Oh God, it’s happened again. Another evening where I’m surrounded by people I know personally or have interviewed, and I can’t remember a single name. Multiple blanks. It’s a sort of self-fulfilling nervous tic — a phobia, almost. We were at a fundraiser at our kids’ former school in north London. For some reason, lots of celebs send their children there, including Jonathan Ross. He once joked that it’s the only school in London with a permanent posse of paparazzi hanging around outside the gates. Anyway, a veteran actor with grandchildren there strolled over for a chat. After he’d wandered off, I looked at my wife in mute appeal. ‘Tom Conti, for fuck’s sake,’ she sighed. ‘You’re bloody hopeless. You should just come clean with people and tell them you’re rubbish at remembering names.’
Never, never confess to someone that you’ve forgotten what they’re called. The soul-shrivelling experience of a former newspaper colleague taught me that. In the early 1960s, Bob Hutchings was a young Fleet Street reporter yearning to work for a big American title. He landed an interview with the editor of the Los Angeles Times and flew to California. Arriving at their offices on a November afternoon, he immediately sensed a strained atmosphere. The receptionist giving him his pass had clearly been weeping. Upstairs, the editor’s PA had mascara streaking her cheeks as she pressed the intercom. ‘The English guy is here, sir.’ Bob stared at her. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘Everyone seems really upset.’ She stared back. ‘Haven’t you heard? Our president’s been shot!’ It never occurred to him she meant Kennedy. He thought she was talking about the head of the LA Times and silently cursed as he tried and failed to remember his name.
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