But sadly I agree with her assessment of Al’s commercial potential. His writing is solid, dependable, honest, sometimes poetic, but his sense of story and incident and development of plot is very low-key. As Julia said, she became involved in the set-ups, then nothing happened.
Afterwards across Compton Street to Bifulco, to buy sausages for supper tonight. Then to see Gerry Donovan in Harley Street.
Gerry has been in touch with Kieser.1 He is proposing to take out three of the more precarious teeth on my upper jaw and replace them with an acrylic denture plate. Dentures are essentially jokey – and I view the prospect of them with mixed feelings. Actually, I think I might quite enjoy the notoriety they will bring to my mouth. And of course I’ll be all ready for playing prisoners and old men in the new Python film.
Wednesday, February 1st
Just as I am recovering a little after last week’s lethargy, comes a considerable blow to the pride. Last week, whilst rooting out my piles of letters and scripts in an effort to clear the desk, I came across ‘Arrochense Los Cinturones’, the article I wrote after Tobago, and which foundered in New York a year ago when Lee Eisenberg left Esquire. It didn’t look bad in parts, a little long, so I trimmed, chopped, and with a swallowing of pride and an apologetic covering letter sent it off to nice Mr Alan Coren, editor at Punch.
Today it arrived back rejected, politely but firmly. ‘Sending back a Michael Palin piece could well be the sort of action that would cause posterity to desecrate my grave.’ But his reasons for rejection were very sound, absolutely correct and put me well in my place.
But I determined that in order to salvage my pride, I would write another article and send it off by return. It was to be about a man whose articles are constantly rejected.
Simon Albury came round and read both the new piece and Tobago, and, good friend that he is, gave them considerable thought, and finally confirmed my own suspicions that both mis-fired. His comments made me aware that I had fallen into the ‘Humorous Article’ trap. It’s not me, he said, it’s not the way I talk or the way I express myself- it’s an affected style. I feel a little better after our long chat and resolve not to waste any more time on the matter tomorrow.
I Bernard Kieser, a South African, had taken over the unenviable task of looking after my mouth after Robin Powell’s return to Australia.
Friday, February 3rd
Sit up in my room full of the joys of life and write a long letter to Al L, detailing my slow recovery from West Indian culture lag. I’m thirsty again for books, films, magazines, the lot, and am currently reading Harold Nicolson’s 1945-62 letters in a curious tandem with John Dean’s Blind Ambition.1 Two very different descriptions of the same subject – power. It does strange things to people. You can’t carry a comparison between Winston Churchill and Gordon Liddy too far, but the fact you can start at all is food for thought. I mean, both did very odd things in the name of power and both were rather aggressive, pugnacious men, concerned with the problems of leadership.
Interesting Nicolson observation that the Tory Party really were embarrassed by Winston’s presence after the defeat in ‘45. The problems of living with a living legend!
A lovely morning to myself, followed by a meeting in the Nag’s Head, Hampstead, with Gwen Taylor – who seems to be on for our leading rep lady in Tunisia. [We were still searching for someone to play Brian’s girlfriend, Judith.] Unassuming, straightforward and likeable – a good addition to the cast.
Drive from Hampstead out to Shepperton for a special viewing of Dominique, which has been laid on for the Shepperton staff, wives and families.
At the end Charles Gregson says, with his effervescent cheeriness, ‘Not bad for one million two.’ I thought it was very bad for that.
Monday, February 6th
Must begin work today on this year’s Yarns – as much as possible to be written in the two months before we leave for Tunisia.
The great imponderable is TJ’s time. He valiantly underestimates the extent of his directing involvement on the new film – he was going to run the shot-list off in a couple of days, it’ll now take a couple of weeks. So I am preparing for the worst – which is to write the stories myself and rely on Terry for heavy checking. That way it won’t be a brake on the work and it will be a great bonus if he can find a clear week away from the film.
Having decided this, also decided to try and continue my last year’s effort to work before breakfast.
