Jewellery designer Theo Fennell, 70, was born in Egypt to an army family and educated at Eton. After attending art college, his first job was as an apprentice silversmith in London’s Hatton Garden. He’s been designing jewellery and silver for more than 40 years, opening his first shop in the Fulham Road in 1982. He lives in London with his wife, Louise, an author. They have two daughters: writer, actor and director Emerald and fashion designer Coco. His memoir, I Fear for This Boy: Some Chapters of Accidents, is out now.
How come you’re publishing your first book aged 70?
It was never intended as anything other than a sort of private ramble. The purpose was to have 50 printed as jolly Christmas presents, just as a laugh for family and friends. Quite a few people had told me: “I wish you’d write down those bloody stories because otherwise you’re going to tell us them again.” They thought it might be an act of catharsis but all it did was make me feel slightly ashamed in places – that awful rising sense of embarrassment I used to get during hangovers.
You write very vividly about hangovers.
Oh, that creeping remorse after some boozy giddy goatishness. Those telephone calls to people where you’d say: “It was a wonderful evening, thanks so much”, hoping that if anything ghastly had happened, they’d mention it. If they didn’t, the coast was clear. The sense of relief that you hadn’t killed a cat or befouled the staircase was so great, I’d find myself tripping to work.
Was the book a lockdown project?
Yes. It so happened that the day lockdown started, my daughters and their partners were all in the house, so we all got locked down as a family. We had a wide collection of pasta varieties and nothing to go with it. And endless rolls of strangely coloured lavatory paper. Everyone seemed to be writing and I felt left out. We’d meet at lunch and they’d say “I’ve done 10,000 words” or whatever. I yearned to be in the lunchtime writers’ circle. I felt like an outsider at Charleston, probably Virginia Woolf’s maid or something.
How did the episodic style of your memoir develop?
Well, first I decided to write a novel. Not just a novel but a trilogy. Except I got to page 60 and I’d finished the entire thing. I realised it was too short for a novella, let alone a trilogy, but friends kept pestering me to continue.
Who were those friends?
William Boyd, who’s always encouraged me to write, plus Kathy Lette and Ruby Wax, who are persistence incarnate. I said to Will: “This novel-writing business is really quite tricky.” He said: “Just write down your anecdotes in your own voice.” My three golden rules were: no famous people, no sex – because I was going to show it to my daughters – and no being unkind, except to idiot friends of mine who thoroughly deserve it. So I wrote a couple of these vignettes and my wife edited them. After she’d hatchet-jobbed them, I gave them to my daughters and heard them tittering. Then Will read them and was genuinely, properly laughing. There’s nothing in life more joyful than making somebody laugh, so I kept going.
Didn’t it get rejected by publishers at first?
I sent it to a grownup firm of publishers who said: “What you’ve done here is interesting but it’s essentially some white old fart telling stories about things that will never happen again. The world has changed radically. This is of no interest to people who don’t live in a small village in Bedfordshire”. That was the gist of it. Later, I got a call from [veteran publisher] Richard Charkin, saying it made him laugh and he’d like to publish it. I was thunderstruck.
Where did the title, I Fear For This Boy, come from?
The title was going to be Chapters of Accidents. Because that’s essentially what it is. Then in lockdown, we had a clear-out and found an old canvas bag with my school reports inside. They were wonderfully damning. One said: “Fennel’s nose and the grindstone have not come anywhere near each other this year.” Another was: “This boy is truly rustic for a scholar.” It was almost worth doing badly to get these sensational character assassinations. And one page just said: “I fear for this boy.” Louise cried with laughter. I thought, that’s got to be it. It couldn’t be more apt.
What did your Oscar-winning daughter Emerald make of the book?
She was very kind to her poor old father. Her award [best original screenplay for Promising Young Woman] came during lockdown, which was utterly surreal. It knocked my “Throwing a cricket ball, Abbey School, 1963” prize off the top shelf of our trophy arrangement. I’m incredibly proud of her and still slightly bemused that she’s anything to do with me at all.
When did you give up drinking and why?
Twenty three years ago. My children were getting to a certain age and noticing that the noise over there in the corner was their father. That wasn’t a good thing. My family were long-suffering but it became untenable. I loved the culture of booze but I had friends who gave up and were just as funny sober as they had been before. That helped me realise there was another country, where you didn’t have to be soaked in cheap claret and Cointreau. I had a few false starts but eventually it stuck and it’s made a fantastic difference to my life.
How do you look back on your education at Eton?
Still with ambivalence, more than 50 years on. I’m not sure I was a natural Etonian. But I wasn’t an unnatural Etonian, I want to make that absolutely clear. Nowadays, it’s full to the gunwales with Lamborghinis and shouty people. In my day, it was that old-fashioned, shabby chic, too-posh-to-wash Englishness. If your father owned a pair of shoes less than 50 years old, he was immediately branded a parvenu. We had some not very bright boys there – most of whom went into politics.
Does Eton have too much influence?
Having produced 20 prime ministers, patently. I’m not sure an utter buffoon, a narcissistic child like Boris Johnson should be allowed anywhere near politics, let alone rise to the top.
You turned 70 last year. How did you celebrate?
We had what was meant to be a small lunch party in the garden but it became quite large. A sort of village fete with hamburgers and ice-cream, fairground things and karaoke. Louise made a very funny and rather too telling speech.
In your day job, you’re often called “the king of bling”. Do you like that nickname?
I suppose it’s better than the prince of darkness. Craftsmanship is what I first fell in love with. Apprenticeships and getting young people into this trade, that’s what I’m passionate about now.
Do you have plans for another book?
If people like this one, I’d be tempted because I enjoyed the process enormously. I’m already writing something about jewellery to accompany a retrospective show. After that, I might try fiction again. An amusing potboiler this time. I aimed a bit high before – attempting Everest when Box Hill is where I should be going. Or I could write another volume of accidents. I’ve had a few since finishing the book.
• I Fear for This Boy: Some Chapters of Accidents by Theo Fennell is published by Mensch (£25). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
