More Fool Me

by Stephen Fry

  Then to the Groucho for an hour or so: scored a couple of grams off Jethro and popped upstairs for a wine-tasting, which was charming. Back home to meet one Sir Peter Ratcliffe, who is in charge of the charity for which I’m speaking at the premiere of The Man Without a Face next week. He told me all the stuff about the evening and when I was to make my address. ‘The Prince of Wales is delighted that you are speaking …’ all that sort of thing. I’m going to have to be rather good I fear.

  Then to the Groucho again, bit more wine-tasting and down Old Compton Street to the Ivy, where I was due to have dinner with Tomasz Starzewski. There was a sign on his doorbell which said ‘9.10 Stephen … gone to the Ivy.’ This rather confused me as my watch assured me that it was only 8.30.

  Toddled to the Ivy, no sign of the man. Then he turned up. The sign was left over from yesterday … doh! He thought he had arranged to see me on Monday … in fact it was definitely Tuesday. Anyway, no harm done. Charming evening, all well. He lent me The Witkiewicz Reader. Back home by one ish. Read in bed.

  WEDNESDAY, 10 NOVEMBER 1993

  Somehow an incredibly busy day on the phone. Sorting out the Perudo evening on the 17th, who’s to be on my table, that kind of thing. Also, I have taken the more or less momentous decision to go for the Albany set that I saw yesterday. A lot of work needed: forward Jo Laurie and her team, but it could be something, I think.

  Rang around the place trying to get references for the Albany Trustees. Banker plus two personal. Tried to get hold of Charles Powell, but he’s all over the place, obviously. Managed to get John Birt’s secretary: she said he’d ring back … which he did pretty quickly. Frankly, whatever else they say about him, he’s always been an absolute poppy to me. Spoke to Carla and she invited me to a black tie dinner she’s holding in honour of Colin Powell, the US Chief of Staff during the Gulf War. She’s a firm friend and is inviting just about everyone in the world, so I’m rather honoured. What a couple.

  She told me an extraordinary thing. Paul Johnson, whom I’ve only met twice (and on both occasions he has been rather scowly), and Carla were in their Catholic church this morning, Carla to pray for Nicky her son, who’s having a brain scan (‘too much bonking, darling. I know it. He’s my beautiful son, but he does bonk too many girls.’) and Paul because he’s always in there apparently. Paul said that his wife Marigold, who was with him at the Saatchi’s lunch on Sunday, is a great fan of mine and would love to get to know me better. Paul, on the other hand, when Carla told him that she liked me too, growled ‘But he’s a socialist, isn’t he?’ To which Carla promptly replied, ‘but so were you darling, when you were his age!’ Paul then agreed and said that they should pray for my deliverance from socialism. So. Carla and Paul Johnson get down in a Catholic church in London and pray for me to be converted to Conservatism. Most peculiar.

  Carla was howling with laughter as she told me: well, she’s Italian and has a splendid attitude to everything. Dear me, however.

  Anyway, she thought Charles would be delighted to write a reference for me. He’s a busy man however, so I might get a back up reference from Max Hastings.

  Managed to write a small sketch: Hugh was away all day on a recce for his commercial. Then I turned to the copy-edited version of The Hippo. This has to be in today in order to get the thing fully done in time for proof copies to be out in December. The copy editor (Hugo de Klee … splendid name) has done an excellent job I think. Somewhat pernickity about the shooting scene, but very attentive. So I spent three or four hours going through that and reminding myself of it.

  Six o’clock and off to the Savoy to meet Kim before the first night of Eurovision.* We sat and supped Old Fashioneds, said ‘hi’ to Neil Tennant and Julian Lloyd-Webber and others who were there then toddled to the theatre. Jo in attendance, waiting for Hugh, whom she hadn’t seen all day. He fetched up at last, having forgotten all about it and only realized when he had got home and found Melissa their nanny baby-sitting.

  The show was about the campest thing you could ever imagine. In fact, not very good. Made tolerable only by one astonishing performance from an actor called Julian Dreyfus.* One to watch without question. The whole ‘drama’ was incredibly amateurish and lumpen in structure. Some excellent farce scenes involving, of all things, the ghosts of Hadrian and Antinoüs, but somehow it was all a bit stupid. It won’t appeal that much to gay audiences because they will have seen it all before at Madame Jo Jo’s and a million nightclubs and gay theatre happenings up and down the country. The person in our party who enjoyed it most, as it happens, was Jo Laurie. She didn’t like it when it started going on about love in the second act, however.

