Sydney Opening Night.

It’s getting to the nitty gritty. Tonight we open in Sydney at the lovely old State Theatre. Three nights here and immediately we move to Melbourne for three more nights. That’s six shows in seven days, which is tough by anyone’s standards. Then it’s arriverderci Australia and on to the land of the Kiwi.

It was a lovely weekend in preparation for all this. The wife is on song and happy to see me, and I have been hopping shopping round Sydney like a one-legged kangaroo on speed, cursing my medical people and limping around grumpily and beginning angry songs:

            You probably don’t need to be told

            But it bloody well sucks to be old…

Collapsing gratefully on to chairs in the Strand Arcade and The Queen Victoria Building, which, sadly it turns out, does not contain the original Queen Victoria’s Secret. Now that would be a fun shop window to create. Or a nice catalogue. Banksy dig out the bloomers for the short middle aged mittel-European models in real Victorian underwear. Actually Terry Gilliam would do that very well. Perhaps we shouldn’t sell him after all. The offers have in any case been derisory and he is a funny man to have around. Last year Variety announced he was dead and we end our current show with a very funny picture of him he shot of his own deathbed and published on his website.

So Sir Limpalot continues and it turns out comedy is not the best medicine. Not doing it on the road anyway. The very essence of stand up is that you can at least stand up, and although we are billed as sit-down comedy, nevertheless we are required by the exigencies of our show to occasionally stand up.

I love Sydney and it’s people and have many friends here. The city has grown enormously since I first arrived in 1976 and I could easily live here. Last night the delightful Little Nell (Nell Campbell) wined and dined me with her lovely family and we reminisced about that first time when we all drove up to the Carrington Hotel in an old green Jaguar and Tim Street-Porter took amazing photographs of that long ago place. Tonight a bunch of friends are coming, and now I am obliged to get up and shave my legs because I am on New Zealand breakfast TV very shortly.

People keep asking me in hushed terms, reserved normally for divorcing couples “How are you two getting on?” And they’re not referring to the lovely missus, but to me and John. They seem surprised when I say “Great. We have terrific fun both on and off the stage.” But what about the Daily Mail they say, and I will ironically acknowledge that of course the Daily Mail knows better than the facts. They should. They make them up. The difference is that when it was first pointed out to me that the Daily Mail (I’m sorry to keep using bad language) was saying that John and I hated each other I immediately emailed John and we had a good laugh about it and compared notes and marvelled at the unhealthy monsters who write for it and their unpleasant motives. The fact remains that we are on the second leg (yes irony) of our second tour and we have had a ball. And we are even planning another. It’s fun sharing the stage with John. It’s fun touring with John. It shows on the stage and it shows off the stage. We have hilarious dinners, and we make the punters laugh. We have known each other 53 years. It’s some kind of a miracle to be back together again at last doing a show for the very first time. Der Daily Mail has a far reach when it comes to damage but always remember that malice is their motive and envy their God. And as we say in Rutland Weekend Television Futuaris Irrisus Redibis Est. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke….

Sydney.
On the flight from Perth to Sydney John and I were discussing the state of Python finances and we came to the conclusion that the only sensible thing to do was to auction off Terry Gilliam. Obviously it is sad at this stage of life to have to let someone go but if someone has to be sacrificed then better to let that be the one who was, at least partially, American. Of course he will be missed. Not by us obviously. But wherever there is trouble to be stirred, or budgets to be exceeded then there obviously he will be missed. And of course at this difficult time it is his family we feel for, because they still have to live with him.

Yes,it is a pity to break up a set, especially one so old and over valued as Monty Python, and you may indeed ask why anyone would want to buy Terry Gilliam in this difficult market, so to make it more enticing we are offering a set of stainless steel steak knives, a two week holiday in Rhyl, and a complete set of Michael Palin travel programmes. That should at least sweeten the pot, and we would like to point out that this is the first time any of the Pythons have come onto the market in recent times, and while they are old and in many ways useless, they do have a certain social cachet, they brighten up the living room, and make excellent conversation pieces. In addition Terry can draw, and let it be said very well, so in that sense he is a big draw. Offers please to the Python web site.

Sadly on the way to Sydney John and I both failed a drug test: we neither of us had any, so if there are any doctors in the area, please remember we somehow have to stand up and be funny at the State Theatre tomorrow (Monday) night, and again Tuesday and Wednesday.

