Diaries 1969–1979 The Python Years

by Palin, Michael

  3 Extremely English upper-class daughter of former Prime Minister, H. H. Asquith; leading figure in Liberal politics.

  1 The Cranston Street Hall, then head office of the Edinburgh Parks and Burials Department, was where he and I first performed together at the Festival in 1964. It was the first time in my life that I had the slightest intimation that there might be a living from comedy.

  2 The box, as used in ‘Across the Andes by Frog’, was one of the props to enliven our book-signing tour.

  1 Julian had assembled an early working cut of the film, more or less on his own.

  1 Producer of the early Amnesty shows.

  2 Modelmaker and partner of Julian Doyle.

  3 The expanding Davidson family.

  1 A Christian pressure group.

  1979

  Monday, January 1st

  1979 comes in cold. Very cold. Minus 7° centigrade.

  Walk across the crackling snow to a party at neighbours. He’s in advertising and has gathered a collection of ‘hangover killers’ from an article in The Guardian, which he’s displayed like some alcoholic’s stall at a Bring and Buy. Each with instructions. So you can have Fernet Branca, Bovril and vodka – known as a Russian Bison – Prairie Oysters – raw eggs are laid on – and a drink which Kingsley Amis christened’The Final Solution’: one spoonful of ground coffee, one spoonful of sugar wrapped in a slice of lemon, sucked and, in midmastication, swept through with a tumblerful of brandy. I tried it and I think I blame it for a consequent feeling of elation and a loss of all sense of time.

  After a Final Solution and a couple of Buck’s Fizzes, we slithered across to the Guedallas for lunch. Present were the Maliks, the Taylors. (Mary, very jolly, told us the latest Jeremy Thorpe stories. What’s the similarity between Jeremy Thorpe and William the Conqueror? They’re both fucking Normans.)1

  Thursday, January 4th

  Jimmy Gilbert rings to tell me his suggestion for the new director for the Yarns. Turns out it’s Alan J W Bell2 – the PA who should have been a director, who came in to help out with Yarns when we were arranging audience screenings. I’d forgotten about him – but he fits the bill rather well. He knows the Yarns, I know him, he’s keen on film and, not identified with any particular programme so far, he could be very keen to make his mark.

  Lunch at the San Carlo in Highgate to meet ‘fellow speakers’ at the Barclays Bank Northern Managers’binge next Thursday week. I’m doing it because the Highgate manager, Brian Kemp, is one of the organisers and is a bright, humorous, intelligent sort of bloke – met through Graham Chapman.

  Graeme Garden, who’s also speaking, is there, which avoids the conversation becoming utterly stodgy. The other bank representatives look very English macho, rugby club rednecks, and not really the sort of people I would spend more than 12 minutes with if possible. My heart sinks as Brian (whose wife is, rather neatly, called Judith) tells me that there will only be two or three women there so we can be as filthy as we like.

  Graeme is going back to theatre acting in the next couple of weeks. He’s going to do Charles Dyer’s Rattle of a Simple Man for Johnny Lynn and the Cambridge Theatre Company. He’s only going on tour though. He hated the West End run of Unvarnished Truth and claims that the provinces provide much more enthusiastic audiences.

  Saturday, January 6th

  A party at Anne Henshaw’s.

  Talk to Richard Loncraine,1 who says the BBC never asked him about directing the Yarns, and he would now almost certainly have been available.

  Loncraine says he would have liked to have worked on the Yarns, which, he said with characteristic directness, always scored eight out of ten with him. He felt they all peaked at a certain point and the endings were a little disappointing. I agree. I don’t think Terry and I ever quite got the measure of the 30-minute format. We always had too much to cram in.

  Monday, January 8th

  Alison2 finishes typing ‘Whinfrey’s Last Case’ and I collect it at lunchtime. Most garages are closed and the roads probably full of cars, like me, wasting petrol looking for a garage that’s open. Plenty of petrol in Bantry Bay, however, where an unloading tanker blew up killing fifty people.

  At four, in to the BBC to take the script and meet the new director and executive producer.

  The talk is all positive. They are expecting a second script by January 17th and hardly a word is written yet. But at the same time they seem curiously uncertain as to their intentions. When I ask them what they’ll do with these three Yarns it’s as if they’ve never thought about it before.

