Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years

by Palin, Michael

  So, on to the party, held in the massage parlour of the Commodore Hotel in honour of Python. As we swept in, high in the sky with our well-nurtured popularity, the photographers looked past us to see if there was anyone famous around. It was a total, unreal, fantasy. Clive Davis ushered me over to meet Andy Warhol. I talked a while to the King of the Beautiful People. Led Zeppelin were there and Jeff Beck and Dick Cavett, but no Norman Mailer or John Lennon or anyone really interesting!

  I just remember Loudon Wainwright III, to whom I was very effusive and gave my address, and the rather lovely dark eyes of one of the masseuses.

  Thursday, May 8th, Southwold

  A perfect May morning – a slight haze clearing away from the trees and fields in the distance. Cows munching the lush, rain-soaked grass in the sunshine. A nine-hour sleep behind me. I feel as contented as the cows.

  Have promised to take Dad to Lowestoft – which we do. He needs someone around all the time, and I have to try and get to his stream of dribble before it hits the newly polished floor of a shop. A wonderful piece of Englishness – there is a new and splendid library in Lowestoft, and here my father would have been really happy. However, on approaching it, we are faced with a notice on the door: ‘OPENING OF THE NEW LIBRARY …’-encouraging so far – ‘… THE LIBRARY WILL BE CLOSED ALL DAY FOR THE OPENING’.

  Father had given me an excellent birthday present, conceived, bought and wrapped entirely by himself. It was a big Adnams poster showing all their pubs, and we used it to find ourselves a splendid little place called the Wherry Inn at Geldeston, a little village tucked away a mile or two off the Beccles-Norwich road. A friendly pub in a friendly village; everyone stopping for a chat with each other. We were able to sit out in the sun, on our own, with beer and sandwiches, and Father could droop and dribble to his heart’s content and still enjoy himself.

  A trip which cheered us all up. And Father is rarely cheerful these days. I went for a walk last night with him, and he told me that he really would like to be 75, and after that he doesn’t care.

  Tuesday, May 13th

  Eric’s new show Rutland Weekend Television was on for the first time last night. Quite a milestone for Python – the first TV manifestation of the parting of the ways. Not a world-shattering show, but a very palatable half-hour’s TV. I didn’t feel that Python was being used. Of course there were ideas which Eric would not have written without the influence of five years with Python, but it was still very much his work, his show and his particular kind of humour. Bits went on beyond the cutting stage, some ideas were woolly and it lacked the solid richness of Python, but I enjoyed it and TG, who was watching with me, felt the same. A neat, nice and simple idea too – a TV station with no money. Neil Innes as great as ever, and the camerawork made it seem anything but cheap. GC rang afterwards, he didn’t like it. I smell grapes.

  Stephen Frears, the director of Three Men in a Boat, comes round to see me. He makes the distinction between Pythons and ‘actors’ and says that the others he will get will be actors. He ends up giving me the script to read and says he thinks of me as Harris. We chatted for an hour or so. He didn’t relax me a great deal – he’s rather a disconcerting guy, with big, round, slightly poppy eyes, unkempt hair and clothes and a rambling, discursive style of talking which makes it very difficult for me to tell what he’s actually saying.

  After I’d read it, I rang him back, as he’d asked. He was pleased that I liked the script (Stoppard – very impressive, funny and yet full of period feeling, a sympathetic adaptation of the book, full of love of the Thames Valley). But he rambled a little about getting all the three actors at once, then apportioning parts only after he’d selected all three and played around with their relative ages, physical appearances, etc, etc. So would I mind waiting for a final decision? This confused me, I must say, but all I could say was I was 100% enthusiastic and to be involved as any of the three characters would be tremendous fun. I’m not sure whether he is preparing me for the worst or not.

  Helen had made a superb steak and kidney pie with a Three Men in a Boat design on it. We ate it with a half-bottle of Bollinger ’64!! A little prematurely, perhaps.

