We reached Barbados an hour before sunset – a little after half past five their time. Drove along lanes with sugar cane plantations on either side and neat, white signposts with names on long arms.
Our way wound up the west coast of the island and from Bridgetown north it was a dense collection of hotels, shops, clubs, some discreetly set away behind shrubberies and palm groves.
Down one such turning is Heron Bay, built by Sir Ronald Tree. Our first sight of our home for the next two weeks is a sensational surprise. Its scale is breathtaking – wrought iron gates, marble floors, piano nobiles – the full Palladian bit. All built in 1947.
Through the hall, a table is set for dinner beneath an enormous hanging lantern. Mighty columns thirty-feet-high rise above us and balustraded staircases lead up to the piano nobile. On either side of the main house run two colonnades, off which are our bedrooms. All furnished and decorated tastefully and individually. In the centre of the courtyard are three huge spreading trees which cover the whole area in lush greenery.
John spreads himself across a huge, soft, cushion-filled sofa and declares ‘This is what my whole life has been leading up to.’
We are greeted by servants, one an old, leathery-faced Barbadian who is introduced to us as ‘Brown’, but the two Terrys prefer to call him ‘Mr’ Brown, which is probably a terrible insult.
Churchill has stayed here and there’s a photo of Eden and signed photos of impressive looking men in medals and uniforms. Perhaps a Richard Avedon photo of the five nude Pythons would look a little out of place among such company.
Whilst John, Eric, Terry J and myself are lying disbelievingly amongst fine things and wondering whether to set up a preparatory school here (John wants to be maths master), Terry Gilliam (whom we have designated as sports master) is eating the local apples. They’re very small, they fall with sharp little whacks from the spreading trees in the courtyard, and they are, we’ve just been warned, poisonous.
Whether Terry will snuff it before the night’s out, we’re not sure, but arrangements have been made for the redistribution of his fees for the film, and anyway it’s probably God’s way of punishing him for having forgotten to bring his script.
Terry J and I bathe. It’s very dark and there are warnings of sea urchins. Terry is very worried about the sea and thinks big fish will eat him or perhaps even a lot of little ones will gang up.
He’s brought Wild Wales with him to read. It’s difficult to believe in Llangollen and Aberdovey when you’re in a place like this.
Dinner is held up for a few minutes as we await the arrival of the guests for the evening, Mr Jagger and friend and his friend Mr Rudge and his wife. When they arrive we descend elegantly to the table – also designed to match the local limestone material from which the house is built. I don’t think I’ve ever had my dinner off a table made entirely of limestone.
A jolly evening developed – the epically proportioned piano nobile (you couldn’t really call it a sitting room) was soon filled with a rather rude game of charades. Mick’s graphic mime of the Sex Pistols will stay in the memory particularly.
I think dawn would have been breaking in England when we finally separated to our various tasteful bedrooms.
And Gilliam was still not dead.
Sunday, January 8th, Barbados
The sea and the beach are so clean here – and at half past seven everything shines with a sparkling brightness as if it was the first day after the Creation. I walk up the beach. Meet a man who has a four-month-old pet sea turtle which he keeps in a basin and feeds on pilchards. I think he said pilchards, but I may be doing a Graham on this one. (I told Graham that we had ended up the evening at the Pink Cottage. ‘Pig Cottage?’ he asked incredulously.)
I swam – the water was clear and clean. Cleese was the only other one who was up. He’d swum at 9.15, and was now sitting at the massive stone table, looking like Christ at the Last Supper before the rest of the guests arrived.
I tried water-skiing for the first time. No-one was watching here so I decided to try it. It was third time lucky – on the third start I pulled up cleanly and stayed up and was very pleased with myself.
Graham is stoutly and very worthily maintaining his non-drinking, helped by a pill called Heminevrin. Talking with Eric and Graham in the front row of the stalls at sunset – when the sky and the bay go through so many rich colour changes in half an hour – Graham suddenly asks me the date. When I tell him it’s the 8th he murmurs with ruminative interest … ‘Mm … It’s my birthday.’ So we toast GC’s 37 years in fruit juice.