  The Ivy afterwards for dinz. I coked up in the loo, which I have no doubt Hugh and Jo noticed. Oh dear I am an arse. I expect there’ll be what I believe is called an ‘intervention’ soon. I keep picturing it. All my friends bearing down on me and me denying everything until my pockets are emptied. Oh the shame. Lots of wine and coffee and home by quarter to one. Then stupidly sat and gazed at the TV while doing the crossword and chopping more lines. Bed by half past two. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  THURSDAY, 11 NOVEMBER 1993

  Poppy day, seventy fifth anniversary thereof. A day for sitting at home and working. Bad news popped in. The legal secretary of TVS who own the lease on the set in Albany rang up to say that there was a first-comer who has now definitely expressed an interest and she feels duty bound to give him first crack of the whip. Poo. I’ve amassed a startling collection of references, however. One from Sir Charles Powell, one from John Birt and one from Max Hastings. All very splendid. Charles begins his with the typically, but lovably, pompous ‘Gentlemen …’ Heigh ho. Unless this chap pulls out at the last moment or can’t get the right references, it looks as though I shall have to wait more.

  Car came at sevenish to take me to the studios for a Clive Anderson Talks Back. Bamber Gascoigne was another guest, plus a chap who gives (and is a walking example of) body piercing. He had studs in his tongue, a massive spike through his septum, one through his lower lip, nipple rings, and, though this was never shown, a Prince Albert. Crumbs. I think I was alright. A very startling reception from the audience, who appeared to be delighted to see me. Much whooping and cheering. Very gratifying, but I should imagine intensely irritating to the TV audience. Spoke a bit about the horse scene in The Hippo and about politics. Did my ‘family values’ stuff, rather hard-hitting but well received from the audience.

  Shifted it from the London Studios to the Groucho for a poker game. Griff and Bob (Ringo) and an actress called Caroline. She was very sweet but introduced a game called Anaconda which all but wiped me out. First time I’ve lost that heavily for years. That’ll teach me. Much of cocaine. Bed at Two.

  FRIDAY, 12 NOVEMBER 1993

  Up very early for a voice over. It was in Oxford Street so I shopped at M&S afterwards. Back for Hugh, some sketch writing and normal business and then I popped at seven round to Quaglino’s for dinner with Alfredo and Patrick Kinmonth an old school chum whom I’ve only seen twice in the last twenty years. He’s a splendour, however. Painter and now theatre designer. Very talented, very sweet. Had a good dinner, courtesy of Patrick who has Quag’s luncheon vouchers, part payment for decorating one of the pillars in the main dining area.

  Back to my place for chat. I disappeared into the loo every ten minutes but they didn’t seem to notice and popped off at 3.00; I knew it was okay because for the first time in ages I could sleep in on Saturday as much as I liked.

  SATURDAY, 13 NOVEMBER 1993

  Awoke at 12.20 feeling much refreshed. Went out and bought some videos at Tower Records, shopped a little at Fortnum’s and then came back to eat and watch telly. Bliss. First time in ages. At six thirty off to the Lauries’ for dinz. Kim and Al and Nick and Sarah. Good fun. I eschewed coking up in their loo, I know they know and I know it upsets them. Home at half past one.

  SUNDAY, 14 NOVEMBER 1993

  A very busy day spent completing the Sp
ectator diary for next week and writing the speech for the film premiere on Tuesday. Eventually got it all done and then watched a bit of telly before packing and cabbing it to Euston station for the sleeper to Dundee.* Drank a bit of Scotch and ate a couple of sandwiches. Huge mistake. For some reason it gave me the horriblesty pangs of indigestion you can imagine. Bloody nuisance, acid gnawing inside me and the train hammering through the night. Very little sleep.

  MONDAY, 15 NOVEMBER 1993

  Next stop Dundee station at five minutes to six. Absolutely bloody freezing on the platform and the train was ten minutes early, so I had to hang around until my welcoming party arrived to take me off to breakfast. The w.p. consisted of Jim Duncan (the Rector’s Assessor), Ayesha the President of the Student’s Association (DUSA) and Dougie the Senior Vice President. Amiable people. Ayesha is actually rather stylish and splendid, the best of the three I’ve known so far. I’m sure she could walk into any job as a researcher for Clive Anderson/J. Ross that kind of thing. Sweet and bubbly. Not a fool either.

