On a sleepy Thursday morning in the quiet corner of a Bloomsbury café, Rupert Everett announces that he’s feeling breathless. Not literally breathless, but metaphorically so. The 64-year-old actor, writer and showbiz stalwart is about to begin a new theatrical project, John Mortimer’s acclaimed autobiographical play A Voyage Round My Father, and has reached that point in rehearsals where “I really don’t know what I’m doing”.
He is emotionally and psychologically breathless. Which is curious. Because moments later Everett is actually breathless and briefly white as a sheet. He’s midway through a rant on the misery of modern London life (“I think Sadiq Khan is a moron”) when he suddenly asks: “Is it getting dark in here or is it just me?” It is,
