“I feel terrific about where I am in my life, when I look back at what I’ve accomplished,” he says over a late lunch at London’s Savoy Hotel, his much-mimicked Teutonic rumble competing with a teatime pianist. “But I feel shitty when I look at myself in the mirror.”
“I’m not competing, I’m not ripping off my shirt and trying to sell the body,” he tells me. “But when I stand in front of the mirror and really look, I wonder: What the fuck happened here? Jesus Christ. What a beating!”
