Our story of the month: December 2005

I knew, before the doctors told me, that I had duodenal ulcers. Five years of being broke in London, getting by on scrappy meals, often no meals at all, had well and truly laid the foundations for them. There had never been enough time, or money, to get them cured.

As it was they had to do a rush cure on them now; the picture was due on the floor in two weeks. For that fortnight I had to lie flat on my back, eating nothing but tranquillisers, drinking nothing but cream, not even allowed to read or watch TV. At the end of this they promoted me to milk and lighty-boiled eggs, buckled me into a suit of golden armour, sat me on a horse and sent me out on a nice jolly sixteenth-century jousting scene.

At the merest touch of the spurs the horse went flat out, the reins went through my golden gauntlets, my golden boots slipped from the stirrups, and when we reached a flight of concrete steps, Dobbin swerved left and I flew right. I came-to on a stretcher in the Queen of the Angels hospital in downtown Los Angeles. When they discharged me, five days later, the studio had set up the wrestling sequences to welcome me back. Covered with bruises I had to spend the day stripped to the waist, taking throws from an expert. But all this vim and vigour was only kindergarten stuff for what lay ahead. Televesion was already threatening movies in a big way and Columbia approached my agents, to see if I could go over to them for a TV series, to play the title part of Ivanhoe.

I sweated, froze, fell off horses, duelled, leaped and battered my way through thirty-nine episodes of Ivanhoe wjich took nearly a year to make.

At a party Alma Cogan gave this year - the noisy one which hit both the headlines and her neighbours - The Beatles tackled me about my knightly appearance. "Ere Whack, d'you remember when you 'ad all that 'air? That was the right gear that was". I inquired if they, were having as much trouble as I had with my flowing locks. First thing every morning the hairdresser used to soak my hair in beer, put it up in curlers for an hour, then glue it down with lacquer to make it stay in place through all the perspiration that streamed off me while fighting like a hero in suits of metal armour.

I never heard whether John Lennon or Ringo had the same trouble. You couldn't really hear much at that party - except noise. We did most of the work for Ivanhoe in England, at Beaconsfield, where our horses were stabled. Mine was called Shane, and Robert Brown, who played Gurth, had a mare, called Nellie. Shane and Nellie developed a very emotional relationship and wouldn't go anywhere, willingly, without each other. Shane loved peppermints. I spent half my salary buying them for him, and the other half buying them for Nellie. He indicated, whith much snorting, that what was given to him should be given to her, too. During one big sword fight from the saddle, Shane and Nellie got somewhat excited and they careered around a little more wildly than necessary. This put me in the way of a villain's sword which came swishing down taking a piece of my left index finger with it. Everything stopped while they put a plaster on. Off we went again, Shane and Nellie wilder than ever. This time the blade came down and took off both the plaster and my nail. Re-mounting for the third time the saddle slipped and I went whizzing to the ground with my friend, for whom I'd bought all those peppermints, jumping up and down on my chest. When they pulled me out of the hooves and mud I announced I was going home.

Ivanhoe dragged on, 6 a.m to 6 p.m, often 8 p.m, Mondays to Fridays, all through the winter. Our "chain mail" was made of silver painted string so our feet got mauve with cold and chilblains. Frost made the ground iron hard so that falling off horses, which we did regularly, became thoroughly dangerous. We duelled so much that the swords started splintering from metal fatigue and the camera crews barricaded themselves for safety.

Finally I caught 'flu, something to which Ivanhoe could just not afford to succumb. They began by doping me up with aspirin and penicillin. Next morning the producer said port and brandy was the thing, so they poured that down me. By noon, I and my sword were a definite menace to all, so they went back to penicillin and aspirin and quarts of black coffee. At tea-time, in full armour and with every curl in place, I slid gracefully to the floor and stayed there. The 'flu had won, and the insurance company insisted we stopped shooting for a month while I went into a nursing home in Windsor to rest my bruises, cuts, chilblains, fatigue, 'flu and ulcers, which had flared up.

The story continues next month

Read our previous stories of the month

August - September - October - November - December 2003

January - February - March - April - May - June - July - August - September - October - November - December 2004

January - February - March - April - May - June - July - August - Sept/october - November 2005