Articles/Interviews

In his 2003 Memoir Taking Fresh Guard, former England cricketer and TV presenter Tony Lewis recalls the occasion when he interviewed Oliver Reed on the BBC TV show Pebble Mill

During two series at Pebble Mill, I interviewed Joan Collins, Britt Ekland, Tim Rice, Sir Bernard Miles, Leslie Phillips, Beryl Reid, James Hunt, Jimmy Young, Sheila Hancock, Ginger Rogers and many others. I arrived once driving a Rolls-Royce bearing Dame Edna Everage and ended up swinging a shoe with her to the music of Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen. And then, one sunny day, along came Mr Oliver Reed!

'Wine?' I offered as we prepared to discuss the forthcoming interview over a light supper.

'Yes, white,' beamed Ollie. I poured him a glass.

He grinned and stretched strong fingers round the bottle, pretending to chide me, 'Not a glass of white, the bottle.'

While he downed the wine, he told me about his train journey to Birmingham from Euston Station in old carriages that wobbled and rocked from side to side. He had settled near the refreshment bar, resolving to drink lager from a can without spilling any. He failed first time, and so he tried a new can and failed again. 'So I decided to keep buying cans of lager until I succeeded,' he went on. It was a game unlikely to bow to the mantra of practice making perfect. My man was many cans of lager ahead of the game.

I suggested a line of questioning but was knocked back with three assurances. 'Just lead me to my Scottish ancestry, my dyslexia and to Glenda Jackson.' That sounded fair to me. There is nothing worse than an interviewer who wants to burn up the conversation before getting on the air, and this was a live show. I made a note as we sat in for a full studio rehearsal that my striped shirt was far too busy and I thought distracting for the viewer. My director confirmed, 'You're strobing.' I would change for the programme.

Ollie decided that he would like to spend the couple of hours between rehearsal and transmission at about 11 p.m. in the BBC club. By the time he had sunk several large gins and tonic and I was swimming in orange juice, we were ready for our face-to-face under the lights. Run autocue. There was no walk-on. Ollie was safely seated alongside me as I informed about 15 million viewers that his latest film with Glenda Jackson had just been released. I turned to put the first question but my man was on the move. He was gesturing to camera one and calling for a close shot of the fly of his trousers. This was not exactly what I had planned. Slowly he lowered the zip and inserted his hand. Very slowly he leered at the camera and appeared to be pulling out something large and almost unmanageable. Inch by inch, it came out - a plain, grey shirt. 'This is for you,' he said to me. 'I didn't like the stripes of your shirt in rehearsal. Did nothing for you. Put this one on.'

'But I've changed my shirt. This is not the one I wore in rehearsal.'

Ollie never let the chance to shock pass him by, and I had thwarted him in the shirt act, but what about his fallen trousers?

I thought about bare legs and blurted, 'Scottish ancestry, Oliver. You must be used to bare legs in a kilt.' He looked round and called out to Kenny Ball and his Jazzmen, our resident musicians, 'Can you play a Scottish reel, Kenny?' Kenny and the boys never needed a repeat request; they were quickly into a Celtic reel and Ollie decided that he and I should whirl together. Unfortunately, the microphone attached to my shirt was connected to a block at the side of my chair and as I rose my shirt was tugged in the opposite direction. It was pantomime, but I knew how to lower the escape chute. I got him trouserless back in his seat, referred to his new role as Chief Inspector Wilson and, allowing for a fifteen-second count, called up the film clip. While it was being transmitted I heard encouragement in my earpiece. 'Don't panic,' my leaders said. 'We'll cut five minutes off it. Just do fifteen minutes. All right?' I gave a thumbs-up to the camera and went in with a serious question. What about his work with Glenda Jackson? Suddenly I had a serious movie actor on my hands. He talked brilliantly about the effect of dyslexia on the work of reading scripts and, once on the subject of Glenda Jackson, he was riveting - the effect her talent had on others, the widening range of emotions, the sharp editorial judgement. The sweat poured from his forehead and yet his opinions were well formed, his rhythm constant and enunciation perfect. He had become that dangerous combination for an interviewer to face: drunk but absolutely articulate. Indeed, the content lurched suddenly to the morose. I could sense the audience's enthusiasm shrinking. Our audiences tended to recoil from hearing their stars discuss uncomfortable subjects. I had been through a harrowing interview some weeks before with Dick Emery who presented the gloomy side of a tough upbringing in the theatre. I wanted more bubble to end on an up note.

I should never have doubted the timing or professionalism of Oliver Reed. He ended, '...and there is another superb quality in Glenda Jackson, Tony. [Long pause.] She's got fantastic tits.' There was a football roar from the audience. Applause. Applause. Hand over to Bob Langley. I was home and sort of dry. Monday's newspapers gave the story a big run. Mostly they agreed with the one I kept in my scrapbook - 'Tony keeps his cool as Oliver - minus trousers - bowls him a TV bouncer.' I could live with that.