More Fool Me (28 page)

Simon totters out and his cab is waiting. Bugger those Computer Cab sods. But Simon, sweetly, suggests I hop into his, so we go first to Tufnell Park before it takes him on to Notting Hill … a long distance out of his way. Blimey … they’d just finished the chess programme and started
Blow-Up
 … I think David
^*
looks better now than he did then. No that’s not true. It’s just that in
Blow-Up
, as an actor he doesn’t communicate a tenth of his amazing
energy
.

At the Lauries’ everything hunky-dory. Jo desperate to drop now. She had told me a couple of days ago that Ben and Sophie were going to get married
and I completely forgot.
Christ I’m hopeless with gossip. Not that that was gossip, but you know what I mean. Other people’s news. Other people’s poetry. (I’m surer than ever that this is the right title and that Sue will hate it.) Sophie is going to come and live in England. Ben thinks April or May for the wedding.

I told him May was traditionally looked upon as unlucky for weddings. Like the colour green. Don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not in the least superstitious and I could see it rather rattled the happy pair. Was I subconsciously being malicious? I’m sure not.

We talked a little about our respective novels. Hugh’s writing a thriller: I’ve read about a third of it and it’s
very
funny.

Next day: ie today, got up early, trained to Haslemere and had played my 9 holes at Grayshott by half past ten. Toyed with the nov. a bit, but just that one day away has lost me a lot and I couldn’t concentrate properly enough to write anything new, so spent time rewriting and rejigging here and there. Had a massage at 3.00. Steve’s away so it was Willy Blake, well named. He’s a Norfolk friend of my sister Jo and a rather endearingly nonsensical New Age freak. Gibbered on, while rubbing away, about channelling and auras. I asked him if he’d ever seen anyone’s aura himself. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not a proper aura, but I once saw a very clear etheric sheath.’ Well I mean frankly.

Mostly watched TV after that, the Muse having taken a powder. Then dinner, bit more telly and this diary, really.

MONDAY, 6 SEPTEMBER 1993 – GRAYSHOTT

Very little to report today. An absolutely bog standard Grayshott kind of a day. Nine holes, slightly disappointing, heat treatment, massage, work, bed. Another nine holes in the afternoon, adequate play. Not much more to it than that I’m afraid.

TUESDAY, 7 SEPTEMBER 1993 – GRAYSHOTT

Much the bleeding same. Sister Jo is back today and I spoke to her on the phone. She and Richard and the baby
^*
seemed to have a good time in France. No vital messages: Greg Snow’s present of a Lesbian Cunt Coloring Book from Florida is being despatched, to which I look forward eagerly. I’ve been invited to the first night of
La Bohème
at the Coliseum next week, which might be a lark.

Sue Freestone, my publisher, sent a fax saying she is insanely excited that I am getting on with the novel. She seems to think it will be finished as a matter of course. Gulp. Wants to know what ideas I’ve got for the cover. I’m not half way through and she wants a cover. Oh shit.

Spoke to Maggi Hambling
^†
on the phone. She wants two more sittings for her portraits. I have arranged to go over on Tuesday and Wednesday next week.

In the afternoon I watched some of the opening game in the Kasparov v Short match. Both Channel 4 and BBC2 are giving it plenty of air. Channel 4’s coverage is taking populism to new depths. The presenter can’t even let Daniel King or Jonathan Speelman use the phrase ‘queenside’ without jumping down their throats. ‘So that’s the left-hand side of the board is it?’ ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Well it isn’t the left-hand side to Nigel, playing black, is it? She is trying desperately to find dramatic phrases culled from any other arena than chess, to describe what is an intellectual battle utterly beyond her grasp. Or mine for that matter. Granted, it’s a good idea to widen the audience, but treating it like a benzedrine-driven joust between two wild-eyed exponents of gamesmanship is hardly helping.

Sadly Nigel lost
on time.
He had weathered a storm, a battering in fact, from Garry K, but as he was preparing to make his
very last
move in time control, his flag fell. Disaster. He must be sick to his soul. It was good that he ended in a position that was at least drawn, but calamitous that he should have lost the game so stupidly. Went to bed in a thunderstorm. Lovely feeling. It wasn’t attacking my king.

WEDNESDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER 1993 – GRAYSHOTT

No golf this morning: wind blowing hard, grass sodden. Lots of work, now definitely half way through. I’ve written over twenty thousand words in 9 days, which isn’t bad. Unfortunately I won’t get another stretch of time like this. I spoke to Sue Freestone on the phone. She’s coming round next Thursday to look at what I’ve got. My novel, which she still insists on calling
What Next?
is going to be ‘the biggest publishing event of Spring ’94.’ Great.

Ian McKellen rang too. He wants me to present some bloody Age of Consent
^*
benefit at the London Palladium for Stonewall. Well, not present, just introduce. I’ve also agreed to do a debate at the Cambridge Union on the same issue. All these things are going to take up time I cannot spare. After all, there’s the Sam Wanamaker Globe bash at the Albert Hall too.

Talking of the Albert Hall, I’m going to the Last Night of the Proms on Saturday, after Charles and Carla Powell’s wedding. Well not
their
wedding, their son’s.

Played golf in the afternoon, during a lull in the weather and a lull in my inspiration.
Played like a fucking genius.
As I was addressing the ball I just
knew
that it was going to go long and straight. For the first time in my life I consistently hit overlong and had to go down a club at almost every hole. Birdies and pars and virtually nothing else. Ridiculous because I am the most uncoordinated, least able striker of a ball who ever pulled a club from a bag. But every dog has his day, I suppose. I will probably never play another round like it, so it is as well to be pleased.

The novel steaming along too. Not that it’s anything other than balderdash, but at least I feel as if I’m achieving things. Elements are coming together. So far, however, it is lacking in any passion. I want people to cry at parts of it, and those stages haven’t yet been reached. Gonna be tricky. Ner-night.

THURSDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER 1993 – GRAYSHOTT

Reasonable day. Fair old quantity of work done, over 4,000 words. The post contained Greg Snow’s present from Florida:
The Cunt Coloring Book
by Tee Corinne. I quote from the introduction. ‘
The Cunt Coloring Book
published in 1975, was immediately and wildly popular, although many people complained about the “awful” title. Three printings later, in 1981, the title was changed to
Labiaflowers
and the book virtually died. So much for euphemisms. Welcome once again to the
Original Cunt Coloring Book
(with a few additions). May you color it with pleasure. The drawings in this book are of real women’s cunts. My love and thanks to the many women who participated with me in this project and to those who encouraged and counseled me. These pages are a celebration of your energy.’

That was from the foreword by Tee herself. There is also a little prefacing essay entitled ‘In The Beginning’ by one Martha Shelley.

In the beginning we come from the cunt, not from some man’s side; and we are washed in the water and blood of birth, not the spear-pierced side of some dying god. In the beginning women made pots and jars shaped like wombs and breasts, and decorated them with triangles, which were symbols of the cunt.

So the first art was Cunt Art. The bones of the dead were laid in jars – perhaps to speed the soul to its next womb? Did the ancient women sing, how delicate, sensitive, delicious, how strong the ring of muscle between one life and the next? There are tribal women today who sing praises of their cunts, how pretty and long and full their lips are, how the hair curls and glistens with moisture.

Well, I mean dah-ling …

Naturally the pages themselves contain hideous warped oysterish things that look like the result of an explosion in an organ-donor depot. I hope that doesn’t sound misogynistic – a Cock Coloring Book would be just as beastly.

The book even has an ISBN no.
^*
can you credit it? For the rest, there is sadly, no text, just these line-drawn quims.

Otherwise, the only other post was a card from Rory Bremner, asking me to be a ‘guest-writer’ on one of his new Channel 4 shows. Kindly offer but I think I’ll pass.

Rang Kim during the second Short/Kasparov game. He seems to think, with me, that Nigel’s blown it again.
^†
Invited K to accompany me to the opening of
La Bohème
and
Oleanna
, the new David Mamet. Still no news from Hugh and Jo L. They
must
be dropping even now, surely?

Had a reflexology and aromatherapy massage. Not bad. Still feel pretty energized. All my masseuses now seem to be in agreement that I am ‘balanced and relaxed’, which is pleasant.

Spoke to Scott Rudin. He’s pleased I had the session with Terry Gilliam about T’s new film
The Defective Detective
, but wishes I was harder on Terry about the script. Hyuh! What’s it to do with me? I’ll try and liaise with Scott about my next script for him when I’ve done with the novel.

