I paid off some of my student debt by growing a beard and playing light music at the cold end of the marble meat fridge near the American embassy in Mayfair which served as library for Mr Harris‘ publishers, and as hotel and knocking shop for numerous passing librarians. One day I was sent over to head office on Park Street to entertain the theatre lady and encountered a particularly gloomy-looking Mr Harris in the lift. Could I have your autograph, I asked the great man. Sod off, he replied. I will not be pressing charges.
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I had the same experience with Noel Coward in the Seychelles in 1966. Oh, no, I remember now – He was annoyed because I asked him if he wanted my autograph.
I also highly pissed off Derek Nimmo once but that’s another story.
See my forthcoming autobiography. I’ve got the title written. Almost.
I think it’s time Rolf Harris had his come-uppance.
We didn’t have a telly, and other small children didn’t like him, so my only idea of him comes from that elevator pitch moment – not good.
Jude Law will let you buy him three drinks and offer you back zero. Pervert.
God, that sounds familiar.
I see prison sentences have become harsher as you risk being taught drawing by Rolf Harris as part of his ‘work’ experience.
I think I’d probably prefer to be taught drawing by him than literacy by Andy Coulson.