More Fool Me (37 page)

FRIDAY, 19 NOVEMBER 1993

Car at 7.00 to take me to Shepperton. Hugh and I had agreed to film a Labour Party Political Broadcast. We play a couple of shady tax advisers, Weaver and Dodge who advise a procession of fat cats how to avoid tax. There was Roger Brierley (Glossop in the first two
Jeeves and Woosters
), Robin Bailey, Jeremy Child and Tim West. The idea was to demonstrate that Tory tax loopholes for the rich could save billions for the exchequer.

At lunchtime Robin Bailey, who hadn’t shot yet, was in a foully cantankerous temper. A cuntankerous cuntmudgeon, in fact … ordering the producer’s assistant and first AD around as if they were skivvies. Hugh took against this hugely and was (rightly) rather curt when Bailey tried to communicate with him. Bailey extremely sensitive to this and not pleased at all. He’s barely sane at the moment and the whole thing was somewhat embarrassing. At last he went. By this time it was apparent that we would be shooting until late. Jo and Hugh had invited Greg, Kim and Alastair round for dinner and Hugh felt put upon, simply because he hadn’t been warned that shooting would take so long. If the Labour Party is as inefficient as this when it comes to running the country, we’re all for the basket as Georgette Heyer characters would say.

At three in the afternoon I learnt that my bid had been successful for the Oscar letters … asked to remain anonymous. Four thousand for the first, thirteen for the second. All told a total of £18,700 with commish. Gulp!

The filming dragged on and on. Jeremy Child a charming fellow,
seems
to be the absolute archetype of an Etonian baronet, which he is, but clearly – by volunteering for this gig – he does not vote along with most of his class. He told an amusing Jimbo Villiers
^*
story. Jimbo had been talking about Simon Williams who had been having a ghastly time in a play and filming and visiting his mother (since died) in hospital. Driving about four hundred miles a day. ‘I hope he isn’t energizing himself with the ingestion of some kind of comical pastille,’ Jimbo said. Splendid phrase. The time wore on and on: eventually we were released by 11.00. Hugh not best pleased, partly brought on by the knowledge that he had made himself look grouchy. ‘Twenty people now hate me,’ he said. Oh dear. Made me feel guilty for being by and large cheerful all day. Of course nobody hates Hugh. Can’t be done.

Got to Tufnell Park, where Kim, Al and MU
^*
were there and Jo. We stayed about an hour and then MU took us in his car back to my place where we stayed up drinking and coking till 5.15. Naughty.

SATURDAY, 20 NOVEMBER 1993

Up at 1.15, slightly hung over and feeling like a piece of shit. Just time to do one or two things before making it over to the Coliseum to join Kim and Al for the first night of
Lohengrin
by the ENO.
^†

They had borne up splendidly after the ravages of the night. The show itself was excellent. Not up to the
Meistersingers
at the ROH, but still excellent. Fascinating design by Hildegard Bechtler. Worked especially well in the First Act. Slight embarrassment in the third, when the front white curtain wouldn’t fly out and they had to stop. Audience naturally laughed and sniggered. Still, fine night and excellent performances. Very cute young man played Gottfried (or Godfrey as they rather oddly called him). Still don’t really go for the translations.

Supper afterwards at 2 Brydges Place, which was very pleasanty. Had sausages and fried camembert in front of the fire and Rod, owner with Alfredo, gave me a form to become a member, since (embarrassingly) I’ve never actually belonged.

Bed at midnight and a long, long, long, long sleep.

SUNDAY, 21 NOVEMBER 1993

A very very quiet Sunday. As placido a domingo as you could wish. Up round about one-ish: lots and lots of correspondence to sort out and plenty of television to watch. Retired early (well, twelve) and gazed at
The Parallax View
in bed. Part of BBC2’s ‘it was thirty years ago today …’ Kennedy celebrations. Um, not sure celebrations is the word. Memorial. Oddly, C. S. Lewis died on the same day, but naturally his death was somewhat overshadowed. Interesting idea for a TV play or story: someone whose death, or achievement, or whatever, is completely cast in the shade by a massive, earth-shattering world event.