Monday, January 9th, Barbados
‘Had egg for breakfast’ takes on a new significance here. I’ve rarely had an egg for breakfast beneath soaring columns and beside balustraded stone staircases, and the fact that this is a fifty-yard sprint from the clear blue waters of the Caribbean only adds to the unbelievability. Mind you, the Squirrel marmalade tastes as alarming as it sounds.
We fairly roar through the script and there’s a very productive feeling that at this stage anything is worthy of discussion. We are not under pressure, everyone is warm, comfortable, happy, looking forward to a swim and sunbathe, and therefore amazingly tolerant of any ideas, however devious, deadly or heretical. The script is being turned upside down and inside out.
More work in the afternoon, but we break after one and a half hours to take in the sunset. I go for another water-ski – this time with TG, who is quite impressive, considering he hasn’t done it for ten years (water-skiing, I mean).
I think I could cross my heart and say that we did work hard today, with Anthony Eden surveying us urbanely from his signed photograph.
Tuesday, January 17th, Barbados
Tonight the first clouds of discontent appeared on the otherwise clear horizons of a perfect ten days.
Towards the end of last week we began to summarise what we had achieved and this meant going back over well-trodden ground. Ideas, lines and jokes lost their originality and spontaneity and false trails were too laboriously followed. The lightness of touch was lost and the work became harder. But we kept at it successfully, and over the weekend reached the stage where we were to split into separate writing units and begin to actually rewrite along the lines of the five days’ discussion.
This morning we had a read-through of everyone’s rewrites. Terry and I may have had the easiest part of the script, but our work was mostly accepted and approved. John and Graham had worked on the second section, which was stretched out painfully in certain areas – Eric reckoned 25% of it was superfluous. John took this well. He has remarked in several beachside chats last week on how unselfish we all are with our material.
Keith Moon, who arrived here last night – with a formidable effect – hove to, walking up the beach from the Colony Club and bearing a bottle of champagne. He generously splashed this around and we all got very sandy and talked of Shepperton and Malibu. Keith is planning to have a suite built for himself in the Old House at Shepperton. He has positive ideas about the place – including a cricket pitch on the lawn. ‘And football for the roadies,’ he adds.
He’s lived out of England for three years and has saved a large chunk of tax-free money as a result. He bought a house in Malibu Beach, for $325,000, and since then a law has been passed banning sale of any more building land in this sought-after piece of California. All of which is great for Moonie, who is hoping to get one million for his house. It’s next door to Steve McQueen and Herb Alpert. Judging from Keith’s stories Mr McQueen at least will be glad to get rid of him – Keith woke the McQueen household up at four a.m. on his last birthday, trying to score coke from McQueen junior and barking at their dog.
After this jolly beach banter Terry and I set to work rewriting some of this morning’s rewrites. JC and Graham were doing the same, but when I went out into the garden where they were working there was no sign of Graham – just a very aggravated JC, who muttered angrily that he had to spend three-quarters of the time explaining the plot t
o Graham and that he was absolutely no help at all.
Graham has just knocked on my door, as I write this, to say that Des O’Connor is coming to dinner. We have decided to try and invite someone every evening. We have scoured the island for Harry Secombe, only to hear that he’s left. Marty Feldman cannot be traced, though he’s supposed to be here, as is Michael Caine. Maybe Des can throw some light on this tonight.
Des excels at charades and Keith and Graham do a very good double act and it’s after one before I’m off towards bed.
And even then, a rather maudlin Keith M appears in my room and I offer him some Glenlivet and he talks morosely and not immodestly about his ‘talent’ and how important the Odd Job film1 is, as if wanting some reassurance. He’s been a hit with all of us – less destructive, more gently jolly and humorous than I’d anticipated.
He takes himself and his wondrous Turnbull and Asser gold-trimmed dressing gown off along the beach to the Colony Club. It’s nearly two o’clock.
