Peter O’Toole was a regular guest at Oldie literary lunches and there was one occasion when he was not too pleased with the catering staff at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. A waitress, approaching him from behind with a plate of Irish stew, caught her elbow on a door knob and spilled the entire contents over his head.
Helped by the Londoner, who happened to be sitting next to him, O’Toole ran to the gents to put his head under a cold tap.
“It’s scalding hot and it’s run down my back into my underpants,” he told me. “It’s a brand new suit, first time out. The waitress is remarkably sanguine. She hasn’t even said sorry.”
Next day, when the story appeared on this page, Simpson’s rang to apologise, offering him a free meal. “Why would I want to go back there?” he said to me. “I’d be too scared.”
