by Stephen Fry
Angela Mason next, she’s the very extraordinary lesbotic campaigner who runs Stonewall. Used to be a member of the Angry Brigade, narrowly escaped conviction at some bombing trial. Oo-er. She was, as you would expect, dull and uninspired as a debater.
Then Stephen Green. What a ghastly and unfortunate specimen. Simply HOPELESS performance. Witless, graceless and useless. Didn’t even try and present his real point of view, which is that he abominates anything to do with whoopsidom. Instead he tried to make some feeble, pettyfogging legal point about the age of consent which made no sense at all. He presented his book The Sexual Dead End some magisterial work, we are given to believe, outlining the dreadfulness of being a bottomite. Poor man. Sat down to, at the most, polite splatters of applause.
Then it was time for the floor debate. Oh yes, Stephen as usual, has to wait and wait and wait before he can speak. Undergraduates on this side and that spoke. Finally it was my turn. I had jotted a few things down on the back of an envelope as it were during the debate, but otherwise entirely busked, which is definitely the best way of doing things I think. Told them all about Cambridge and what kind of a place they were attending, the history of its alumni and what they stood for: contrasted this with the adulterers, closet cases and corrupt canters who get up at Tory Party Conferences and dare presume to talk about ‘family values’.
The long and the short of it was that I got a standing ovation, which made me all trembly. They just wouldn’t stop applauding me and cheering and all the rest. Very exciting. Michael Bywater spoke next and said he opposed the motion because he believed that the age of consent should not be equal: heterosexual love was far too complex and difficult a thing to allow 16 year olds to engage in it. Homosexual love was fine: it was a matter for equals and those who know each other and should happily be set at 16. He ended by saying ‘I’m sitting with the faggots’ … crossed the bench and sat with us.
Well, as you can imagine, we carried the day. 693 votes to 30. Of the 30 it was mostly those who found the queue into the Aye door too long and voted by filing through the No. Was kept for at least an hour signing autographs in a great crush of undergraduacy. For the large part not the most bouncily charming bunch: ‘Rory’, ‘Nicole’, ‘John’ would be shouted at me as an order paper was put under my nose to be signed. Very few pleases or thank yous. One can overlook a lot by imagining that they were shy or nervous, but generally speaking a disappointing set. There is no point in being shiny, attractive, intelligent and young unless you beam it out, whatever your gender, to those older than you.
Eventually managed to get through to the room where drinks were supposed to be served. Bar had closed by that time, natch. No bad thing, since I was driving home. This we did once Serena, Michael and a couple of others could be prised away. I got home and to bed by about two-thirty. Long day. Little sleep lately.
FRIDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1993
Woke up early enough to do a Voice Over at 9.00 … really that’s so many late nights now, I’m beginning to think all the work of Grayshott is being undone. Pretty feeble ads for Croft sherry. Got back in time for Hugh to come round and we stuck at it all day. Anthony Goff (my lit. agent) rang to say that he really loved The Hippo, which was a huge relief. I do honestly think he meant it.
Robin Hardy came round at 5.30 and we chewed the fat on the subj. of Bachelors Anonymous. I told him that Thierry Lhermitte was my certain favourite for the lead. He seemed to think this was a good idea and promised to try and see if he could book him. At 7.00 I biffed to the Groucho to see if I could spot a dealer of any kind. BW introduced me to a chap called Jethro who sold me a gram. Then I loped off to Hugh’s and Jo’s for dinner. Alastair and Kim were there and we had a jolly dinner before I ripped off home again, by way of the Grouch. I am back to my bad old ways with a vengeance.
SATURDAY, 16 OCTOBER 1993
Signing tour. Up early for a car to Euston station, where I met Rebecca Salt of Mandarin books and we got on the train for Chester. Late, unfortunately, trouble at Watford. This meant we were late for Chester and only just arrived in time for my ‘performance’. This involved a reading and chat on stage at the Gateway theatre. Read the Sherlock Holmes story from Paperweight* and then took questions. Very good fun, really: seemed to go well. Then we grabbed a late lunch and signed some stock in a couple of bookshops in the Chester ‘Rows’. Beautiful city, quite entrancing. Car from Chester to Liverpool where we signed again and leapt on a train for London. Did some fatuous IQ test for Esquire magazine on the way.