To be honest there was little enthusiasm for the work. In the back of my mind lies a distinct reluctance to work on more films for the BBC. Is my reluctance something to do with the bland reaction to the Yarns’? Is it that the Yarns form looks dull compared to the new film, which will take up much of the year?
It’s all those things, plus an unresolved yearning to do something a little more serious – or a new direction at least. It could be the novel … it could be a film. The more involved I become with the film world (via Shepperton) the more tempted I am by its freedom. I don’t want to get stifled by BBC thinking.
Well, all this jumble of vague hopes and dissatisfactions was holding back my progress this morning. I wrote, but wrote mechanically – the sheer joie-de-vivre of embarking on a new series was sadly lacking. I wish I knew what I really wanted to do.
Tuesday, February 7th
Down to Soho to meet David Dodd1 at the Falcon pub on the corner of Lisle and Wardour Streets. David says he knew of it before – his father, who was Inspector of Police eventually, was in the 1930s a London copper in the days when Soho really lived up to its naughty image. Vice rings abounded and the Falcon was a meeting place for pimps and peddlers. Mr Dodd, Constable Dodd, used to sit in the corner behind his Sporting Chronicle and smoke a pipe and clock his suspects as they came in.
David claims he only knows one man in Guyana who is faithful to his wife. Everybody else, from the PM downwards, is balling on the side. Only the men, it seems; the women marry and stay at home – their side of the marital contract honoured – but the men are at it like rabbits, all over the Caribbean.
David said he had given words of caution to Judith Hart, the Minister for Overseas Development, who had recently been in Guyana and had addressed a meeting of Guyanese with statesmanlike words about nurturing democracy, guarding the fragile plant which is growing here, etc, etc. David said all this meant nothing – but the £10 million aid cheque she was in Guyana to sign did.
Hearing David I can’t help but feel that ideals wither and die in the Tropics. Our culture, our western culture, especially the Protestant form, becomes irrelevant in the heat.
Thursday, February 9th
Gerry Donovan pulls out three of my upper teeth.2 All very neat and quick (G Donovan goes up in my estimation for turning out to be a fan of Stay Hungry3 – my favourite movie of 1977).
Saturday, February 11th
Take Tom, Willy and Louise Guedalla to see Chinese New Year decorations and we eat an excellent meal at the Dumpling Inn in Soho. Louise tells me that, according to her mother, ‘some of the nastiest people in the world live in Soho’. I must say, such was the ignorance about the place when I was young, that my parents would probably see me as little more than a child pornographer for taking three children to Saturday lunch in Gerrard Street. Now, of course, it’s full of very well-turned-out Chinese entrepreneurs and sleek Euro-tourists.
Tuesday, February 14th
Write a lyric for the Shirley Bassey-style Brian song which I want André and Dave to have a go at – just to see whether it works. They have a choir at their disposal for a session, and actually asked me if I had anything I wanted them to do. Should be interesting.
Yield to Willy’s insistence and take all three kids round Madame Tussaud’s. A really basic misconception about Tussaud’s is that you will see famous people looking utterly life-like. Well, the figures, with their waxy pallor and their disturbingly piercing glass eyes look uncannily death-like. Many of them – Prince Charles and Paul McCartney to name a couple �
� are grotesquely bad, and I’m surprised the royal family haven’t been down there to kick a few heads.
Wednesday, February 13th
Spent half the morning on a play idea. It’s very neat – a day in the life of a BBC film unit, but also a day in the life of the beautiful mediaeval church where they are filming. Lots of possibilities for characters – from the Greek chorus of sparks through to the murky romantic involvements of PAs and make-up artists, to the power struggles of the director and cameraman, and with the infinite possibilities of the arrival of the Orson Welles figure who is to present the programme. He stirs up and re-arranges all the internal relationships and is the deus ex machina who tips the whole thing into a climax of literally Gothic horror, as he orders parts of the church removed and sawn down – better to accommodate the cameras. Anyway, I made a start this morning.
TJ arrived midday for a session on the Yarns. Needless to say it was Python film business which dominated.
