I always planned to write down all my stories, put them in a book and hand them to my friends so that the next time I felt compelled to wax lyrical I could simply tell people to check a chapter at their leisure and not have to bore all those within earshot.
The Jeremy Irons story is my favourite or all my stories, however I have fallen into a near-perfect pitter-patter recollection of it and the whole thing is becoming very tedious. Thus I shall recant the tale one more time before retiring it to the bin marked "not to be touched until the grandkids are old enough to know what speed is" and replace the top slot with the story of me, two strippers and a videocamera in a dressing room. It's not nearly as dirty as it sounds, but it will still have to wait for another time.
Before I tell this sad tale of woe and celebrity embarressment, though, I should issue a warning to all those who may be related to me, or those foolish enough to hold me in any high regard. This is a story of misspent employment, foolish alcohol consumption and illegal activities. If you would prefer to know me as that nice boy you raised from birth, or that charming young man who is currently dating your daughter, you may wish to scroll down to the previous post which is all about International Womens Day and paints me in a far better light.
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The Jeremy Irons Story
Way back in 2001 I was working as a runner on a small independant film called Dream which starred Kelly Harrison, Sinead Cusack and Matthew from Eastenders. We worked 11 day fortnights, which means we had the weekend off, then Saturday off, then the weekend etc. Towards the end of the shoot, on one of the intermitent weekends, I was very stressed and tired and needed to seriously unwine. Since I had the luxury of two days off I went to the pub, drank my bodyweight in booze and went and partied my way across town. I would love to tell you where I went and what I did but I have no recollection further than that. It was that good a night.
Anyway. Two days off so plenty of time to recover, right? Wrong. I got a phone call from the Production Manager the next morning saying she needed me for an urgent task. Could I drive down to Sinead Cusacks house in Cornwall (which is about 350 miles away) and pick up some childhood photos of her to be used as set dressing? Her husband would have everything ready but I had to leave now and could I take the Renault Espace as my normal location car was in use. Thanks.
I stalled a couple of hours or so, made sure I was ok to drive - drank the usually hated coffee and forced food down down my throat - but I was still out the door by midday. Driving may have been a mistake, I was really tired and the drive down to Cornwall had to be punctuated with frequent stops and a never-ending supply of luxury service station water. I vibrated, I hung my head out the window like a beagle and I played punk-rock really fucking loud and somehow I arrived at my destination.
All this time, though, I had one thought on my mind. Who is Sinead Cusack married to? I knew it was someone famous, but in my sleep deprived, booze addled brain I couldn't remember who. Obviously this is called The Jeremy Irons Story, therefore she is married to Jeremy Irons, but I didn't realise this until his super-silky tones emitted from the gate speaker and he buzzed me into his house.
On opening the garden gate to this modest faux-rustic farmhouse it all hit me. Everything. The late night, the drinking, the 3 months of 16 hour working days, the stress, the drive, the starch in my stomach and the shock of knowing I was about to meet Hans Grubers brother.* I think I was probably also reeling from the realisation that in coming down here I had done something incredibly stupid... and all of a sudden I was really really thirsty.
Jeremy Irons welcomed me into his house, generously gave me several pints of water and didn't seem fazed when I gulped them down in quick succession. We sat for several awkward minutes and made small talk; how the film was going, Sinead, the weather, the drive etc. It was around the point of the 30 second silence that I realised I was shaking horribly and Jeremy Irons was staring at me with a mixture of fear, horror and bemusement.
No doubt wondering what kind of man he had let into his house, let alone who he was entrusting with his wifes precious memories, he made his excuses and went to get the photos. Immediately I dashed to the sink and splashed water on my face, and it was this dripping, vibrating mess that Jeremy Irons faced a few seconds later when he returned. Mumbling something about being very hot, I offered my trembling hand to take the photos and as he passed them, for a split second, I saw a look of contempt flicker across his face.
Not wanting to piss him off further - I've seen Reversal of Fortune, I know what this man is capable of - I practically fled the kitchen and into the fresh air. Jeremy Irons followed me half way down the path and the last thing I heard was his clipped instructions to close the gate behind me. I pulled it shut without looking back and hightailed it to the nearest cafe for a mainline of sugar.
A hearty sandwiche, can of coke and half hour of sunshine set me right and I felt fantastic. With a smile on my face and a song in my heart I headed back to Sheffield, stopping only once to phone my friend Matt and tell him what had happened.
I haven't met Jeremy Irons since, and for that I'm blessed. Drinking is bad for you kids, it makes you do stupid things infront of RSC actors and no-one should ever sink that low.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is the end of The Jeremy Irons Story. I thank you.
*Note to readers. In 2001 Jeremy Irons was still a moderately respectable actor. Dungeons and Dragons had been shot but not released and we were years away from the Time Machine, Eragon and Kingdom of Heaven. I think I'd recently seen him in Lolita, which is an excellent movie.