We came whistling in from Western Australia on Friday evening, John cramped and uncomfortable on what is laughably called Business, but which for him is Torture Class. I attempted to tempt him to join me in the flesh pots of Sydney, but he very sensibly said he was going to rest. Unfortunately for me I was still in time to join the Mark Joffe weekly renewal class, which takes place at a place imaginatively called The Place, and which involves the consumption of vast amounts of alcohol, attractive young people, and a certain amount of pork. I am assured there was a great deal of hilarity and apparently I was tremendously funny but my mind was on higher things as my saintly wife was en route and arriving in the morning and it behoved me to get to bed before Dawn. In the event Dawn must have stayed in the taxi because the next thing I knew my long standing sweetheart the bride was hammering on my door demanding to be let in. And this I might add before 10 a.m. Shows what a nice man I am that I admitted her, but I shall draw a discreet veil as to just what went on during our marital renewal, let me just say eggs were involved.

The day passed very sweetly with me hobbling with her down Circular Quay to the Sydney Opera House, where we filmed a short video in front of the Pyramids, and sent it as a surprise contribution to an old friend who is either turning gay or sixty. I forget which. Let me just say that making travel documentaries does not seem to be all that demanding, and although the Pyramids seemed slightly more ovoid than pyramidal I do not see what all the fuss is about Michael Palin. It’s quite easy pretending to be nice on camera, and I may say I pulled it off effortlessly. Even my wife was surprised. And as they say if you can still surprise your wife after a hundred and eighty years then there’s nowt wrong wi Yorkshire lad. I’m not quite sure why they say that, or indeed what it means, but I am informed that this is so. Idle is a Yorkshire name, my father was a Yorkshireman and I am apparently entitled to vote for Geoffrey Boycott for something so I should know of what I speak. I should. Speaking of the legendary Yorkshire philosopher I am reminded of the many happy times spent in the Sebel Town House in the early eighties, with the perpetually thirsty David Gower and the unsatisfiable Ian Botham. Ah those happy nights, where I would emerge at lunch time with a raging headache to switch on the telly only to find the impeccable Gower thrashing a century before lunch. Happy Days.

So there we are. Our generous Promoter has given us another day off, and I shall probably spend it alternately eating eggs with the wife, yelling curses at my damned tendon and hobbling around the hotel. I may just have to have the entire leg off. It seems the only sensible, not to mention painless, way forward. May I wish you all a fairly decent Sunday, two healthy legs, eggs, and great joy in whatever churches or watering holes you find yourselves in. And always remember Terry Gilliam’s wise words: “Why me?”

Episode 16. Perth
“And pray that there’s intelligent life somewhere out in space

‘Cos there’s bugger all down here in Perth.”

The line comes to me at the sound check and I can’t resist risking it in the show. Mercifully they roar with laughter. It shows they know the real line and appreciate the local change. The audiences in Perth are very smart and very quick. We have another lot in tonight and then we turn our backs on the Indian Ocean and fly East once more to our two final cities of Sydney and Melbourne and then just like that, for us Australia will be over. I have grown very fond of it over the forty years I have been coming and it is amazing to see how enormously the cities have changed even in the eight years since I was last here. There is a multi-cultural confidence now, gone are the knee-jerk inferiority complexes of the sixties and seventies. This is a big world, growing fast, that is a far cry from the old Okker world of RSL’s and old men in clubs settling things privately.

I wake up at 6 with a big cloud hanging over the horizon and a fringe of distant rain patterning the pale peach of dawn. I am faintly depressed. Maybe anxious is more close to it. The show could not have gone better last night. A crowd of 2,400 gave us standing ovations, and laughed throughout the show, but one of the things I have been doing recently is reading through the audience questions and I find them vaguely depressing. Hard to explain why. Then an unkind tweet gets to me, when somebody says that John Cleese is much funnier than I am. Well duh, I’ve known that for 53 years. It’s not a competition it’s a doubles match. What makes the show fun for both of us is that having a partner on stage removes the anxiety and stress of being alone. We cover for each other, pick up cues, interject new thoughts… It’s a surprisingly easy partnership and we get along very well. We also observe each other on stage and almost never disagree. Last night we did the Bookshop stretch better than we have ever done it. We were tight and spot on. And we both noticed.

