Billy and I enjoyed being in London together. We tried to see theatre events and rock concerts as often as possible – even the ballet. I was nervous about introducing Billy to Swan Lake but he absolutely loved it. And opera – he really got a taste for it. We even went to Glyndebourne once, and Billy found the whole experience terribly funny, especially when a rather snooty woman farted loudly right in front of him.
I’m beginning to understand that you and Billy bonded partly on the basis of your BOTH being outsiders . . .
Mmm. It did feel like ‘us versus them’ a lot of the time. And, as you’d expect from two comedians, we shared a lot of private mirth about things we noticed around us. Once we went to see Liz Taylor in a West End production of Little Foxes. We probably should have known better than to attend a mega-diva’s theatrical swan song, but it seemed so camp it was unmissable. At one point in that dreadful, self-consciously ‘starry’ performance, Miss Taylor walked towards a window. At the exact moment she peered out, someone backstage flipped a switch and a light went on – presumably to enhance her cheekbones from that angle. It was the kind of celebrity-driven stage feature that should never, ever happen, but it probably seemed like a Good Idea to keep the diva happy. But Billy and I just lost it. Not only was the visual effect highly noticeable and distracting, but what made it particularly amusing for us was that the gay couple behind us made sounds like the alien tune in Spielberg’s Close Encounters: ‘Do de do dee doooo . . .’
Billy and I barely recovered for the rest of the evening. A little later we met Liz Taylor, at a dinner given for her by John Reid (who managed Elton John and Billy at the time). John had set up a photography studio at his house, so guests could have their photos taken with her. Of course everyone wanted to be photographed with Liz – she was the stars’ star. When it was my turn I asked her to put on a red nose because Comic Relief had just ended and I happened to have one with me. I love the photo of her wearing it. She was a good sport and the red nose reminded her of an incident that is an incredible insight into what it must have been like to be as famous as she was. ‘I was asked to be a clown for a charity venture in LA,’ she said. ‘Some make-up artists and costume people created an elaborate clown appearance for me. Every part of me was disguised – I had full clown white face make-up, my eyebrows were arched, my eyes were crosses, my mouth completely altered to a huge downturn. I wore a purple bubble wig, and had a baggy, spotted romper suit, fully padded, and very long, funny shoes. The other performers and I walked anonymously down a street in Beverly Hills, which was such a novel experience for me. I was just saying to someone, “This is wonderful – being able to walk down the street and not be recognized by a soul – how freeing!” When all of a sudden, I heard a passing woman say to her husband: “Hey, Chuck, look at that! It’s Elizabeth Taylor dressed like a clown!”’
It had already become clear to me that really famous people had to work very hard to protect not only their privacy but their sanity as well. One day, Livvy and George Harrison invited Billy and I to their house for lunch. Oh, come on! This is my last name-drop in this chapter. Anyway, we were very taken with Friar Park – a huge and rambling mansion that George had rescued and Olivia had lovingly restored. This was their haven (well, until they were viciously attacked inside that ‘haven’ some years later). But that day, George was wonderfully relaxed. He took us in a little boat through a secret waterway into an underground grotto. It was a charming, unexpected feature of their wonderfully unique home. A few months later, when I was about to give birth to Scarlett, they invited us to a concert at Friar Park where Ravi Shankar played such incredible, rousing evening ragas I could feel Scarlett dancing in my womb, and within forty-eight hours she was out in the world. Another time Billy, George, percussionist Ray Cooper and I went for dinner at a Chinese restaurant. During the meal, a man approached our table and asked Billy and I for our autographs but completely ignored George. It was bizarre. The man must have seen our smirks because he finally asked, ‘Is there . . . anyone else who’s famous?’ ‘Yeah,’ said Billy. ‘There’s a Chinese waiter over there who used to play for Celtic.’
