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Sunday 7 September 2008

A morning cigar and a glass of wine with Sir John

At 84, John Mortimer is still thrilled by his latest theatrical success, appalled by the cult of ‘health and fitness’ and sorry that the Labour party he loved has vanished.

Talent and good luck drew him into films at an early age. ‘During the war, one of our neighbours was at the Ministry of Information and I had a Punch and Judy show which he thought was very clever. So he said to himself, “That’s just the chap to lick Hitler.” He gave me a job in the government film bureau.’ His left-wing views were encouraged by the union. ‘I called people “Comrade” and “Brother”, and of course the 1945 landslide was an absolute joy to me.’ His literary gifts made him useful to the Labour top brass. ‘I wrote TV scripts for Harold Wilson.’ Interesting chap? ‘I quite liked him. He was jokey. A chirpy little thing.’ This comes as a big surprise. I recall from the 1970s a humourless incompetent in a porn-cinema rain-mac lurching from crisis to crisis. What about the alleged affair with his press secretary, Marcia Falkender? ‘I don’t think so. They were flirting. He was a bit of a flirt.’ He illustrates this with a story about Archbishop Makarios. ‘The archbishop had disappeared from Cyprus. No one had any idea where he was. And I’d been invited with Stanley Baker to Downing Street for lunch as a treat. After the meal Harold stood up and said, “Marcia, we all admire your skirt but I’m going to show you someone with a much bigger one.” He threw open the door and there was Archbishop Makarios with his high hat and pectoral cross. And Harold said, “The RAF got him into Claridge’s. Luckily he doesn’t need a razor. By the way, don’t tell anyone.”’

From Wilson we turn to the current Labour administration. ‘Oh I can’t bear it,’ he says, wearily. ‘I talked to Helena Kennedy and she said, “Our Labour party’s gone long ago. There’s no such thing.” My real fury with the Labour party is that they’ve forgotten Magna Carta. They don’t seem to have the slightest appreciation of our history. And the Archbishop of Canterbury wants to give it away now too. Absolute insanity. Trial by jury and the presumption of innocence, to throw that away, it makes me so angry. Just because there are a few terrorists in the world. And they don’t seem to know where the business of government ends and private life begins.’ In an act of comic defiance he takes out a cigar and a moment later sweet blue smoke is curling towards the ceiling. Illegal smoke, as it happens, since we’re both working. To compound the sense of wrongdoing he asks the pretty blonde to fetch us a bottle of Sauvignon. Two generous tumblers are filled with pale gold. Drinking wine just after ten in the morning feels wonderfully naughty and it inspires another mischievous anecdote. Sir John was appearing on TV alongside a boy-band singer who had just beaten the booze and he was asked to second the congratulations. He obliged, adding mildly that he started each day with a glass of champagne. ‘How long’s this been going on?’ said the horrified interviewer. ‘Ever since I could afford it.’ Sir John finds the culture of health and fitness laughable. Doctors ask if he gets breathless when he exercises. ‘How should I know? I’ve never tried.’ He goes on ruefully, ‘The great thing is to keep going.’ I ask how old he is. ‘Eighty f**king four,’ he gasps, sounding quite startled, which makes me laugh. ‘Do you mind if I put in the “f**king”?’  ‘Put in anything you like.’

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