  Thursday, May 15th

  Mid-afternoon and I’m rewriting the last two pages of one of our Crucible plays1 when Tony Stratton rings. He was having dinner last night with Steve O’Rourke – Pink Floyd’s manager. Floyd are very keen to get us on the bill for their prestigious open-air gig at Knebworth in July. We’d said no, but O’Rourke has made us a new offer. For five of us, a half-hour cabaret appearance, £1,000 each in notes, no questions asked, ready at the end of the show. It’s like an offer from the underworld.

  Cleese rang. The Sunday Express have apologised for the article a month or so back in which I apparently accused John of working for money only. They want to give John and me a lunch. John keen on acceptance, which I went along with against my better judgement.

  Friday, May 16th

  Read Three Men in a Boat, as I got a call asking me to go and meet Frears and Tom Stoppard for tea at the Waldorf at 5.00. On re-reading, Harris is really the part I would like (he’s the funniest), though I still feel I’m physically wrong.

  At the Waldorf at 5.05. Tea is taken in a tall-ceiling lounge, with steps down to a sunken dance floor. Frears and Stoppard are discreetly tucked away on a sofa in the corner. Frears, crumpled and worried-looking, Stoppard, a lean and neatly dressed contrast. Frears introduces me to Stoppard and we make small talk about sharing agents, etc. Tea is ordered. It turns out that Stoppard is very easy-going about the play. Evidently it is Frears who is going through agonies of indecision on the casting. There doesn’t seem to be too much worry about myself. Stoppard is complimentary and says virtually do whichever part you like. Much discussion on whether, if I was Harris, I should eat potatoes and drink beer for a month to ‘heavy’ myself up. I decline a sickly cake, as one passes on a silver tray.

  Stoppard a breath of fresh air after Frears’ gloomy frownings. He says, when it all boils down to it, filming is about getting together a group of people you like. He quotes Evelyn Waugh, ‘The Second World War wasn’t bad, provided you were with nice people.’

  So the conversation steers away from me, without a decision, and on to who should be J – the other main part. Tim Curry of Rocky Horror fame is suggested as having the right public school background. Frears is worried that Tim may be enjoying life too much in Los Angeles. Robert Powell is suggested.1 They both agree he’s brilliant, but Stoppard is doubtful about his looks.’He’s a little Spanish-looking, gypsy-like for J.’ So nothing is decided.

  Stoppard has to go to a rehearsal of Travesties (yet another in his long line of award-winning plays) next door at the Aldwych. As he leaves we shake hands and he says, ‘If I next see you in a striped blazer and a boater with a pillow stuffed up your trousers, I’d be very pleased.’

  Saturday) May 17th

  It’s foul weather again. Little sympathy among the gods for Gospel Oak’s Nuts in May Festival. Mary and Catherine B [Helen’s sister and her daughter] lunch here and we stand in the rain in Lamble Street waiting for the procession to appear. Bedraggled but unbowed, the floats begin to turn the corner from Grafton Road. They vary from flower gardens, to pleasantly unspectacular scenes of nursing life, to a Gothic anti-eviction float from the squatters, with a huge, bloody papier-mâché axe poised above the grinning kids on top of the float. On one a girl dances like the neighbourhood Isadora, long, flowing, rather absurd movements, for she is dressed in army boots and is clearly well stoned. There is a huge carnival traffic jam in Lamble Street as they try to manoeuvre an extra-large float into Lismore Circus. I film some of it. No respite for my identity problem. I am spotted by two girls atop the Inter-Action Art Bus, who wave excitedly. One of them bends down to shout something into the cab. Within moments the loudspeaker booms out ‘A big hello to Mr Eric Idle, who you can see is with us today.’

  Thursday, May 22nd

  Out to lunch at Gay Hussar with Jo
hn Cleese and the Sunday Express.

  The Sunday Express was represented by an attractive, dark-haired, heavily-pregnant lady called Olga something,1 who turned out to be a writer for the Express Diary (no, not the Express Dairy). She tried hard to be nice and understanding, and in return we were models of public school charm and politeness. I’m glad it was just a diary story, because this sweet lady did constantly get the wrong end of the stick, and I would hate to have entrusted her with hard information. But I suppose she will be the first journalist to learn of our plans for a new film – and my part in Three Men.