For a start we were both very relaxed, having had two days off. In my case I had acupuncture for my torn tendon and spent hours in the pool working out my dodgy ankle, so that by the start of the show I am feeling much better. Then we had two great dinners together, one at Kailis Bros in Leederville, and the other at the beautiful Matilda Bay Restaurant, which overlooks the water, during which Jupiter rose huge and golden as we dined. I always find the Universe comforting when humanity seems frustrating. The world does seem to be at least choosing which handbag it wants to go to hell in, and here in Perth the brash Kardashian Trump world of brazen bullshit all seems so very far away. Australians, too, seem grateful for being miles away from the horrible headlines and safer from the crisis of Isis and the insane threats of the mad Korean with the silly haircut, and as we have observed before Australians are very funny and have a great sense of irony. So why am I feeling anxious?

Well Michael White died yesterday, and even though I haven’t seen much of him for many years that is the breaking of a thread which leads all the way back to the Sixties when he picked up the Cambridge Footlights revue and took it to London, which meant that I received an urgent telegram in Berlin, where I was hitch hiking round Germany to return urgently to Cambridge for rehearsals to fill in for John Cleese and co at The Edinburgh Festival in August 1963. A big break for me, singing and performing in a wonderful show, and a great chance to experience audiences, and even appear on TV for the first time. Michael White also helped put together Monty Python and The Holy Grail, though he balked when I took him The Life of Brian. He did however put on my play Pass The Butler, at the Globe Theatre in the West End, directed by Johnny Lynn, and kindly ran it for several months, despite critical abuse, until the Falklands War put an end to all of that enjoying yourself nonsense, and the country could grow grim with war.

So what do I do about the tweet I felt bad about? Do I simply rise above it all, send the Twatter a rude tweet or just ignore it? It’s difficult for me to turn the other cheek. Usually I turn the other cheeky and hand out abuse. The most sensible thing to do is to take Peter Cook’s advice from Beyond The Fringe: “Put on the kettle and have a nice hot cup of tea.”

One cup of Lapsang Chousong later.

That’s better. If I don’t look on the bright side who the hell should? I always say I’m an optimist in the morning and a pessimist at night. So:  Reasons to be cheerful Part Deux. 

Firstly it is my son’s birthday and maddeningly even though he lives in Australia I’m on the wrong side of the Continent for it. However he is going to come and visit me in May. So Happy Birthday son, you brought light and love into my life and I’m grateful to your Aussie mum for giving you an Australian heritage and the chance to live in Queensland, where she was born.

  Secondly my wife is arriving in Sydney on Saturday and she is always very sweet on the road, supportive, thoughtful and very lovely. It does seem amazing we have been together for 39 years and though John snorts contemptuously that it reeks of lack of ambition to be still with the same woman, I am grateful to be with the gal I fell in love with at first sight in January 1977, a startled young Chicagoan whom I told I would never leave, and then stuck to like glue. Thanks Tania for all those years. It would be an understatement to say I can be a difficult bastard, but the great thing about having a wife is you only get to disappoint one woman. And women on the whole are nicer and far more forgiving.

So finally I went back and re read the tweet that had upset me last night and guess what, there are three other tweets from the same guy saying how much he loved the show, how singing along to the Bright Side was a highlight of his life and how grateful he was for the show. So there. It was my mood. It’s odd what we look for. Insecurity is never very far from the performer. Show me a man on stage without some self doubt and I’ll show you an asshole. And I do mean Donald Trump.

So now if this rain cloud will also pass I can get in the pool and have my acupuncture and not forget to laugh and smile and dance and sing.

There was a big response to the thank you letter I wrote to the wonderful David Bowie for lending me his house on Mustique. Here is another Doreen letter. A fax this time, thanking him for a Mediterranean cruise which he took us on with Iman, where we had a lot of laughs.

A Fax: To David

From: Eric, Tania and Doreen.

July 1991

      The chip pan hasn’t stopped frying once since we got back, Doreen has been that keen to take away the taste of all that mucky foreign food she’s sure we ate while we were abroad. “In foreign parts” Doreen calls it, with more than a trace of single-entendre. Mike was a Gourmet chef we told her but Doreen only snorted contemptuously and said Eydie Gorme was a singer and couldn’t cook to save a lobsters life. So its been beans, beans, beans,fry ups, bacon butties and chips with everything since notre retour.

      The snaps of the cruise came back from the Chemists and Doreen thinks Captain Jeff is a dish. What a hunk! He reminds her of an old boyfriend from Redditch, a motorcycle mechanic who was the fastest thing on a saddle, before being sadly crushed at a Slade Concert, in a sudden rush for the doors. Simon, she thought, an absolute treasure.

“If lips could talk I bet there’d be a volume in those.”

But the two girls worried her.

