Not Much Fits

John Williams interview with Charlotte Phillips in The Times
Being 7ft 3in gives John Williams a different perspective on day-to-day living

There’s an old Japanese proverb: “The nail that sticks up gets hammered down.” I know how that nail feels because at 7ft 3in (2.21m) I’ve been attracting attention since my teens. And it’s relentless.
Celebrities may complain about constant recognition but a decent disguise will usually buy them a couple of hours of anonymity. Not me. Unless I can work out a way of living a full life while sitting down, I’m always going to be on show. Wherever I go I get a barrage of comments, some friendly, some less so, but all making the assumption that because I’m so tall I’m somehow public property, an official People’s Giant, with an endless appetite for repetition.

“You’re really tall.” “How tall are you?” “What’s the weather like up there?” “Do you play basketball” and “Is it in proportion?” I could tick off the comments on a list. Sometimes I think I should get them printed with the answers and pre-empt the conversation by handing them out instead. And for each person who treats me as if just coming into his life has added a magical new dimension, I have to deal with another who wants to pick a fight, casting me as reluctant Goliath to his demented David.

I stood out — literally — from an early age, even in my tall family. Although my two sisters managed only a paltry 5ft 9in and 5ft 10in, my father was 6ft 4in. At 12 I was already taller than my 6ft mother and, as I outgrew them all, things got rapidly worse. My friends had growth spurts, then stopped, but I grew as though my body was trying to escape or win a race. While it’s bad enough being 16, skinny and self- conscious, being 16 and 7ft tall is terrifying.

Like other teenage boys I lied about my height, except that I pretended that I was shorter, admitting only to 6ft 11¾in as if, by acknowledging that final quarter inch, I’d step irrevocably into official freak territory. All I wanted was to feel normal. I went to college but spent months hiding in my room, refusing to go to parties and feeling isolated, almost monstrous, as though I’d been cast as Quasimodo’s taller brother. I couldn’t see how I’d ever fit in as a student, let alone find a job or a girlfriend. It was the worst time of my life.

Fortunately, I had down-to-earth friends and a supportive family, which was just as well because at my height no mainstream commentator on teenage angst could offer me an insight into my life or show me how to deal with it.

Philosophy — my degree subject — wasn’t much better. While I couldn’t fault the great thinkers on their theories of identity, I did wish that they offered some handy hints on what I was supposed to do with mine.

The turning point came when I decided to put off making career decisions by seeing the world, which seemed equally interested in seeing me. The first thing I learnt was that “Goodness, aren’t you tall?” is a phrase instantly recognisable in any language. I busked in Italy, taught English in Japan and was scared witless in Peru, where I was greeted by headlines announcing the arrival of the “tallest man in the world” and everything I said in halting Spanish seemed to mean: “Please, shoot me.” From then on, although the stares and comments continued, I was usually able to deal with them.

I’m in my late thirties now, with an established career as an actor and model. The assignments are, inevitably, unusual. I’ve been on posters advertising a soft drink, wearing a dress and with a duck on my lap, and there’s no giant, Goliath excepted, that I haven’t either auditioned for or played. I also appear regularly on a children’s TV science programme, taking part in a series of daft but amusing experiments.

But there are days when I struggle with practical difficulties, such as finding girlfriends. I’ve ruled out love at first glance, since all I ever see at parties is the top of people’s heads, which has the isolating effect of making everyone look much the same. And when I begin a relationship, some women can’t cope with the comments from strangers. Internet dating has been my salvation. I met my current partner online and, while she was aware of my height, it was just one aspect of who I am, not the defining one.

Day-to-day life is also problematic, littered with objects of torture: beds, low ceilings, door frames and cinema seats, all capable of inflicting anything from slight discomfort to intense pain. Then there are clothes and shoes, a perennial difficulty given my height, 40in inside-leg measurement and size 13 feet. Cars are another huge problem. There are specialist websites that recommend cars with sufficient head room for tall people, but anyone over 7ft has a choice of just two. And whatever car I drive, concentration is essential. With the potentially worrying combination of extra large feet and normal-sized controls, I always do a split-second mental check before I accelerate or brake, just to make sure that I’m not pressing both pedals at the same time.

I’ve spent my life trying to convince myself that inside, I’m just the same as everyone else. With age, it’s got easier, though occasionally I’m shocked into seeing myself as the world does. At one audition, I stared at another actor, marvelling at how tall he was. Then we passed each other and I realised that we were exactly the same height. I’ve also come to realise that while my height is unusual, my feelings aren’t. Most surprising of all are the women who, by any conventional definition, are beautiful but who have more hang-ups about their physical appearance than I do. You don’t have to be 7ft 3in to see yourself as a monster.

Life as a stretch limo in a world of Reliant Robins is tough, and sometimes painful, but it can be bearable if you keep a sense of proportion. My uncle, a 6ft 8in librarian, always dealt with comments about his height in the same way. “Oh no,” he’d reassure customers. “It’s not that I’m tall, it’s just that the floor’s much higher this side of the counter.”