  Back to Jim’s house, as is traditional, to consume a large breakfast cooked by his dear wife Hilda. Lots of orange juice, black pudding, bacon and so forth. Then there was the usual hour or so of sitting and chatting, catching up with whatever issues are prevalent in the University (none really at the moment, thank God) before our first ‘visit’. I’ve instituted this custom whereby I’m shown round a couple of different departments of the university every Court day. Bit Prince of Walesey, but they all seem to like it, and I find it ‘absolutely fascinating’.

  Actually we stopped off at Ayesha’s digs on the way because she had promised her flatmates that I would pop round. They were still in bed as it happened: a couple, blond and gorgeous and tousled and studenty. So sweet. Had a coffee while they degrogged. First port of call was the Accountancy and Business School. Not very exciting you might think, but Bob Lyon the dep. head was amiable and so were all the staff. Met a gang of absurdly UN international graduates: from Sri Lanka, Saudi, Bangladesh, that sort of thing. The computer whizz, a splendid hairy faced wonderment called Roz showed me the computers and we did some internetting, trying to chase a Douglas Adams thread. Coffee in the staff room and more chatting before we slid over to the school of Politics and Social Policy. Very amiable bunch of people. Nothing actually to see there, unlike visits on previous occasions to other departments where one can goggle at medical equipment, labs and so forth, but nonetheless a charming group of people. Rather left-leaning which is rare for Dundee. Charles Kennedy and George Roberston both products of that school, I believe. They weighed me down with books and pamphlets.

  Midday now and time to visit the Principal, Michael Hamlin. Not looking too good: bit of fluid retention under the chin and puffiness about the eyes. Not a well man, I fancy. He’s retiring at the end of the year. We chatted for three quarters of an hour, he calling me ‘Simon’ as usual.

  Time for the pre-court lunch. Sat next to a bit of an ass, can’t remember his name, usual rubber chicken and split mayonnaise. Bless them. Then, at 2.00, it couldn’t be put off any longer, time for Court. I dropped off three times: the first time Jim Duncan, by my side woke me up; the next two times I was awoken by a change of voice or something else. There really is nothing on earth so arse-paralysingly drear as a committee of academics discussing university business. The only time I really perked up was to repudiate a letter written by an oncologist asking how the University could morally justify the setting aside of smoking rooms to ‘feed student addictions’. Per-lease.

  The court wound up in record time after two hours, and I had an hour to kill before my appointment at 5.00 to address the freshers. We went to ‘Pete’s Bar’ upstairs in the association building and drank some scotch. Lots of studes clustering round: all very charming. Then at 5.00 in I went to the ‘Dead Club’ where hundreds of little freshers had assembled to hear their rector speak. I had only been told this was to happen this morning, so no chance to prepare: all busk therefore. I told them that there was nothing on earth less appealing than a young person putting on a hard cynical face and trying to look as if they saw through everything and knew the world for what it was. I told them it was their duty every morning to check their faces in the mirror and to make sure that they looked lovely and open and kind and smiley.

  A full hour of talking: think it went all right. Then another hour in the bar before the dinner that had sweetly been laid on in my honour by the students themselves. They had drawn lots to see who could attend, because they wanted to keep the numbers manageable. As always there seemed to be some deep desire amongst the corpus studenti to get me completely hammered. It was my job to circulate around the table so that I sat with every group for a fair length of time. They were all very sweet actually and welcoming. At last, tottering and with the help of a couple of lines in the bog, I was escorted by Jim and Dougie (Ayesha being off her face by this time) to the station. Another huge whisky and then the train pulled in. We’re talking 10.55 pm by this time. Managed to sleep straight away, which despite the lines (both railway and stimulant) is something of a miracle.

  TUESDAY, 16 NOVEMBER 1993

  Woke up in Euston at 7.00. Cab to St James’s and bed for two hours before struggling up again for a Voice Over. What a business. Got back at eleven, time for opening post and a cup of coffee before a cab to Whitfield Street for a four hour photography session for The Hippo cover and publicity materials.

  Not too bad: charming snapper called Colin Thomas and Mark McCullum and Sue F.* were present, all old chums. Tried various poses, emerging from a bath with suds, that kind of thing. Hope it isn’t all too vulgar. The book is not entirely of that nature, after all. At least I don’t think it is …

  Left at half-three-ish, me desperate to get back to the flat and prepare my speech. In the cab back to St James’s I realize I’ve left my coat at the studio: it contains my keys. Arse.

  I borrow the wonderful local barber’s phone and we ask Colin T. to shove it all in a cab instanter. Sue and Mark and self then repair to the Red Lion pub for a half of Guinness and so forth. Cab turns up, I’m back in business.