MONDAY, 22 NOVEMBER 1993

Voice Over this morning. Some training film with Griff as a manager. Only took fifteen minutes and then I taxied myself to South Kensington to pick up the Oscar letters. Marie Helene, the leading books and autographs popsy, was very friendly, as well she might be after being written a cheque for 18,997 bleeding quid. She also showed me Henry Blofeld’s collection of P. G. Wodehouse firsts and unusuals. Simply wonderful. Simply, simply wonderful. But rather terrifying. They’re going to be sold singly, rather than as a lot, which is a bore, since some of them will go for rather an amount I fancy. Poor old love has come unstuck as a result of Lloyd’s
^*
I gather. A lot of Names must be selling stuff: good for people like me and for Christie’s and Sotheby’s.

Back in time to do some writing with Hugh and then, at three thirty, off to Cambridge for a dinner. Paul Hartle’s idea this. Paul was a young don at St Catharine’s when I was at Cambridge: he’s now Director of Studies in English there. Me, Nigel Huckstep (old chum from Cambridge, but a few generations older), Rob Wyke (ditto: currently housemaster at Winchester), Emma Thompson, Annabel Arden and Simon McBurney
^†
all gathered to reminisce and eat a good dinner in a private room in Cats. Partly to celebrate the fact that Annabel is spending this year as Judith E. Wilson Fellow at Cats. What a Judith E. Wilson Fellow is I never quite understood, but she teaches and lectures and seems to be enjoying herself enormously. Anyway, wonderful dinner, lots of wine and drink, in quantities that only academics know. Glen Cavaliero
^*
showed up in Paul’s rooms for the preprandials. Everyone cheery and on good form. Emma wearing her severely anti-glam Posy Simmonds round spectacles. Got highly squiffed and fell into bed in Paul’s rooms at one thirty. Tomorrow I have to do this Camp Christmas thingy. Yuk.

TUESDAY, 23 NOVEMBER 1993

Up at nine-thirty, a little hung over. Then I struggled over to Queens’ to pop into an undergraduate’s room for coffee. She had written disconsolately that I had done the Cambridge Union debate, but failed to do something or other for BATS
^†
that she had asked me to turn up for. She and a knot of fresher friends stood around goggling at me while I tried to be cheerful and fun. Odd occasion. So squeaky clean and non-smoking and bright-eyed and lecture-attending. Escaped at ten-thirty and headed for London. Was back by midday, where Hugh awaited. We wrote for most of the day and then I cabbed it to LWT (or
The London Studios
as the place now calls itself) for this Camp Christmas. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Horrid idea, why did I ever consent? Had to dress up as Santa and make up all my own lines, without rehearsal. Ghastly and under-rehearsed. Absolutely hopeless. Julian Clary sensibly an off stage voice. Everyone connected with it was gay. Lie Delaria was excellent doing her dyke act, but otherwise it was grim. Good Australian doing a Queen’s Speech, Quentin Crisp filmed in New York, Martina Navratilova phoned in to say hi, Simon Callow and Antony Sher did something strange and then, at the end, I came on being dreadful. Completely hidden in a beard, so no one knew who the hell I was anyway. Lost steam and was simply very very bad. Christ, how embarrassing.

Zoomed straight off to the Groucho to recover. Bumped into Tim Roth of all people. Very fun to see him: he’s over here filming something for the Beeb. Hung around chatting with him and his new wife. Don Boyd and Hilary turned up with Rufus Sewell and I was able to congratulate him on his excellent performance in
Arcadia.
Seemed a nice bloke, freakily handsome. Played some Perudo and escaped by 1.30. A highly drunken young man in a covert coat kept sitting too close to me … turns out he is the editor of the
Sunday Times
magazine or somesuch. Also the director Roger Pomfrey kept trying to score coke off me, which I find discomfiting. Relief to escape. On the way out, Greg from Channel 4 (can’t think of his surname) told me that I had really opened a can of worms by writing in the
Spectator
and then saying on Clive Anderson that there were two gay men in the Cabinet. John Junor had written an article in the
Mail on Sunday
saying why didn’t I have the guts to name them? This ignored the thrust of my argument, which was not to accuse them of a crime but to accuse them of hypocrisy in their insistence on telling us how to live ‘core value’, ‘back to basics’ lives. And in the
Standard
someone had written an article pointing out that Rory Bremner had done a sketch which had himself as John Major saying ‘Portillo, Lilley
^*
 … don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing at the back there.’ On my return to the flat I wrote a note to Sir John Junor, but probably won’t post it. No point really.

