On what would have been his 98th birthday, I would like to share a little of my personal history with one of the most magnificent men I have ever met. A thread of the six separate occasions Sir Christopher Lee gave me a right telling off.
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1. On the phone. Sir Christopher would never give out his phone number, not even to a PR, there was to be no patching through, no calling a journalist, no conference calls. No, he could only agree if it was via a reverse charge call.

This led to some confusion at the PR stage. I got a date, the time, the warning to speak up a bit, but they left off the reverse charge bit. When my phone rang, it was not Saruman the Wise, but an operator. "Will you accept this call..." I was confounded for a second...

I admit I hesitated. I hadn't heard that phrase since I was a teenager. "What?" I stuttered. "Say YES, you bloody fool," came Lee's stentorian tones from behind a wall of static. "Er, yes," I got out. But some calamity befell the connection and my line went dead...

Ten minutes later, my phone ran again. It is the PR, we have a problem he says. Sir Christopher is irate. Who do I think I am not to put the phone down on him? I made my humble excuses, confessed my confusion. Can he please try again? Okay, says the PR, we'll have another go...

Half an hour passes. The phone rings. Will I accept this call? "YES, I will accept this call." The line goes quiet. Then a rumble bordering on the volcanic: "Are YOU a blithering IDIOT?" booms Lee. "Yes," I reply. "I am." He seemed mollified with that.

2. On set. Picture the awesome sight - Sir Christopher in full wizardly regalia, beard to his navel, talons, staff, eyes boring into me like hot coals. Our interview was going reasonably well. I asked questions, he tutted then answered them...

I grew overconfident. I had heard rumour that he avidly collected WWI regalia. I asked if he still did and whether he had discussed his collection with Peter Jackson, a WWI buff himself? Lee peered into my soul. Stroked his beard. Shuffled his staff from one hand to the other...

"How could YOU possibly know about THAT?" he demanded, his voice loosening my fillings. "That is a PRIVATE matter." For a microsecond, I thought he might be trying out a pun. "Of course, I HAVE seen Peter's collection," he says. "He goes in for planes and such..."

3. At catering. Perhaps less of telling off, but our wires are still crossed. I am queuing for lunch, a line down either side of the buffet table, I look up to find I am exactly opposite Sir Christopher, still head to toe in Saruman's raiments, beard safely stowed in a net...

He is gazing intently at a large, steaming bowl situated between us, filled with what looks like beans and mince, the odd bubble escaping. He turns his gaze on me. "What is that?" he demands. I am struck silent, before meekly responding: "Chili, I think..."

"Better not" he replied regretfully, "I am due on set this afternoon." With that he walked away, pristine skirts billowing fetchingly in his wake. Then it dawned on me. Not only did he not recognise me from earlier, he thought I worked in catering...

4. Empire Awards Mk. I. We are giving Sir Christopher a Lifetime Achievement Award. He's the headline act. The grand finale. The show stopper. Only he's late. I'm beginning to twitch, perched by the door, peering into the night, when I get a tap on the shoulder...

An Empire team member looks at me with nervous eyes. "Sir Christopher has come in another door," he informs me. I didn't even know there was another door. "And he wanted to see you now." I squeeze between British actors, scamper past agents and duck champagne flutes...

I am brought before the great man. "It is unlikely I am going to be able to say anything at all tonight," he says, no sign of recognition, his voice reaching subterranean depths. "For I have laryngitis." His wife looks at me as if I am the cause...

I offer him the world: toddies, medicines, a lie down, a sweep of the venue for errant crucifixes. Things I was unsure I could provide. "Don't be a FOOL," he growled. "I don't want fuss. Just take me to my table." He evidently still thought I was catering...

5. Empire Awards Mk II: That same night, Sir Christopher rises (sorry) to the occasion. John Rhys-Davies is on presenting duties and sings his praise to the rafters. There is mention of vampires, wizards, 007 villainy. An untouchable career that runs to opera...

Gimli lands a perfect theatrical pause. Moreover, he says, Sir Christopher is a national hero. In WWII, he served his country not only in the Royal Air Force — another beat — but the SAS! There's not a dry eye in the house when Lee takes to the stage...

Sir Christopher is a wonder. He is magnanimous. He is funny. He is altogether splendid. And you could probably hear his speech on the other side of Hyde Park. I am giddy. The relief at the end of the show was like a drug. I just wanted to get drunk...

There is a tap on my shoulder. Our PR, with a look of concern. "Sir Christopher needs to talk to you," he whispers. "Now." I wend my way between tables, I duck champagne flutes, I slip congratulatory hugs...

I arrive at Sir Christopher's table and he is fuming. His wife is fuming. His daughter is fuming. "How can I help?" I say, back in the land of confusion. "Is this on television?" barks Lee, unperturbed that catering also seems to be producing the event..."

"Err, yes," I admit. He is livid now. "WELL, you are going to have to edit the show and remove any mention of the fact I was in the SAS. I was OF COURSE. But that remains CLASSIFIED." Well, not *that*classified, I say in my head, Gimli is well aware. Biographies too...

I took the only option available to me, which was to lie. Neglecting to mention we had literally just finished our live broadcast on Sky, I agreed to edit the show of any trace of government secrets. At which point, our sponsor arrives at the table...

They have a gift for Sir Christopher, a cell phone, top of the range (a-ha, I secretly think, no more reverse charges). "What the devil is THAT?" he demands, fearing a recording device even now. The poor sponsor is taken aback. Would he rather not have it? A different model?

"Well, if I MUST" he sighs and the phone, box and all, disappears from sight. I take this as my cue to head to the bar, but he catches my eye. "Thank you," he said, his voice like silk, "for a lovely evening." I suddenly feel euphoric.

6. Back on the phone: a quiet afternoon in the Empire office, the Christmas decorations are going up, we are basking in the afterglow of seeing The Return of the King. We debate its considerable pros, some rotters try out frail cons, and the phone rings...

"You should take this Ian," says the editorial assistant. "By the way, he sounds unhappy." I pick up my extension and it's Sir Christopher on the line (thankfully, direct). For five minutes, he berates me with his misfortune. He has been cut from the final film!

"People will ask," he says, clearly hurt. "Where is SARUMAN?" I don't know what to say. I kind of agree - and his death scene really stands out of the Ex Edition. But what does he think I can do? I offer up my sympathy. I tell him that fans will still always adore him...

I suggested he call Peter, or New Line. But he just needed to vent and I was touched that he chose to call Empire, and touched too that I got to tell him (repeatedly) how brilliant he was in the films...

Later that day, some wag in the office cut out a picture of Saruman and stuck it the top of the Christmas tree. "THERE is Saruman," he goofed. As Peter Jackson once told me, "There was no one who cared more than Sir Christopher."

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