  The speech is all right I think. I don’t have time to learn it, however, so I’ll read. Not ideal, but suck it. At six forty-five-ish Alyce Faye turns up looking absolutely stunning in a Starzewski frock of limitless elegance and beauty. We have a gin and tonic and then pop in the car for the Odeon Leicester Square. Big crowds, natch. We are welcomed by a very charming old biddy called Shirley who takes me and Alyce F. round backstage. A lot of pacing about behind the screen from me as the trumpeter heralds warm up their instruments and the screen in front of us shows the celebs and eventually, the royal party arriving.

  After the fanfare and national anthem I go out on stage and make my speech of welcome. Talk about the Cinema and Television Benevolent fund and their ‘work’. Seems to go well. Then escorted round to my seat in the royal box for the film itself, which I have to say I liked a great deal. Very written, but none the poorer for that. Intelligent and humane for the most part and containing quite simply the best child performance I have ever seen. Really a brilliant boy called Nick Stahl: quite remarkable, as good as Jodie F. in Taxi D. Mel Gibson too, a fine performance and well directed. Not a big film, or a possible cult film, but a good film: to be proud of.

  As soon as it was over I was whisked downstairs to meet the P.o.W. He was very matey and said to me ‘You did write that speech didn’t you?’ I said, ‘indeed I did, sir.’ He said, ‘Mel Gibson asked me if you had written it yourself, and I said indignantly, “of course he did!”’ Introduced him to Alyce Faye and they chatted a bit about Cleese and Frankenstein.

  We got in the car after HRH had gone and went all the way to Planet Hollywood where the party was. Stayed for a voddie and then to the Ivy for dinz. Parties are so ghastly at Planet H. really. Nice dinner in fact. Chatted for a while. Alyce Faye said that she (and John) thought my short writings were better than my novels. I was very stung by this. I sensed that
The Liar was just the sort of thing that Cleese would not like, because, despite, or perhaps because of, his comic genius he does not seem to understand the profound truth that comic things are more serious than serious things. More serious and truer. It’s part of his guilt at being a comedian, and reflected in his absurdly high doctrine of abstract spiritualist writing like the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Gurdjieff, Coelho and that kind of bogus baloney. If he had ever read a true mystic like the Author of The Cloud or Mother Julian he would know that abstraction and unearthed thinking are foreign to true spirituality. I tried to get some of this across. I don’t know if she understood. Annoyed with myself for being so stung, however. Bed lateish.

  WEDNESDAY, 17 NOVEMBER 1993

  What a strange day. It began early. Horribly early. It began with The Big Breakfast for Channel 4. I had agreed that I would go on to help plug Perudo. Cosmo Fry had asked and I, softy that I am, had consented. Felt a bit grumpy on the way to … god rot it … Bow. I knew that when it was over I would have to charge off in another car to go all the way over to Wandsworth for another sitting with Maggi.

  Once we arrived though, the frantic and friendly spirit of the programme cast all gloom away. You’d have to be very churlish not to be engaged and charmed by the silliness of the show’s spirit. I played a little Perudo with Chris Evans the presenter and did some links. I gave a ‘Showbiz Tip’ about how to speak in cold weather without steam or vapour coming from your mouth. The technique is to suck an ice cube. They liked this very much and for the next link I was shown sucking some ice. I took it out of my mouth and – you’d better believe it – lots of vapour streamed out. Very stupid I felt.

  Car took only fifty minutes to get to Maggi’s in the end. Pretty good session in fact, probably the last this year. Maggi told me an amusing story about Margi Kinmonth, cousin of old schoolfriend Patrick Kinmonth. (This is going to be confusing: a Margi and a Maggi …) I’d met Margi at Ferdy Fairfax’s* lunch not so long ago, anyway it turns out she’s doing some kind of documentary with Dawn French. The purpose of this doc. is to show how wonderful it is to be fat. This will help Dawn sell her collection of clothes for the larger woman, as well as pushing this idea that being overweight should not be seen to be a stigma. Patrick had had a bit of a tiff with Margi about this previously: he had ventured the opinion that fatness is not wholly desirable and that there are sound reasons why we usually find it unpleasant to behold in both others and ourselves. Margi wouldn’t hear this and trotted out all the usual ‘Fat Is A Feminist Issue’ arguments. Anyway, that’s by the by. Margi yesterday approached Maggi Hambling and asked if Maggi H. would allow herself to be filmed while painting Dawn as part of this fatumentary.