Friday, November 7th
To Robin Powell’s in the morning. Deborah cleaned my teeth out as usual with the frightful pointed, nerve-jarring steel prong, but she talks more about Python, etc, each time I go, and this time we chatted for 25 minutes and gum-gouged for only ten. She tells me Robin Powell is to be made a professor. It’s all very hush-hush at the moment, but he’s the first ever Professor of Periodontal Surgery. Feel quite proud to have been treated by him. Despite his gloom three or four years ago, my teeth are still not falling out.
Monday, November 10th, Southwold
Up to Southwold.
Last week Father had a fall when out walking past Bullard’s Farm – and cut his head in several places. He was taken to Southwold Hospital for stitches and is being kept in there, as Dr Hopkins is worried about the state of his legs – for the fall this time was quite serious, and seemed to have no other cause than his legs giving way.
Southwold was cold and inhospitable today. In the little cottage hospital Daddy was sitting up, but his head looked in a bad way, with three quite severe lacerations and lots of minor cuts and bruises.
He seemed pleased to see me, and laughed self-deprecatingly when I mentioned his fall. But he couldn’t say more than half a dozen words in the entire hour we were there. This appalling difficulty with his speech – which, as he cannot write legibly for more than half a sentence, amounts to an almost total inability to communicate – was the single most obvious indication of the deterioration of his condition since I last saw him. This Parkinson’s does demean people so much. It certainly has rendered him almost helpless – and on today’s standards, I can’t see any likelihood of him returning to the form of his 75th birthday party.
Tuesday, November 11th
A gorgeous morning. A slight frost disappearing as the bright November sun makes the fields steam. Sharp fresh smells of the countryside.
Back to London by a quarter to twelve, time to get back home on the Broad Street line, change, grab a quick coffee and drive down to Berkeley Square to have lunch with John Cleese at Morton’s. I rang John at the end of last week, as I just suddenly felt like a chat with him – warmed, as I had been, by his quite superbly funny performances in Fawlty Towers.
We drank a couple of whisky sours at the bar and, as so often happens to John, we’re joined at the bar by a rather boring man, an architect, who was just off, as he put it, to ‘Saudi’. Five years ago, if a man had said he was going to Saudi Arabia, you’d probably think he’d been in trouble with the police. Now it’s where the money is – and the resourceful Brits are engaged tooth and nail in the process of bringing back the money we’re paying for the Arabs’ oil.
We go up to the restaurant and, despite his having just completed a very funny, widely praised series on the awful way people can be treated in hotels and restaurants, John and I are shown to the smallest table in the room, at which John has great difficulty in actually sitting. We share a bottle of Puligny Montrachet and tuck into smoked trout and eggs Benedict, looking out over Berkeley Square.
John is still not living with Connie and sounds sad about it … my God, he’s the third person I’ve had lunch with in five days who’s separated in the last year. Otherwise a good chat – both John and I feel that everyone is better off for having less involvement with Python.
He was strongly defensive when I suggested that there was a certain resentment that he had never been present on any of the film publicity trips. ‘I thought people liked going,’ was John’s response.
There was not much feeling of latent group responsibility in much of what he said – but we nattered on quite absorbed until nearly four o’clock. I then went down to the King’s Road, and bought clothes and some very fine Victorian ceramic tiles for our new sitting room shelf.
Dark nights shopping in the King’s Road made me long to be warm and indoors, so I dropped in at Nigel’s studio to see him and Judy. All was quiet. Nigel says the art market in England is in a deplorable state. They sit sometimes for days with no-one coming round – Nigel seems to manage to make ends meet by sales in New York. American money does have its uses.
Sunday, November 16th
A wild, black November day. Rain, strong winds and grey and gloomy light. Nancy L rings in the morning. She’s in London for a week.