Wednesday, January 18th, Barbados
Terry J is the only other one who takes any pre-breakfast exercise. He ran with me one day, but now only swims. We compare notes about the sea-lice content of the Caribbean. These invisible creatures are felt, usually in the mornings, as very minor electric shocks along the arms and legs.
I’ve been reading a little about the instigator of this 1947 classical gem -Sir Ronald Tree. Mr Tull1 obviously admired and respected Tree a great deal. He has lent me his own, well-thumbed copy of Tree’s book Wlien the Moon is High.
Tree bought Ditchley Park, a 1720 Gibbs house near Charlbury in Oxfordshire (there’s a neat tie-up with eight weeks ago). In the early years of the war, Churchill’s house at Chequers was considered to be at risk from enemy bombing on well-lit, cloudless nights. On these occasions Churchill asked if he could spend his weekends at Ditchley Park. ‘When the moon was high.’
Tree’s finest work, apart from hosting Winston, Eden, General Sikorski and others, was to exert as much pressure as he could to bring America into the war. He tells in his book of meeting leading American businessmen who, in 1941, were predicting a defeat for England – and the Chairman of Sears Roebuck at the time told him it would be a good thing anyway, Britain had become degenerate and Europe badly needed German leadership.
The servants here were very fond of Sir Ronald, and I think his death two years ago has left a vacuum which has not been filled. There is no-one of his stature for them to serve loyally and I think that the Pythons, sauntering around in Muppet Show T-shirts and torn off denim shorts, are really no substitute for the elegance of the Trees.
Graham seems to me to be the one who would fit best into that world. He always looks a little smarter than the rest of us, and his pipe adds a definite air of distinction. He’s also a fully qualified eccentric, and I think in twenty or thirty years he will be a well-matured loony, in the best traditions of the English privileged classes. During this afternoon’s session he fills up the teapot with hot coffee.
Apart from a break for lunch today we work assembling the script from 9.45 until 1.00 and 3.30 until 7.30.
And suddenly it’s there and ready.
There is now casting, reading-through and minor line re-writes left. John suggests a light day tomorrow, and nobody really argues. We’re all feeling rather pleased with ourselves.
Celebrity note: the Michael Caine/Marty Feldman rumours have taken a bizarre twist. It appears that neither Marty nor Michael Caine are on the island, but Marti Caine2 is.
Thursday, January 19th, Barbados
At breakfast today, TJ, John and I compare notes of books we’re reading. It turns out that all of us are reading books which irritate us. John is reading Twelfth Night and it’s driving him potty.
His indignation over Shakespeare is intense – even at this time of the morning. He claims that Shakespeare’s jokes wouldn’t even get on a BBC radio show these days. Terry J, no great supporter of Shakespeare, demurred here, feeling that this was just too harsh a judgement on anybody (apart from BBC Radio, presumably). But John will not be moved from his growing conviction that much of Shakespeare is second-rate and panto, and he wanders off in his Muppet T-shirt shouting ‘Zounds!’ and ‘Forsooth!’, much to the amazement of the local labour force who appear in the morning to rake the grass.
Terry J is reading Watership Down, which he doesn’t look to be much enjoying. He says he doesn’t think he’d like Richard Adams and finds it all very old-school, reds under the bed and unsatisfactory politically.1
Time passes strangely here. I feel as though these days have been weeks. There’s an all-embracing benevolence in the climate which means that at any time of day or night there is the same balmy, soft warmth. It’s difficult to punctuate time. And unnecessary, I suppose.
Friday, January 20th, Barbados
Why do things always happen to Graham? Today at breakfast he was spreading soft butter on a little piece of toast, and yet broke his knife. Extraordinary.
Casting completed this morning. Most of the main parts re-affirmed. Brian is Graham (unchallenged), Terry J Mandy (John being the only other one in the running, but it was felt that a motherly rat-bag was needed, and TJ’s women are more motherly than JC’s long, thin, strange ones), Eric Otto, me Pilate, and so on.
