Tales I Never Told!

This book is dedicated to Geraldine Lynton-Edwards my adorable, ever young ex-fiancée.

Wisest thing I ever did was when I managed to bring her back into my life after many years of being apart.

My powers of persuasion surprised even me…

… but they worked!

Whoopee!

Then things got even better.

On 19 September 2011 we got married!

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

FOREWORD

PART I: TALES I NEVER TOLD!

ARNOLD CRUST

IN THE OFFICE

CHARLES BRONSON

THE MECHANIC

DINING STARS

FAYE DUNAWAY

GLYNIS BARBER

RICHARD HARRIS

LA RÉSERVE DE BEAULIEU

MARGARET LOCKWOOD

MARLON BRANDO

ME

MICHAEL GRADE

MRS MERTON

NATALIE

NATIONAL POLICE MEMORIAL

ESTHER RANTZEN

NIGELLA LAWSON

O. J.

OLIVER REED

ORSON WELLES

CALL ME PETE

NIGHTS AT THE COMEDY

DRIVING MR WINNER

PETER USTINOV

POLICE

STEPPING UP TO THE PLATE

A VILLAGE GREEN

MEMORIALS

RACHEL WEISZ

THE ROUX OF ROUX

SPEECH 23C

THE CASE OF THE MISSING EARRINGS

DANCING ON MY FEET

RICHARD LITTLEJOHN

RICKY GERVAIS

ROBERT MITCHUM

ROMAN POLANSKI

STANLEY KUBRICK

STEPHANIE BEACHAM

TOMMY COOPER

FRANKIE HOWERD

KENNETH WILLIAMS

PETER COOK

WON TON TON

KENNY EVERETT

STING AND TRUDIE STYLER

PART II: WINNER’S DINNER REVIEWS

PART III: WINNER’S DINNER AWARDS 2011–2012

RESTAURANTS REVIEWED

Plates

Copyright

FOREWORD

Tales I Never Told! is a rather frightening title! It means that I have to be absolutely certain that every story I’ve put in this book has never been told anywhere, not in the sewers, not in skyscrapers, not on aeroplanes, not in any known or unknown society that exists on any planet. I could not put my hand on my heart and swear that was true because my memory as to what I’ve said where is not totally infallible. I have checked through other books I have written, particularly my autobiography and my last book, Unbelievable!, and as far as I can see, all these stories are absolutely freshly put before the public. If you find one that isn’t, or even two that are not, please keep it to yourself. Do not tell anybody. Do not reveal such an embarrassing matter that could place me in public ridicule; a position I’ve been in for so long it wouldn’t make much difference anyway!

The wonderful thing about stories is that we all tell them every day of our lives. We tell about what Mrs Smith the neighbour did, or what Harry Bloggs our uncle did or what some other idiot did. We relish the details, often rather obscenely, if they are details that show particular distress. There’s always a certain delight in other people’s misfortunes. It can be called gossip. It can be called passing information. It can be called commenting on life around us.

Life around me has largely been both eventful and full of very famous people. Some people, and I object to them strongly, say that I am a name-dropper. We all drop names. You drop names of the people you know or who your acquaintances know because they are people in your daily life. If I talk about people in my daily life, many of whom happen to be legendary or at least famous, that’s because they’re in my daily life. What am I supposed to do? Not talk about them? Go down the road to find someone I don’t know at all and say, What is your name?, have a long conversation and come back and gossip about it? That would be too much to bear – for me and the person that I was talking to.

There are many stories that I have not told, or at least only ever told to a very limited audience of friends, and many of these friends appear in this book. There are also a great many stories I have not told at all and still cannot tell because they are too revelatory about famous people I greatly like and who are alive.

So in a way, this is a book of gossip. Gossip is sometimes used as a word indicating shallowness or an inability to talk about higher and more intellectual matters. This is ridiculous! We all chat about our daily lives. If we wish, we talk about art, life and other intellectual matters. I am going to relieve you from the tedium of hearing me talk about art, life and intellectual matters – although, believe me, I am capable of it. This book is meant as a bit of fun to while away hours that otherwise might be less cheerful.