  At 6.00 at the Henshaws’ for a Python meeting. All present, except Eric, who is in France. Briskly it was decided to set aside Sept/Oct period of 1976 to write a new film and May/June 1977 to film it.

  Gilliam is the lone voice of bitter protest against this timetable. He rants and raves about ‘leisurely lives’ and clearly fears that we are signing ourselves a death warrant. The rest of us accept it. Actually I think what we have decided is quite sensible, though I feel that a year’s break would have been better than eighteen months – and he’s right, there’s no certainty that when the next movie comes out – in New Year 1978 – Python will carry the same impetus which is filling the box offices at the moment.

  My dates for Three Men in a Boat were confirmed today. They amount to nearly six weeks’ work. The fee is a little more than half what I was offered to spend half an hour at the Knebworth concert. C’est showbiz.

  Saturday, May 24th

  Copy of a letter arrived in the post from Maurice Girodias, famous publisher of the Olympia Press in Paris in the 1950s – the first man to publish Candy, Lolita, The Ginger Man and other post-war underground classics which are now school curriculum material. He’s a pioneer of total literary freedom and apparently has run into trouble over the last few years (since Last Exit to Brooklyn) from Sir Cyril Black.1 He was served with writ’s by Sir Cyril after Girodias had, in his own words, ‘published under the Ophelia Press imprint a book with the title “Sir Cyril Black”, in which a particularly vicious villain carries that noble name.’

  Girodias now wants us to appear as witnesses at his trial. He says ‘I am sure they (MP) will not be indifferent to my plight since, after all, I have fought many battles in the past which have opened the way to the (relative) freedom of expressive opinion we are now enjoying,’ and later slightly fudges the fine moral tone by saying ‘such an occasion could be turned into a rather wild occasion for both publicity and fun, rolled into one.’ He even says he can apply for a postponement of the trial if we are not available. To be asked to appear at Girodias’s trial has the same ring of unreality as being photographed by Richard Avedon.

  What do we do? I am utterly opposed to such bigots as Sir Cyril Black; of Girodias I know nothing except his taste in literature, which roughly accords with my own. So support should be given. But three or four days in New York at the end of the week would deal my already limited writing time a severe blow. Also our appearance would be publicised in a way in which we have no control. We need to be absolutely certain ourselves about our dedication to Girodias, our knowledge of the case, and how we feel we can best help.

  So I am trying to concentrate on what I do know about – my writing – through which my own views about Sir Cyril Black can, I feel, be better put over than by attending a show trial in New York.

  But I feel so weak for not doing anything. I certainly feel Python’s name should be linked with this very worthy cause in some way. This difficult moral problem disturbed me more than it ought as I sat on the loo reading the letter before breakfast.

  Monday, May 26th

  En famille, we drove up to South End Green, briefly surveyed the photo display for Monty Python and the Holy Grail playing at the Hampstead Classic this week, then went on to sample the delights of the Bank Holiday Fair on the Heath. Subjected ourselves to the usual gut-gripping violence on Big Wheels, Rotordyne, where you are spun round at colossal force until you stick to the wall, and Whizzers, where you’re just hurled around until you feel your stomach is going to come out of the top of your head.

  Thursday, May 29th

  Yesterday I started on one of the ‘atmosphere’ pieces for the Jimmy Gilbert show. Set in a boys’ school in Edwardian England. I read it to Terry this morning, who enthused greatly – but he’s worried that Light Entertainment will do it badly and the ‘atmosphere’ which it needs may be lost. I am enjoying the writing routine again, though.

