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				<h1>Parcel Arrived Safely, Tied with String - The Autobiography of Michael Crawford</h1>
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<center><b>TRANSCRIPT FROM DAILY MAIL ARTICLE
AUGUST 24, 1999</font></b>
<br><br><b>Doctors found a lump and suddenly I
was the loneliest person in the world.</font></b></center>

<br><br>A lump was discovered in my breast in the
summer of 1978, shortly after I'd finished the second series of Some Mothers
Do 'Ave 'Em.</font>
<br><br>I was 36 years old and recently divorced.&nbsp;
A biopsy was ordered.&nbsp; A simple procedure, they told me, just a day
or so in hospital.</font>
<br><br>Breast tumour?&nbsp; I was totally shocked:
surely I wasn't alone among men in believing that only women had to worry
about such things?</font>
<br><br>I decided to keep completely quiet about
my medical problem.&nbsp; Indeed, I've never said a word about it to anyone
and I tell it now only because of the insight it gave me on my life at
the time.</font>
<br><br>I suddenly felt very much alone.&nbsp;
It was after I entered hospital - in the midst of filling out the admission
forms, to be precise - when I was confronted by the line that asked for
'Name of person to be notified in case of emergency', that my loneliness
hit me.</font>
<br><br>How could I put down Nan, my fragile 93
year-old grandmother?&nbsp; I remembered how once, when I was a child of
six or seven, I'd made Nan promise she's live to be a 100.&nbsp; Could
the unthinkable be about to happen?&nbsp; Could I be about to die before
Nan did?</font>
<br><br>How could I put my girlfriend Jo-Anne's
name down on the form?&nbsp; We weren't living together.&nbsp; I didn't
want my daughters, Emma and Lucy, to be the first to know, nor Gabrielle,
my ex-wife.</font>
<br><br>It sounds totally idiotic, but the only
thought that crossed my mind was: "I don't want anyone to know I'm dead
- they'll be upset!"</font>
<br><br>So I wrote in the name of my agent - Michael
Linnit - trusting he'd know the best way to deal with any awful eventualities.</font>
<br><br>A report was later sent to me from my surgeon,
Mr. John Maynard at Guy's Hospital in London, dated July 18, 1978.</font>
<br><br>'Dear Mr. Crawford,' his letter began.&nbsp;
'The histological report on your left breast tissue showed only increased
fibrosis...there was not evidence of malignancy.</font>
<br><br>Wonderful words, welcome indeed.&nbsp;
But another such tumour was found a few months later and I had to return
to hospital for another biopsy.&nbsp; Again, it was non-malignant.</font>
<br><br>It's all over now, a long time ago, and
I've since been given a clean bill of health.&nbsp; But I've never forgotten
the experience of lying in that bed, alone and frightened.</font>
<br><br>It was a gift in a way.&nbsp; All I had
to do was walk through the children's wards and see those amazingly brave,
often terminally ill, little souls to gain a whole new perspective on life
and death, and one's own vulnerability.</font>
<br><br>I realised I'd been given the chance to
do something more with my life.&nbsp; I was alive and I was healthy.&nbsp;
I felt very fortunate.</font>
<br><br>Some time afterwards I was invited to present
an award at the Australian Film Festival.&nbsp; It was a rare opportunity
to experience some of the exotic sights of the Orient on the way.</font>
<br><br>My first stop was Thailand, I was met at
Bangkok airport by a genial Irishman, who was the assistant manager at
my hotel.</font>
<br><br>After I'd settled in, he called my room
with an invitation to sample some of Bangkok's night life.&nbsp; We'll
have a 'real look-see', he said, and mentioned a rather seedy area of the
city called Pat Pong.</font>
<br><br>There were girls of every shape, size and
description - hordes of them - and they stuck to us like flypaper.&nbsp;
The Irishman relished my astonished response.</font>
<br><br>A girl sat next to me on our first stop.&nbsp;
"You Merican?" she asked.&nbsp; I explained that I was English, and stared
ahead.&nbsp; "You don't rike me?" she said. "Yes, I do rike you," I said.&nbsp;
"But I'm, you know, uh, listening to the music..."</font>
<br><br>That was pretty stupid.&nbsp; With five
topless Thai girls bouncing on the bar in front of me, this hardly constituted
a meeting of the Bangkok Music Appreciation Society.</font>
<br><br>"What you want?" she persisted.&nbsp; "You
want my sister?"&nbsp; You want my brother?"&nbsp; "No, certainly not!"