The second part of the book is a catch-up for you on the last year or so of reviews in the Winner’s Dinners column of the Sunday Times. There are people who say I’m a food critic. That is far too grand a title for what I do. I consider myself a humour writer (that could depend on your sense of humour!) who writes stories about his time in restaurants and other places. I am certainly not a food expert. But having had the good fortune to be born to reasonably well off parents, I ate in the finest restaurants from around the age of five. Eventually, unless you’re a total moron (which I am on occasions), you learn by continual tasting what is good and what is not. I write as an ordinary punter. I go to restaurants. I pay for every meal. If they refuse to give me a bill, I argue and go on a bit and if they still decline, then I give a large tip which I believe to be the equivalent of what I would have paid for the meal. That tip goes in to what is called a tronc, which is divided among all the waiting staff, and possibly cloakroom staff, and others in the restaurant. So I do my bit for humanity!

We also have in this book the Winner’s Dinners Awards for 2011/12. These are unique in the history of awards. They attract the most marvellous people to present them. Last year it was Sir Michael Caine, Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber and Barbara Windsor. The only trouble was I left the awards at home so they couldn’t actually present anything! They just told people what they’d got and later one of my staff rushed back to the house and got the awards and handed them out to those who were there. We got through some twelve awards in fourteen minutes. Probably (in fact definitely), an all-time record for the handing out of awards which is normally done by some boring head of a company at a dinner that goes on forever. The Winner’s Dinners Awards are handed out at a champagne reception at the Belvedere restaurant and some very meaningful people are in the audience; last year we had Sir Tim Rice and Chris Rea, to mention but two.

I have never taken food writing too seriously. I’ve never taken life with total seriousness because it is so ridiculous, what’s the point? But I have enjoyed it, as I hope you will enjoy this book, which reveals episodes in my life.

PART I

TALES I NEVER TOLD!

ARNOLD CRUST

One of my greatest creations, rather like she who rustled up Frankenstein’s monster, is Arnold Crust. When I was working on a column called In London Last Night for the Evening Standard in the mid-1950s, we needed someone to make humorous remarks about the hundreds of debutantes, most of whom were not exactly bright. So Jeremy Campbell, the editor, and I invented a girl debutante called Venetia Crust. I also invented a father for her called Arnold. Arnold first appeared in the press at a restaurant owned by Tommy Yeardye who later married Diana Dors. Tommy was an irrepressible businessman, had previously been a stuntman, later became rich as a property dealer and had a considerable stake in the Vidal Sassoon brand. He also put money into the business of Hackney-based Malaysian shoe designer, Jimmy Choo. Tommy’s daughter ran the business and it became an enormous success.

In those days Tommy was grovelling about. He opened a basement restaurant called The Paint Box. The idea was that people would eat and at the same time have an easel and oils and paint naked girls who were littered around the room. I guess I would have been asked to the opening, or some time later. It was there that Arnold Crust was born. He was seriously stated in the Evening Standard (written by me!) to have been present and painted a picture called Trauma with a stirrup pump. The 1950s were a very fun time!

I was so thrilled at having invented Arnold Crust that I used him again and again. I edited nearly all my own movies myself, sitting at the machine which in those days ran celluloid through something called a Movieola. I marked the film with a white wax crayon, cut the film myself and stuck it together with Sellotape. That’s how editing was done before digital machines came in. Since I was already credited on most of my movies as producer, director and, frequently, as writer as well, I thought that to also have a single screen credit as editor was a bridge too far. So on most of my movies it says Editor, Arnold Crust. Arnold has had some very good reviews, often better than the film in general. It was many years before Variety, the trade newspaper, wrote that Edited by Arnold Crust meant Edited by Michael Winner. Later, Arnold Crust blossomed again as a photographer. When I took a picture for my Sunday Times column, the photo credit at the top read Arnold Crust. He’s a wonderful fellow, Arnold. I don’t know what happened to his daughter Venetia, but he has stayed in the public eye for years. I’m sure I will find other activities for him to pursue. A man of his talents cannot be kept down.

IN THE OFFICE

My father was a very big collector of paintings, furniture and jade. As you know, none of this came to me because my mother nicked it all and sold it to pay her debts to the Cannes casino. During my father’s foraging through the salesrooms and shops of Mayfair and St James’s he did something which was absolutely brilliant. I was only told about it well after he had died, by an old Jewish bronze dealer in Jermyn Street. He said to me, You know, your father was famous in this area, St James’s, where all the dealers are. He was famous for the words ‘in the office’. I said, What does that mean?