But I was now a mother of five, and still just about managing my career as a comedian. I’m not going to pretend it was easy. I remember running into Ringo Starr’s wife Barbara Bach in town one day when I was struggling to shop for groceries with three small children. She told me later she thought to herself ‘I can’t leave her alone with all those kids!’ so I must have appeared completely overwhelmed. But you do what you have to do, don’t you? Every woman who has had three or more children under five at some point will wince at the same memories. What a learning curve that was! And who knew the double pram – which seemed to be such a good idea when I bought it – would not fit through doors, down aisles . . . many essential places. Hats off to all fellow working mothers.
I had developed one-woman shows, which meant I had to go on tour. In particular, I had markets in the UK, Australia, New Zealand and the Middle East. Not many mothers tour the world with their babies AND a snake. The snake – whose name was Fred – was a real problem. He was a large python with whom I performed an ‘Eve’-type sketch, but I dunno – maybe it was something I said? Fred did not want to co-operate with me. For a start, snakes hibernate in winter, so whenever I was in a cooler region he would become terribly sleepy and I’d have to drape him near my dressing-room lights to wake him up. I had to feed Fred a quarter of a sheep every month (yes, really!) and, after he had just eaten, he would be particularly unsociable. He would pee and fart on stage, making a huge puddle and loud noises. And, let me tell you, if you’re on stage with a snake and the snake farts, no one in the audience thinks it was the snake.
I remember the searing heat of that tour, being driven through the desert with Martine and the kids . . . Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Bahrain. And then there was the concern over my material, which was – to say the least – edgy for that part of the world. In fact, the promoter came backstage after my first show and said: ‘Pamela, I’m afraid there’s not one thing in your show that’s actually legal in the Emirates . . . Well, maybe it would be for a man . . .’ But I was playing to expat audiences so it turned out to be fine. We also spent three months in Australia and New Zealand, touring around doing my one-woman, one-snake, two-dwarves show and— Oh, didn’t I tell you about Melanie and Tony? Very talented little people who played various roles in my show (for example, in a sketch satirizing the Catholic stance on birth control, I sawed a pope look-alike in half and out came Melanie and Tony as two mini popes). I was rather worried about them, though. They were very young and hadn’t travelled much, and I was afraid for them, especially in the Middle East, because there were all kinds of scare stories about how people could be kidnapped and sold into a harem. Actually, the idea intrigued me. There were probably times when I wondered, ‘Maybe I could be kidnapped for a harem! Yeah, fuck this comedy thing for a game of soldiers. Wouldn’t it be rather nice to lie around in silk robes, having my toenails painted by eunuchs, while I waited for some nice handsome sheik to have his way with me . . . ?’ Kidding . . . I think.
Hmm. I suspect the pressures of being a mother AND having the responsibility of doing a solo comedy show every night on tour – let alone trying to manage the snake – must have been enormous. No wonder your fantasies might have led you to crave being pampered and taken care of – even as some kind of odalisque . . .
It’s true that the work seemed to be getting harder. I continued to appear in movies, but they were all pretty terrible. I did enjoy working with Barry ‘Dame Edna Everage’ Humphries in Australia, though. What a human work of art he is! It was just after Amy was born. Cara was there and Martine cared for her, Daisy and Amy in my trailer while I was on set. I was still breastfeeding and it was really hot. Not great for the kids, and I was exhausted. But I took them for trips – we visited Rottnest and Magnetic Island. In New Zealand, I broke my wrist while playing Nancy Reagan. I was doing a promotional TV performance when I fell off a tab
le – yes, really – and felt terrible pain as I hit the ground. My promoter, Ian, took me to the doctor, who turned out to be a Not The Nine O’Clock News fan. ‘Just wait there,’ he said, not realizing I was in agony. ‘I’m just ducking home to get my Hedgehog Sandwich album for you to sign.’ I was close to passing out by the time he returned.
When the babies were small and portable, it was relatively easy to go on tour in foreign countries, but eventually it became impossible. I was definitely struggling with the demands of being both mother and comedian, but something else had occurred: I just wasn’t as excited about comedy as I once had been. Although I still enjoyed performing live in my solo shows, I’d really achieved everything I ever wanted in the field, and now I was getting bored. I was no longer interested in movies; I found them tedious and time-consuming, with very little opportunity to have any creative control. And I had already starred in the two best TV comedy shows in the world. What else was there for me to do? Where was the next challenge? I finally realized it might lie beyond my current profession.
