely?’
Such a sweet statement, delivered in a cool, calm yet assured manner. It caused the steward to go bright red and apologize profusely. Just because we are of an age doesn’t mean we’re totally decrepit.
Of course, we landed at the furthest end of the airport and were all forced to filter through various doors, queues and long, long corridors to the exit. Sorry, let me stop here just one minute and ask, why does that always happen? Why, whatever plane one boards, is it without exception at the gate furthest away from the airport terminal, and always lands at the gate furthest from the terminal you are visiting? Is it just me? I often wonder that.
I digress. Once we reached the exit, we had to walk back along the same route, though on the other side of the wall, to meet our driver, who turned out to be parked directly opposite the plane, albeit with a big barbed-wire fence between it and him. Had we scaled it, it would have saved half an hour of walking.
Still, it’s better than having to board a bus at the plane door and being driven around the airport aimlessly for twenty minutes looking for a way out, as was our next experience in Manchester, but that’s a book on its own.
Have you tried paying for parking in any big city lately? Gone are the days when you popped coins into parking meters, now you have to pay by text or app. Of course, what they don’t tell you is that first you have to set up an account with your payment card, which in itself takes twenty minutes, entering all the details before you’re prompted for the car registration number. L
ike many others, I don’t have my registration number committed to memory, so I had to step out into the road to read it and then wait for a confirmation that we were legally parked – by which time our lunch meeting was looking like more of an afternoon tea gathering.
What on earth happens if you don’t have a mobile phone with you or the network is down? Do they make other provisions? No!
One of the great joys of travelling as an older person is that in some places you get a bus pass. In London they call it a Freedom Pass, though I still haven’t come to terms with what ‘touching in’ is all about as you get on board. Once upon a time you simply paid the conductor. Once upon a time you actually looked at the conductor and smiled – sometimes even engaging in short conversational pleasantries. Nowadays you simply flash your credentials at them. Though flashing is not permitted, of course.
I’ve always enjoyed travelling by train, which seems one of the more civilized ways of moving from A to B, and I must admit it also enables Kristina and me to play cards – sometimes she even lets me win. I’ve travelled by train in the UK quite extensively of late, and must admit that the special services division of the network was brilliant in helping this old boy with getting on/off the trains and through the stations. Better still, it’s a service they provide for free if booked in advance.
I enjoyed a couple of train trips as Jimmy Bond – first in Live and Let Die and then in The Spy Who Loved Me – though I had to dispatch two villains out of the windows, which made them a little draughty. Later on I was enticed into working on Bullseye! with Michael Caine with the promise of filming on board the Orient Express travelling down to Venice, but budget cuts saw us on the Pullman travelling through Scotland instead!