  Monday, June 2nd

  Referendum day is Thursday,1 and we are alternately told that whatever we say doesn’t matter a jot in the great pattern of things (James Cameron in The Guardian on Saturday) or that it is the most important decision we will ever make in our lives (most politicians). I am still undecided. In both cases it boils down to having confidence in Britain. Either to stay in Europe and keep up with the fast pace of material progress which undoubtedly have made France and Germany quite attractive places to live in, or to have the confidence to break from the incentive and the protection of Europe and become a one country independent free trader, as in the good old days. Neither decision, I think, involves the downfall of our nation. Once a decision is taken it will all be absorbed into the system and the country will carry on working (or not working) as it always did. For once a major politico-economic issue in Britain has not been debated on purely class lines. Tories mix with Labour, socialists with Monday Clubbers, unionists and bosses on pro and anti platforms. Only the implacable revolutionaries, who see the Common Market as a purely and quite reprehensibly capitalist device, seem to have a unity in the ranks.

  I tend towards Cameron’s view – though I will probably vote ‘No’ as a vote against the smugness and complacency of the over-subscribed ‘Yes’ campaign. I think Britain will survive both decisions – but it will be more exciting, I feel, to watch the consequences of a ‘No’ vote and, as one of society’s little band of jesters, excitement helps my business.

  Drove down to Terry’s in a torrential storm, with cold winds whipping round the car. We worked steadily on with ‘F J Tomkinson’s Schooldays’ – as the half-hour has now become. It needs consolidating and tightening, which we do bit by bit. As usual the last ten minutes are the most difficult.

  Drove home in another storm. Watched a long TV Referendum debate. There ought to be one channel, run as a public service, which broadcasts all parliamentary proceedings, because they are quite involving and, rather than bore the pants off everyone, they may cure our national political apathy, for on major issues like this there are some very good performers about.

  John Goldstone rang to say that the Grail has broken records on its opening in Philadelphia and Toronto and that Don Rugoff has plans to transfer it to a new cinema in NY and wants to have a death cart trundled through the streets of NY as an ad. Given Mayor Beame’s reported plans to sack 67,000 city workers in order to meet huge unpaid bills, this may be a public service as well as a publicity stunt.

  Thursday, June 5th

  Today at 10.00 I remembered that our kitchen was to be photographed by the Royal Duke.1 So there was hasty cleaning of the kitchen, then Helen took Rachel and William off for injections (routine NHS stuff). While she was away, I locked myself out while emptying the waste-paper basket. Managed to enlist the sporty help of Clare Latimer2 next door, but trod in dog shit in her yard, then nearly castrated myself on our roses and fencing. She laughed and declared it was all very Monty Python. In the end I climbed over the roofs and into my room, just in time to clean the shit off my shoes and welcome the Duke of Gloucester into the kitchen.

  Cast my vote in the Referendum. I voted ‘Yes’ because I was not in the end convinced that the retention of our full sovereignty and the total freedom to make our own decisions, which was the cornerstone of the Noes’ case, was jeopardised seriously enough by entering the Market. And I feel that the grey men of Brussels are no worse than the grey men of Whitehall anyway. But I didn’t decide on my vote until this morning, when
I read the words of one of my favourite gurus, Keith Waterhouse3. He would vote ‘Yes’ he thought, but without great enthusiasm for the Referendum or the way its campaign has been conducted, because of the attractions of the European quality of life! And he concludes, ‘I may be naïve in hoping that remaining in Europe will make us more European, but after a thousand years of insularity from which have evolved the bingo parlour, carbonised beer and Crossroads, I am inclined to give it a whirl.’4

  Tuesday, June 10th

  The hot weather continues. Spent yesterday and most of today working on the last quarter of the Palin Show script. Quite pleased with progress – at least there is now an ending.

  Midway through the afternoon, drove over to TV Centre to have my hair shorn unmercifully.

  With my new short back and sides, drove over to Cosprops in Regent’s Park Road to try on the blazers, striped swimsuits, etc, for Three Men. Stephen Moore (George)1 and Stephen Frears and I went for a drink afterwards. Moore is a delightfully easy-going, affable bloke, very good company. Frears is very endearing in his scruffy, self-deprecating way. I like them both a great deal.