More Fool Me

by Stephen Fry

  The programme is called Laughter and Loathing, it’s presented by Ian Hislop and purposes to analyse and document satire. Programme One, pilot and first ep., is all about Juvenal, played by me. Well, as you can imadge, the only way to play Juve is to get yourself dolled up in a toga and pace the streets of London, declaiming satires. No point doing it in a Tuscan Doric decorated studio looking like a historical figure. Juve was very much now and in the streets. There can be nothing in the world more embarrassing than standing outside the Bank of England in a toga, with a camera crew on a long lens miles away, shouting irate verse into a hidden radio mike. Tourists think you’re a guide of some sort, punters who recognize you come up and nudge you or hound you for autographs. Unspeakable shame. Add to this a pair of thin boot/sandals and the rainiest late September day in living memory and you have a recipe for disgrace and horror. Filmed all morning in the City, Bank underground station and, mercifully, in the Conway Hall.

  The evening was taken up with this party: brainchild of our prod./dir. Dave Jeffcock, the idea was that in the Gennaro Room of the Groucho a load of celebs and liggers would turn up for a free party in which self would be filmed (still in toga) being rejected and cold-shouldered by these media types. This would be edited with a VO of self reciting a Juve satire in which the poet complains about being a reject who has to go to smart parties and be ignored, just in order to eat. As we started filming the mood came upon me and – eheu fugaces – I asked Liam Carson whether or not he might be able to find me a couple of grams of Devil’s Dandruff. This he duly did and I spent most of the party slightly wired. The guests included Clive James, Jeremy Paxman, Charles Kennedy the leader of the Liberal Democrats, a man who likes a drink, Angus Deayton, Danny Baker and Melvyn Bragg, the latter turning up with Cate his wife. The filming finished and I stayed on for a while.

  Danny introduced me to a man with long hair that I realized was Rob Newman of Newman and Baddiel infamy. They had been a year or two below us at Cambridge but we never knew them. This frightening pair have been so rude about everyone I love and like that I assumed that he would snub me. In fact he was rather sweet and naturally I told him that I thought his show, currently on BBC2, was splendid. Haven’t actually seen any of it and am sure it isn’t quite my tasse d’oolong.

  After this played Perudo* with Liam and a couple of other degenerates and flew off home when I realized that Tina Time had stolen some hours from me and it was twenty past one in the fuck-mothering morning.

  Not ending September as I began it. Wine, coke, late nights. Shucks.

  FRIDAY, 1 OCTOBER 1993

  Pinch, punch – yeah, yeah, yeah. Another supremely embarrassing day, filming in Soho and Covent Garden in a toga and rain. Used up the lunchtime buying birthday presents for Nick Symons and Griff Rhys Jones, both of whom had parties tonight.

  Finished filming at 8.00-ish and biffed off to Primrose Hill for Nick’s party. Hugh was there and Paul Shearer and Kim and Alastair. Helen Napper and Jon Canter too. Had a gram and a half left over from the previous night.

  Nick’s party finished at eleven thirty and I cabbed it to Clerkenwell for Griff’s. Usual suspects present and incorrect. Angus, Phil Pope, Helen A-W, Clive Anderson, Nick Mason (drummer from Pink Floyd) those sort. Mel Smith in US filming, but his wife Pamela in attendance. Got coked and drunk and at three-ish managed to retain the sense to call for a cab which I shared with Simon Bell to the centre of town: dropped him in Soho and fell into bed. Oh dear, Stephen, what a case you are.

  SATURDAY, 2 OCTOBER 1993

  Up at 10.30, in no mood to work. Filled in time watching videos and then Kim arrived to accompany me to the Savoy Theatre to watch Nigel playing Gazza Kasp. We cabbed it after a cup of tea and arrived half an hour early. Sat in the front row and chatted. Rhea, Nigel’s wife fetched up and we watched the first three quarters of an hour unfold. Nigel was white and it developed, as always, into a Najdorf Sicilian, with Nigel playing the Fischer favourite, Bishop c4. Kasp unwound a piece of preparation beginning with Nc6, and had taken 11 minutes to Nigel’s 52 by the time we left the hall and went to Simpson’s in the Strand where the grandmaster’s analysis room was. Most of the GMs in agreement that Nigel was in trouble. Kim had accurately predicted the course of the game and reckoned that Nigel stood all right, considering how taken by surprise he was. Tony Miles, ex-England #1 was presiding at the roundtable of GM’s and making bitter foolish remarks about N’s play. Dominic Lawson explained how completely asinine and childish Miles is. He cannot bear the fact that Short is so much better than him and has always beaten him. At one point he laughed out loud at a move of Nigel’s which was absolutely necessary, precise and accurate. Really sad. He’s spent some time in a funny farm, so one mustn’t hate. Speelman turned up and was friendly. Chatted to Ray Keene and others. Nigel managed a draw and acquitted himself well over the board. Beaten in preparation perhaps, but excellently played.

