Having flown in from America only the previous afternoon, he explains that he had been out with his old friend Martin Amis until 3am. Where is the celebrated rhetorician, famed for speaking in perfect paragraphs sculpted from flawless sentences? Gruff, vague and nursing a cup of tea, he clasps one hand discreetly over the other in a manner suggestive of some practice in taming the morning shakes. Expecting to meet a sort of rakish Russell Crowe, I appear to have found a hungover Timothy Spall. The paunchy, middle-aged figure who opens the door at 10am has a crust of dried toothpaste around his mouth, an air of bleary dishevelment and the stooped shuffle of a man just out of bed and wishing he'd postponed the appointment to a less ungodly hour. I 'm not sure what a legend should look like exactly, but I'm pretty sure it's not this.
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