Roger Moore

by Roger Moore

  I love the old London Routemaster buses – especially now I have my Freedom Pass.

  On one recent book tour we took the ICE train in Germany from Berlin to Hamburg and then to Cologne and it was joyous. We had delicious meals, served at our seats, and I’ve always marvelled at just how good the food is on board a train with the chef operating in a tiny, narrow kitchen, travelling at over 200mph. We arrived in Cologne feeling happy and relaxed, only to find that we had obviously been spotted boarding in Hamburg, as by the time we reached the train’s final destination an entire posse of autograph hunters was awaiting our arrival on the platform – with arms full of multiple photos, DVDs and books that required no dedications, only signatures. ‘eBay here we come!’ I thought.

  It’s funny but whenever I board a train I still fear using the WC while stationary, as we were always told as youngsters that it wasn’t allowed. Without wishing to sound indelicate, it was because the WC emptied onto the track – and no one wants to put up with a smelly station. Is that still the case? I must remember to ask someone who might know … Sorry, I don’t know why my thoughts have dragged me back to the smallest room once more.

  I intend to live forever, or die trying.

  GROUCHO MARX

  Having lived in London throughout my formative years I was very well acquainted with the Underground or Tube system. What a brilliant engineering achievement underneath the capital’s streets and the River Thames. Those pioneering 1920s genius engineers made so much possible. Modern engineers can also take a bow. One of the most impressive pieces of British engineering in my lifetime is the Channel Tunnel, which is over thirty-one miles long. It’s been recognized as one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World by the American Society of Civil Engineers (alongside the Empire State Building, the Itaipu Dam in South America, the CN Tower in Toronto, the Panama Canal, the North Sea protection works – dykes – in the Netherlands, and the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco).

  There had been talk, going back over a hundred years, of a Channel Tunnel that might one day allow trains to travel beneath the sea between Britain and France. In 1935, Gaumont Studios produced a film called The Tunnel, a futuristic science fiction story concerning the creation of a transatlantic tunnel in which it mentioned in passing that a Channel Tunnel had already been completed. But in reality we had to wait until 1988 for construction to start.

  It is a genuine marvel that it takes just a few hours from the heart of London to the centre of Paris, but the thing that always strikes me is that I can never find a porter or a luggage trolley at the Gare du Nord – you arrive with your bags and have to drag them up and down the platform to and from the taxi ranks. Such engineering, such technology – yet not a porter in sight!

  Man’s best friend seems to have seen something more interesting.

  WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

  I’m often asked if I had my life over again, is there anything I’d do differently? As I don’t own a crystal ball or have the ability to see what’s around the corner, I don’t think I could have really made different choices at the time, as I believed I’d already made the best judgements. I also think it would be terribly ungrateful if I were to say yes and start listing things, as I’ve had such a wonderful and fun life. Each moment – whether it be good or bad, happy or sad – has had a bearing and influence on making me who I am today. Yes, I’d certainly happily avoid instances of kidney stones, but do I regret the career decisions I made? On the whole, no. However, decisions are not always entirely your own choice. Sometimes things happen, circumstances arise and coincidences take you off on a predetermined path, whether you’re aware of it at the time or not.

  For example, and bear with me here, I’m going back a bit. Once, while visiting that same cinema where Aunt Nelly plunged her hatpin deep into the man’s leg, I fainted. No, it was nothing to do with a girl doing similar to me, thank you very much, but it was while I was in a twelve-abreast queue outside to see The Drum starring Sabu, in 1938. I was only a lad, and the fainting was probably simply caused by being momentarily starved of oxygen in the crowd – but it turned out to be a good move on my part because I got in for free.

