There are those who would like to see him run for President. But the successes of 2002 have been overshadowed by one event: Moore's mother Veronica died unexpectedly on July 8.
He was due to appear at the Edinburgh festival in August, and I was to interview him, but he cancelled all engagements and spent a couple of months away from the world. On August 28 he posted a message on his website: "I sat by my mother's side in the hospital as she struggled to live, holding her hand, holding her head, trying to comfort her, strands of her hair on my sweater. I can see the stains from where my tears and mucus ran uncontrollably down my face and on to that sweater."
He also wrote that he could not imagine facing a roomful of strangers, no matter how supportive they might be. And yet here he is in London, a huge man spread thickly across a couch, his hotel room glowing slightly pink from the sign for Abba-Mania on the theatre across the street. Halfway through a day of interviews to promote the film, book, and a stage show, he is just back from lunch with the Financial Times, presumably somewhere quite swanky, yet he is dressed, as always, in jeans, trainers and a casual jacket. A claddagh ring is turned palm-inwards on one hand. His trademark baseball cap has ducks on it. A scrubland of ginger beard coats his face. He rubs it as he talks.
He was due to appear at the Edinburgh festival in August, and I was to interview him, but he cancelled all engagements and spent a couple of months away from the world. On August 28 he posted a message on his website: "I sat by my mother's side in the hospital as she struggled to live, holding her hand, holding her head, trying to comfort her, strands of her hair on my sweater. I can see the stains from where my tears and mucus ran uncontrollably down my face and on to that sweater."
He also wrote that he could not imagine facing a roomful of strangers, no matter how supportive they might be. And yet here he is in London, a huge man spread thickly across a couch, his hotel room glowing slightly pink from the sign for Abba-Mania on the theatre across the street. Halfway through a day of interviews to promote the film, book, and a stage show, he is just back from lunch with the Financial Times, presumably somewhere quite swanky, yet he is dressed, as always, in jeans, trainers and a casual jacket. A claddagh ring is turned palm-inwards on one hand. His trademark baseball cap has ducks on it. A scrubland of ginger beard coats his face. He rubs it as he talks.