In 1991 American producers Michael Elias and Rich Eustis asked Billy to take over the leading role in the prime-time American hit TV comedy show Head of the Class on NBC. He was to play Billy MacGregor, a teacher providing ‘enrichment’ for gifted children, replacing Howard Hesseman who had been in the show for five years. This was an incredible opportunity for Billy, and one that eventually helped solidify his career in the United States; however, it created considerable upheaval in our lives.
Warner Brothers wanted a four-year contract, so we decided to move everyone to Los Angeles. But, before we did so, I insisted Billy make an honest woman of me. Yes, it was I who proposed, although I didn’t exactly get down on one knee. ‘Look Billy,’ I said, not terribly romantically, ‘it would be sensible for us to get married before we settle in the States. Americans aren’t as relaxed as the British about marital status, and I think it could be very important for the kids.’ Billy resisted this idea like crazy. ‘I made a mess of it last time around,’ he demurred. ‘We don’t need a piece of paper . . .’ But I stood my ground.
In 1989 we got married in Fiji. Billy wore a kilt made of painted paper bark (siapo) and the rest of us wore sarongs. Barry Humphries gave me away, and the small island we chose was taken over by various intrepid friends. Two real Scottish bagpipers led me along the beach to a strangely nervous Glaswegian, and we made our vows in the water, to a wet but kindly Fijian minister. In accordance with local custom, the whole marriage actually took three days, with a surfeit of feasting on local ferns, reef fish and even sea snake. On the first day, I was told I had to take to the sea and prove I could provide for Billy by catching a bag of fish with a spear. This I did, but I have a strange feeling someone was pulling my leg.
There was a bit of drama. For a start, Billy didn’t really want to marry me. I guess he felt once was enough, and we had the most enormous row the night before we gave our vows. Everyone on the island must have heard him shouting at me. I’m just glad I was smart enough to have him captive on a Fijian island; no way he could do a runner. But the next day he made up for his opposition by being so moved he cried real tears when I approached him from the other end of the beach.
Fred was not the only ornery snake in my life. Our wedding island was well populated with highly venomous, banded sea snakes that liked to come on shore, especially at night. Being revered by the local people, they had to be treated with respect and could not be disposed of, or even corralled, so getting back to one’s bure (Fijian hut) after dinner was quite an adventure. Unfortunately, Ringo’s wife Barbara Bach suffered from a snake phobia. One evening they left their windows open at dusk and returned in time to see a pile of writhing reptiles taking over the floor space. Damn! If I’d only been a psychologist back then I might have loudly claimed they shared an unconscious fear of large penises. But even as it was there was quite a to-do.
There were only about thirty guests. The wedding invitation had been painted on silk sarongs that everyone wore. I had a lovely tropical garland in my hair and an exotic gold necklace given to me by Shakira Caine (Michael Caine’s wife) from her personally designed jewellery collection. Despite the sea-snake threat we were all bare-footed. Jamie and Barry Humphries’ boys, Oscar and Rupert, helped our girls along the beach, shading them with umbrellas made of giant leaves. Everyone looked very pretty and the photos from that day are wonderful. I suppose my parents were miffed that they were not invited, but it was actually a huge relief for Billy and I to be away from family pressures. When my mother saw my wedding photos she did let me know how amusing she thought it was that I was such an old bride, being given away by a not-exactly-youthful surrogate in the shape of Barry Humphries. Jesus, I was only thirty-eight, but I guess for her generation we were positively ancient to be wedding party protagonists. I wish we still had the video of the wedding ceremony – shot by our good friend the director Richard Lester – but it disappeared within months of our return to the UK.
We arrived in Los Angeles in 1990 and searched for a house in a number of different suburbs – Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Hollywood. Nothing appealed until our estate agent was just about to give up on us. She finally sighed, and said: ‘There’s one last possibility, but it’s really weird . . .’ Billy and I looked at each other with a knowing smile. The man took us to a ranch house in the Hollywood Hills that had been converted into a high-walled studio by an Italian artist, Alexander Burri. The man had even painted his trees red. It was perfection. ‘We’ll take it,’ smiled Billy.