  The Drum was a terrific film, produced by the great Sir Alexander Korda, who inadvertently played a major part in my career by building Denham Studios in Buckinghamshire. That was where I made my fateful first appearance on film, as a spear-carrying extra in Caesar and Cleopatra (1945), and launched my career as an actor. Perhaps more significantly, he was responsible for setting Lewis Gilbert on his path as a director – and as director of two of my Bond films in the 1970s I have so much to be grateful for with regard to Lewis. The Spy Who Loved Me (1977) was the very best Bond film I made, and Lewis’s second with me, Moonraker (1979), was the most commercially successful 007 outing for decades, earning me a handy few bob along the way.

  WHAT IF …?

  Clubbing

  Although not a film, I thought I’d also mention a story that ran in the Evening News in 1964.

  ‘Mr Roger Moore the actor, star of The Saint TV series, tells me he has given up the idea he had of opening a club in Majorca. “I decided that with all my TV commitments, Majorca would really be too far away to allow me to keep my eye on things”, he told me from the terrace of his holiday hotel, the Flamboya, at Magaluf. Instead, Mr Moore, in partnership with Mr Davy Kaye the comedian, is to open a club in London. “We shall provide good entertainment and good food in addition to gambling facilities,” Mr Moore grinned. “Opening a club like this will be a big gamble, but Davy and I are inveterate gamblers and aim to win!”’

  What crap! Mind you, serves that reporter right for disturbing me on my holiday. Oh well, he wanted a story and I gave him one. Who knows, I might have become Johnny Gold?!

  How did it come about? Well, the story goes that Lewis had formerly been a child actor and appeared in The Divorce of Lady X (1938), which was produced by Sir Alex. One day on set, the great filmmaker said to Lewis, ‘Young man you’re going through a transition where you’re going to be too old to play children, and too young to play adult parts. So you have to think about your future. What do you want to do?’

  Lewis thought for a moment and said he’d like to be an assistant director.

  ‘Report to Denham Studios on Monday,’ said Korda, and that was the beginning for Lewis, who soon, in fact, progressed to directing documentary shorts and then features. Roll on a decade or more and one of the last films Korda had some sort of involvement in was The Admirable Crichton (1957), which Lewis directed. During preparation, Korda was chatting with Lewis and asked how he started out.

  ‘Well, sir, I was a child actor and you asked me what I wanted to do ...’

  ‘My God!’ cried Korda. ‘You were that little boy?’

  ‘Yes, and thank you!’ said Lewis.

  Two days later, Lewis had an appointment with Korda and called the office to confirm, but the secretary said the meeting had been cancelled – Sir Alex had died the night before. Lewis said he was so grateful to have been able to say thank you to the man who launched his career.

  Old age is always fifteen years older than I am.

  OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

  Incidentally, during World War II my old mate David Niven had a rolling contract with Korda, who even back then owned the film rights to The Admirable Crichton (it’s a J. M. Barrie stage play), and the producer was keen that Niven play the lead. In order to raise the finance, Korda sent a telegram to Sam Goldwyn at MGM: SUGGEST YOU DO, FOR WAR EFFORT, ADMIRAL CRICHTON.

  He thought it was a story set in the navy and hadn’t even read it!

  Korda’s knighthood wasn’t for services to the film industry, but actually for his work in British intelligence – what better cover is there than a film producer, who has to travel to many different countries to set up pictures? No one suspected he was a spy.

  I can’t but help thinking, what if Korda hadn’t started making films, and what if he hadn’t cast a young Lewis Gilbert and offered him that adv
ice? Where might I be now?

  When I got my first job from school, as a lowly animator, I believed it to be the best day of my life: the day I was fired probably ranked as the worst. But from that bit of bad luck I was able to join some mates doing crowd work at Denham Studios, which ultimately led to a seven-year contract with MGM in Hollywood. When it was cut short after just a few years I thought I’d never work again – it was the worst possible news. Yet I’d challenge anyone not to believe things happen for a reason, as that piece of bad luck led me to a contract with Columbia to make Ivanhoe on television, which in turn led to a contract with Warner Bros. And following that came a couple of awful films in Italy, where I met the mother of my children. Had Warner’s not fired me I’d never have gone to Rome, and likely wouldn’t have Deborah, Geoffrey and Christian now.

