My favorite Peter O'Toole story, which is probably about Richard Harris instead but who cares, is the time a young friend met him in a West End pub, where they proceeded to spend the afternoon getting completely snockered. As it started to get dark, O'Toole suggested to his new friend that they visit the theater, which they did, and were enjoying the play quite well from the balcony, when suddenly O'Toole leapt up, shouted, "Oh my God, that's my cue" and ran down to the stage and performed flawlessly.

One of the great drinkers of all time. How he ever survived his brethren drunkards Burton, Harris, and Oliver Reed, I'll never know. Rest in peace.