Nancy is with Arthur Cantor, the genial Jewish impresario who is to put on our show in NY next April. He is a very unobtrusive sort of hustler and has plenty of other things to talk about besides when, where and how much? He is very pleased with himself this evening as, in a collection of 1,000 books which he bought for £550 from the estate of another impresario, ‘Binkie’ Beaumont, he has discovered some little masterpieces. He showed me two postcards, hand-written by George Bernard Shaw, which he had found tucked into a book. In one of the cards – to a producer or director of Caesar and Cleopatra – he tells the recipient not to worry unduly about the casting of Cleopatra, as the play is Caesar’s anyway.
Tuesday, November 18th
In the evening I go with Nancy to the Bruce Springsteen concert at Hammersmith Odeon. This is the first show outside the US for a 26-year-old New Jersey boy who has been hailed as the new Dylan, Lennon, Van Morrison and so on. The trouble is that the enormous reputation has been chiefly created by CBS Records and there is a certain scepticism around as to the legendariness of Springsteen. So, was this the New Messiah? Was this to be one of those concerts which fathers tell their sons about in years to come?
Of course the concert didn’t start until 45 minutes after the advertised time – and we kept having wretched announcements about it being your last chance to buy cigarettes and smokes before the concert began. The air inside the Odeon was so foul and heavy that this was hardly doing anyone a favour.
Nor did Springsteen start too well. A solo with piano. His croaky, straining voice sounding as though he’d just done a six-week Gumby season, the spotlights all over the place. No, definitely no magic until the full six-piece band strolled on and everyone was riveted by the white suit and matching white trilby of the tubby, middle-aged sax player, Clarence Clemons.
The band went off at such a lick that one could sense the relief. Springsteen leapt into action – twitching and leaping and throwing himself into strange spasms as he urged the band on. The sound system failed to make head or tail of Springsteen’s poetry, but the band kept the evening alive – and he did three encores.
Afterwards, a party given by CBS in the balcony bar. Talked with John Walters, a very funny man. He and Peel, whom he produces, are a formidably intelligent pair – well above the general level of Radio 4.
Final word on Springsteen from Walters – ‘We came expecting the Messiah, and got Billy Graham instead.’
Wednesday, November 19th
William’s five today. He is very neat and tidy with his presents, quite unlike Tom. Having taken them out of their boxes, his chief delight is to put them back in again, and then collect them all together in a cupboard.
Thursday, November 20th
A Python meeting at 22 Park Square East to discuss the New York show in April and to meet A Cantor. John C on the latest form of table-booking at select Mayfair restaurants, ‘Er … excuse me, are you being bombed tonight?’
We have a lot of fun deciding on silly names for our US company, or partnership, or whatever it’s called. ‘Evado-Tax’ is the one we all wanted, but Anne really thought there may be problems, as the company is operating on the fringes of legality! So I suggested Paymortax – and so we now have an American company called Paymortax and McWhirter!
Some time spent on the title for the American show. I’d suggested ‘Monty Python v. Muhammad Ali’ – with ‘Muhammad Ali’ in enormous letters but very obviously crossed out. John C was worried in case Muhammad Ali got more out of it than we did – and also I think he was afraid that the living legend would come along and thump us on the opening night.
Tuesday, November 25th
Terry comes up after lunch and we go o
ver to Studio 99 in Swiss Cottage to look at the cassette recordings of Python’s first ABC compilation.1 A very cool American voice – the kind we would only use as a send-up – announces, quite seriously, that ‘The Wide World of Entertainment presents the Monty Python Show’. It started well, with ‘The World’s Most Awful Family’, which works a treat after the smooth and glossy ABC packaging of the show, but then the cuts begin. The cat-in-the-wall bell push (a big laugh in the studio) is cut, the man pouring blood all over the doctors is cut after the opening lines – before the point of the sketch has even begun. In the ‘Montgolfier Brothers’ the words ‘naughty bits’ are bleeped out!!
In fact any reference to bodily function, any slightly risqué word, anything, as Douglas Adams put it, ‘to do with life’, was single-mindedly expunged.