  Had those films in Italy been any good, I may have made more of them. But as it happens I didn’t and that meant I was free to play Simon Templar in The Saint.

  My greatest and proudest acting role, of course, came a little later with James Bond. Thirty-odd years after leaving the series I’m still delighted to be part of it all, and sitting here now wondering ‘what if?’, I think of Ian Fleming sitting down at his Jamaican retreat, putting a piece of paper into his golden typewriter, and starting work on the first Bond novel, Casino Royale. Everything thereafter, totally unknown to me at the time, set the ball rolling towards my incarnation of the role across seven films:

  Pinewood Studios was ‘home’ to me for longer than I care to remember.

  • What if Harry Saltzman hadn’t optioned the books?

  • What if Albert R. Broccoli hadn’t met Harry Saltzman and ran with the option, raising finance at United Artists?

  • What if Sean Connery hadn’t made five, and then walked away?

  • What if George Lazenby had signed a seven-year contract and hadn’t quit after just one film?

  • After Sean returned, what if he hadn’t refused to make any more Bonds after the one-off (as he saw it) Diamonds Are Forever (1971)?

  At any step of the way, things could have turned out so very differently – though what would be the odds of a policeman’s son from south London playing the world’s most famous spy in a series of multi-million-dollar movies? I wish I’d had a pound on it!

  FAMILY

  One of the greater blessings of reaching an advanced age is in being able to see your children and grandchildren grow up and prosper. Oh! And since my last book, I have another granddaughter too – Maria Luisa – who was born at the end of November 2015 to Lara and Christian.

  More than anything else, saying my two eldest children are in their fifties makes me feel old. I’m not sure Deborah and Geoffrey appreciate me referring to them as middle-aged in conversation, particularly as it only seems like yesterday they were running around the school playground, but being children of the 1960s, I’m afraid they are now pushing on a bit – though far be it from me to rub it in.

  I’ve always thought of myself as fairly upstanding, honest and loyal. They are traits I instilled in my children and in my grandchildren too. However, there are times when little white lies, to save hurting feelings, are permissible. There are also times when for fear of saying something unkind or unfortunate, you should keep your mouth shut. I learned this from my Aunt Amy. She was just a couple of years older than my mother, and when I was seven or eight – I suppose she was in her late thirties – I asked her why she didn’t shave.

  I got a whack round the back of my neck. ‘Yeah, but, she has got a moustache so why not shave it?’ I got another whack.

  Lesson learned.

  Amy owned a parrot, which despite being called Polly, was presumed to be male. Amy would always say ‘he’ said this and ‘he’ did that. Then one day ‘he’ laid an egg – which was probably just as much of a shock to the bird as it was to Amy.

  My extended family is a little more complicated and widespread than my immediate. My maternal grandfather, the father of Nellie, Jack, Amy and my mother Lily, was widowed relatively young and eventually remarried – to his first wife’s half-sister, meaning his former sister-in-law became his wife. They had three children together, two boys and a girl – Peter, Bob and Nancy. Those children felt like my cousins as I was almost the same age as them, but they were technically my aunt and uncle and always insisted I call them that!

  The closeness of the family sadly evaporated due to the war, and we all went in different directions. Tragically, in 1944 Jack was killed in Monte Cassino. We all kept in touch at Christmas time, but after my mother and father died we never really met up, apart from at funerals, and sadly my aunts and uncles have now all gone. No more whacks around the head for me.

  I was always close to Kristina’s daughter, Christina (who we called Flossie, to avoid confusion), and had known her since she was a teenager. After Kristina and I married, Flossie often came to stay, or she would meet up with us on our travels around the world. I use the past tense because she died in 2016, leaving a huge hole in our lives.

