I feel like I have known Sam Neil my whole life. I cannot remember a time when he wasn’t on my screen. And it is always a joy to see him. His memoir (of sorts) is exactly what I expected of (our) Sam; an amicable man with self-effacing humour telling stories from his life. It was a pleasure to read. In fact, there were times when I laughed out loud. However, shockingly, very early on in this memoir, he writes about his relatively recent diagnosis of a type of blood cancer. He does so without much fuss, although he does lament on hair loss.

He begins his memoir in Ireland, where he was born, and finishes in his vineyard in New Zealand. Along the way, he introduces you to his friends and family. He seems very loyal and has amassed a wonderful circle of friends, some famous, others not so. He talks about the work he has completed – he has been in nearly 100 films. I did note that he seems to enjoy a story of his bowel movements frequently. (Is he at pains to lets us know that everyone shits, even the very famous?)

Even though he shares some intimate moments, this is a not a kiss and tell memoir. (There is no mention, for example, of Laura Tingle.) This is a respectful telling of the stories that made him who he is. I finished this memoir feeling like I had been at a raucous dinner party, seated next to him of course, where tales are flung from one end of the earth to the other and the evening finishes with a lovely Two Paddocks pinot noir. And a relief that he is in remission. Read this memoir because it turns out that Sam Neill is an excellent dinner party guest. But I reckon I already knew that.