The cuts which to me seemed the most remarkable were in the ‘Neutron’ sketch, when I played the US Bombing Commander who had personal odour problems. The character was in, but every appearance was topped and tailed to avoid all reference to his bodily hygiene. As that was the only original and Pythonesque twist to the character, he just came out as a below-average imitation of George C Scott.
Our reaction turned from disbelief and amazement to anger and outrage and eventually resolved into a very clear and simple position.
The first step as far as we’re concerned is to let as many people in America as possible know that we disassociate ourselves from the ABC sale and, better still, to let as many people as possible know the reason why. It was suggested that we use our seventeen thousand lawyers to try and put together grounds for an injunction to prevent ABC putting out the second compilation (due in December). However legally unenforceable this may be, at least it’s a fair try for a story – ‘Python Sues ABC’ would be all we’d need.
Monday, December 8th
My wretched cold is hanging on into its second week and really bringing me down. I can’t even think straight, let alone smell anything. Terry J drops in later in the afternoon. We’re both very pleased with the cover of Dr Fegg’s Nasty Book of Knowledge, which arrived from the States this morning. It’s funny and, what’s better, it’s actually quite interesting as well. There’s a lot of detail in Bruce McCall’s vision of the ‘Great New World of Technology’ which you only see after looking at it several times.
Terry and I plunge into discussion of the future. Terry is, as he says, restive at the moment – wants to unleash his straining enthusiasm in some direction, but doesn’t know where to go. The Tony Hendra pirate film, The Legend of the Nancy Hulk, is still on offer and could tie him up for six or seven months on a major project. I read it at Southwold over the weekend and feel Terry shouldn’t do it. Although very funny in some ways – the awful pirate crew are a fine invention – it seems to me to be very second-hand Python. Its costume and period flavour lend a similarity to the Grail which is just not backed up by the originality of the writing.
Wednesday, December 10th
To see Dr Freudenberg – as my cold had developed into a regular and implacable headache. In the waiting room, with her little baby, was Lindy, wife of Nick Mason of the Pink Floyd. She was cross – her appointment had been at 10.30, it was now after 11.30. A nice chat. They’re not sending their child, Chloe (a little younger than Willy) to Gospel Oak, partly because the classes are too big. I sympathise. She grumbled a little about the legion of financial advisers, etc, which come automatically with all the loot Floyd must be making. They’re not the house in Switzerland, private jet mob, though – it’s state schools and Kentish Town, and they can’t stand the thought of having to leave England for tax reasons. The wealthy anti-rich.
Freudenberg says I have a touch of sinusitis and bronchitis.
Arthur Cantor rang and tried to ask Helen and me out to see the new Ben Travers farce The Bed Before Yesterday at the Lyric. Every date he suggested was already full. ‘This is getting like the Cheese Shop,’ rumbled Arthur. We settled on Monday next. For some reason he has a soft spot for me, and he asked if I would write a play for him. He was very keen and said he would commission it. He sounded as though he wanted me to sign then and there, so I retreated into the Palin shell and promised I would think about it. I really wouldn’t mind writing a play – on my own. But I immediately felt guilty about Terry and cross with myself for feeling guilty and really in quite a muddle.
In the evening we drove over to Wimbledon for a party at the house of Jacqui, David Wood’s1 new wife, next to the Crooked Billet beside Wimbledon Common.
Talked with Andrew Lloyd Webber – he of Superstar fame – who made a fortune from a smash hit as soon as he left Oxford.2 A rather nervous, soft-spoken chap, he said his investment in the Python film was the only thing keeping him going at the moment – after Jeeves.3 He promised to send me a review in a Toronto paper in which the reviewer raved about Python and slammed the indecency in Jesus Christ Superstar]
As we drove back across London from this convivial houseful, we passed the police cordons around Dorset Square and, as we waited at the traffic lights, we looked across to the anonymous first-floor flat in Balcombe Street which has suddenly become the focus of national attention. In the flat are a middle-aged couple and four Irish terrorists, one of whom may be, according to the police, the organiser behind the London bombings and shootings of the past two winters.