Went straight to the Groucho and hung around for a while. Jethro showed up and I bought 2 grams. Finally fell into bed in some kind of a state at 3.00.
SUNDAY, 17 OCTOBER 1993
Lunch with Ferdy Fairfax† in Clapham. Charles Sturridge and Phoebe* showed up, Robert Fox† those sort of people. Rather fine affair, hearty Sunday lunch food, lots of children, very bright sunny autumn day, splendid.
Home at 6.00 watched telly and went to bed sober and early.
MONDAY, 18 OCTOBER 1993
Press launch of Stalag Luft, screening and photo-call and all that. Took place at the Imperial War Museum. Watched it. Think it’s alright. Hard to tell. It’s a good story, so it should work well. I was fat, naturally. Nick Lyndhurst and I had to fend questions from the press. They were all dead keen to know about the Elton John musical, much to the distress of the poor popsy from the press office. Tore myself away at one thirty, just in time to get home before Hugh showed up at 2.00 for writing.
Met Chris Pye of Anglia and Anthony Horowitz, the writer, for drinks and a chat about a new detective series they want me to do. At the Groucho, naturally. Who was there but David Reynolds, the producer of Stalag Luft and some colleagues? They had been there since the screening finished. TV people, crumbs. Meeting went okay, then John Sessions showed up with some actress who plays a nurse in Casualty.
Home a bit pissed and fell into bed. What a week.
TUESDAY, 19 OCTOBER 1993
Up and just about capable when Hugh came round. Jo (sister) popped over from Huntingdon to lunch with me and James Penny, my ‘personal banker’. They use some phrase like ‘wealth management’ that makes me so embarrassed I could scream. We lunched there. Dear, dear. Have you really come to this, Stephen? All very flattering. You are ushered in by Jeeves-dressed Messengers, all striped trousers and tail-coats. There was Bruce, the manager of the Langham Street branch where I had banked before, and there was James Penny, who looks about 10, but knows his financial onions and his commercial shallots.
Downstairs in one of the dining rooms we lunched and supped burgundy while Penny told me that my money was useless as cash and that I really should do things with it. Gilts, he felt. I have always been dodgy about all this. If I earn the money I don’t see why I then have to make money out of money. But you know what it’s like, they look at you as if you’re mad. So I suppose I’ll sink something into shares, something into gilts. The good thing is that I can afford to stop working and travel the world for a couple of years or whatever, if I felt like it, without worrying about taxes for the previous years.
The private bank is open from 8.00–8.00 and can make any ‘arrangements’. If I want cash they bring it to me on a salver …
Came back to write with Hugh. He’s written a couple of fabulous songs lately. He left and I toddled to the Groucho for a meeting with Alex Hippisley-Cox (sic) a girl who will be doing the publicity for The Hippo. She likes the book, which is great. People at Hutchinson who’ve read it seem to think it’s better than The Liar, which is wonderful – if they’re right. Stayed on upstairs to watch Norwich beat Bayern Munich 2-1 … unbelievable. Wonderful stuff. A goal from Jeremy Goss that will live long in legend and song. Spike Denton, the Radio London film critic was there, and Rory McGrath and Charles Fontaine the owner chef of the Quality Chop House. Spotted Jethro and nipped off to do some rather decent coke I’m sorry to say. This is going to have to stop soon. Home at 2.00.
WEDNESDAY, 20 OCTOBER 1993
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br /> Up reasonably early to go to Doug Hayward, the tailor, for another fitting. The blue whistle and flute is emerging. Hugh was round a bit late, looking at new cars and tiles for my kitchen with his wife Jo who’s designing it, bless her from crown to toe.
Wrote during the day as usual, then stayed in till 10.00. Watched a video of Bill Humble’s Royal Celebration, which was directed by Ferdy Fairfax. Very good performance from Rupert Graves. Watched a vid. of Monday’s episode of Cracker, Robbie really is giving the performance of his life. Fabulous.
At 10.00 off to the Groucho, I’d agreed to play Perudo with Keith Allen for some programme he’s making in which he’s being followed around London for a day. Silly but fun. The cameras whizzed about us: God knows what they saw.