  Tuesday, January 9th

  Write in the afternoon. Pleased to be away from ‘Whinfrey’ and on to something with a little more soul – and a good part for yours truly – namely the ‘Golden Gordon’ northern football saga. I do hope it works. I will dedicate it to the Meridien Hotel, Monastir, if it does – for that’s where it began.

  In the evening Willy and I join another 37,985 people at a chilly Highbury Stadium to watch the replay of Arsenal v Wednesday’s Cup Tie. High up in the stands we get a good clear view and for once Sheffield give their supporters plenty to be proud of. They tackle fast and accurately, mark, move and even shoot much more tightly and efficiently than Arsenal. And just before half-time they score.

  Willy and I drink our Thermosful of hot chocolate at half-time, well pleased. Wednesday even manage to hold out in the second half. We cannot bear to look at the clock. Terrific excitement – as gripping as any theatrical event I’ve ever seen. With four minutes to go, Arsenal hustle an equaliser. Everyone around us is up on their feet. But Wednesday survive what should have been Arsenal’s surge of confidence until the end, and also through 30 minutes of extra time. So, still 1-1 and another replay in sight.

  Willy and I feel like kings as we join the sea of people flooding down the neat residential streets, away from the ground. Passing groups of 10- to 18-year-olds waiting for ‘Old Bill’ to go so they can have a fight with Wednesday’s equally pugnacious 10- to 18-year-olds.

  Wednesday, January 10th

  An unexpected boost, when Alan Bell rings to tell me how much he likes ‘Whinfrey’s Last Stand’. Syd Lotterby, the executive producer,1 finds the script funny and the only criticism is from Jimmy Gilbert about the ‘non-ending’.

  I take a pinch of salt and breathe a sigh of relief. Now we can go ahead. The work will be hard – the two new Yarns will have to be filmed back-to-back throughout March.

  Thursday, January 11th

  Round to a buffet supper at J Cleese’s. John, who starts next week on a set of six new Fawlty Towers, saw the Brian film tonight at a showing laid on for him at the Audley Square Theatre. He’d asked me over to gauge reactions from his friends, most of whom had been in the audience.

  Ronnie Eyre, a theatre director who recently completed an epic series on world religions called The Long Search, thought the film funny and important. He felt the script was at most points saying things and making thought-provoking observations – only occasionally, as in the Pilate’s Wife raid scene, did it become one-dimensional.

  Michael Rudman, looking, if possible, younger than when he was at Oxford fifteen years ago, said he only saw five films a year, but felt that this was going to be a big success. Jim Beach was greatly impressed – especially with Pilate – and I received many flattering remarks about my various hammy performances. Humphrey Barclay was full of praise and Michael Peacock,1 who didn’t like the haggling sequence because of its lack of urgency and wasn’t keen on Otto, thought both script and performance were on the whole stronger than the Grail. He also thought Terry’s direction was better than the Grail.

  Saturday, January 13th

  Terry J rang from a dubbing theatre at half past nine and, as in a call yesterday, referred to his paranoiac feeling of being ‘ganged up’ on by Julian and others at Neal’s Yard during the editing. Terry G and Julian had sat together at the viewing and at a meeting afterwards Terry G had demolished all of the work Terry J had done.

&nb
sp; Purposely try to avoid taking sides with either Terry. It won’t help. Terry J must just be allowed to work as uninterruptedly as possible in order to make the film ready for the January 19th viewing. In a way TJ’s call was a cry for help and support and I said I was prepared to go in and look at any edited film if it will help to get things ready any faster – but if it’s merely to help TJ make a point, I said I felt that may be a waste of time at this stage.

  Rachel’s birthday party got under way at 3.30. Six or seven children. Alison brought Sally. They are at the age when a party is still very exciting and quite a new experience. Willy helped to entertain them – playing monsters in a very avuncular fashion. At one point I saw him leading them all upstairs for a puppet show. But within five minutes they were down again, leaving Willy sadly reflecting that only Sally Jones had really wanted to watch.