TJ feels that the Pythons should play as many parts as possible. John C feels we should be able to afford to take really good actors to play supporting parts, but the general consensus is that our rep company should avoid actors, and be composed of people who can act but will, more importantly, be good companions over ten weeks in Tunisia. John C suggests Ian Davidson (carried nem con) and Neil and Bernard McKenna go on to the list.
Today is our first cloudy day, which means that there are only eight hours’ sunshine, instead of ten. There are rumours of apocalyptic storms and floods and snow in England, and Margate Pier has been washed away.
A bad afternoon for morale. Can only keep up on one ski for about ioo yards, whereas TJ, who began water-skiing a day after me, is now almost better on one than two.
Saturday, January 21st, Barbados
Paradise was soured a little by some strange texture to the orange juice. Graham later described it as ‘Brown’s revenge’, which I’m sure is not entirely unlikely. Brown can be very smiley and jokey and his face like an old Brazil nut can crack very easily into a grin, but at the same time he can put over the impression of glowering resentment as well as anyone I know. I think he likes us, but is disappointed in our style.
We are about as well dressed as shipwrecked mariners. We have tolerated a situation where Brown and Tull are the only ones who dress for dinner. In addition, we are guilty, I fear, of being too apologetic, too accessible, too informal.
I have noticed a misogynistic streak in Brown, too. Tania1 tells me today that every time he brings round the salad bowl he bangs her on the side of the head, ever so slightly, but quite deliberately.
The sunset was ten out of ten today – as if laying on some special final perfect treat for us to remember the island by. Eric, in his long Messianic white robe, strummed his guitar beside a beach fire, with a full moon shining over the Caribbean.
Tuesday, January 24th
More sombre weather. Set about organising our Ripping Yarn book-cover photo-call for tomorrow. Milton Abbas School have finally indicated their disapproval of’Tomkinson’ and will not let us film there again, so it has to be Hampstead Heath.
Thursday, January 26th
The rain is back. Find myself unable to settle to very much. Post-Barbadian lethargy. Feel sleepy and incapable of dynamic thought or action.
Monday, January 30th
Gather at 12.30 at 2 Park Square West. Summonsed by John Goldstone, who has news for us. Only three Pythons – myself, GC and TJ – left in the country.
John G settles us down and goes into quite a performance. Refuses to let on whether it’s good news or bad. After a lot of long looks and glum expressions, he produces papers which he hands to al
l of us. Set out in the type-written sheets are the terms of an anonymous offer which looks to provide us with what we were asking for: £1,240,000, which covers our budgeted below the line costs, and £512,000 (less than the £600,000 we asked for) for above the line. Artistic controls are not required and the terms of finance are 50% of the profit.
So far so good. John, warming to his theme, gives an impish smile and is very coy about revealing who it’s from.’The National Front?’ I asked him. John grins and produces another piece of paper headed with the dread name EMI. So EMI are back. EMI, who turned down the Holy Grail – then later picked it up for distribution and produced a pusillanimous campaign which rejected nearly all our ideas.
Now, three years later, we have a memo which reads ‘The board have already said it would be scandalous if EMI did not support its own major talent [i.e. Python] and let it go to an American major.’ Ho! Ho!
For the volte face we have to thank the new brooms of Michael Deeley and Barry Spikings, who used to run British Lion, and have now been brought in to zip up EMI’s film production. They already have a De Niro film – The Deer-hunter – and a Kristofferson picture – Convoy – in production. All this happened in the last week.
JG is very happy and recommends acceptance. It certainly brightens the drab day. And makes the new film a reality suddenly.
In the evening Nancy L rang. Saturday Night Live1 definitely want me to be a guest host sometime during the next full year’s schedule.
Tuesday, January 31st
January washes itself away. Brighten a drab day with lunch at Bianchi’s in Frith Street with Julia Nash, an editor at Heinemann. We talk over Al’s Rue Britannia, which she read. Although she didn’t feel it had enough story development to make it a commercial proposition, she said it was good to read a manuscript by someone who could write. Nine out of ten unsolicited manuscripts are frightful, she says – and she’s not a tough or vindictive lady.
Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years Page 59