In those days the dealers would come round to my father’s house with paintings and jade, particularly paintings. They would leave the paintings in his house on approval, the price having been agreed, to see if he liked them. This was quite clever of the dealer because by putting a painting up in a man’s house, the prospective buyer eventually got a proprietary feel for it, and most likely would want to keep it.

They reckoned without my dad! Apparently he would phone the dealer and say, You know, I’m very fond of that oil painting you left here. I really like it but unfortunately my wife Helen hates it. She won’t have it in the house. So all I can do is put it in the office. And if it goes in the office I can’t pay as much for it as I would if it went in the house. Thus my father would renegotiate the price for the painting. I’m sure the paintings didn’t all go in his office because it wasn’t very large. If all those paintings had gone in his office he wouldn’t have been able to get in! I think it’s a wonderful gag to pull. The dealers sold the painting, they still made a profit, and dad had a bit left to indulge me. Or buy some more stuff for himself.

CHARLES BRONSON

Charles Bronson contracted Alzheimer’s some six years before he died and was basically out of it. But before that, and after the death of his second wife Jill Ireland, he rang me and said, I think at last, Michael, I’ve met someone who I want to spend my life with which I never thought I’d do after Jill died. The person involved was a lady called Kim Weeks who used to be secretary to an agent called Michael Viner. Charlie met her because of me. Michael Viner met Jill when she was visiting on my film The Sentinel in which Viner’s wife Deborah Raffin was playing a leading role. Jill took him on as her book agent and thus Charlie met both him and his secretary Kim Weeks. I think Kim Weeks set her sights on getting Bronson from day one. It was rumoured that she was having an affair with Michael Viner but, either way, she and Charlie started to become an item. I remember Charlie saying to me one New Year when I asked him where he was going on New Year’s Eve, I shall be Connecticut and I’m having dinner with Kim Weeks. I really feel for her, Michael. I rang him a few days later and asked, Have you fixed your New Year venue yet Charlie? He replied, No I shall be at home alone. I said, I thought you were having dinner with Kim Weeks and some other people? Charlie said, No, she deceived me. I didn’t know she was coming out here until a few days before New Year and then I discovered that she had come out a week earlier and was staying with Michael Viner. So Charlie stopped seeing her. I know he was genuinely very hurt. Later they got together and married, and were together for a considerable time, although I think Kim was not in favour of Charlie being in too close contact with his previous friends or with his children. The children certainly didn’t approve of her and there was some conflict over his will, where she thought she hadn’t been left enough and the children thought she’d been left too much!

The Daily Mail asked me to write an obituary for Jill Ireland before she’d actually died. I said, I can’t deliver this while she’s alive, it will be too painful. Jill was an ex-girlfriend of mine who I was madly in love with in the mid-1950s, well before she met Charlie. When she was very ill with cancer, towards the end Jill had a friend with her who was a journalist from Los Angeles. He spent a lot of time in the house. When the Daily Mail rang me and said, Jill Ireland has just died. Your obituary will miss the first edition but can you get it in speedily? I had written it but not given it to them. So I sent it in. Then I thought I’d better commiserate with Charlie. So I rang him at his home in Malibu and said, Charlie, I’m so sorry. He responded, What are you sorry about? I said, Well, Jill. He said, What about Jill? I explained, I understand she’s just died, Charlie. There was an intake of breath and Charlie said, Jeez how did you know that? Of course, the journalist had put it on the wire services and Charlie wasn’t aware of how speedily news travelled at that time. When he said, What about Jill? I was terrified. I thought maybe she hadn’t died and I was calling him up on a piece of untrue information. But sadly it was true.

THE MECHANIC

Charlie Bronson always believed that people were slighting him or cheating him. From an accusation that my assistant, Stephen, was watering down his Yuban instant coffee to endless querying of hotel bills and arguing whether or not he made a phone call on that particular night, he always thought he was being cheated. We were filming The Mechanic on the coast road between Amalfi and Positano. There was a tunnel through the road which we’d had closed. Charlie came out of the tunnel, sat next to me and said, I’m going to kill that bastard. I said, Who are you going to kill Charlie and why? He said, That arsehole Italian electrician keeps bumping into me. So saying, he got up to go back into the tunnel and sort him out. I’m sure the electrician was not bumping into him deliberately. I said, Charlie, come back. Let’s not have a fight. We’re surrounded by an Italian crew of sixty people. I think they outnumber us. So it’s best to keep quiet. The next thing I knew there were screams and shouts coming from the tunnel. For some reason, the Italian crew were having a bar room brawl. They were hitting each other, smashing each other about. The Italian assistant director went in and becalmed them. When I next saw the Italians, they were coming out of the tunnel, some of them bleeding, and were slapping each other on the back and shaking hands like they were blood brothers. Well they were but it was real blood.