  Alastair then arrived and we had a drink and stepped over to Joe Allen’s for dinz. Saw Maggi Hambling and, of all people, Amanda Barry* sitting at a table with Percy, Maggi’s terrier. Then came home, drank a bottle of red wine and wrote this.

  Now must bed myself. Off to Wyton† tomorrow for Jo (sister) and Richard’s christening party for my nephew George.

  SUNDAY, 3 OCTOBER 1993

  Drove to RAF Wyton. You have to report to the guardhouse and get a chit which you stick on your dashboard. Found Jo and Richard’s quarters. Arrived same time as Roger, Ruthie, Ben and William. Ben and William v. affectionate and sweet. Jo looking fearfully well and George bouncing fit to bust. Splendid fellow. None of the usual stickiness you expect from these family affairs.

  Almost frighteningly English. The X’ening itself took place in the church on the station, a rather cute little affair with shiny rafters. Simply ghastly ASB (Alternative Service Book) form of Christening. Even the Lord’s Prayer was tampered with. Nice padre, but v. low. Came back for buns and cake.

  Got away sharpish and returned to London, spot of TV and bed.

  MONDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1993

  Well, a day spent entirely in the flat once more, and a day that has seen me finish the novel. Well, I say that, but when is a novel ever finished? I dotted the point final as the French say at round about six-thirty and ever since have been combing through the main body, rewriting. I suspect the length will be round about 96,000 words when we’re done (Stephen, you are such a size queen).

  Stopped off to watch the second ep. of Robbie Coltrane’s Cracker, even better than the first, simply spot on. This was followed by News at Ten with all the pictures of Moscow’s new October Revolution. It’ll all drift into dim memory in a fortnight or so, but what a day … tanks blasting holes in the side of the Parliament building, hundreds killed. Could it happen here, we wonder?

  Only worrying thing is that I somehow succumbed and opened a bottle of wine at nine-ish, most of which I’ve consumed. Really must get into the habit of passing through a day without any alcohol.

  Heigh ho. Up earlyish tomorrow please, Stephen, and perhaps it will all be really, really, really done.

  Ner-night.

  TUESDAY, 5 OCTOBER 1993

  FINISHED … well perhaps there’s more work to do, but I’ve printed it out, sent a copy to Hugh Laurie and feel that it’s out.

  Immediately rang Sue, but she’s at the Frankfurt Book Fair and so I won’t send it to her until tomorrow or Monday even as she won’t be back for the rest of the week. Rang the Lauries though and have cabbed it off to Hugh.

  God knows what it’s like. Feel hot and cold about it.

  The evening saw a dinner at W. H. Smith’s headquarters in Holbein Place off Sloane Square. Sir Simon Hornby, the chairman had invited me to dinner. Turned up in time, after a couple of lines, still left over from Liam’s kind sale on Thursday. Drove the taxi. Interesting people there: the Roux bros., Hugh Johnson the wine writer, Edward Cazalet, Plum Wodehouse’s grandson and others. Strangely serendipitous going to a Smith’s dinner on the very d
ay I finished the nov. They served Chateau La Tour and Meursault. Highly enjoyable, I got very drunk indeed.

  WEDNESDAY, 6 OCTOBER 1993

  Spent the day sorting out all the correspondence that had built up over the weeks since I’d been concentrating on The Hippo. Then I posted it and went shopping. Had lunch with Lo and Christian at the agency. Then … walked to Mortimer Street and bought an Apple Newton. Wow! What a piece of kit. It’s going to take a little time before it can read my handwriting, but this is the way technology is going, no question.*

  In the evening went to Victoria Wood’s concert at the Royal Albert Hall. Met up with Hugh and Ben Elton: Ben’s manager Phil McIntyre is the promoter of VW and arranged a good box for us. Afterwards we trotted off to the Bombay Brasserie (where Ben and I and the Kinnocks dined the other night) and spent a wondrous evening chatting. Hugh is reading Ben’s novel as well as mine at the moment, so I’ve got a fluttery tummy. Especially as I’ve suddenly lost confidence in The Hippo and wonder what on earth I was at writing such a hard-to-define novel.

