a-constance

4

John Boyega
GQ Magazine (2017) by Sebastian Kim
“Every time I’d move, the plastic would pinch my armpits,” the Stormtrooper says a few years later, reminiscing in his South London apartment as he removes the Indiana Jones hat he’s been inexplicably wearing indoors, exposing the neat high fade atop his dense five-foot-nine frame. “I’d rolled onto my bum, pushed up with my arms, then got onto my knees, struggling to get my thighs up. The sand was moving, and it was a struggle. I was out of breath. It was hot as hell. But I got my back up. And then I came into shot.”

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“Please man, I beg you, don’t write about what I’m about to do,” says Colin Farrell, standing over an Apple laptop in his kitchen. It is 1.30am and we are approaching the end of an interview that has lasted the best part of half a day - one that has included a couple of hours with us both practically naked and smeared in honey in a Russian bathhouse, and enough revelations about drink, women and extreme drug abuse to make your hair stand on end, turn white and then fall out - so I am intrigued to know what is coming next. He opens his web browser and pulls up Google before carefully typing, one finger at a time, “Colin Farrell” into the search panel. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was bored the other day and I looked up my name. Who am I kidding? I do it all the time. Anyway, I want to show you this photo.”