 “Girls at sea are so susceptible to sailors” said Doreen.
  “I know I was. And that was just in Birmingham, without all that rolling around on water.”    

Natasha, the English one, looked “a bit too nice”, and Doreen knows how fast nice girls can turn when in port, (or in sherry). As for the other girl, Eva, “Well” as Doreen put it delicately, “She’s not only foreign she’s a Dane, and look what Danish girls did to Hamlet. One went bonkers and the other was his mother!”

She’s had a soft spot for Hamlet ever since little Mel Gibson played the big Scandinavian schizophrenic with the heart of gold for that nice Italian gentleman, Signor Whatsirelli, as Doreen calls him. 

      She also liked the hunk below stairs, the blond boy from the Navy. She likes engineers, “they’re very good with their hands, and I bet he’s seen a porthole or two. So who’s the cuddly balding little feller?”

  “That’s Richard” I said,

“Uhm looks like Dick to me” she remarked obliquely.

And when I told her he was the mate, she said she wouldn’t mind mating with him any day; or the little dishy one, who looked like a young Gary Lineker. Such a nice boy, with a great pair of thighs.

“I bet he has natural ball sense.”

“Neil,” I said.

“I’d kneel any day” she said pouring another glass of Vino Huddersfield, on special offer from Tescos, with a label design by Prince Charles in aid of Save the Soviet Whales from Aids Trust. She wondered if the crew would like a nice pin-up of her for their quarters – she knows how sailors get.

“I was for a while Miss Redditch” she said.

And who, after all would miss Redditch?

    Doreen knows a thing or two when it comes to sailors. “I’ve had them up to here,” she said mystifyingly touching her armpits. In fact lets face it, she’s cruised Birmingham from top to bottom in her better days as one of the most popular Hotel Receptionists in the Midlands and also claims that when she was a Nurse she took part in one of the greatest ever Naval Operations of all time, at the Selly Oak Hospital, when Lt. Commander Ronson became Mrs Janet Twigge. Doreen claims to have held the scissors, and swears there is a video of the whole operation. But you can only get it if you sleep with Richard Branson, so that’s out.

      David she thinks looks far too thin, and as for that Somalian girl, well stand her sideways and you won’t know she’s there. Thin as a Polish couture rail. So she has offered to turn that pastry cook off the boat and come over for a couple of weeks of good old honest to God English puddings, spotted dick, jam roly-poly, semolina and toad in the hole, which Doreen swears she does as a “an after” with pineapple chunks to give it that Hawaiian flavour. She found the recipe in a copy of Yes Mum, her favourite magazine which is mainly pictures of the Queen Mum, knitting patterns and recipes for Gin pudding.

      She thinks she could do something with the boat, but honestly it’s going to take a lot of work. The decor is a disgrace in her view. There’s not a bit of dayglo on the ship and “you can’t have a cruise without raffia.” She would like to do the whole thing over again from stem to stern (and that Captain too given half a chance). She’d like to choose a motif for each floor, one layer orange, the next floor pink, the next Thames mud etc and use some really exciting vibrant materials to cheer up the place – she wonders if you like plaid, because they have some exciting new tartans coming out of Milton Keynes designed by the Duchess of York for Lyn Wyatt’s nouvelle Texan Palace and they look really great on a wall with antelope heads or zebra skin rugs. She also has her eye on some linoleum flooring which would replace that boring white carpeting that she says is so passé. Looks like a toilet paper commercial in her view.

“All that’s missing is the fluffy dog and the Andrex.”

Well you know our Doreen, how she gets after a couple of Babycham. She turned up her nose at the French champagne we bought at the airport at only seven times the normal price. Really they are bandits at the airport. I was compelled to pay ten pounds to use the toilet by a fat sweaty woman of middle-eastern origin, who was growing enough hair under her armpits to fill a duvet – I had nothing smaller and I was bursting. When I asked for some change she pretended not to speak a word of English. I ask you, and running a foreign toilet.

      Well David dear I must close, there has been a major pile up at Spaghetti junction – so must dash. Doreen wants some pictures. She’s doing a talk for the WI on Horrible Deaths, part of her work with the abled to help them cope with life.

      Next year Doreen suggests you take a nice English holiday for a change instead of always dabbling in foreign parts. “What’s wrong with Skegness for a couple of weeks? Or even Rhyll if you must go abroad?”

      She sends her love and suggests that your album cover would look great if only you’d put a nice pair of Y-fronts on that Greek boy. Some things are better left to the imagination she says…

           Love to all as ever,

Eric, Tania & of course Doreen.