Roger Moore: I will not drink a dirty martini

Sir Roger Moore arrives exuding cologne and good manners. ‘I can’t sit here,’ he protests. ‘The lady should always have the better seat, looking out into the room.’ He has dressed immaculately for our rendezvous — and he even shakes out my napkin and presents it to me. We’re in one of his favourite restaurants, One-O-One in Knightsbridge. His usual apéritif is a gin Martini: ‘Very dry, straight up. Vermouth placed in the glass and thrown away, Tanqueray gin, a twist of lemon, and then chilled in a freezer so it crackles with frost.’ His eyebrows shoot upwards in delight. He leans closer, as if to confide an article of faith: ‘I will not drink a Martini dirty.’

He’s still got it. My favourite Bond; the star whose good old English name is also a verb, or a wish, or a note to self, as in: ‘Must Roger Moore.’ ‘I was meant to be George, all the Moores are either Alfred or George. Actually, I was supposed to be Margarita — my parents were convinced!’ At 85, he is married to his fourth wife, Christina ‘Kiki’ Tholstrup, and has just produced a book of 007 anecdotes and arcana, Bond on Bond, dictated from the verandah of his home in Monaco, or phoned in from his chalet in Switzerland. ‘I always find the best time to work is in the morning, before I’ve had a Bloody Mary at noon and forgotten everything.’ His eyes dart about disarmingly. ‘Where’s our waiter? They’re very good at looking after you here. In Moscow the service is the worst in the world. They’re so used to the socialist regime, they don’t want to serve you. Little did they realise I was James Bond. I could have shot the bloody lot of them!’

The right glass of Sancerre goes down well — ‘2011 or maybe a year younger’ — and soon I’m asking if he can remember his longest lunch. As he’s a legendary epicure who was friends with Sinatra and Gregory Peck, I figure it could have lasted several days. ‘In the South of France,’ he remembers, ‘after a two-hour game of tennis, we all went off with a Danish chef who had a house in St Paul de Vence, who rustled something up, and we washed it down with, oh, between ten of us, at least a hundred bottles. There was dancing, and then it was time for dinner. The next day I felt great.’ He has a strong constitution, then? Emphatically: ‘Yes.’

Did he ever, at his zenith, become a little pleased with himself? Start referring to himself in the third person? ‘I’ve never been pleased with myself. Couldn’t be. I never watched my daily rushes. I only ever listened to them. If the voice sounds right, they will be fine. A very clever old-time Hollywood producer told me that if you watch yourself too much, you develop mannerisms. You see your jaw clenching and you think, “That’s effective,” and you start doing it for the wrong reasons.’

I close my eyes. It is a very beautiful voice, low and sweet like a RADA-trained honey bear. He’s telling me tales of gambling in the 1960s. ‘I met these two Americans over a game of chemin de fer on Curzon Street. They were quite heavy gamblers and they were called Cubby Broccoli and Harry Saltzman… Having met them over a gambling table I was obviously going to be a potential for

Bond. They were running a competition in the Daily Express to find James Bond, but I’d just started The Saint.’ And so, during that long-running TV series, it fell to a certain other actor to become the first Bond.

Moore was a gambler, but never a cheat. ‘I knew all the tricks, the sleights of hand. A friend of mine, a Swedish gambler, taught me all the things to look out for.’ But he never put them into practice? ‘Never! I’d be far too frightened. They watch you all the time in a casino.’ He corrects himself wryly. ‘Of course, it wasn’t that I was too frightened, I was too honest. My father was in the police, you know.’ Moore grew up in Stockwell, the only child of George and Lily. His father, always a great supporter, once told him off for failing to appear on the Alan Partridge show in 1994. He thought his son was being unprofessional; of course, Steve Coogan had invented the whole scenario.

Remembering his childhood, Moore likes his fish and chips ‘the common way, with tomato ketchup and vinegar. The best in the world is at Scott’s in Mayfair. It’s not on the menu, but they do it really well.’ He’s on a mission against foie gras. ‘I like animals and I don’t think we should torture them before we eat them. Blowing up the liver of a duck or a goose is no way to treat an animal.’ His PETA campaign recently closed down a large farm in China; next, Fortnum’s is in his sights. ‘The French are horrified with me. If there’s such a word as a fatwah in French, I’m under it, from the farmers and the government, but I don’t care. Our Royal Family doesn’t take foie gras, I’m proud to say. Prince Charles has banned it.’

He arose as Sir Roger for the first time in 2003. ‘A great honour, but it comes for my work for UNICEF, which I’m more proud of than any success I’ve had in movies. But then, of course, if I hadn’t had any success in movies, no one would have been interested in hearing me talk about children’s charities.’ Indeed, glamour makes the world go round. ‘Well, one of the most glamorous ladies recruited me to UNICEF, Audrey Hepburn. She asked me to go with her to Amsterdam. What could one say but yes?’

Well, absolutely. We end our lunch with macaroons. ‘My big problem is...’ he begins. A Soviet assassin behind the door? Grace Jones with a stiletto? ‘Dessert,’ he says ruefully. ‘My wife says I mustn’t.’ Lunchtime with this legend has been a dreamy, surreal experience. He leaves with one generous parting shot: ‘I think they’ve now got the best Bond ever in Daniel Craig. A very fine, classically trained actor, and doesn’t he look like a killer?’ And with that, Roger Moore kisses me on both cheeks — once a killer, twice a lover. ES