THURSDAY, 21 OCTOBER 1993
Voice Over at 9.30. With John Gordon Sinclair. He seems in fine shape. More writing with Hugh all morning and then at 7.00 I arrived at the Tallow Chandlers’ Hall for a Bowyer’s Dinner, guest of old John Perkins. Most extraordinary evening. Never been at a Livery Dinner before. A lot of City figures in ermine and gowns. Fairly clear that they would never otherwise have been able to earn the right to such accoutrements, for these were bears, so far as I could see, of very little brain. A lot of pompous people in spectacles for the most part. Simply dreadful. But Perkins is such a nice man. There was the whole business of the Loving Cup and so forth, and a load of exceptionally bad oratory.
Perkins had to be back in Norfolk, so we left round about tennish and I got dropped at the Groucho for a card game. Played poker with Griff and Rory and others for about three hours and ingested rather a lot of the old Bolivian marching powder.
FRIDAY, 22 OCTOBER 1993
Writing in the morning and afternoon. Quick pop off to the Grouch for supper. Had a long chat with Bob Mortimer of Reeves and Mortimer fame. Turns out they’ve got a signing gig tomorrow as well, also to Leeds, but at a different time. Bumped into Z, who is worried that his C habit has been going on for too long. Takes it during the day. Bad idea. Got home reasonably early a little chastened by the thought of Z, but cheered too, to think that I wasn’t in such a parlous state as he was.
SATURDAY, 23 OCTOBER 1993
Up earlyish for King’s X station. Train to Leeds, signing. Car to Sheffield, signing. Car to Nottingham, signing. The latter had such a big queue that it was as well that it hadn’t been the first or I would have been late for all the others. Lots of people, all very friendly. Think Paperweight in paperback is doing really well, which is so heartening. Home by half past nine. Watched a bit of telly, fell into bed sober and knackered after a heavy week.
SUNDAY, 24 OCTOBER 1993
Up at 11.00, which was really 12.00 because the clocks went back today. Spent the day preparing for the Palladium gig. This is a benefit for the Stonewall Group, part of the age of consent campaign which the Cambridge Union had been about as well.
Got to the Palladium round about half past six. Ian McKellen was organizing the affair and the usual suspects turned up, Jo Brand, Julian Clary, Pet Shop Boys and so forth. I had invited Christian Hodell to come along and mix with the merry throng. He seemed to enjoy himself mightily.
At the end of the show, walking to the party, I discovered my cab had gone from the street where it had been parked. Christ I hope it was towed away, not stolen. We strolled on Christian and I to the Edge in Soho Square. I took about an hour of it before the press of people finally wore me out and I walked home and tumbled into bed after a couple more lines and some diet coke. What an arse I am.*
MONDAY, 25 OCTOBER 1993
Before I go any further, I must register Gary Wilkinson’s 71 clearance to beat Steve James to a quarter final place in the Skoda Classic. I know this looks naff, but it was one of the great sporting contests. You, dear reader, will wonder why on earth I am going on about such a strange thing as snooker, but as the old saying has it, ‘you had to be there’. Four incredible hard final reds and an on-their-spot-clearance to follow. I was happy to witness such a moment.
Work with Hugh then lunch with Max Hastings at Wilton’s. Max arrived late, and at the neighbouring table while waiting I bumped into Don Black* who was meeting John Barry, to whom I was introduced. Barry happens to be something of a hero, so I was v. excited to meet him. He turns out to be a very down-the-line Yorkshireman, weirdly thin fingers and hands, and very charming. Lots of gossip about Saltzman and Broccoli from the Bond days.
Max arrived and told me that if I demanded 200,000 a year he would happily pay me to provide a column. This is a strange position to be in. I could say ‘yes’ and 200 grand would be mine. We nattered about the Tories and he said that Major, whom he fairly regularly sees, is a paranoid figure who believes his current unpopularity is entirely down to a conspiracy of a) Thatcherite mavericks and renegades and b) media enemies. Even if Major is right this attitude should be hidden. A real leader would surely kick arse and establish himself? We also chatted about Lamont’s bitterness over his sacking. When it was time to leave the restaurant we discovered that Lamont was sitting at the neighbouring booth. Whoops! Don’t think he was listening. Max turns out to be genuinely anti-Murdoch. He thinks him a completely evil and appalling man. Why isn’t this made more plain in the pages of the Telegraph? Murdoch has announced his intention to destroy the Telegraph within the next five years.
