More Fool Me (33 page)

The private bank is open from 8.00–8.00 and can make any ‘arrangements’. If I want cash they bring it to me on a salver …

Came back to write with Hugh. He’s written a couple of fabulous songs lately. He left and I toddled to the Groucho for a meeting with Alex Hippisley-Cox (sic) a girl who will be doing the publicity for
The Hippo
. She likes the book, which is great. People at Hutchinson who’ve read it seem to think it’s better than
The Liar
, which is wonderful – if they’re right. Stayed on upstairs to watch Norwich beat Bayern Munich 2-1 … unbelievable. Wonderful stuff. A goal from Jeremy Goss that will live long in legend and song. Spike Denton, the Radio London film critic was there, and Rory McGrath and Charles Fontaine the owner chef of the Quality Chop House. Spotted Jethro and nipped off to do some rather decent coke I’m sorry to say. This is going to have to stop soon. Home at 2.00.

WEDNESDAY, 20 OCTOBER 1993

Up reasonably early to go to Doug Hayward, the tailor, for another fitting. The blue whistle and flute is emerging. Hugh was round a bit late, looking at new cars and tiles for my kitchen with his wife Jo who’s designing it, bless her from crown to toe.

Wrote during the day as usual, then stayed in till 10.00. Watched a video of Bill Humble’s
Royal Celebration
, which was directed by Ferdy Fairfax. Very good performance from Rupert Graves. Watched a vid. of Monday’s episode of
Cracker
, Robbie really is giving the performance of his life. Fabulous.

At 10.00 off to the Groucho, I’d agreed to play Perudo with Keith Allen for some programme he’s making in which he’s being followed around London for a day. Silly but fun. The cameras whizzed about us: God knows what they saw.

THURSDAY, 21 OCTOBER 1993

Voice Over at 9.30. With John Gordon Sinclair. He seems in fine shape. More writing with Hugh all morning and then at 7.00 I arrived at the Tallow Chandlers’ Hall for a Bowyer’s Dinner, guest of old John Perkins. Most extraordinary evening. Never been at a Livery Dinner before. A lot of City figures in ermine and gowns. Fairly clear that they would never otherwise have been able to earn the right to such accoutrements, for these were bears, so far as I could see, of very little brain. A lot of pompous people in spectacles for the most part. Simply dreadful. But Perkins is such a nice man. There was the whole business of the Loving Cup and so forth, and a load of exceptionally bad oratory.

Perkins had to be back in Norfolk, so we left round about tennish and I got dropped at the Groucho for a card game. Played poker with Griff and Rory and others for about three hours and ingested rather a lot of the old Bolivian marching powder.

FRIDAY, 22 OCTOBER 1993

Writing in the morning and afternoon. Quick pop off to the Grouch for supper. Had a long chat with Bob Mortimer of Reeves and Mortimer fame. Turns out they’ve got a signing gig tomorrow as well, also to Leeds, but at a different time. Bumped into Z, who is worried that his C habit has been going on for too long. Takes it during the day. Bad idea. Got home reasonably early a little chastened by the thought of Z, but cheered too, to think that I wasn’t in such a parlous state as he was.

SATURDAY, 23 OCTOBER 1993

Up earlyish for King’s X station. Train to Leeds, signing. Car to Sheffield, signing. Car to Nottingham, signing. The latter had such a big queue that it was as well that it hadn’t been the first or I would have been late for all the others. Lots of people, all very friendly. Think
Paperweight
in paperback is doing really well, which is so heartening. Home by half past nine. Watched a bit of telly, fell into bed sober and knackered after a heavy week.

SUNDAY, 24 OCTOBER 1993

Up at 11.00, which was really 12.00 because the clocks went back today. Spent the day preparing for the Palladium gig. This is a benefit for the Stonewall Group, part of the age of consent campaign which the Cambridge Union had been about as well.

Got to the Palladium round about half past six. Ian McKellen was organizing the affair and the usual suspects turned up, Jo Brand, Julian Clary, Pet Shop Boys and so forth. I had invited Christian Hodell to come along and mix with the merry throng. He seemed to enjoy himself mightily.

At the end of the show, walking to the party, I discovered my cab had gone from the street where it had been parked. Christ I hope it was towed away, not stolen. We strolled on Christian and I to the Edge in Soho Square. I took about an hour of it before the press of people finally wore me out and I walked home and tumbled into bed after a couple more lines and some diet coke. What an arse I am.
^*

MONDAY, 25 OCTOBER 1993

Before I go any further, I must register Gary Wilkinson’s 71 clearance to beat Steve James to a quarter final place in the Skoda Classic. I know this looks naff, but it was one of the great sporting contests. You, dear reader, will wonder why on earth I am going on about such a strange thing as snooker, but as the old saying has it, ‘you had to be there’. Four incredible hard final reds and an on-their-spot-clearance to follow. I was happy to witness such a moment.

Work with Hugh then lunch with Max Hastings at Wilton’s. Max arrived late, and at the neighbouring table while waiting I bumped into Don Black
^*
who was meeting John Barry, to whom I was introduced. Barry happens to be something of a hero, so I was v. excited to meet him. He turns out to be a very down-the-line Yorkshireman, weirdly thin fingers and hands, and very charming. Lots of gossip about Saltzman and Broccoli from the Bond days.