The flat was floodlit. Groups of police, smiling, telling jokes, stood around at the barriers. There was a Thames TV van with a camera crew on top – even location caterers. It seemed quite unreal. Surely it must be night filming? Surely it must be a scripted adventure? But I suppose in that little living room in Balcombe Street, there are five people whose lives have now been totally altered. The lights changed and off we went to our cosy, non-floodlit little home.4
Thursday, December 11th
School concert. Tom was the Pied Piper, with words to say and music to play. He looked lovely and full of mischievous grins at the audience. Willy was a snowflake in his first ever concert.
Friday, December 12th
Anne rings in the evening. Everyone apart from Eric and Graham, who hasn’t been contacted, is solidly in favour of legal action – i.e. the injunction against ABC. Ina Lee M has already spent several thousand dollars of our money to take advice as to whether or not our case is strong. She assures us that we will only have to pay $15,000 if the case is to be fought and, if we win and they appeal, maybe $20,000 more on the appeal. So the injunction is almost on its way and I feel it is worthwhile carrying it through.
In the evening Jimmy Gilbert rings. He tells me that Tomkinson is to be shown on BBC2 on January 7th. He calls its transmission ‘a first night’ – a chance for him to gauge reaction. So clearly he is not yet decided on a series.
Sunday, December 14th
Things are gathering momentum. Just after 10.00, with fresh papers to read and bacon and eggs cooking, phone rings. It is T Gilliam. He wants me to go with him to the US tomorrow to be present in New York as Python representatives during the injunction action, etc, etc. We would return Wednesday.
Monday, December 15th
Very heavy frost. Collected by large Jaguar at 9.15, full of Terry Gilliam, in his big white furry Afghan coat, which he is painting himself. From 11.00 to 4.30 sit on our British Airways jumbo jet at Heathrow gazing out at the ever-thickening fog. Feel very glad that Anne talked us into going First Class – despite our guilt feelings. Attentive waiters served champagne and, when it became obvious, round about 4.00, that there would be no flights from Heathrow today, they offered to serve those of us who wanted it a meal.
The airport was silent and visibility down to about ten yards when we left. The cab journey home took well over an hour. But Helen was glad to see me back – and we enjoyed a sort of bonus evening – an evening we weren’t meant to have.
Nancy was apparently waiting with newsmen in New York – all eager for the story – whilst Gilliam and I were enjoying a rare uninterrupted natter, lasting from nine till six, aboard our fogboun
d restaurant at Heathrow.
Tuesday, December 16th, New York
When we arrived at Heathrow at about 11.15 it was fairly obvious that the Queen Mother herself could hardly expect to get a second look at the check-in counters. The BA Intercontinental check-in area was a mass of people, becoming more solid all the time.
In eccentric British fashion, many people were trying to be more cheerful in the face of it. One cantankerous Scotsman was the only exception to all this. He carped and grumbled loudly and consistently and wagged his finger at the BA girl when he got to the counter, telling her how she couldn’t expect him to travel by her airline again – which must have been the only bit of good news for her that morning.
Anne had fortunately also booked us on TWA’s 2.30 flight, so we fought our way out of the crush and across to the TWA section. It was almost deserted – and not only this, but they were duplicating their flight of yesterday, and did have two seats in First Class. So, from the totally unproductive frustration of a few minutes earlier, we suddenly found ourselves within an hour taking off for New York. A day and a half late, I suppose.
We reached New York about 3.30 their time, after a long, clear run in down the length of Long Island. A huge limousine, sent by Nancy, met us at JFK, and drew us comfortably across the 49th Street Bridge and into the Big Apple. All fine, except that TWA have lost my bag.
There is a great deal of interest and sympathy for Python’s case. We make short articles on the Television pages of the New York Times and New York Post. In the Times we learnt for the first time that Time-Life had edited the shows in collaboration with ABC – and that several of the cuts had been made by ABC, said a spokesman, because some passages were considered ‘inappropriate’.
Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years Page 37