A Brush With Fame

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It was early 1963, and I was working at a television studio housed in the Granville Theatre in London. The task at hand was to record a poetry reading by the inimitable Richard Burton, who was to breathe life into the words of Dylan Thomas. It promised to be an affair dripping with the kind of gravitas that could make a grown man weep.

The studio was buzzing with anticipation. Our small audience, a select few invited for this rare treat, included none other than Elizabeth Taylor herself. There she was, seated in the front row, her leg encased in a plaster cast—a remnant of a mishap on the set of Cleopatra. Even with that cumbersome cast, she radiated an allure that was almost palpable, a beacon of Hollywood glamour amidst our humble British setting.

As a humble technician, my role was far from the limelight. I was tasked with the less glamorous, though no less vital, job of ensuring our cameras operated without a hitch. But fate, it seemed, had other plans for me that day. Armed with a coil of camera cable, I concocted a flimsy excuse to be in the right place at the right time.

I saw my opportunity as Burton prepared to start his reading. I needed to adjust the camera angle—well, that’s what I told myself. With my coil of cable, I manoeuvred myself between Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. For a split second, I was in the presence of greatness, my heart pounding louder than Burton’s recitation.

In a moment of sheer bravado, or perhaps folly, I turned and smiled at Elizabeth Taylor. And then it happened. I could swear she winked at me. Elizabeth Taylor, the goddess of the silver screen, acknowledging my existence! My mind raced with the possibilities—perhaps this was the start of my Hollywood career. I envisioned myself rubbing shoulders with the stars, attending glamorous parties, and receiving an Oscar for Best Cable Handling.

But alas, my dreams of Tinseltown glory were abruptly cut short. From the control room above, my future wife was watching. She had a keen eye and a sharper intuition. The fleeting wink from Taylor didn’t escape her notice, nor did my sheepish grin. As I made my way back to my station, the cable coil feeling heavier by the second, I could almost feel her eyes boring into the back of my head.

Thus ended my brief brush with fame. Richard Burton continued with his reading, Elizabeth Taylor remained the queen of Hollywood, and I returned to my cables, my Hollywood dreams dashed—but with a story to tell.