Sue F. faxed me with a suggestion for the jacket. ‘How about Michelangelo’s David wearing Y-fronts?’ Well, I mean really! A tad homo-erotic, for a novel that is primarily non whoopsy. Thought of a scene today in which Davey will fuck a horse to heal it from some mysterious illness like ragwort poisoning. Could be good.

News just in. Nigel drew the game. Phew. Ho-hum.

FRIDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER 1993 – GRAYSHOTT

Last full day here. Arose in time to do some work, biffed off for the massage and heat treatment and returned to the room to find a message under the door: ‘Please ring Rebecca Laurie, 071 580 4400, Room 101.’ Just for a moment I thought I’d gone mad and then … of course! Jo decided to have a Caesarian today. The child had been up there for too damned long, putting on too much bloody weight. 8lb 13oz. Jo was barely able to walk or breathe. The doctors thought it would probably stay up there for another two weeks, just liked it too much. University College Hospital said they wouldn’t do a section for another fortnight, so Jo and Hugh took the reluctant decision to go private at the Portland. A big bonny baby girl. I shall see her on Sunday.

Plenty of work, then a holistic massage, pleasure as always, followed by a swift nine holes. Some great shooting, some average (as if you care).

Then more work: reached three hundred words shy of the fifty thousand. That means I’ve written just about 30,000 words in the last eleven days. Not bad. I’ve just finished writing the scene in which Davey fucks the horse. My lord I’m going to get some stick for that. ‘So, did you try it out, Stephen? … in the interests of research naturally … hyerk, hyerk …’

It might be dreadful I suppose, we shall see. Wonder what Sue Freestone will think. Final treatment tomorrow will be a facial with which to present a smooth and glossy countenance to the wedding and the Proms. All in all, this has been a truly splendid stay, I’ve lost over a stone in weight. I’ve enjoyed the work once it’s started flowing and I’ve been more relaxed and happier than for years. And I’ve kept off the booze, plenty tomorrow though …

It’s past 11.00 now and I shall hope to be asleep by twelve. Nightly-nightington.

SUNDAY, 12 SEPTEMBER 1993 – LONDON

Back in town, one stone two pounds lighter and thirty thousand words to the good. Finished off with a facial yesterday and hit the A3 looking shiny, fit and relaxed. Those fine dryness lines the commercials love so much didn’t have a chance. I challenged the visible signs of ageing.

Arrived in time to zip over to Lipman’s in the lower Charing X Road where I hired a morning suit, my own being stuck up in Norfolk. Then I bought a print at the Chris Beetles Gallery for the happy pair, quick change in the flat before high-tailing it by taxi to the Old Church, Chelsea. Charles and Carla Powell looked in great nick. Well Sir Charles has aged a spot, but that’s hardly surprising as he regularly jets to Hong Kong for half hour meetings with Chris Patten
^*
before jetting back again the same day. Takes a toll. Carla, on the other hand in supreme shape. Spending most of her days in Italy looking after her father. Their son Hugh was marrying one Catherine Young, daughter of Sir William and Lady Young, whoever they might be. He is a director of Coutt’s the bankers but chaps of his background are directors of banks much in the way they might be members of a squash club. Dennis Thatcher was there on the groom’s side, as were poor old Rosemary and Norman Lamont.
^*
Ha! That’ll teach him to be a loyal Tory.

Good service: Schubert’s
Ave Maria
and Mozart’s
Ave Verum
, beautifully sung. Good trumpeter in evidence for inevitable Jeremiah Clarke
^†
and Grand March from
Aida
.

Soon as the service was over I cabbed back to the flat to change for the Albert Hall. Arrived good and early so I could track down Patrick Deuchars who runs the place. He had invited me for the Prom’s Last Night and I had initially turned him down, thinking I’d stay for the wedding reception. It occurred to me last week that this was silly as I really wouldn’t know that many people at the wedding and the L. N. of the P’s would be larkier. So I rang John Birt’s
^‡
office and said I could come after all. That’s right. John Birt’s office. Like an arse I had thought it was
he
who had invited me, not Deuchars. John is always inviting me to
something
after all … Wimbledon, Cup Final etc. His office had said ‘fine, help yourself … no problem. You’ll be squiring Lady Parkinson (wife of Cecil).’ Only then did I realize my bloomer. At the RAH therefore I found Patrick who was highly amused and said not to worry. John Birt when he arrived was similarly tickled, so was able to play the self-lacerating idiot and make them feel good.