Dom

I’ve never been one to be starstruck. Even meeting people like Johnny Depp, most stars have seemed pretty normal to me. I was slightly struck by James Fox, but only because I’d watched Performance so many times — I’m a huge Nicolas Roeg fan.

I imagine I’d be more affected by meeting someone like Werner Herzog, or maybe Kubrick, but not actors. Perhaps that’s because I’m a climber. I’ve met Jim Donini, Doug Scott, Silvo Karo, Rolando Garibotti — people whose stories are flesh and blood. Their words aren’t written for them. Their lives aren’t rehearsed. And yet they’re more dramatic than any film.

But there was one exception.

I was standing in the tea queue at Novo station in Antarctica, fresh off the plane from Cape Town. The wind was rocking the tiny portacabin. The ceiling dripped like a nightclub roof. The room was packed with those arriving and those leaving. In one corner stood a Royal prince. Scattered around were ex-soldiers with missing limbs.

In front of me was a big, strong-looking bloke. Thick neck. I remember thinking he had a good neck for hauling a pulk.

He turned round, mug in hand.

It was Dominic West.

“Dominic West!” I said, as if I knew him. As if we were old mates. The words came out compressed, just his name.

He smiled. The kind of smile that invites you to continue.

My mind went blank.

I realised, in that instant, that although I knew his name, I couldn’t actually remember having seen him in anything. Not The Wire. Not The Affair. Nothing.

I scrambled for something — anything. The only film I could recall him in was a tiny part. One where I’d noticed that strong neck.

He waited. Tea cooling in his hand.

“I loved you in 300,” I said.

The smile faded. Only slightly. Any awkwardness saved by a slow sip of tea. Professional.

“Thanks,” said Dom.

And the wind howled.