On the same movie, we had major car chases along the coast road. One Saturday, the head of United Artists, David Picker, came down to see me with his wife. So we used the day, which was normally a day off, for the second unit to do shots with cars screeching round corners, and stick the camera out the window and photograph the wheels of the car as it drove at speed; all that sort of thing. Picker and I were in a car going along the Amalfi road to lunch at the San Pietro Hotel right on the top of a rock overlooking the Mediterranean. As we drove along we saw a car crunched to pieces which had hit the wall of the coast road. Rather forlorn-looking technicians were standing around it scratching their heads. David Picker said to me, I hope that’s not one of ours. I said, Yes, David, it is. I’ll deal with it after lunch. We had four identical cars in the same state. On that afternoon the second unit crashed two of them. So we desperately had to find another Fiat that looked the same. But it wasn’t wasn’t quite the same. The interior leather was a different colour and even the car itself was a slightly different colour. Nobody noticed it on the screen. It’s just the sort of thing that happens on action movies. Bit of a giggle really.

BURT LANCASTER

After his death Burt Lancaster was often written about as being someone who swung both ways. That is, with both men and women. In the leading biography of him after he died the writer claimed that he had been at a party with 167 US marines and Rock Hudson. I could imagine Burt phoning me and saying, Did you see what that cocksucker wrote? She said there were 167 US marines at the party. There were 171.

DINING STARS

The first TV series that bore my name was called Michael Winner’s True Crimes. It appeared between 1991 and 1994 on London Weekend Television. It was a phenomenal success. Running at 10–10.30 p.m., it attracted viewing figures that ranged between twelve million and seven million. Admittedly those were different days but the figures, even in those times, were phenomenal. True Crimes told the story of how the police go out on a major investigation and end up catching the criminal. The sentence and the trial were also part of it. The series was directed by one of the most successful producers in television today, a lovely man called Jeff Pope. It was produced by Simon Shaps, who went on to become Director of Programmes for ITV. It was taken off air because my so-called friend, Michael Grade (who’d do anything to get into the newspapers) gave a speech at the end of the Edinburgh Television Festival in which he suddenly turned on me and said, "Michael Winner’s True Crimes was just the sort of exploitative television which should not be on the air." There was nothing remotely exploitative about the show. Maybe it was because his channel, Channel 4, didn’t have anything like it. In those days, the programmes were chosen by a cabal of people, meeting in a room, who decided what would go where. They were all terrified of Michael Grade. Therefore, not wishing to cross him, they ditched my programme. Considering Michael Grade and I used to lunch regularly and were supposedly friends, this seemed to me an act of treachery, which is not untypical of Michael Grade’s behaviour.

It was not until early 2010 that I was given a new series called Michael Winner’s Dining Stars. This came about because one of the great television executives of our day, Jimmy Mulville, approached me and said they had this show where I would go round to people’s houses and comment on their cooking. A pilot programme was made by a partnership of Jimmy and another company called 12 Yard. The show was to be transmitted in the afternoon.

When the pilot was seen by Peter Fincham, Director of Television for the ITV network, things took a turn! Mr Fincham was so delighted with the pilot he decided to give it a peak time evening slot. This was to be 9–10 p.m. on Tuesdays. Four programmes were made as a kind of test run. Everyone at ITV was marvellous. In fact, they were so marvellous and so enthusiastic they probably killed the show with kindness!

I remember sitting in my cinema with Peter Fincham and ITV’s Head of Factual Programming, Alison Sharman. I said, What we need on this show is a producer. At the moment, it’s like those games we used to play when we were kids, where someone comes over with a tray with a number of objects on it and we kind of linked them together and made a story. To which Peter Fincham said, You’ve got Jimmy Mulville who is one of the greatest producers of all time! I replied, "That’s quite true Peter, Jimmy is one of the greatest producers of all time. But we never see him. He never phones, he never writes. We’ve got some man who produced a programme about people on a bus and while he is a very nice human being, I really don’t think he’s up to it." But nobody took any notice of me – we went ahead and made the programmes.

