More Fool Me (25 page)

Anyway – spent all fucking day working out those anagrams (Alyce Faye Cleese way the hardest – all those bloody E’s and Y’s)
^*
while I should have been working on the nov. Satisfactory in its way. In the background Radio 3 (not music this time but the Test Match – England
won
can you believe it? Never doubted them. Atherton clearly good captain; he’ll have his hellish moments in the years to come, but a sound fellow) while I strained my verbal skills on this useless anagrammery which will probably annoy the guests tomorrow anyway. No bloody
fun
in the world any more: no one doing mad silly things, no one playing practical jokes or organizing stupid parties with games and tricks like they did in the 20s. Even melancholy Virginia Woolf (heard Dame Edna on
Kaleidoscope
^†
a year or so back: ‘Darling Virginia, a woman with whom I have so much in common, except of course that I can swim.’) even she and her set used to love practical jokes. Everyone’s so sodding
serious
and ordinary now.

God knows whether the seating plan will work. If Simon Bell is sober it’ll help. Well I’ll report the day after tomorrow.

Talking of the morrow, although my birthday, I seem to have filled it up with interviews to publicize
Stalag Luft
,
^*
endless TV magazines and similar.

Bottle of wine at my elbow, Kanonkop, a S. African claret mimic, not enough tannin. Strauss’s storm is brewing up, all those flutey interjections seem borrowed from Rossini’s Wm. Tell overture or I’m a Flying Dutchman.

TUESDAY, 24 AUGUST 1993 – LONDON

Well – thirty-six then. Usual cliché of searching for grey hairs in the mirror. Some individual white flecks around the temples, but it’s hard to tell whether they’re real or a trick of the light.

The whole morning given over to publicity interviews for
Stalag Luft
at the Groucho. Endless stream of women from
TV Quick
,
TV First
,
TV Super
and
TV Cunty
all wanting to talk about my celibacy. ‘Surely you must fantasize? Surely you must meet people and
… fancy
them?’

Basically, they want to know what pictures go on in my mind when I masturbate. Had the same thing a few weeks ago when I went to dinner at Ken and Em’s. Ken got a bit in his cups (it doesn’t take more than a glass with him) and he was all, ‘Come on,
darling
, what do you think about when you wank?’ Em tried to slap him, but I bet she was too intrigued really to mean it.

Very pleased that my dreams and fantasies aren’t too out there. I mean, only today the papers are full of this Michael Jackson thing. Some woman apparently reporting him for abusing her son. Let’s face it, whoever doubted that Jacko was a boylover? My God, there’s going to be a fall there if they find anything at his ranch. Porn, film, whatever … poor deranged sod, I don’t think his own childhood fell far short of abuse in its way.

Then – the party. Everyone turned up. Everyone got me presents though I told them not to. The anagrams seemed to tickle them all too. Most people in a good mood and seeming to enjoy it, even Rowan managed to last to the end.
^*
I sat next to Jo Laurie and Alyce Faye Cleese, I put Hugh down the other end near Eric and John C. Peter Cook in great form, talking about
Derek and Clive
which is about to be re-released, most people lightly drunk by the end. The bill came to almost exactly £1,000, which is reasonable, I would say. Damn good tuck. Did I mention earlier that it was at 190 Queensgate, run by Antony Worrall Thompson, who was there and joined for a drink earlier on? Turns out he was at school with John Lloyd. Home with Simon Bell, whom I gave a whisky before he eventually left.

WEDNESDAY, 25 AUGUST 1993 – LONDON

Voice-over with Hugh this morning, for Energizer batteries. Hugh in good form, which is always a treat. A fun one and a half hours. Bumped into Norman Beaton before going into the sound studio. Mad old duck, rather a fan. Wants us to write a sketch for him to be in. Hum.

