by Eric Idle
“That can’t happen, Richard.”
“Can’t you at least let us have the first half to set?”
“Richard,” I say, “I’m on Letterman in an hour. Can we talk about this afterwards?”
*
Dave is nice to me. I’m shovelled into the last segment of the show for the final five minutes. The studio is ice cold. The way Dave likes it, I’m told. It keeps the audience awake. Shivering technicians huddle around cameras. All the assistants wear wool. Dave looks at me quizzically. He looks just like Dave. They say he’s a lot nicer after his heart problem. He is perfectly nice to me. He tries to corner me on whether I have been to bed with Julia Roberts, but I am an old hand by now at ducking this kind of direct question. I could be a politician I lie so deftly.
“How many writers does it take to screw in an actress?” says Dave, to laughter, then he buries his head in mock pain at the dreadfulness of the line. Then Paul Shaffer says something funny and it’s over.
“Good luck with the book,” says Dave.
The publicist is ecstatic. “There was a close up of your jacket.”
Now all I have to do is duck a very worried looking Richard Hume. He is having a hard time getting down from the audience seats through security. I feel bad, but I ditch him, escaping from the crush at the stage door into a waiting limo. One or two people even take my photograph. Hey, you never know, I might be someone.
Alone in New York City with just myself and my limo I realize I have only two choices. Either I come clean and face the whole shebang, the scandal, the obloquy, the shame, the humiliation, the handing back the money (oh dear God), or I come up with a different scenario. After all I am a screenwriter. That’s what I’m supposed to do. I head for the hotel. And there in my suite at the Plaza, high above the Park, I write myself a reprieve.
9
“There’s a problem,” I tell Richard Hume next day. “It’s the lawyers. They won’t let me deliver the text.”
“What?”
“We are being sued. Injunctions are flying.”
Brilliant, eh? I’m not bad at scenarios. It’s books I can’t seem to write.
I shamelessly use Regis to fly this spin. He is holding up a mock-up of my book with the scissors on the jacket.
“Now I understand,” says Regis, dapper on his stool, “that you are not allowed to discuss this book.” His eyebrows fly up in mock reaction as he gives the audience his trademark long-suffering look. He lets the book drop.
“So, nice to have you on the show! Stanley Hay, ladies and gentlemen,” he says and pretends to shepherd me off.
The audience howls.
“No no,” says Regis. “I’m just kidding. It’s good of you to come. But what exactly are we not allowed to talk about here?”
I explain that some very famous people whom I am not at liberty to name, have taken an injunction against my book, even though they haven’t read it yet. I am being muzzled by celebrities who fear exposure. I manage to look very upset.
“So this is a freedom of speech issue?”
God bless you, Regis. This quote will carry the day. It’s no longer just a dirty book, a shabby exposé of the sex lives of the famous, a cheap attempt to cash in on our love for hot celebrity gossip. No, now it’s a crusade. It’s a freedom of speech issue.
Don’t you love it? I have ignited a public controversy over whether I am to be allowed to publish the words I haven’t yet written.
Irony is my bitch.
Next day Pangloss announce a delay in the publication of The Writer’s Cut due to legal action.
“We shall fight this all the way,” says Richard Hume in The New York Times.
Regis Philbin is quoted as saying “this is a freedom of speech issue that affects us all.”
*
When I get back to Hollywood there are 27 messages on my machine. All from my lawyers. I avoid their calls. Morty is ecstatic. Thanks to the injunctions, which he has read about in Variety, the movie has become even hotter. There is now a veritable cat-fight over who will star in it. Uma is the rumor. She is looking for a big summer movie and this is a tent pole movie, wide release, two thousand screens. Some people think it has Academy Award potential, but without wheelchairs, Nazis or an idiot savant it’s going to be a difficult sell to Academy voters.
“There was a great interview by your pal in the trades.”
“My pal?”
“Marvin Lutwig. Check it out it’s in The Hollywood Reporter.”
Marvin Lutwig gave a press conference, while I was in the air. He apologizes for my absence, and implies he too has been disappointed by my failure to show up. He assures the press that his screenplay is going to be absolutely faithful to the book.