We spent a couple of hours on a rewrite for the second Pilate and Brian scene, which benefited, I think, but I’m always wary of duty rewrites – alterations resulting from irritation with other alterations. I tend to think that a lot of final details are best sorted out when we rehearse together.
Sunday, February 19th, Brighton
Have to be in Brighton this evening for a banquet at the Old Ship Hotel laid on by BBC Enterprises in order to launch a week’s selling of their progs – Ripping Yarns being one they are specially anxious to push (presumably because they cost so much).
Read in an old copy of The Times, on which I was cleaning my shoes, that there are 450 bookshops in the whole of the United Kingdom – whilst, in Europe, Berlin alone has 263 bookshops and Munich 244.
Train down from Victoria. A dirty Sunday train – quite an embarrassment as I hear guttural continental voices in the compartment next door.
A tiny, mean, British measure of scotch in the ‘Regency Room’, which confirms my suspicions that this hotel may once have seen stylish days, but has now fallen on plastic times. Meet a cheerful Finn and a very anglicised Dane, who wants me to go to Copenhagen in October and talk about Ripping Yarns (he seems decided to buy them, which is nice).
Then we’re all ushered into a long room, overlooked by a balcony on which Paganini was supposed to have played in 1831. An average meal, but a jolly table with a well-preserved Swedish lady with a Mai Zetterling mixture of brains, looks and years, and my kind Danish friend. Frightfully uninspired speeches. Alan Bates, Billie Whitelaw and myself and others have to stand and be acknowledged.
After the meal, Terry Nation (creator of Daleks and presently writer of Blake’s 7) seeks me out and lavishes praise on the Yarns – but especially on ‘Olthwaite’, which he can hardly stop talking about. He brushes aside my return of the compliment and raves on. Fall in with two very jokey Irishmen from RTE, one of whom has a twitch which causes his right hand to shoot out towards the bar after every third sentence.
Monday, February 20th
All is calm and quiet here. The two Terrys, Goldstone and others are in Tunisia on a week’s recce. The boys, and Rachel, have gone back to school after half-term. It’s very cold outside. I have no games of squash planned and no meetings. An ideal set of conditions for writing. And yet, once again, it does not come.
I realise that I am severely short of motivation. Apart from the odd manic enthusiasts – like Terry Nation and Mel Caiman1 – most of the rest of my friends have found the Yarns flawed in some way or other. Whatever the reason, the Yarns have, I feel, been un-rated rather than underrated. I know the BAFTA nominations are now complete, and I have heard nothing from anyone in the know – which gives me the sinking feeling that the Yarns, quite aside from being wiped off the board by the Muppets, may not even be nominated.
To cheer myself up I go down to Thumb Gallery for a private view. Robert H and Chris Orr are there. Robert is as up as I am down. He’s doing a Ruskin film with Les Megahey (ex-Oxon) for Omnibus.
A girl comes up and asks me if I’m Kenny Everett. When I tell her I’m Michael Palin she says ‘Oh, yes, I meant to say that.’ Such is fame.
Wednesday, February 22nd
Spend most of the afternoon in the Owl Bookshop, Kentish Town, rather frustratingly trying to spend a book token. The trouble is I want to read everything. Come out with several books for the kids – including T H White’s The Sword in the Stone and a ‘Biggies’ comic book for Tom. For myself, three novels by ‘Britain’s most underrated twentieth century novelist’ – Henry Green – plus Kingsley Amis’ latest, The Alteration. My reading veering towards novels once again, having completed the sorry, but compelling, story of John Dean.
Discovered the joys of T H White whilst reading to Willy tonight. Such richness – such a delightful and intelligent and satisfying mixture of humour, excitement and interest. Smashing.
Thursday, February 23rd, Southwold
Yarns stop for two more days, as I take a 48-hour trip to Southwold.
On the train a silvery-haired and dapper gent opposite introduces himself to me. His name’s Whinfrey and I’ve met him several times at Punch lunches. He’s the business manager of Punch. Will I be writing an article for them again soon? I say I have and it was rejected. He laughs uncertainly and goes on as if I hadn’t said anything.