  THURSDAY, 7 OCTOBER 1993

  Hugh came round this morning to start writing on the next series of A Bit of Fry and Laurie: no two week holiday after the intensity of The Hippo and all else. Come to think of it when did I ever have a holiday? We didn’t get much done, but it was so good to have him here. In the afternoon, Griff Rhys Jones rang up to invite me to a poker game at the Groucho.

  After Hugh left I wandered to the G and the game happened. You have never seen so much coke in your life, how Griff resists it I do not know. XY was there too and the white powder simply flowed. I played poker pretty well, despite some very bad hands and managed to exploit what little luck I had. The effect of the C and a lot of red wine began to take its toll on me (but on no one else) and towards the end of the evening I (embarrassingly) threw up out of the window onto Dean Street below. Liam had a look and said there was no one there, no policemen, no unfortunate victim of the chunder. Shame, indignation and horror. It reminds me of the time when I was with *insert names of huge rock star, huge acting name, huge producer name here* in the back office of the 24 hours café in Kingly Street and we decided to have a Longest Line Competition. Each of us chopped out a line, mine being the longest. But the point was we had to take it up in one. A vile version of the shot-glasses down-in-one horror. On that occasion I took the line up my nose, it must have been seven foot long, but thin, hoovered it up, and as I got to the end of the table opened my mouth and let out gallons of pure, bright red vomit.

  Not quite as bad as that this evening. Everybody very nice about it, but what a humiliation. Struggled home somehow.

  FRIDAY, 8 OCTOBER 1993

  Quieter day. Hugh arrived late and we worked a bit. I wrote a sketch of appalling double entendre quality* and then he left. Played with the new Newton, watched a few videos and then went to bed.

  SATURDAY, 9 OCTOBER 1993

  Bought some French videos to watch actors for the movie Bachelors Anonymous that I’ve been asked to direct next year. The Lauries invited me to dinner and I popped over. Nigel Short lost his match today, for the first time for weeks. Big shame. Came home, got a bit drunk and wrote up these last few days. Forgive my brevity of late.

  Ner-night.

  SUNDAY, 10 OCTOBER 1993

  Woke up good and dominically† late. Had a lunch at the Ivy with John Reid, Elton John’s manager, and Arlene Phillips the choreographer. They had asked me some time ago to see if I couldn’t come up with a narrative framework for Elton’s songs, with a view to putting on a West End Show. I wrote the book in February/March this year. Reid and Arlene like it, John R. has just come back from LA where he showed it to Bernie Taupin, Elton’s lyricist who, as I suspected, did not like AT ALL. Accused it of being cliché-ridden, which is true, but inevitable for a West End/Broadway musical, and Elton’s early life of transgressive sex, excess, drugs, rock and roll was frankly cliché-ridden. Still John and Arlene want to go ahead, so I’m to ring Sam Mendes tomorrow, as John likes the idea of his being the director. John, who’ll produce, will see Sam when John gets back from Hong Kong next week. As well as being Elton’s manager, he’s also Billy Connolly’s (and until a month or so ago, Barry Humphries’).

  Well, it may or may not take. The story is full of gay stuff, which will at least make it different. It’s unhip and uncool, which is what Taupin dislikes, naturally. Taupin thinks of himself as some kind of hep Village guy from the 60’s. Sort of Neurotica-Beat generation cool dude poet. Still trying to escape the fact that he’s a Lincolnshire farm lad gone middle-aged and millionairoid.*

  Came back, watched TV and wrote this. Still haven’t watched any French stuff to see what I think of French actors for Bachelors Anonymous. Hugh round again tomorrow for more F&L writing. Glunk.

  MONDAY, 11 OCTOBER 1993

  I’m a bit behind diary-wise and I’m writing this later. Damned if I can remember what happened today. Wrote with Hugh in the morning and afternoon and then what …?

  TUESDAY, 12 OCTOBER 1993

  More writing with Hugh during the day and then popped over to the Groucho to see if I could find some coke to ingest before dinner at L’Escargot with Pnina my second cousin’s wife and Liora, her daughter. They were alright actually, could have been a lot worse. Desperate to know what the rest of the world thought of Israel’s peace moment with the PLO. L’Escargot just recently reopened and Jimmy Lahoud, the new owner, was absolutely thrilled to see me there and stood me cognacs and all the rest of it. Okay evening. Walked home nearly sober.