“It’s a great book. It’s going to be an even greater picture.”
He’s absolutely convinced of it.
I am summoned to a meeting at the Writers’ Guild. There is a committee of six. How many writers does it take to screw up a Union, I think, as I look at their blank faces. These are my people? But I am surprised. They are on my side. The Writers’ Guild is going to pledge their support for me in my struggle against the famous actors suing me.
“Normally, we like to stay clear of litigation, especially with members of the Screen Actors Guild, but this is a freedom of speech issue and that for us is the most important thing.”
I nod gratefully.
“We have decided to overlook the scab screenplay.”
I had no idea they knew all about my illicit strike-busting rewrite, which I did on the side, during their big strike, instead of marching around pavements holding protest posters. Some bastard must have squealed. Jealous lot, writers. I’m impressed they know so much about me. But hey, they are realists.
“No sense in going back into that now.”
There’s a nodding of heads. They all agree.
“They can’t muzzle writers. Even crap ones. It’s shameful. We are going to tackle this head on.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, this is not about you. Frankly we don’t give a fuck about you, Mr. Hay. Matter of fact, we think you are a self-serving piece of shit. It’s the rights of Marvin Lutwig we’re defending. Marvin is on our Freedom Committee.”
He fucking would be. Freedom from talent. They’re backing me in order to defend the rights of Marvin Lutwig. Oh dear Christ, the irony is ass-aching.
“So despite how we feel about you we’re going to give you a Humanitarian Award. The Writers Freedom Award will be presented to you at a special luncheon. You’ll make a speech. Thank us then.”
I’m not sure whether I’m being spanked or rewarded. They look at me like I’m Milosovic.
“This is your chance to do something for your Union. An opportunity to speak out for hundreds of other writers who don’t have your good fortune.”
“You’d better make it good.”
“Maybe Marvin can write it for you.”
*
My ploy to gain time works better than I could possibly have imagined. Pangloss totally bought the legal delay excuse, and for the moment I have them off my back. So now do I take the time to write? Do I, chastened by experience, wisely knuckle down and work really hard on my novel? Well yes. And no. I meant to, obviously I meant to, but I was interrupted. My Person from Porlock was Shauna, a supermodel from Oklahoma. Her corn pone is as high as an elephants eye. So are her legs. Her face has graced a thousand covers. She’s drop dead stunning, soft as a rattlesnake, and lives with a very famous British rock and roll singer called Norm. I met her once when she needed a gag writer to make a speech for some Awards ceremony. I wrote a few jokes and she absolutely killed with them. Now she wants to meet me for lunch.
“Ahm thinking of writin’ a book, Stanley,” she says. “And Ah I want you to write it.”
Oh great.
“Ah’ve bin readin about you everywhere, Stanley, and Ah think you’ll be perfect.”
Shauna is one of the top three most gorgeous women on the pla
net, and here’s the clincher: she’s sitting right now with two of the other contenders at Le Dome, and will I join them for lunch?
I hear a champagne cork in the background.
My resolve crumbles. Lunch at Le Dome. What possible harm could it do? It’s where I sold my book. I know I should work, but visions of Eddie’s steamed Belgian mussels dance before my eyes. Or maybe the Pasta with vodka and caviar. Or even Le Dome’s Mediterranean fish soup. And of course it makes perfect sense. It’s Research. The girls are all famous models, girlfriends, wives, whatevers, and I hadn’t even thought about mining the rock world for good stories. I convince myself that Rock All would make a very good chapter of my tell-all book. I even take a little tape recorder. If I can get these girls to spill the beans all might not yet be lost. I can resist everything except temptation. So it’s in a spirit of optimism, on a glorious sunny day, that I stroll down Sunset Plaza Drive, downhill all the way to Le Dome.
I cross Sunset by the mini colonial building that is Lloyds Bank and turn right, strolling leisurely past the sidewalk cafés, and step confidently through the glass doors and across the terraced patio area that leads into the inner sanctum of Le Dome. One or two heads turn. I haven’t lunched here since I was famous. Le Dome is one of the measures of success. Where you are seated tells you all you need to know about your standing in the Hollywood Food Chain. Elton John founded this restaurant in 1977, since when it has seen more lurid scenes than Star Wars. The bathrooms have had legendary encounters. The combination of coke, celebrity and champagne seems to loosen inhibitions. I may get a whole chapter from this.
