It was exactly twenty five years ago today that I was sitting at the long bar in the Marbella Club wondering what to do with myself. The sun was shining and it was quite warm, but the hotel was eerily quiet. I was on forced rest while shooting a couple of commercials for SEAT cars. The previous evening the wardrobe mistress had overheard, during a drunken dinner at one of Puerto Banus’ flashier eateries, how much we were spending on models, directors, cameramen etc and had decided that what she was getting was not enough. She was right, it wasn’t enough and I could double the sum as she demanded, immediately. But too late, she had legged it in the night. These were the days before mobile ‘phones and Pilar had taken off into the hills with all the flat brimmed hats, bolero jackets, grey stripped pants, chaps and boots. She had even taken the authentic Andalusian saddles. Search parties were sent out and she was finally found agreeing to come back the next morning – for cash. Shooting would recommence on Stewart Granger’s beautiful estate. Stewart had just been run out of Spain for dubious property dealing and his concierge was not against putting a few pesetas in his back pocket by renting out the guvnors property. He and his wife also provided the twenty strong crew with a sumptuous lunch around the pool looking out over the valley to the sea. During my short siesta, I drifted off and thought of all those little starlets that had decorated the place in happier times.

But back to the Marbella Club bar.

“Telephone for Senor G” cried the bellboy as he passed through the almost empty bar ringing his little bell and carrying the blackboard high. “Call from Hollywood for Senor G”. I discretely called him over and pushed a coin into his green waistcoat pocket. The call was of no importance, but what was, was the reaction of my barstool neighbour. Omar Sharif, who was looking rather forlorn and had spent the afternoon alone shuffling cards and flipping beer mats. He looked me up and down, as you do; possibly wondering why this berk was getting calls from Tinsel Town when he wasn’t.

I felt a bit sorry for him with his hang-dog eyes and moved a few barstools closer.

“Cheer up Omar ol’mate” I said. “Give us that Funny Girl smile, or at least that Lawrence frown”. As he had his deck of cards with him, and was always a betting man, I suggested a hand or two with the loser paying the afternoon’s bar bill. He agreed, cut the cards and dealt the hand.

“Mrs. Bunn the Bakers Wife” he shouted excitedly and proudly snapped the card on the bar.

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