Old 1950's comedy sketch joke:
"I drink to forget."
"Forget what?"
"I don't know. I've forgotten."
There is a large element of truth in this feeble joke.
I have an almost irresistible urge to communicate after drinking at night, and the opportunities to do so have become more and more frequent ever since I got my first telephone, about 40 years ago. In the 1970s, I would call up old girlfriends in America, heedless of the different time-zones and the universal human need for sleep.
Then along came the internet and emails, coinciding with my brief (!), three or four-year flirtation with cocaine. You can imagine.
I suppose that ranting at someone via emails when they are blissfully asleep is a little better than standing in a dark and deserted street, shouting up at a closed and unlit window at night, but when they get round to reading them in the morning, the motives for sending them and the passion with which they were sent confuses me. I become sober to forget.
Last night I thought it would be a good idea to relate my story of meeting Donald Sutherland early one morning in Salisbury Cathedral Close to a comparative stranger.
The long story cut short is that an Anglican Catholic monk approached us when we were having an al fresco cigarette on the green, picking up litter as he approached. He was dressed in a long, black frock-coat and had a wide-brimmed, black hat with a curious little cord attached to it.
The bench that we were sitting on had been strewn around with rubbish, despite that there was a bin for it within arm's reach. I had picked up all but one bit which was out of reach, intending to put it in the bin when I eventually stood up to leave.
The monk had a white beard and bore a striking resemblance to Donald Sutherland. A very striking resemblance.
When he reached our bench, he said that he hoped it was not us who had dropped the bit of litter on the ground, and his voice was identical to Donald Sutherland's, with its soft, North American accent.
This has - I thought - got to be Donald Sutherland in monk's costume for some film being made here.
After a few more words (which convinced me it was D.S.) I told him that he reminded me of someone.
"Donald Sutherland," he instantly responded, "Everyone says that. He is Canadian and I am American."
I got the first two letters right though. He was Dom Bruce DeWalt, originally from the American power tool family.
I remember all this very clearly (as I am sure most of you do too), but why I told the story to someone last night is a mystery to me.