I’m a little nervous as I enter but I needn’t be as Eddie comes forward, beaming, and shakes my hand and, amazingly, says “Hello Stanley, welcome. The girls are already here. Nice piece in Variety.”
The twinkle in his eyes say he could say a little more, but he hasn’t become the most successful restaurateur to the stars by shooting his mouth off. He leads me through the packed tables to a trio of strikingly beautiful femmes fatales. Les Girls, known in Dominick’s as The Three Disgraces – though Dominick’s is really a little down-market for them. These girls are more Beverly Hills via New York, Cannes and Paris. They are dressed casually to the hilt and give off a glow of money, sex, and champagne, for they are already slightly buzzed on a bottle of Dom Pom someone has sent over. Every head in Le Dome turns to watch me, wondering why I have such attractive company.
“Stanley!” says Shauna happily, rising to offer me her glorious cheek bones for an air kiss. She pats my butt affectionately as she introduces me to Tippy, a dark-haired exotic underwear model, who, it is rumored, sleeps with everyone.
“Stanley’s gonna write mah book,” says Shauna.
“What’s it called, Nobbing Norman?” shrieks Tippy.
Shauna giggles.
“Nah, you keep your hands off this sweet boy, girl, I want him leavin’ here a virgin.”
“I don’t do miracles,” Tippy says.
Maybe Tipsy would be a better name as she already has quite a buzz on. She winks at me and leans forward to give me a kiss and a fantastic look down her dress. Victoria’s Secret is out. Thank God I said yes to lunch. She taps the seat next to her invitingly. And now it’s Tara’s turn to overwhelm my senses. For Tara with her bouffant blonde hair, done up in a retro Farrah Fawcett, completes this trilogy of temptation. She winks at me and squeezes my thigh in a friendly fashion, while the waiter brings me a glass of champagne. Tara suffers from terminal truancy by her gifted boy friend, Jason, who is a heart-throb, a star, and a slut. She is known occasionally to revenge herself. I had intended not to drink, but surely one won’t do any harm, and I have these three delicious angels to myself. It’s like an epic wet dream, except it’s real.
I’m a lucky man.
Shauna raises her glass.
“Here’s to Stanley and his great new book.”
She nuzzles close.
“Mine?”
“No silly, mine. We can have such a fine time writing it,” she says. “Norm’s on the road a lot and we can just have champagne and Ah’ll tell you what happened and you can put it into words.”
Her eyes are wide with promise.
I think of her punk paramour and decide I prefer life in the slow lane.
“It’ll be a while, Shauna,” I say. “My own book is being published very shortly.”
“Ah know all about that. My agent told me. Ahm so proud of you, Stanley.”
“What kind of a book is it?” asks Tippy.
“It’s a Roman a clef,” I say, pronouncing it a clay in the French way.
“It’s about Clay Aiken?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“Oh I love him. I could easily do him, couldn’t you, Shauna?”
“Oh sure, honey. Ah could do anybody given enough champagne. Cheers.”
And she looks me in the eye challengingly and clinks glasses.
Eddie has found us a spectacular table, where we have a great view of Mickey Rourke in leathers and a knit cap. He is reading a script at the Bar. Don Rickles comes in and stops by our table. He scrutinizes the girls then looks closely at me.
Oh-oh.
“Son, I sincerely hope you’re gay or you’re not getting out of here alive.”
Ah, the sweet smell of success. I just got one-linered by Don Rickles for fucksake.
“I’d join you in a three way but my wife’s here.”
He moves off to join the Kirk Douglases at a secluded table at the back.
“He’s so funny, that Don,” says Shauna.
I’m wedged between her and the lubricious Tippy, staring across the table at Tara. I feel like Paris with a spare apple. I mean honestly, which one would you choose? Actually, all of them.
Now as the Dom Perignon slips down their lovely throats, uninhibited and unencumbered by their men, they tell me their tales.
