Only the Sunday before we’d been together at a mutual friend’s house, and we had been talking about Ali and the forthcoming tour, Hugo telling me he’d watched all his fights and was a great fan.
I went round the back and phoned the surprised Hugo. “You’ll think I’m crazy,” I said, “but I’m with Muhammad Ali in Oxford and he’d like to meet you and discuss the bible.” As it happened, Ali and his entourage were staying at the Cumberland Hotel, which was very close to Rabbi Gryn’s synagogue in Upper Berkeley Street, and we arranged to meet at the hotel the next day, Friday, at 5 pm, before the evening service.
Once we got onto the motorway to Birmingham, Ali, sitting next to me again in the front of the car, fell into a deep sleep. Then suddenly his fists began to pound the dashboard as he started to cry, “Joe Frazier, Joe Frazier”, louder and louder, his punches landing with increasing ferocity. I tensed, and someone in the back said, “Hold the wheel tightly, it could get worse”— and it did. Slowing down and moving to the inside lane, I clasped the wheel as tightly as I could as the punches and cries of “Joe Frazier, Joe Frazier” continued. Carole was sitting forward now, anxiously joining in the ‘Hold tight’ chorus. Slowing still more, I took a deep breath and snatched a glance at Ali — and he looked back at me and winked! He’d been wide awake and having me on all the time.
The next day’s signing went on and on, and by the time we got back to the hotel it was 5.30 pm and Rabbi Gryn had given up on us and left. I felt terrible, and literally ran to the synagogue to apologise. “Well,” said Hugo, “the service doesn’t start until seven, so let’s go back to the hotel.” We went up to Ali’s room and he welcomed Hugo warmly and thanked him for coming. Then he brought out his bibles and pointed out the discrepancies in the text. Hugo tried to explain that it was the work of different scribes, so figures could easily have been varied. “Are you saying it is not the word of God?” responded Ali with alarming force. “No,” responded Hugo, “I’m not saying that, but humans, fallible humans, were the intermediaries, recording it all at a later date.”
The discussion went on amidst a warmth and feeling of mutual respect I found moving. Indeed, when Hugo left to take the Friday evening Sabbath service, I wondered whether Ali would have liked to join him, but we had a dinner date, I reminded him, as he got up to embrace Hugo. An appearance by Muhammad Ali in West London Synagogue would have turned a head or two!
Michael Winner was especially friendly during the late period of his life, and we would have long phone conversations in which he told me he was dying and going to be bankrupt. I suggested he cut down on the private jets and get a bus pass.
I also told him that if he’d kept to his Jewish roots and not eaten oysters he would be in better health.
He was, though, trying to sell his house, or so he said, and when it was sold after his death to Robbie Williams, I read that the singer had called in an American healer to exorcise Michael’s spirit, as his wife was spooked by what she believed was his presence watching her and silently criticising her as she changed the decor of his Victorian mansion. I couldn’t help thinking that if Michael had really been there she’d have heard him all right!
Michael died in January 2013. I phoned the house to express my condolences and find out when the funeral would be, and was informed it would be the next day, “since in the Jewish religion burial occurs very soon after death”.
I was surprised, because he’d religiously avoided being associated publicly with anything Jewish and never wanted to be interviewed by Jewish papers, although he occasionally allowed me to persuade him.
After his death, I discovered that he had quietly given donations to a synagogue and a school in Israel for troubled children that his parents had been involved with, once taking time to visit it when he was filming there.
Evidently, a grave in the Orthodox Jewish cemetery in Willesden had been paid for and kept for his mother, who for some reason was buried in France, so that was where Michael was to be buried — ironic really, since he was born in Willesden and it was hardly his beat in more recent years.
I was later told that when it looked as if Michael was approaching the end, a rabbi was called to the house. It was felt that if he was going to officiate at Michael’s funeral, it would be helpful to have met him. I gather the rabbi’s initial response was, “In the Jewish religion we don’t do last rites,” but he came, and when Michael (who had rallied slightly) became aware of what was happening, he was furious, saying, “Get that man out of my house.” True to form to the last.
As we moved from the prayer hall following the coffin to the grave, my wife and I found ourselves walking beside Michael Parkinson and fell into an easy conversation about Winner. As we passed my father’s grave, I pointed it out to him, and he in turn started telling me about his own parents and family background. It was an intimate and affecting moment. Later, I told Michael that when we had first suggested to Winner that he should try to appear on his talk show, he’d said, ‘Parkinson won’t have me’ (though in the end he did). Michael smiled at this, and answered intriguingly, “One day I’ll tell you why.” I await the day.
Under Cover by Jeremy Robson
is published by Biteback
