The Digested Twenty-first Century (20 page)

Happy and prosperous new bum,

Kingers.

Digested read, digested:
Grand old curmudgeon turns out to be consistently more entertaining as a letter writer than as a novelist.

June 1971
Chronically idle since my return from France. I used to take Dexamyl to give me confidence to start work. Now I take it to give me the confidence not to.

April 1972
I talk to John Dexter and Frank Dunlop about LO’s willingness to sell us all at the National to P Hall. Hall is one of those curious types with no enemies and no friends.

October 1972
One difference between the London theatre today and 20 years ago is the relative paucity of queers.

February 1973
I have been seeing a fellow spanking addict, an actress called Nicole. Her fantasy is to be bent over with knickers down and caned, preferably with the buttocks parted to disclose the anus. She also enjoys spanking and exposing me. Really there is no sport to touch it; it is not just a nocturnal relaxation, it is a way of life.

April 1973
My birthday. Noel is dead and Muhammad Ali has broken his jaw and I am 46. God and bugger and fuck.

September 1973
For lunch and dinner at Tony Richardson’s villa near St Tropez. John Gielgud asks me about
The Joint
by James Blake. KT: It’s about a masochistic convict who gets himself imprisoned because he likes being sucked off by sadistic Negro murderers. JG: You can’t quarrel with that.

May 1974
What is my current profession? Drama critic: not since 1963. Impresario: not since Oh Calcutta. Nabob of the NT: not since last December. Film director: untested. Journalist: extinct. Author: blocked. I have no professional identity and have ceased to exist.

July 1975
General depression due to persistent bronchial infection.

March 1976
At last able after many months to make love to Kathleen again. But my potency vanishes after she spends another night with her lover, Dan Topolski. Debts now mountainous; yesterday the telephone was cut off. I can’t write without smoking and if I smoke I shall die. Vicious circle or double-bind. Compare and contrast.

November 1977
A cheque for $22,000 – three times the amount agreed – arrives from the New Yorker. For a day I am surely the best-paid journalist in the world.

January 1980
Debts in excess of $75,000 and health failing rapidly. From Maugham’s
The Summing Up:
He leaves out his redeeming qualities and so appears only weak, unprincipled and vicious. Shall I fall into this trap?

Digested read, digested:
High angst, top gossip and lashings of S&M from the final years of one of Britain’s most talented theatre critics.

Saltwood/Albany, February 1991–September 1999

Still obsessive about ‘X’ but haven’t the nerve to end it. Darling Jane is looking strained, she knows something is up. Tension headache, my pulse up to 87. I’m not at all well. How much longer have I got? Five years? Ten years. Finances in a total mess. Don’t want to get rid of Big Red so might have to sell the Degas; 300 would clear the tax bill. State of abject depression. The party is
in a mess and I feel now is the time to step down. But I can’t bring myself to do it yet as ACHAB
*
.

Slept very badly. Had to get up three times for a tinkle. I must book a PSA. ‘X’ is ignoring me and I’m taking it out on Janey. Cleared my office at Westminster and said my goodbyes; my health is good, my stamina is up, but my mood is black. I SHOULD NEVER HAVE LEFT THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. I really need to organise a car cull and get on with my life. God has been good to me; I’ve had a great career, sex-life with Janey has never been better and there’s the prospect of grandchildren on the horizon.

Is it too much to ask for one last chance at power and 10 more years? Richard Ryder isn’t returning my calls – little shit. How I miss the thrill of power. JM is almost isolated, the party rudderless. Publication of my diaries has caused something of a stir. It’s nice to still be famous. Or should that be infamous?

Desperate to get back into the House. Had an approach from Kensington & Chelsea but Nick Scott is hanging on. Am I too old? Still, ACHAB. My vision is going. Cancer of the optic nerve? Scott enquiry still rumbles on, find it increasingly hard to trust Tristan G-J. See in the
Sunday Times
my name has been put forward as possible leader of the Tory party. I feel marvellously young once more. A miracle. K&C have adopted me against all the odds. But how long will I be alive to enjoy it? Disastrous general election, but my seat quite safe.

