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Laurence Fox: 'I’m a manic, indiscreet mess’ The day I pitch up at Laurence Fox’s home, a picture- perfect Sussex cottage surrounded by a tangle of rose mallow and blousey clematis in full bloom, his cousin, Emilia, is on the cover of The Daily Telegraph, a vision of porcelain beauty in a 1. Norman Hartnell buttermilk ballgown.
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Good on her!” declares the instantly likeable Fox, 3. Ribena followed by a sly drag on his liquorice roll- up, after I’ve been sworn to secrecy, lest The Missus finds out he’s smoking indoors. Emilia’s had a tough old year, after splitting up with her chap, so it’s nice to see her getting out.
I tend to steer clear of that sort of red carpet thing though, as I’m far too indiscreet and liable to put my foot in things. Watch Generation RX Tube Free. I once blurted out that I found it impossible to bond with my son Winston because I was too tired. I mean how bloody awful does that sound? What a tosser!” Winston is now three and the pair are thick as thieves, he assures me.
Lots of rough and tumble with their terrier, Baxter, in the garden, home to more outdoor toys than the Early Learning Centre. I’m a fun dad, with no boundaries, just having a great time, until it all goes horribly wrong, we fall out and I suddenly fly off the handle,” grins Fox with a what- can- you- do shrug. Baby number two, Eugene Pip, was born 1. Fortunately he’s more of a sleeper than his brother, although “he does have a permanently anxious look on his face”, worries Fox, the irony apparently lost on him.

He is being fed upstairs by his wife, whom he variously, affectionately, refers to as Mrs Fox, The Missus and Bill. By way of a thoroughly modern tribute, he has her name and their wedding date tattooed in lower case along his forearm.
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She, apparently, has a matching version, both acquired during a drunken bender in Mexico. Mrs Fox – “a brilliant mother, so patient, so consistent!” – is the former schoolgirl popstrel- turned- actress, Billie Piper. She’s 2. 9, but when she later emerges, cradling a scrap of a baby in a Pantone red vest, she looks so fresh- faced she could be his smitten teenage sister. Likewise, dressed in skinny jeans, and white T- shirt, his fair hair pleasingly rumpled, Fox has the air of a rangy, charming and attractively louche boyfriend rather than a bona fide father and husband. But his devotion is unerring; he drives a mile and a half every morning to fetch his wife coffee from the nearest decent café, because she won’t drink the stuff he brews. Nor will she countenance having a machine in the house. I suppose the day there’s a knock on the door and a huge Gaggia gets delivered, I’ll know that she’s got no more use for me and the marriage is over,” he muses, gazing out the window with an air of faux melancholia.
In person, Fox, scion of an acting dynasty – son of actor James and nephew of Edward and Robert, cousin of Freddie as well as Emilia – is much more handsome than his Lewis prime- time alter ego, Detective Sergeant James Hathaway, mostly because the grim crew cut has grown out. He begins filming for the seventh series this month. It will, says Fox, en passant, be the last.
What? The last? I cry. Have you broken news of your unthinkable resignation to your boss, Kevin Whately?
I mean the last for Lewis. Kev and I have decided we want to do other things, otherwise it all gets a bit samey,” he says. I mean we could have gone on forever, but…” he trails off and looks panic- stricken. Oh God was I supposed to say that? I have no idea if I’m allowed to tell you it’s ending.
Bloody hell, what if I wasn’t?” I assure him I’d heard a whisper already, and he looks slightly mollified. It’s a shame Lewis is being taken off- air, I say mournfully. They watch it in New Zealand and Latin America, you know.
And Sweden and Finland, as a little light relief from barbaric Scandi- psychos. And who could fail to be beguiled by the neatly satisfying, mathematically constructed plots, the giddily high production values, the Oxford quadrangles, DS Hathaway’s sardonic humour?
Hathaway is everything I’m not,” sighs Fox, who is very much a rural creature; an accomplished horseman, he owns a bay Irish hunter called Chutney that he insists on referring to as “Dear, Dear Chutters” in fruity thespian tones. He also likes to take his fishing rod along when filming, and nips off between takes to the nearest stretch of water. Hathaway is cool, unflappable, decisive; he’s who I’d really like to be, instead of the undisciplined mess I am. Watch Curious George Online Hollywoodreporter on this page. But it’s a part that involves asking questions – the same questions – in every episode and looking unimpressed by the answers. I think I need to broaden my range before I start randomly arresting people down the pub.” His next role – which he may or may not be permitted to divulge – is playing a squaddie on stage. Thereafter he and Mrs Fox, who is already “having meetings” about future work, quite fancy heading to the US, like so many Brits before them. We’ll be looking for representation, doing auditions, that sort of thing.
I’ll certainly be poshing up my vowels for the Americans,” he says, sitting up a little straighter. Auditioning? Do scions of an acting dynasty really have to endure the humiliation of auditioning? Yes, it would be so much better if I walked in and they cried 'He hails from a dynasty, let him take whichever part he will do us the honour of playing!’ ” grins Fox. And surely if you are part of a dynasty, you have pots of money and don’t have a mortgage? I’ve never really got the whole dynasty thing; we don’t all meet up and swap CVs and talk about our fabulous performances. When we are all together, we do sometimes switch on the telly and ruthlessly mock whoever happens to be on. Me, usually.” It’s a little disappointing to learn, then, that he did not raise his sons heavenwards beneath a proscenium arch, declaring these Fox cubs were the repository of the hopes and dreams of the next generation.
Would I want them to be actors?” he asks, rhetorically. I just love them so much, I really want them to be happy and be nice to people. Their mum is steady and sensible and will know how to guide them; I’m too manic, either really happy or really depressed.” Quite so. One of five children, as a schoolboy at Harrow, Fox was, in his own words, “a real pain”. Raised to be forthright round the dining room table, he failed to adapt to the strictures of boarding school. For years I thought it was their fault, when it was obviously mine.