The critics were somewhat divided. The popular press wasn’t crazy about it but others were. Charlie Brooker in The Guardian said: It’s the sort of programme that simultaneously makes you feel glad and aghast to be alive. Winner himself plays to the cameras with more knowing skill than anyone in any of his own films has ever managed. It’s all put on for the cameras of course but somehow this in itself it fascinating. In the end, I simply admitted defeat and started laughing at him and with him. The show elevates from mere schedule-filler to amusing cultural artefact. Boyd Hilton, the TV Critic of Heat magazine, said: I couldn’t tear myself away from it, it was brilliant TV. It’s fantastic. Michael Winner can be on every night as far as I’m concerned. Matthew Norman in The Independent said: It’s cracking television. A riot of more mirth and buoyancy. I could go on. But you might think I was being conceited!

Before we got to these reviews the show had to be made. Somewhere along the line, the word had filtered down from Peter Fincham that I had to be very menacing. The reason my column in the Sunday Times has run for over sixteen years and is so popular is that I take the piss out of myself. I realised very early on that menacing was not altogether sympathetic. But I went along with it. Many of the critics noticed I was playing the pantomime villain. Some did not. Perhaps the public took me more seriously than I should have been taken.

There were also some rather strange happenings. Quite early on, I made some silly comments about the north of England. I said I loved the people, I loved the scenery but that the food was dreadful and that the ladies didn’t know how to dress. It was later that I learned that ITV’s main audience is northern women. I ask myself now, why didn’t someone say to me, You can’t really say that Michael, because our audience is northern women. We were not making Hamlet. I would have been happy to redo that bit. The comments were made in my house and since they were shooting in my house nearly every week it would have been very easy to change. It’s so easy to look back in retrospect at what could and should have happened. Doesn’t help really!

It was a wonderful romp going round people houses; I liked them greatly. Although some of the press suggested I was a great bully, I stayed friends with all of the contestants. They were all invited to my house to dinner and I still speak to them regularly.

I’d been working with, and employing, technicians in film and television for well over fifty years before the advent of Dining Stars. What happened on this programme was beyond human belief. I have never seen anything like it! We had a youngish director, Nic Guttridge, and an executive producer, Matt Walton, who thought he was God’s gift to the world. They were amusing and I liked them. Very near the beginning of the series I realised the trouble I was in. I was going on a private jet (which I was paying for) to Italy. The crew would meet me there later to do some shooting at a hotel on Lake Garda. First of all, I checked the weather. The day they were due to film in Lake Garda, which was four days after they shot me getting on the plane, the forecast showed total and continuous rain. Neither the executive producer nor the director had bothered to check, which is something every professional should do if they are shooting outdoors. I said to them, Have you checked the weather forecast? They replied, No. I said, Well I suggest you come tomorrow when the forecast is good. There’s only three of you coming anyway. Why wait until it’s raining and misty and you can’t even see the other side of the lake or much else. So they did come earlier. If they’d come on the day they’d chosen it would have rained nonstop. I was there and saw nonstop rain and low cloud.

What was particularly bizarre was that I came in my Rolls-Royce Phantom to the plane for the journey and I said, My fiancée Geraldine and I will get out and walk to the plane, whereupon the director replied, No, Geraldine can’t walk onto the plane. We only want you. We don’t want Geraldine. I said, Just a minute she’s coming on holiday with me. You’re going to be showing her in these luxurious places with me. How do you suggest she got there? Did she hitch hike? Did she swim and then take a train? Of course, she should walk onto the plane with me. If you want to interview me afterwards about what is going to happen that can be done without her. This blew into a major incident. Finally I said, Look I’m paying for the plane, which ITV could not afford and would not wish to, and I don’t blame them. If I’m paying for the plane, I’ve got news for you: Geraldine and I are going to walk from the car to the plane. This is what happened. Whereupon the executive producer, Matt Walton, sent me an email in which he threatened to quit unless he had total control and that did not include me saying who walks from car to the aeroplane. When we got to Lake Garda the director said, Can I see you? We went out on to the balcony of my suite and he asked, Who’s running this show?