Alastair Campbell phoned twice to offer me a K. BB published but poor reviews. My headaches are getting worse. The doctors say there is nothing wrong with me.

The fact is I have a brain tumour and I’m going to die.

Digested read, digested:
AC’s observations both on his health and his fellow politicians remain spot on to the last.

2 November 2002:
I wonder if Nelson Mandela knows Primo Levi. I’m on my way to meet Nelson and I’m planning to adapt Primo’s
If This is a Man
as a one-man show; it would be a remarkable coincidence if there was a tangible connection between three of the most iconic figures of the 20th century.

7 November 2002:
At Grayshott health farm with my dear friend Richard Wilson. I mention the project to him and he replied, ‘But of course you must play Primo.’ I immediately see he’s right.

8 November 2002:
Sod it. I start writing tonight.

9 November 2002:
Finished. It’s far too long, but I could sense Primo’s presence guiding me. I am wrung out; I have cried so many tears.

27 November 2002:
Dearest Greg says it’s the best thing I have ever written. Richard, too, has been terribly affected by the script and has agreed to direct me.

10 January 2003:
I am bereft. Nick Hytner has said he’s not sure Primo is right for the National and my agent says Primo’s estate is extremely reluctant to give permission for his work to be adapted for the stage. Don’t they understand Primo is not just
theirs? He belongs to the world. How many more bitter tears do I have to weep?

20 July–18 October 2003:
I am doing
I.D
. at the Almeida and The Fear is gripping me. Will I walk off stage? No.

5 January–17 July 2004:
The six months of
Othello
are far too big a story to tell here. I will publish my diaries on this later.

18 July 2004:
Rehearsals start today. The Levi estate adore my script and Nick H promised me the Cottesloe, yet I feel flat. Is The Fear returning?

27 July 2004:
Richard has suggested some punishment exercises to try to access Primo’s psyche within the concentration camp. I am deeply apprehensive.

30 July 2004:
I haven’t been able to write about myself for several days. Richard forbade it. That was my punishment. It may not be quite the same as Auschwitz, but I have been shaking with terror. I can almost sense Primo talking to me.

18 August 2004:
First costume fitting and my shoes from Harrods are perfect. Richard wants me to be more restrained. It feels strange not to over-emote.

23 August 2004:
The day started badly with Greg spilling my champagne but ended well after a session with my therapist. We were talking about The Fear when I said, ‘It wasn’t Auschwitz that made Primo commit suicide: it was his depression.’ ‘You’re so wise,’ she smiled.

15 September 2004:
I have started writing letters to Primo. Dear Primo, I hope you like my play. Love, Tony.

29 September 2004:
A red light came on in the dress rehearsal. How can I work with such distractions?

30 September 2004:
The first night. Everyone thinks I’m marvellous. If only Primo would write back to me ...

Digested read, digested:
If This is an Actor.

1915

Dear Darling old Mummy-snooks,

You are SUCH a DARLING and I know you don’t love Daddy and Erik nearly as much as me.

It really is heavenly here and I was a great success in
Charley’s Aunt
. I just know the West End beckons. I will write every week.

Your ever ever ever loving Noël

1921

Dear Ackie Wackie Weeza,

Thank heavens the beastly war is over. It played havoc with my nerves. It’s wonderful to be here in New York and I’ve just met Lynn Fontanne. Do you remember her? She played some small parts in London but now she’s become a huge star with her fiancé, Alfred Lunt.

All my love, you wicked, grasping old bitch,

Noëlie Wolie Polie

1925

Darling lamb,

GBS has been a little tart with me, but I think
Hay Fever
and
The Vortex
will show I have talent. Have met Joyce Carey and Gladys Calthrop; they really are terribly gay even though Paris at this time of a year can be a little de trop

Your darlingest Snoop

1928

Dear Virginia Woolf,

I am hot and glowing after reading Orlando and I am completely at your feet. It is the finest book
de nos jours
and if I continue to flatter you like this will you agree to become another of my top 500 bestest chums?