  Wednesday, January 17th

  J Goldstone tells me that the Warner Brothers chief – John Calley – is very enthusiastic about the movie, thinks it could be one of the greatest comedies ever, but the only part they all seemed to find offensive was Graham’s brief protestation, after his mother tells him he’s the illegitimate son of a Roman, that he’s a ‘Hebe, a Kike, a Hooknose, a Yid, a Red Sea Pedestrian and proud of it!’ Memorable words, written almost a year ago to the day by TJ and myself in Barbados, and now the only section of this deeply controversial film which offends every member of Warner Brothers1 Board of Directors!

  It’s still sleeting as I drive out to the BBC. The dull, harsh, uncomfortable weather seems to reflect the spirit of the times. More people are on strike at the moment than at any time since February 1974, when Heath confronted the miners and the country was put on a three day week.

  I still regard the strikes and the disruptions that seem to hit British industry so severely every now and then as a healthy sign. A sign that there are people out there, amongst the computers and the rationalisations, concerned to defend their quality of life by shouting out in indignation rather than submitting Claim Form No. 478B to be heard at the Arbitration Committee’s Headquarters by some faceless civil servant in eight months1 time.

  But there are still plenty of instances of the most wasteful and debilitating lack of personal trust and co-operation. The rail strikes this week seem to be a prime example. The two rail unions, ASLEF and the NUR, hate each other, with the result that, whilst many of the country’s road hauliers are on strike, the railways, far from benefiting and offering an uninterrupted service in these cold, grey days – which would win them enormous goodwill – are going on strike too.

  But amidst all this gloom there is a golden ring of light – the heroic, titanic struggle between Arsenal and Sheffield Wednesday in the third round of the FA Cup.

  Tonight they face each other for the fourth time to try and break the deadlock. We have the radio on in the kitchen but I can hardly bear to listen. Onenil to Wednesday – heart surges. Arsenal miss a penalty – heart practically bursts. Then a minute later Arsenal equalise – numbness. Then Arsenal draw ahead – feeling of resignation, pulse rate almost down to normal. Then Wednesday equalise two minutes from the end! Extra time again. Over seven hours of football and still tied. Then an extra goal apiece in extra time. Another heroic evening. And they play again – in Leicester next Monday.1

  Friday, January 19th

  Brian screening. Terry Hughes, Michael White, George H, Jill Foster. John Goldstone issues us with clipboards and little torches to make notes. Just before time, Graham and Eric – our foreign exiles – arrive.

  The showing does not go that well. Long periods of audience silence. But afterwards we all meet (mafia-like) in a private room above the Trattoria Terrazza. General feelings are that the movie works 75%. Disagreement on cuts, however. TJ wants to lose stoning. Eric feels that the Ex-Leper should go before the stoning. All are agreed to cut Haggling and most of the raid. I suggest cutting Mandy’s last speech.TJ agrees. Eric is worried about Otto – we all feel that it half works. There are many instances of jokes half working, which disappoints me.

  It’s a good, workmanlike session, though people about to make earth-shattering points about the movie tend to be interrupted by waiters asking whether they’d like some aubergines.

  My first appearance on Saturday Night Live had gone well enough for me to be courted again. I was scheduled to guest host at the end of January and quite an adventure ensued.

  Saturday, January 20th

  Managed to cope with a packed couple of days on Thursday and Friday, in order to make the 11.15 Concorde to NY this morning for my second guest hosting of Saturday Night Live.

  About 40 minutes outside London, with the first cocktails flowing and freeing the traveller’s brain from the numbing buzz of a hundred other conversations, the pilot’s voice comes over the PA and, in bold, almost reassuring tones, advises us that there is ‘bad news’. Momentarily visions of the worst sort flash through my mind, but the facts are quite mundane. There is a malfunction with the cooling system in one of the engines and ‘transonic’ flight will not be possible. We have to return to London.

  So I find myself back in the lounge.

  As the delay in repairing our aircraft grows longer (the airline even has a term for it – ‘creeping delay’), I’m stuck for two more hours with a roomful of over-achievers. And no brunch.