Afterwards a lot of leisurely shopping down Cecil Court. Bought an original
Vanity Fair
print of Gillette as Holmes and a signed photograph of Basil Rathbone. Don’t ask me why. Might make a good present. Also got hold of a copy of Ricky Jay’s book
Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women
which I have been after for ages.
^*

Eventually got home in time to read a little before popping out to the Institute of Directors in Pall Mall just around the corner. This was to meet a man by the name of Robin Hardy who is producing a film called
Bachelors Anonymous
(nothing to do with the Wodehouse story of the same name). He wants me to play the second lead and to DIRECT it. Flattering and pleasing that he can be confident enough to give such a relatively big movie to a first-time director, but there is a problem. Firstly, is the script good enough? He has written it himself from a novel called
Foxprints
by Patrick McGinley. Really rather fascinating, but needs improvement so as not to look misogynistic or just plain silly. The major problem though, is WHEN. I have
got
to try and finish the novel soon. Then I spend from October to January writing with Hugh for
A Bit of F&L
series 4. Then we make the thing, six weeks of studio, rehearse/record. That takes us to the end of March. John Reid will, I assume, want to go with the Elton musical next and the BBC will make noises about filming the adaptation of
The Liar.
There is no chance I could start pre-production prep on
Bachelors
until end of June, which would mean shooting it in September, over a year from now. Mad to think my life is that booked up. And where does that leave a second script for Paramount and Hugh’s film
Galahad
? WHY is my life always like this, and why am I complaining about it?

He seems a reasonable fellow, this Hardy. Strange place to meet, the IoD. He fits it well, having a rather box-wallah version of an upper class accent. He did, on the other hand, write and direct
The Wicker Man
, a great classic. I feel it odd that I’ve never heard of him. Lorraine (Hamilton) is running a background check to see what she can see. Perhaps it will be a good thing to do, direct a film. I feel I can. I lack a lot of common sense, always have done, but I think I’ll keep my head above water with a good operator, a good First and someone like Dougie Slocombe to light the film. Lor … what to do, what to do. Just aren’t enough hours in the frigging day, are there, Stephen old love?

THURSDAY, 26 AUGUST 1993 – LONDON

Parents are going to arrive at any minute. Father’s birthday. I’m taking them to the premiere of Ken’s
Much Ado
tonight at the Empire, Leicester Square and then to a party at Planet Hollywood of all places. So I’ll do this entry now, rather than tonight when they’ll be hanging around the flat.

Actually spent most of the day doing no more than preparing for their arrival. Hiding all the Euroboy videos, tidying up, trotting over the road to Fortnum’s to buy fruit, flowers, tea things and so forth. Spent a merry hour in Hatchard’s buying books. Got Alan Clark’s diaries (signed) for Father, as well as the new Bill Bryson, as he likes him and a biography of Einstein (
not
the salacious one). For myself I rounded up a lot of books on theology … mostly beginner’s stuff. All this reading of Susan Howatch recently has got me interested in knowing more about the subject. I don’t believe in God of course, but I sometimes think I
want
to believe. And then there’s that foolish vision of myself as a bishop, sermonizing and saving the poor old C of E from itself. So fond of the C of E. The ‘broad backed hippopotamus’ as T. S. Eliot called her. So much better a liturgy … and the music! Russell Harty
^*
once confidingly said to me, while playing hymns at the piano (he had a perfect ear and could play anything you named that he knew), ‘I don’t think I could ever love anyone who didn’t love English hymns.’ Mind you being a roamin’ cat-lick his last lover the sweet Jamie O’Neill can’t have known much Anglican church music.
^*

Appalling arrogance of me to think that I would be a good church leader without a concomitant shred of faith. Very Henry Crawford.
^†
Mind you, probably a better life than my other footling fantasy, Fry the politician, Fry the scourge of the Right and the hero of the Chamber.

Also, bought a first novel called
In the Place of Fallen Leaves
, simply ghastly title but Roger, the sweet old queen at Hatchard’s, recommended it.
^‡

Still haven’t been able to face my own novel. I’m banking on being able to work when I get to Grayshott on Saturday, but how is one to tell? I’m always assuming that words will come and that I’ll be able to get down that tunnel of concentration when I put my mind to it, but there’s so much to do and I do desperately want it to work. If I don’t finish it this year it’ll spill over into next and then what happens to the idea of directing, or the TV version of
The Liar
, or the Elton John thing, or
Galahad
or God knows what else besides.