Yours, Noël Coward

1935

Darling Marlene, or should that be Darling Achtung? How are you my Prussian cow?

The Baybay has been managing my accounts very badly and I fear I am in danger of developing a German sense of humour about it all.

Love and kisses, Noël

1941

Darling Stoj,

It’s just too, too horrid. Everyone is being nasty, accusing me of doing nothing for the war effort and I’m not allowed to speak out and say that I’m one of the government’s top-secret agents.

Don’t they realise that getting the Americans onside by writing
Don’t Let’s be Beastly to the Germans
has shortened the conflict by several years?

Your miserable Poj

1947

Dearest Toley Coley,

So glad to be back in New York with Marlene. London is so fearfully drab at the moment and no one seems to want my work anymore. I’ve dug out a few plays from the bottom drawer and bashed out some numbers for a revue, but the critics are determined to hate me. Ecris-moi often, ma petite Tolette

Le Maître

1952

Darlingest Queenie,

When I heard the news that the king had died I thought of your loss and cried and cried. But even though your husband is dead I’d be willing to bet you live to a hundred.

Your humble servant,

Noël Coward

1958

Dear dear Larryboy,

Did you not think that Johnny Gielgud was completely underwhelming in
Nude with Violin?
I hate to be a bitch but it’s a shame to see even a moderate talent wasted.

I am also involved in a nasty squabble with John Osborne and Ken Tynan. How can they imagine that people want to see the great unwashed on stage? Isn’t it obvious that what the world needs now is a revival of Blithe Spirit? So how about it, Larrikins? Kisses to Vivien,

The Master

1966

Darlings,

Switzerland and Jamaica do pall, I’m coughing myself into a Firenze.

But how things change! It seems that in my dotage I have become a national treasure. Everywhere I go I am feted and CBS have offered me $450,000 for three 90-minute specials. I sense it is time to dust off a few more old manuscripts. But most of all, how I long for a gossip.

Noëllie

Digested read, digested:
His Master’s Voice.

Clermont 1969–1987

Cadogan Gdns 1987–97

Darling Josie Posie, Patreeecia, Dilys, Luchino, Penny Lope, Norah and Kathleen,

Pleese excuse the nastie Basildon Bond Paper and my terribul speling. Tote and I are quite ALOAN here ... we had to leeve all our possesshuns (Is that rite?) in London apart from the Rolls. I’ts so boring that peepul just want the Doctor films. But I will not do that rubbish any moore.

Do’nt be grumpy Josie Posie
*
. I was meening to be funny when I told a journlist that you were hideiously pissed most dayz
and I have never been the slytest bit upset that you never asked me to do
Death in Venice
... Espeshally as I’m now doing the fillum with Luchino. SO THEIR! (Tha’ts ment to be funnie two). You know I LOVE you reely. Luchino, sweetie, I NEVER, EVER said that I was miscast or that you coul’dnt direct me ... Does one want to be a Burton or O’Tool? One must have some self-respect. Everything is terribley expensive here ... I do’nt know how wheel manidge.

I’m feeling rather mouldy today ... Do’nt menshun another word about the unspeakable Redgrave or Two-Inch Todd. The reviews for
The Night Porter
have been dissappointing. They were cleerly hopping for some Pekenpaish violence. I DO’NT CARE. We made that fillum for ourselves, not the great UNWASHED. I’ve bored you stiff again. Tote is in the garden and I’m starting to write something.

I do hope it does’nt turn out like that ghastly Evelyn War.

The MOST IMPORTUNT DAY of my life ... A Postillion Struck by Lightening is published and it was onederfull to see so many cueing to meetme at Hatchards ... Reiner
*
dearest, how lucky you are to share your tallent with me. Your lether gang is tres amusant. How I hate the Jappunnese. Their voices still terrify me
^†
.