What you see is what you J. Paul Getty!

...AND HE SOUNDED LIKE MARLON BRANDO

‘I have no money to spare,’ says Christopher Plummer, starring as the billionaire J. Paul Getty in the new film, all The Money In The World.

‘What would it take for you to feel secure?’ he is asked. ‘More,’ he replies. Oddly enough, I interviewed Mr Getty for my school magazine when I was 17.

It was 1974, and J. Paul Getty, (below) then aged 82, was reputedly the richest man in the world. ‘If you can count your money, you don’t have a billion dollars,’ was one of his little sayings.

he was famously reclusive. his Tudor property was surrounded by guards with walkie- talkies and alsatians. he hadn’t given an interview for years, but, being naive, I couldn’t see any reason not to ask.

My naivety paid off: by return of post, I received an invitation to Sutton Place, just outside Guildford in Surrey.

My mother drove me there, as we lived not far away. a security man approached us at the gates. he walkie-talkied through to the main house and then pressed an electric device. The gates opened, and we drove through. along the drive, signs said: ‘Warning. Guard dogs patrolling. Do not leave your vehicle.’

When we arrived outside the vast house, there was no one around, so I got out of the car and walked to the front door. as no doorbell or knocker was visible, I just waited awkwardly, wondering what to do.

after a minute or two, I heard the sound of keys and bolts on the other side, Count Dracula- style. eventually, the door opened, and a butler asked me to enter.

My mother had planned to wait outside while I conducted the interview. Bored with sitting in the car, she ventured outside to enjoy the sun.

Within seconds, alsatians came bounding towards her and she jumped back in, slamming the car door.

Through the car window, security guards told her to remain inside, for her own safety, with the doors and windows closed.

Meanwhile, the butler introduced me to a secretary, who, in turn, conducted me to a large and impressive sitting room and asked me to wait. Just as I was saying ‘One, two, one, two,’ into my taperecorder, J. Paul Getty entered, quite doddery, but with piercing eyes set in a dour mask of a face.

a former employee once remarked that he always looked as if he were attending his own funeral.

he spoke to me in a slow, husky drawl, not unlike Marlon Brando in the final stages of The Godfather. he certainly didn’t waste words.

‘Could I start by asking you how you amassed your fortune?’ I asked, eagerly. he paused. ‘Little . . . by . . . little.’ a very long silence followed, during which it became clear to me that he was not going to elaborate. ‘Did you work for your father?’

‘I worked for my father, yes.’

By now, I realised that he was going to be as thrifty with his words as he was with his money: it was also well-known that he kept a coinoperated telephone for the use of his weekend guests.

‘are you now in the position that you have always wanted to be?’ I continued.

‘ I didn’t always want to be 82 years old.’ at this point, he emitted a hollow chuckle.

‘You haven’t got any further ambitions?’ ‘No. Not particularly.’ If there was ever a prize for the world’s worst interview, I would clearly be in with a chance.

Just a year before our meeting, one of Getty’s grandsons had been kidnapped.

The kidnappers had demanded a ransom of $17 million, but Getty refused to pay a penny. as a result, his grandson had his ear cut off with a razor.

It had been one of that year’s biggest stories. and yet, for some reason — presumably a mixture of tact and embarrassment — I completely failed to mention it during our interview.

Instead, I stumbled on. The tape of the event makes me blush, even now.

‘So would you say that you had quite a large social conscience?’ I asked.

‘a what?’ replied this most renowned of all penny-pinchers.

‘Social . . . you have a . . . sort of . . . um . . . feeling for your fellow human beings?’ ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Soon after that, I ran out of questions, so we said our goodbyes.