I blush constantly. These women get straight to the nitty gritty. Shauna opens with a long story about her boyfriend Norm in bed with an English girl.
“Here’s what Norm tells me she sounds like in bed,” she says, swallowing her champagne. She slips into a plumy British accent. “I think I’m coming, I think I’m coming, oh my god yes, I think I’m coming. No, I’m not.”
They find this hilarious. Half the restaurant heard it and there is some applause. Even Mickey Rourke lets slip a grin. Shauna says Norm is terrified of this English girl, who beats him up each time she becomes jealous, and who then demands a hairbrush inserted in her. I’m trying to order and even the waiter doesn’t know where to look, but the girls blithely order another bottle. Shauna and Tara say how amazed they are at the number of women who demand some form of physical abuse. Tippy is not. She tells tales of spanking Australian millionaires. “One was impossible. He insisted I wore my makeup in bed. Then he insisted on doing it at six o’clock in the morning. I can’t handle that at all.” The final straw was when he told her he didn’t like the peach fuzz above her lips. He said she had a moustache.
“I painted his balls blue while he slept and I left.”
Shauna tells us about Mona, a fashion model and would-be Norm groupie. Shauna’s hatred for Mona is intense. She describes how they met on a shoot in New York, where Mona wanted to know all about Norm’s dick. Shauna foolishly pandered to this, egging her on with remarks like “Ah love to lick Norm’s dick” and then telling Mona how huge it is. This whets Mona’s appetite and Mona decides to have a go and find out for herself. When she succeeds, what pisses Shauna off is that she goes around trumpeting the affair to all and sundry. Shauna is mad only at Mona. Not at Norm. Norm is treated as a total innocent in all this. It is taken as a given that it is quite beyond his ability to say no to any girl. So Shauna buys a gun, a tiny pearl-handled revolver, and calls up Mona and says “Ahm gonna shoot you daid.” Well, Mona shits seventeen bricks because Shauna is from Oklahoma and one could easily believe her. Fortunately Norm gets hold of the gun, and Shauna makes him call Mona while she is on the ot
her line listening in, and she makes Norm tell Mona that not only is she never to see him again, but that she was a terrible lay. The poor girl is crying on the other end of the line, saying “Oh Norm how could you say such nasty things?” and Shauna is laughing away at her revenge. Tara says she has made Jason do this too. It is clearly a classy form of female revenge. Listening in on the humiliation of the other woman …
Hours later I nervously eye the check that has suddenly appeared in front of me.
“Don’t be silly,” says Shauna, slapping me on the wrist. “Don’t even think of picking that up. You're mah writer. Some other guy’s gonna pay for that.” And she looks around for a victim. “Ahm not havin’ you pay for my lunch, Stanley. Ah wanna be in your book.”
Jeeze.
“Me too,” says Tara.
“Though you’d better change my name,” says Shauna, “or Norm will kill me.”
You can say that again. He already likes to show his knives in public. I have no intention of being the writer cut.
“You can use my name,” says Tippy. “Maybe that might make my man jealous and he’d fuck me for a change.”
Whoa, too much information.
As I’m staggering out I’m surprised to see Tish tucked away at a table on the terrace with Sam and David Giler. I wave but I don’t think they see me. She ignores me anyway. Damn. I really would love for her to see me with these goddesses, but when she does finally look my way all the girls have gone off to hug other men at distant tables, air kissing producers and embracing moguls. I smile but she looks away. Damn, the champagne has really gone to my balls.
*
When I get home I’m so horny and stoked by the ego-stroking eye candy that I actually sit down and write something. It’s a doozy of a story. About the world of sitcom. Something that happened to me last Halloween at a party in a huge house up at the top of Beachwood Canyon. It’s crowded. People are young and attractive and in costume, drinking, smoking joints, getting loose. Jazz is playing. The hostess, a tall striking red head, who makes the world laugh every week on an enormously popular sitcom, is dressed as Cruella De Vil, her signature auburn hair hidden under a black and white wig. The party is buzzing and there are lots of people I know. The girls are gorgeous and available. After about an hour and a couple of martinis, Cruella walks up to me and looks me frankly in the eye.