classic james king

I first met James Nesbitt eight years ago when I accompanied him on a trip back to his home town of Portrush, an hour west of Belfast, for the filming of an episode of the drama that first made his name, Cold Feet. It was a revelatory experience; up until that point, I had never truly comprehended the meaning of the term “local hero”.
One minute, Nesbitt was taking calls from the mayor begging him to attend a grand ceremony to accept the freedom of the city; the next, he was being bought a seemingly endless supply of drinks at the jam-packed Harbour Bar by the ecstatic regulars, every single one of whom claimed to be “a friend of Jimmy’s”. Never has one man posed for so many photos with so many random strangers. Eventually, the attention became too overwhelming and we had to bail out of the pub.
The mêlée outside was so chaotic that we were unable to reach our taxi back to the hotel, so what was then the Royal Ulster Constabulary, who had been happily watching on, stepped in, clearing a passage through the throng and ushering us into a police van for a trouble-free ride back to the hotel. Such are the perks of being the homecoming king.
But what impressed me was that throughout the mayhem, Nesbitt retained an unflappable affability. He also had a sharp awareness of the inherent absurdity of the situation. “I get an awful lot of people coming up and saying they went to school with me,” he smiled knowingly. “There must have been 80,000 pupils at that school!”
In the intervening years, Nesbitt has not lost his ability to raise a quizzical eyebrow at the world. I have interviewed him many times since that mobbing in Portrush, and he has always maintained a capacity to send himself up. Most importantly, and in contrast to many more narcissistic members of his profession, Nesbitt possesses a rare sense of self-knowledge.

independent.co.uk


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