Walk with sprightly Ma along the front. The sea in heavy swell and the familiar Promenade littered with the remains of beach huts wrecked in the January storms. The ‘Bide-A-Wees’ and ‘Little Huts’ and ‘Rocamars’ twisted and smashed.
Saturday, February 25th
Work days slip away. Another week has gone by – and only one day’s work on the Yarn. Still, I’m very happy and beginning to feel a cautious return of the writing urge.
Tom, Willy and I lunch at Nontas Greek in Camden Town, the idea being to try them on a lot of different countries’ cooking. Willy wants to go and eat Turkish because he’s heard that you can burp after the meal.
Sunday, February 26th
André J brings round the tape of the Shirley Bassey-type Brian song that they’ve put together. It sounds stupendous. Massive brass backing and a great female voice. All done by three people and a lot of mixing.
Back home, ring Graham to wish him well for the start of Odd Job filming – at Shepperton tomorrow. His new director, Peter Medak, seems to have won the casting battles hands down. Keith Moon is out and not because he was too busy with The Who – this was the official reason given to the press because Medak and others didn’t want him. Replaced by David Jason. GC has brought Diana Quick in to play his wife. She signed up only last Friday. I wished GC well, and told him to make sure he was still in it!
Monday, February 27th
To Gerry Donovan’s for a first glimpse of my false teeth. Try not to read too much psychological significance into this, but I never imagined I would be wearing false teeth at the age of 34. This is ridiculous, of course, for I’ve had bridges fitted for two years, but false teeth to me are things you take in and out and leave in a bowl of water beside the bed at night – they are like mothers-in-law and big tits, a traditional joke area. Now I have them – a little pink band to go across the roof of my mouth, a little dental chum to lie beside me at night. I feel a little – uncool, man.
To Anne’s for a meeting. Played the Bassey Brian. Good reaction, especially from JC. All full of admiration for André’s arrangement, though not for my lyric particularly. I agree.
Tuesday, February 28th
J Cleese has asked Helen and me out to dinner this evening. We called round at his still-scaffolded Ladbroke Road house, recently acquired from Bryan Ferry, the singer and generally chic society figure. Huge rooms, and lots of them, and only John there, wandering through it, rather lost.
We eat at a rather tasteful little restaurant – a bit elaborately frilly and soft-furnished – called Pomme D’Amour in Bayswater Road. Pleasant, easy chat with just the three of us – about books, Alexander Technique (JC’s been at it for three years) and
JC’s desire to do a That Was The Week That Was-style show – mainly I think because he feels that the people who need the boot in now are not the old hags of the Macmillan right-wing establishment, but the new and humourless tyrants of the left.
Wednesday, March 1st
Am finishing typing a Telegraph ‘Opinion’ piece, when a grave’s Albury enters the writing sanctum. He’s been talking to Barry Spikings, who’s been talking to Lord Delfont, who has stopped the EMI/Python deal because he was so outraged by the script.
My immediate reaction is a surge of relief, spreading to all parts of the body. Breathing space to write the Yarns, confirmation of fears that I had pushed back into my subconscious that EMI would ‘find us out’ at some stage and get cold feet. But I’ll believe it when I hear it and am not going to race to the telephone.
Instead I pour myself a glass of wine and go off with Simon and [his wife] Phillida to see Smile Orange – a sort of black Fawlty Towers with a hint of MASH and with as much humour and far more endearing characters than either of them.
Thursday, March 2nd
It’s pouring solidly at 9.30 and Helen and I are eating rather cosily and discursively in the kitchen, when John Goldstone calls. The facts are correct. Michael Carreras1 showed the script to Delfont, who vetoed it. Spikings, however, has undertaken to provide us with £50,000 to keep our production team together whilst we find new backing.
Friday, March 3rd
Evidently none of the Pythons is distraught over the collapse of the EMI offer. Terry J greatly relieved that Python still has its powers of aggravation. EMI are the black-tie gala luncheon, awards dinners establishment – the Grades and the Delfonts of this world – and no territory is less familiar or acceptable to us than this chummy world of showbiz conformists.
Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years Page 60