Got back to the flat at 2.40 and wrote some more stuff, then Hugh left. Slept for an hour before driving off to Fulham for dinner with Matthew Rice and Emma Bridgewater, his wife. Chap called Jonathan Cavendish was my neighbour at table, he produced Into the West and The Severed Bride and so forth. Turns out he’s doing an Oscar Wilde movie with Alfred Molina. Bollocks. Home in time to watch video Cracker and Film ’93. Barry Norman wonderfully vituperative about Dirty Weekend, which is clearly drivel like every Winner movie. Time for bed.
TUESDAY, 26 OCTOBER 1993
Voice Over in the morning, just redoing the old Croft LBV port thing. Hugh and I worked again during the day and then at 8.00 I toddled over to the House of Commons to dine with an MP.
This man had written to me last month telling me how much he loved The Liar and inviting me to dine with him. Intrigued I accepted. But …
If this is the quality of MP that the Tory party is relying on then I am happy to say that they are not long for this world. Absurd looking man with the oddest manner you’ve ever seen. Sounds very ungracious after I have eaten his bread, but truly … Very right wing in a thoughtless, ‘I made it by the sweat of my brow’ kind of way. Anyway, went and had a line in the loo.*
WEDNESDAY, 27 OCTOBER 1993
Spent the morning being painted again by Maggi H. Not too clever at 8.30, but I warmed up and started to enjoy it. She finished off by doing two drawings of me asleep, which was wonderful! She is the most extraordinary woman. Her company is more stimulating than cocaine, but her gruffness of manner and hard glare are apt to frighten off those who don’t know that she has a heart of marshmallow. She would probably retch at me saying that. Being painted by a true artist is an extraordinary experience. She’s so athletic: all the time I heard the snap of breaking charcoal or the sweep of it on cartridge paper and the stamp of her feet constantly (and unconsciously it seems) readjusting her stance as, like an athlete or a cheetah, her body moved while her eyes and head kept deadly still.
Home via the Groucho, where I was supposed to meet Jethro. Unfortunately he was late, so I left without him or any C. Back at the flat Jo and Charlie were there, Charlie typed out a message for me on the computer and was generally a poppet. He’s five now. Weird to think that unless I top myself, OD or get run over by a bus, I’ll live to see him make 25.*
Tried to sketch up† after they went, not easy. Went off to the Groucho again to meet Jethro … missed him again as I had to get back in time to meet Anthony and Sue F. for a dinner party to celebrate the delivery of The Hippo, which they really seem to like. I felt a bit odd, wine and ciggies tasted strange in the mouth.
They were in
terested in the planning and structure of the novel and I told them that I had been writing this diary through some of it and that it would show how late certain key ideas came to me … Simon’s role for instance and lots else besides. They genuinely didn’t believe me. ‘It must have all been in your head …’ Perhaps it was, but I was buggered if I could get it out, as a glance through September will show.
Bed at half past one. Too many armagnacs.
THURSDAY, 28 OCTOBER 1993
Up feeling v. queer. Simply not well at all. Fluey and peculiar. Lurched over to Gresse Street for a VO. Managed it somehow and then staggered back to receive Hugh for a day’s work. Not very capable for most of the day, but I managed to bang down a couple of sketches: slept for two hours on the sofa round about mid-day. That helped a little I suppose.
At six thirty I trotted over to the Paris theatre (just two minutes walk, God bless where I live) for the News Quiz. Me and Alan Coren v. Richard Ingrams and Peter Cook. Alan and I won convincingly, the biggest win of the series, 20 points to 6. Quite a lark really, I managed to say the word clitoris a number of times, which is always pleasing. Then struggled over to the Groucho to see if some poker and coke wouldn’t help push me out of my flu. Funnily enough it did. Won convincingly and we broke up at 12.30-ish, highly civilized. Met a fellow called, intriguingly and very Soho 50sly Nick the Basque. Home and asleep by 1.00.