I’ll report on
Much Ado
tomorrow. I’ve seen it already, at a preview cinema months ago. Really enjoyed it then, but perhaps it’ll be less fun in front of a bigger audience and now that I have expectations. Hugh made a good point about how Ken on film sometimes does this thing of laughing and throwing his head back and slapping people on the back when wit is being offered. He did it in
Peter’s Friends
and he does it in
Much Ado
, clearly encouraging his cast to do the same. Especially of course, the blissful Brian Blessed who roars like a speared ox through most of his scenes. Hugh’s theory is that actors laughing prevents audiences from laughing and that this is perhaps true of screen or stage tears as well. Rather a convincing idea. And no doubt the Branagh haters and Ben Elton
^*
haters will be out in force anyway. I’m so lucky that I don’t seem to be quite so despised as they do. Mind you, not as admired either, which is only right. I suppose people think of me as some kind of reliable old thing, rather than as a threat. Ken and Ben are certainly threatening, those who dislike them regard them as the kind of yappy Jack Russells who leap up and spunk all over your trouser crease. The snobbery in Britons makes them believe that I, on the other hand, however rude or leftie I may seem, am fundamentally sound and reasonable, like a trusty labrador.

Frankly, I’m too lucky. Filled in a
Guardian
questionnaire the other day. In answer to the question ‘When and where were you happiest?’ I answered, ‘At the risk of tempting providence, I’m pretty chipper at the moment, as it happens.’ Tempting prov. is right. Even now, in Plum’s immortal phrase, Fate must be lurking around the corner quietly slipping the horseshoe into the boxing-glove. Shit, there goes the doorbell, here are the parents.

FRIDAY, 27 AUGUST 1993 – LONDON

Well, they arrived yesterday, admired the flat and seemed in good order and spirits despite a visit to their accountant. Impossible to imagine how things are with them. They just carry on as always, the business continuing in its gentle way, Mother doing the VAT, Father exercising his extraordinary mind. I am more certain that that man could have been absolutely anything he wanted to be in the world than I am of almost anything else. The gloss of complete admiration may well have worn off in some regards. There’s no question that he seems curiously unsophisticated to me now, but his mind is still a remarkable thing.

Anyway, after tea-ing them and cocktailing them we sallied forth on foot for the Empire Leicester Square.
Unbelievable
crowds … a greater number, according to today’s papers, than turned out for the opening of
Jurassic Park
, which says something for Ken and Em. We approached, naturally, from the West, only to discover that the crash barriers were arranged such that we had to walk all the way round and enter from the Charing X Road end. Highly embarrassing. Many cries of ‘Steve!’ and applause as I trotted the gauntlet, parents in tow. I suppose it must have been strange for them, really, to walk with me and know that everyone there was cheering their son and knew who he was. Lot of posing for the paparazzi outside the doors and then I managed to get inside. Naturally, the really smart ones were indoors, including Richard Young, who really is extraordinary. He instantly sidled up and said, out of the side of his mouth, ‘Those your parents, then?’ I said, amused, ‘Yup’ and he asked for a shot with them. I reckon that man could tell, instantly, if two people enter a party, whether or not they are sleeping together. Remember that Greek saying? ‘It is easier to hide two elephants under your arm than one pathic.’

After Richard there were endless TV crews. God knows how many showbiz and local news programmes there are these days.
^*
All wanting pre and post screening comment. (Oh, dear me, on TV as I type this there’s a documentary about a man with cystic fibrosis going on in the background. Sounds of a great quantity of mucus expression going on.) Up at the party there was a sprinkling of theatrical knightage, Sir John Mills and Mary, who both kissed me sweetly. Johnny kissed my mother, which was divine of him. Dickie, now Lord, Attenborough was there and Sir Peter Hall. A couple of
Peter’s Friends
stalwarts, Alphonsia and Tony S.,
^*
and of course Ken and Em, the latter looking divine, the former surprisingly like Noel Edmunds. Kim Harris turned up with Hugh. Kim looks absolutely zonked. A few months ago, Ken rang up and asked me to rewrite
Frankenstein.
It was exactly when I was shooting off to Texas to make an episode of
Ned Blessing
, a new Western series for CBS. (I played Oscar Wilde, directed by David Hemmings of all people). I told Ken I couldn’t do it, but suggested that he try Kim. Well, it seems Kim has turned out well, but is being driven like a dray-horse by Sir Kenward. Just as well I said no, I suppose, though it would have been fun to meet Robert de Niro. I hope Kim is alright. One worries when he gets so tired.