"Like there are tonnes of people who do adopt babies, right?"

Yeah. "And everyone agrees that the mechanism of adopting is a justified mechanism, right?" Yeah.

"I don't understand what the problem . . . the intrinsic problem . . .

is, apart from being jealous.

"This is a thing that is obviously very scary about the celebrity world. The fan is now a person with borderline hate and love issues, in a way. It's as if the famous person has gone too far, they've become too isolated from the rest of the culture. . . I think Madonna is experiencing just hatred, really, nothing more, because there's no reason.

"She is doing a good thing.

Obviously people must know that she's a pretty serious person.

She's not gonna just say. . ." he straightens himself on the sinking couch and puts on a brash American accent, "'I wanna baby.'

If you look carefully enough, you can tell that without knowing her.

She would never do a thing she hadn't really thought about seriously." He momentarily runs out of steam, and then reasserts himself for another short rant ending with, "I don't see why it's nothing but a fantastic thing, to go and adopt a kid out of Malawi."

Phew.

Initially Everett is dissatisfied with the seating arrangements for the interview, right next to a conference room where busy people in suits enter and exit.

"This is awful, it's far too loud, " he moans, barely audible himself. He offers me some of his lime juice for my glass of water, which I decline. "Nobody likes lime juice, " he mumbles. Is it good for you?

"No, but it tastes nice."

Eventually the noise (which is hardly an impediment) gets too much for Everett. "You know, this is way too noisy for me, I just, can't. . ." He gets up and mutters off into the distance, walking out of the room. A staff member escorts us down to the cellar which is even louder. "Oh god!"

Everett exclaims. We walk around the maze of the hotel, in and out of lifts and through doors (he holds each one open). Eventually his 'people' (actually a person, the blonde, mutely-smiling Connie) comes to the rescue and lends us her room. Then it is dead quiet and as we both approach a couch Everett is at last vaguely satisfied.

"This is much better, don't you think?" He seats his extraordinarily tall frame, clad in blue jeans, black and white Nike trainers and a blue t-shirt with a rather angry graphic of a black fist punching outwards.

Everett is promoting his autobiography, Red Carpets And Other Banana Skins, in which he offers a remarkable insight into the life of a working actor . . . 99% slog, 1% star turns. The book brims with candid tales of Everett's roguish lifestyle; in London, his brief foray into "the ranks of the oldest profession"; in Paris hanging out with heroinsmoking she-male prostitutes on Bois de Boulogne; in Miami spending time with the 20th century's biggest divas; in Hollywood assuming the identity of "the gay guy in that movie" (My Best Friend's Wedding with Julia Roberts) and the theatre and cinema in between.

Would he like children himself?

"No, " he smarts curiously, as if I've suggested we turned on Bloomberg and bounce on the bed to the 'Macarena'. "I wouldn't mind fostering, if I could take three or four and not try to be a parent, but try to be a guardian. I wouldn't mind that, " he decides, "if I had, you know, space, " a fantastic . . . perhaps unintentional . . . comedic afterthought.

Outside it's pouring rain and Everett's mood frequently reflects the gloom. He occasionally offers moments of a famous charm. You wish he'd express happiness more often. His face almost exclusively wears a frightening frown, his skin and lips hanging downwards in a grump. But when he smiles, everything contorts into beauty, his eyes fill with cute mischief, it transforms his mood, the room . . .

just a glimpse, then bang, back to a little bit miserable. A fine ability to dramatically switch the appearance of emotions. An actor's trick.

Discontent prompted the book.

"I was feeling so frustrated with it, frustrated with being the gay guy in movies. It's not really an acting job, it's just like doing a personal appearance in a movie.

How many times can you wield a hairdryer? And be the hairdresser to some star in a movie? Once, twice or three times maybe, but otherwise you bore yourself and the public shitless.

Once you're in commercial cinema, it's very difficult to move your way out of it and I found that very frustrating, " he sighs, stretching out like a cat at a fireplace. He took a year-and-ahalf out and wrote everything down.

Perhaps most surprising is Everett's long affair with Paula Yates . . . he dedicates an entire chapter to her, and describes her with loving tenderness. Has Mr Geldof been in touch? An eyebrow arches, not exactly encouragingly.

"No." Do you expect him to be?

"No." I read somewhere that Everett thought everyone knew about it. At this, he eventually finds a disapproving "hmm". The relationship, it surprised me at least. "Did it?" he wonders with slight disinterest. Eh, yup. "Em.

Well." Did it surprise you? "When it happened?" Em, yeah. "Not really. It didn't surprise me because I knew about it." Duh.

"Em, but, em, I haven't talked to Bob about it. But I think Bob knew about it as well." Geldof is smart. "He's smart." Everett makes an almost inaudible remark on Geldof. And the conversation stalls.

Everett is probably no more angry, depressed or unhappy than anyone. He just doesn't do the PR game. Being in his company is like being at a stadium rock concert with a band who refuse to play the hits. He switches his moods . . .

engaging Rupert, charming Rupert, angry Rupert, obstinate Rupert, chatty Rupert, cold Rupert . . . with the ease only actors have.

"I'm sorry about the beginning, " he eventually offers, referring to the nomadic start of the interview.

"Do you know a good gym around here?" he asks at the doors of the lift. Isn't there one in the hotel?

"Oh God, I hate hotel gyms.

They're so depressing. There's always some Japanese blob on something." He pauses and flamboyantly announces with a wiggle, "I want some live action."

You can't help but laugh. I recommend one and he swears to remember.

Back in the lobby Everett is gracious with departing pleasantries before rushing back upstairs to fetch my forgotten umbrella. Which was nice.