WEDNESDAY, 24 NOVEMBER 1993

A day of quiet achievement. Ho, bloody ho. Started with a voice over for Intel processors. Stopped off at Fortnum’s to buy sister Jo her birthday present for the day after tomorrow. Then round to Berry Bros and Rudd to order wine for Christmas. Simon Berry was in and I had a nice chat with him. Ordered some excellent stuff.

Back at the flat by lunchtime. Hugh was late: had a press screening of his series
All Or Nothing At All.
He was charismatic as ever, but I didn’t especially like the script. One day Hugh will find the right material and emerge either as James Bond or something that will make him a world star. He has that star quality that I so noticeably lack. I just hope that people won’t think I’m jealous when the day comes. Back to the flat at four-thirty in time only for an hour or so’s writing and then he puddled off. He had time however, to speak to me man to man, as besto chummo, about
Bachelors Anonymous.
He put it to me as delicately as he could: ‘Stephen,’ he said, ‘are you
sure
you want to have anything to do with it?’ No sooner were the words out of his mouth (my
God
he is wise, that one) than I knew he was right. Secretly, inside (haven’t even confided in you, Daisy Diary, dear) I have felt that a) the script is absolutely unrescuable tosh and b) Robin Hardy is not a man I can spend months and months with comfortably. Hugh pointed out that I was too modest or too flattered to realize that he had asked me to direct the movie simply because that put him in a position to be able to raise money for it. I should be aware of that and proceed only if it was the
right
project, not simply out of gratitude to a nice man who wanted me involved.

Heartrending conversation with Lo, who was wonderful and promised to ring him and pull me out. She rang back an hour later to say that she had succeeded, but that he was deeply distressed and angry. Gulp! So much easier to apply the surgeon’s knife at the
inception
of these projects. Why am I such an arse?

Hugh said ‘if you want to direct a film, then write one yourself: let it be as personal and as wonderful as you want it to be. If it’s halfway decent an idea, money can be raised. Be aware that your name does mean something.’ This has inspired me to be careful of Other People’s Projects. About bloody time, Stephen.

Hugh popped off at 5.30 and I messed around till eightish, driving my own cab to Battersea/Wandsworth/Clapham, where Ian Hislop and his wife Victoria live. Quiet dinner
à trois
: strangely and comfortingly bourgeois house, rather like Dan Patterson’s. Modish stencilled wallpaper and perhaps over-tidy faux antique chairs. No books that I could see or any life or mess or splendour. Odd compared to Ian’s thrillingly disorganized
Private Eye
office, especially given how literary both Ian and Tori are. But a delightful dinner. I think Ian is all right, not untrustworthy: I think he knows the difference between a private dinner and usable gossip. For some reason I shot my mouth off about knowing Tristan Garel-Jones and talking to him about the age of consent and meeting Ken Clarke and all that. Hope he doesn’t publish or I’ll feel an arse. Back home by about twelveish. Crosswords and coke, then bed. Idiot.

THURSDAY, 25 NOVEMBER 1993

Just a plain old writing day. Hugh round at the usual hour and then a lot of chat, hysterical laughter and trying to get sketches out.

In the evening went off to the Groucho and played poker. Won a heap, snorted a heap. Also present Rory McGrath, Griff, Keith Allen. All the usual suspects. Bed at three. Twice damned villain. Watched the recordings of the Labour Party broadcast which had gone out at nine and ten. Seemed okay in my haze.

FRIDAY, 26 NOVEMBER 1993

Hugh and I did a spot of work before zipping over to Holland Park for lunch with David Liddiment at the new Joe Allen/Orso restaurant, Orsino’s. Liddiment is the man who’s replaced Jim Moir
^*
as head of Light Entertainment at the BBC. Tall, thin, glasses, Mancunian accent: seemed wildly unfriendly at very first glance. Turned out to be shyness, rather a decent sort really. Good that we touched base with him, I think. Decent grub.

Back home for me, and off to the dubbing studio for Hugh. More work on his Cellnet commersh. At seven-thirty I walked over to the Paris studios to record a couple of
Just a Minutes.
Think they went alright. I was against Peter Jones and Paul Merton. The first one had Pete McCarthy
^†
as a guest, the second had Jan Ravens.
^‡
Jan excelled at her silly voices and impressions. Merton and Jones were splendid as ever. I my usual self, I suppose. In any case I won both games, for what little that is worth.