  Sunday, January 21st, The Hospitality Inn, Enfield, Connecticut

  8.00 A.M. Outside my room drizzle falls out of grey skies onto snow. Thin, spiky bare birch woods away to my right. Below me a man is clearing his car window of three inches of snow – the result of the storm that eventually ensured our progress across the Atlantic was nearer 22 hours than the three and a half Concorde proudly boasts. I kept a note of the lost day – January 20th – which surely will go down in the annals of supersonic flight.

  12.15 – We wait in the departure lounge for five and a half hours

  5.45 P.M. whilst a new part is found for the aircraft. By then it’s too late for the old crew to work, so a new crew has to be found.

  5.50 P.M. BA 171 starts take-off six and a half hours behind schedule. Take-off aborted as anti-skid warning light fails to function. We taxi back to ramp.

  5.50 – Two hours’ wait, in the aircraft (more champagne) for new part

  8.00 P.M. to be installed and fuel tank topped up – ‘Only three tons,’ says the captain cheerfully, though this may be a reference to the Dom Perignon.

  8.00 P.M. Successful take-off from Heathrow eight and a half hours late.

  12.00 A.M. Land at Bradley Field Airport, Connecticut, as there is congestion at JFK due to a snowstorm and Concorde, with its gargantuan fuel appetite and lack of big enough tanks, cannot afford to go in the stack.

  1.30 A.M. We leave the aircraft in a swirling snowstorm and wait in a baggage collection area (we cannot go through into the restaurant or even to the toilets because we have no immigration or customs men to clear us).

  12.00 – We wait as the decision is taken to put 82,000 gallons more fuel

  1.30 A.M. into the aircraft.

  1.30 – Wait in limbo at Bradley Field International, an airport that seems

  2.45 A.M. to be run entirely by students between the ages of 18 and 21.

  2.45 A.M. Board Concorde for the third time today. This time with a film crew to capture our every indignity.

  4.00 A.M. Pilot decides not to take BA 171 into JFK tonight owing to bad weather.

  5.00 A.M. We disembark for the third and final time.

  5.45 A.M. As we wait in the no-man’s-land – now into our nineteenth hour in airports – news that the doors of the luggage bay are iced up.

  6.00 A.M. Our baggage is retrieved.

  6.10 A.M. Board our coach.

  7.10 A.M. Our coach arrives at Hospitality Inn, Enfield.

  8.30 A.M. Bed.

  Still some doubt as to whether JFK or La Guardia are open. The remnants of flight BA 171 are now splitting into smaller groups to find their way to their final destination.


  At ten, four of us – Pat, a stocky, young paper salesman, Nancy, a slim, wide-eyed New York model, and the white-haired, ruddy-faced, cherubic director of a Minneapolis-based agricultural foodstuffs corporation – set off, crammed tight into a yellow cab.

  Even the cab drive is something of an ordeal. The driver is short, squat, offhand and incompetent. At one point, on the outskirts of Hartford, we find a road blocked by flooding and have to turn back.

  An uncomfortable hour brings us to Hartford Station. An almost empty, long booking hall, of a vaguely classical design. It’s shabby and run down. The poor relation of US transport – the railroad. But, full of hope, we board the 11.30 for New York via New Haven.

  On the outskirts of New Haven, the line is submerged for about half a mile and we move slowly through the water, to arrive at New Haven ten minutes late, at 12.35. Another transfer of heavy bags and baggages to the New Haven–Penn Station train.

  The station at New Haven is still well below the standards of British counterparts, but the Amtrak ‘Parlor’ Car – a First Class service – is comfortable, with modern, expansive armchair seats and a bar which serves food and drinks. My spirits rise.

  However, the train does not move and the Awful Rumour’s begin. There is a derailment on a flooded line, further up the track, a power sub-station in the Bronx is out of action due to flooding, so none of the electric locomotives can function.

  At one point the Parlor Car empties as we are advised that another train will be leaving for NY before us. This proves to be a false alarm, and everyone re-boards. But fifteen minutes later, as I am about to settle down to a cool glass of Inglenook Californian Chablis, the word comes again that a train will definitely be leaving for Grand Central Station right away on Track 6. So everyone, apart from one man who remains because he can’t bear the thought of standing all the way to New York (Wise and Shrewd Traveller) makes their way once more up the long platform, down the subway and up to the Connecticut Railway platform.