  In November 2015, Flossie accompanied Kristina and me on one of our trips – to Vienna. My darling wife was being recognized at the annual Woman of the Year Awards, in the ‘Strong Woman’ category. Behind every seemingly strong man is a stronger woman and I’ve always said that Kristina makes a better UNICEF ambassador than me: she always asks to meet the disabled children, who are invariably hidden away, and chats with them, spends time with them and tries to show that there is no stigma attached to children who are not perceived as being ‘normal’ due to physical or mental health issues. Kristina is my tower of strength.

  Kristina at the Woman of the Year Awards in 2015.

  Normally my shy and modest wife would have shunned such an award, seeing it as very nice, but not for her. However, on this occasion I persuaded her to think about it because I knew it was hugely deserved recognition for everything she does so quietly and privately. She never takes part in interviews, always politely turns down requests to speak and, though happy to be at my side, always pushes the spotlight for such tasks onto me.

  To my delight, on this occasion Kristina agreed to receive the award, on condition that I’d be there with her. I was actually asked to read the citation, detailing why she was being bestowed the honour, before bringing her onto the huge stage at the beautiful Rathaus building in Vienna, where a thousand or more people had arrived to the gala dinner. Flossie was very keen to be with us and to see her mother publicly honoured, so flew out for a couple of days. On arrival, Flossie told me she was keen to speak about her mother on stage that night. I explained that wasn’t possible as everything was tightly programmed and arranged, and that adding another speech wasn’t really appropriate – Flossie loved to make speeches! She was quite insistent, as was I, and while we didn’t fall out, there was a bit of an atmosphere in the car heading over to the City Hall. Oh, how I regret it now.

  Flossie was seated adjacent to us for the dinner, but we noticed she left soon after her mother had received her award. I thought perhaps she was still a little upset with me, but back at the hotel she explained she’d felt a little tired and had, after all, been travelling pretty much all day from her home near Cheltenham, via London, to be with us.

  The next day I commented her complexion looked a little pale. No, not pale, yellow. She thought it was highly hilarious and started posting photos on her Facebook page saying, ‘Ooh, look at me! I’m all yellow!’

  I suggested she should see a doctor, but she dismissed it, saying she was too busy and was sure it would be fine in a day or two. Kristina and I nagged her to see a doctor on her return to London, and after another day or two had passed with no improvement she relented. Her doctor in turn referred her to another doctor and it was then that the devastating news was revealed: an aggressive, terminal cancer.

  I can’t begin to tell you the pain, anguish and tears we all shared. Poor Flossie’s mother was inconsolable with the shock of hearing her daughter had an illness that could, at best,
be treated to give her a few more precious months, maybe a year, possibly two.

  In fact, she lived just over six months.

  In those final weeks and months we were pretty much together all the time, either at our chalet in Switzerland or with her in Cheltenham at her beautiful house ‘Windrush’, where she stabled her horses and lived with her four beloved dogs. We knew every day, every hour and every minute were precious and were determined we would make the most of what time she had left.

  Through round after round of treatment, travelling back and forth to London, Flossie remained bullish, brave and fiercely determined. She was particularly buoyed by one of her eventing horses, ‘Wesko’, being selected for the 2016 Olympics, though a few months later, an injury to its leg resulted in it having to be withdrawn. That was a big sadness.

  Flossie was terribly brave and refused to give in – she was nothing if not headstrong. She had achieved so very many things in her forty-odd years, more than most people might in eighty years, and if ever there was a consolation it was in knowing she had lived life to the full and enjoyed every minute.

  The bastard cancer finally took her from us in July 2016. I never imagined anyone could cry so much as Kristina did.

  And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.

  ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  In the final weeks, when she started growing weaker, Flossie wanted to make sure all her affairs were in order and taken care of. Her horses and dogs were the first priority, and our dear Danish friends Kate and Carsten immediately volunteered to adopt the dogs and oversee the care and sale of the horses. They took such a weight off Flossie’s shoulders. Our good friend Janus Friis had been there for Flossie going back many years, and continues to be now for us in securing her legacy by establishing an equestrian centre in her name.