I said.</font>
<br><br>"Ahhh," she said.&nbsp; I know what you
rike..."&nbsp; She left me for a few seconds, and returned again, arm-in-arm
with an extraordinary beauty.&nbsp; "Well, hellooo," I said.&nbsp; "Uh,
do you want a Coke?"</font>
<br><br>My Irish host and his friends were laughing
at me, delighted at my obvious interest in the girl.</font>
<br><br>Face flushed scarlet with a combination
of beer, heat and noise, I felt ridiculously out of place.&nbsp; But the
girl was really charming and by the time her friend came back to check
on our progress, we were getting on quite well.&nbsp; "Ahh," she yelled
above the din, "See, I know what you rike!&nbsp; You rike George here!"</font>
<br><br>"George?" I said.&nbsp; "Yes, that's my
name, George."&nbsp; I'd been chatting for 15 minutes with a transvestite.&nbsp;
I leapt to my feet, scattering beers, Cokes and cigarette ends over my
companions, and made a beeline for the front door, followed by the Irishman,
who was totally convulsed at the turn of events.</font>
<br><br>It was the second time in my life when
I was to be sorely disappointed.&nbsp; The first had been many years earlier
and, at least at the time, nowhere near as funny.</font>
<br><br>It was back in 1965 and I was 23 years
old.&nbsp; I was nominated by the British Film Academy as 'most promising
newcomer' along with Judi Dench, Barbara Ferris and Michael Nardini.&nbsp;
A real honour.</font>
<br><br>The film awards gala was held at the Grosvenor
House Hotel with all the elegance and excitement you would expect.&nbsp;
The whole evening was being broadcast on television all around the world.</font>
<br><br>The master of ceremonies was the debonair
film star James Mason.&nbsp; By the time the 'most promising newcomer'
award rolled round, Mr. Mason was beginning to look a little frayed around
the edges.&nbsp; In fact, there was an impression in the room that someone
had tampered with his water jug.</font>
<br><br>He began to read out the nominees.&nbsp;
It was a nervous moment. "And the winner is..." he announced, "Michael, uh,
Crawford..."&nbsp; The applause rang out.</font>
<br><br>I went completely insane.&nbsp; I leapt
to my feet and bounded up the stairs, three at a time.</font>
<br><br>Mr. Mason looked at me with a slightly
quizzical air, possibly because he was seeing double.&nbsp; Then he was
interrupted by Michael Scott, the compere.</font>
<br><br>After an eternal moment of consultation,
Mr. Mason apologised to both me (and to the 20 million television viewers).</font>
<br><br>"Oh...well, I'm awfully sorry," he said.&nbsp;
"But there's been a mistake..."&nbsp; "I'm sorry..?" I gasped.&nbsp; Michael,
it doesn't appear that you have actually won..."</font>
<br><br>My face took on the sort of glow not seen
since the doctors slapped me around at birth.</font>
<br><br>Please God, I prayed silently.&nbsp; If
you'll just send a small earthquake to swallow me up right now, I'll never
ask another favour.</font>
<br><br>Ever ready with a quip - and in an attempt
to convince the audience that I was taking it all in my stride - I said,
"Well, did I come in second?"&nbsp; Silence.&nbsp; Mr. Mason just gave
me a 'kindly leave the stage' look, and read out Judi Dench's name over
my shoulder.</font>
<br><br>I left the stage, my eyes firmly fixed
on the carpet as I rushed back to my seat, bumping into tables en route.</font>
<br><br>I'm older now and a bit more philosophical,
and can accept the experience as one of those things that happen in life
- but, hopefully, never again to me in this lifetime.</font>
<br>&nbsp;
<br><br><br>
<center>
<br><br>Parcel Arrived Safely: Tied With String
by Michael Crawford.</font></font>
<br><br><b>Excerpt Typed by: Lilian Barbuti - Thanks
Lilian!</font></b></center>
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