  WEDNESDAY, 13 OCTOBER 1993

  Strange day. Wrote with Hugh up until about 5.00 when Mother came round to pick up a copy of The Hippo which she wants to read. We gossiped for a while and then I had to change for the evening. Tristan Garel-Jones had invited me to dinner. Arrived first at his Catherine Place address. Highly bonhomous cove, far too civilized to be a convincing Tory. Other guests included the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Kenneth Clarke, the Chief Whip Richard Ryder and assorted sprigs of the nobility, chiefly female (Leonora Lichfield, Jane Grosvenor that kind of thing). Had damn good chat with them all and raised the subject of tomorrow’s debate at the Cambridge Union, viz. the age of consent. Tris was all for a free vote if ever it gets to the House of Commons, Richard Ryder (Ma and Pa’s local MP in Norfolk as it happens) was being very tricksy about it. This horrific shite that the government have been spewing about ‘family values’ recently, since Blackpool in fact, may mean that they are not interested in things like justice and equality at the expense of the blue hair vote.

  Left the dinner early because Griff had invited me to a card game at the Groucho. Eventually it took place: rather knackering business, lots of C. Managed to struggle home at two-ish.

  THURSDAY, 14 OCTOBER 1993

  Had to be up very early in time for the Today programme on the consent and Cambridge debate issue. Felt like shit, as you can imagine after the excesses of the evening before. Eventually, after a great deal of hanging about, I got to the studio where Anna Ford and Brian Redhead were at their microphones. I was to deliberate with a Conservative MP, David Wilshire, a sponsor of the Clause 28. In fact he said nothing I disagreed with: he made a libertarian point about it not being the law’s business to interfere with what people do in private and left it at that. No debate to speak of at all.

  Got back and dozed until Hugh arrived for writing. Spent a lot of the day not writing but thinking about what I was going to say in the evening.

  Jon Plowman turned up at 12.30. He and Bob Spiers, I hope, are going to produce and direct respectively the next Fry & Laurie.* We lunched at Langan’s, once we had tracked down poor Bob Spiers who was lost and wandering desperately around St James’s. I think they would be perfect those two and I believe Hugh thinks so too. Highly amiable and capable of delivering much higher production values. Lunch was fine and fun. Mostly gossip, but we agreed that we should proceed.

  Sir Ian McKellen (or Serena McKellen as Kim told me he should more pro
perly be addressed) showed up at about half-four, as did Michael Bywater who is on the opposition benches, opposing the motion ‘This House Believes in an Equal Age of Consent for Homosexual and Heterosexual Acts’. Poor old Michael agreed to do the debate without knowing that he was going to oppose. Claims he can’t think of anything to say against the idea.

  Drove to Cambridge, traffic in London bad, arrived a little late for the pre-debate drinks and dinner. There was already a hell of a queue leading into the union building.

  Dinner was fine: not a culinary excitement, but fine. The President was an elegant girl called Lucy Frazer and to my left was a sporting chappie called something or other, he was from King’s and reading Theology. Why have I forgotten his name already? Also there was Tristram Hunt, who is the son of the Hunts who live plumb spang next door to Hugh and Jo Laurie. Simply a poppet, he was speaking on our behalf.*

  Anyway, eventually time to debate: we marched into the chamber, with Newsnight cameras on our heels. HUGE cheer for me. They just wouldn’t stop, it was awfully sweet. Felt like blubbing. The President got things off to some kind of start, and Tristram Hunt opened the debate for us. Four speakers on each side, Tristram, Serena McKellen, Angela Mason (of Stonewall Group) and self proposing, and two undergraduates (including the one whose name I’ve forgotten), Stephen Green of the Conservative Family Campaign and Michael Bywater opposing.

  Tristram put the case pretty ably, bless him. Our first undergraduate opposer was a cheery Scottish conservative, classic stout gingery politico. He was an indication of things to come, for it was clear that he did not believe in the position he had to take up at all. Serena then spoke, quite wonderfully, very moving indeed, ending up with a recitation from Housman’s poem about the laws of God and man. Then the student whose name I can’t remember: he was so disrespectful to the idea of the motion that Stephen Green got up and walked out! ‘I’ll come back when he’s finished’ he said. Highly entertaining.