bungee jump, flying a plane, handling a tarantula), some were emotive throwbacks to times the brothers had spent together. ‘And some things were, bluntly, meant to make me look like a tit,’ writes Tolkien in his book There’s a Hole in My Bucket (snowboarding in nothing but a leopard-print thong and a cowboy hat, or asking strangers in the street to dance). ‘And a few were simply things that Mike really wanted to do himself.’ But Mike couldn’t.
So Tolkien did them on his behalf.Tolkien, 51, a film producer, is waiting for me at Chester station with a grin on his face.
He is a likeable man with the look of someone who is always ready to be amused. We discuss where to go – he is reluctant to take me to his house, the address of which he’d.
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