Billy complains that when he saw the place he liked it the way it was, whereas I saw ‘potential’. It’s true. I set to work knocking down walls, upgrading the kitchen, installing a swimming pool . . . Well, duh! It was California, after all. Our street was an enclave of interesting people – Quentin Tarantino on the corner, David Hockney down the road, Eric Idle in the next-street-but-one. Dan Aykroyd, Bridget Fonda and Dwight Yoakam were nearby – it was a fun place we’d just happened upon. And there I go again, name-dropping. Do you care? I don’t. It’s just a bit of fun and, coming from where I started in life, it just tickled me. And they – most of the people in Hollywood – are the same; escapees from all kinds of ordinary, boring, upsetting or even dangerous places they couldn’t wait to leave behind.
The human menu in the Hollywood Hills was one thing, but the physical landscape was challenging. You know, I now realize I was never able to feel entirely comfortable in California. Perhaps the aridity of the place just reminded me too much of Boronia Park. And there was always the weird unreality of it; even the trees were force-grown, using water from elsewhere, in what was essentially a desert. When I think of the sounds of California now, it’s always the slush slush slush of the sprinklers. There are sprinklers everywhere, on the lawns, on the sidewalks – run on timers, and always waiting to soak you without warning.
But that wasn’t the only way to be ambushed in Los Angeles. The movie industry was brutal, on every level. It didn’t matter who you were, what you’d done, everyone was vulnerable. We witnessed terrible cruelty perpetrated by powerful movie industry people onto less powerful others, a hideous jostling for parts and position, and that was truly ugly to behold. But while they raised hairs on the back of our necks, the ordinary folk we came across were well meaning and hospitable . . . ‘Have a nice day!’
We settled the three youngest children into schools. Billy started work on Head of the Class (he eventually made a total of twenty-two episodes, then followed that with a series of his own). At first, it was hard to get used to him playing a real leading man – with short hair, eye make-up, plucked eyebrows and tinted pancake foundation. ‘Potato-face!’ he would exclaim into the mirror at his beardless self.
But Billy became an American star. I was enormously proud of his achievement and, even though he wrestled with the fact that such work wasn’t really ‘him’, he seemed to enjoy it for what it was. I applied for the Green Card lottery and was successful and, as a result
, we all became permanent residents of the USA. But what were our prospects as performers there? Our combined profile in the UK had been substantial, but now we were swimming in an even bigger pond. Could we keep afloat in California? We were about to find out.
Chapter Ten
LA LA LAND
It was a hazy, humid dawn. From my vantage point aboard a converted fishing boat just off South Australia’s Neptune Islands, I watched Darwin’s theory of the survival of the fittest acted out in all its gory detail, right before my eyes. Mug of coffee in hand, I had climbed on deck to enjoy what I had thought would be a delightful first-light display of Australian sea lions playing around in the white caps. But they were not the only creatures enjoying a spot of breakfast fishing. Every now and then the soppy smile on my face would be replaced by a horrified gasp, as yet another cute, furry creature was savagely snapped into oblivion by the gigantic jaws of a Great White shark, breaking the surface at a terrifying pace.
Eventually I could stand it no more, and climbed down to the aft deck to don my diving gear. At this time of year, the water was surprisingly cold. I added a layer or two, and a thick hood, and joined my dive buddy in the steel cage that would hopefully shield us from faring the same fate as those sorry sea lions. My buddy was grinning in anticipation of some serious jaw-snapping. As we began to descend in the cage, he held up a large tuna and began to slice it with a knife. The blood seeped into the salt water all around us, seeped out between the bars of the cage and beyond into the blue. At 65 feet we made the divers’ ‘OK’ sign to each other, but I knew his meant more than that: ‘That smell ought to bring the sharks up close and personal . . .’ Dark shapes began to loom in the distance, advancing towards us at speed. Then I noticed the physical reality – there was just one thin cable between us and the boat.
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