Max arrived and told me that if I demanded 200,000 a year he would happily pay me to provide a column. This is a strange position to be in. I could say ‘yes’ and 200 grand would be mine. We nattered about the Tories and he said that Major, whom he fairly regularly sees, is a paranoid figure who believes his current unpopularity is entirely down to a conspiracy of a) Thatcherite mavericks and renegades and b) media enemies. Even if Major is
right
this attitude should be hidden. A real leader would surely kick arse and establish himself? We also chatted about Lamont’s bitterness over his sacking. When it was time to leave the restaurant we discovered that Lamont was sitting at the neighbouring booth. Whoops! Don’t
think
he was listening. Max turns out to be genuinely anti-Murdoch. He thinks him a completely evil and appalling man. Why isn’t this made more plain in the pages of the
Telegraph
? Murdoch has announced his intention to destroy the
Telegraph
within the next five years.

Got back to the flat at 2.40 and wrote some more stuff, then Hugh left. Slept for an hour before driving off to Fulham for dinner with Matthew Rice and Emma Bridgewater, his wife. Chap called Jonathan Cavendish was my neighbour at table, he produced
Into the West
and
The Severed Bride
and so forth. Turns out he’s doing an Oscar Wilde movie with Alfred Molina. Bollocks. Home in time to watch video
Cracker
and
Film ’93.
Barry Norman wonderfully vituperative about
Dirty Weekend
, which is clearly drivel like every Winner movie. Time for bed.

TUESDAY, 26 OCTOBER 1993

Voice Over in the morning, just redoing the old Croft LBV port thing. Hugh and I worked again during the day and then at 8.00 I toddled over to the House of Commons to dine with an MP.

This man had written to me last month telling me how much he loved
The Liar
and inviting me to dine with him. Intrigued I accepted. But …

If this is the quality of MP that the Tory party is relying on then I am happy to say that they are not long for this world. Absurd looking man with the oddest manner you’ve ever seen. Sounds very ungracious after I have eaten his bread, but truly … Very right wing in a thoughtless, ‘I made it by the sweat of my brow’ kind of way. Anyway, went and had a line in the loo.
^*

WEDNESDAY, 27 OCTOBER 1993

Spent the morning being painted again by Maggi H. Not too clever at 8.30, but I warmed up and started to enjoy it. She finished off by doing two drawings of me asleep, which was wonderful! She is the most extraordinary woman. Her company is more stimulating than cocaine, but her gruffness of manner and hard glare are apt to frighten off those who don’t know that she has a heart of marshmallow. She would probably retch at me saying that. Being painted by a true artist is an extraordinary experience. She’s so
athletic
: all the time I heard the snap of breaking charcoal or the sweep of it on cartridge paper and the stamp of her feet constantly (and unconsciously it seems) readjusting her stance as, like an athlete or a cheetah, her body moved while her eyes and head kept deadly still.

Home via the Groucho, where I was supposed to meet Jethro. Unfortunately he was late, so I left without him or any C. Back at the flat Jo and Charlie were there, Charlie typed out a message for me on the computer and was generally a poppet. He’s five now. Weird to think that unless I top myself, OD or get run over by a bus, I’ll live to see him make 25.
^*

Tried to sketch up
^†
after they went, not easy. Went off to the Groucho again to meet Jethro … missed him
again
as I had to get back in time to meet Anthony and Sue F. for a dinner party to celebrate the delivery of
The Hippo
, which they really seem to like. I felt a bit odd, wine and ciggies tasted strange in the mouth.

They were interested in the planning and structure of the novel and I told them that I had been writing this diary through some of it and that it would show how late certain key ideas came to me … Simon’s role for instance and lots else besides. They genuinely didn’t believe me. ‘It must have all been in your head …’ Perhaps it was, but I was buggered if I could get it out, as a glance through September will show.

Bed at half past one. Too many armagnacs.

THURSDAY, 28 OCTOBER 1993

Up feeling v. queer. Simply not well at all. Fluey and peculiar. Lurched over to Gresse Street for a VO. Managed it somehow and then staggered back to receive Hugh for a day’s work. Not very capable for most of the day, but I managed to bang down a couple of sketches: slept for two hours on the sofa round about mid-day. That helped a little I suppose.

At six thirty I trotted over to the Paris theatre (just two minutes walk, God bless where I live) for the
News Quiz.
Me and Alan Coren v. Richard Ingrams and Peter Cook. Alan and I won convincingly, the biggest win of the series, 20 points to 6. Quite a lark really, I managed to say the word clitoris a number of times, which is always pleasing. Then struggled over to the Groucho to see if some poker and coke wouldn’t help push me out of my flu. Funnily enough it did. Won convincingly and we broke up at 12.30-ish, highly civilized. Met a fellow called, intriguingly and very Soho 50sly Nick the Basque. Home and asleep by 1.00.

FRIDAY, 29 OCTOBER 1993

Felt very bouncy and much improved by the time Hugh came round at 10.30. Worked and fiddled at sketches and then, at 6.00 Robin Hardy came round to go through the script of
Bachelors Anonymous
, the idea being to see if there was any chance of working out a rough and ready schedule. How many days shooting in France, how many in studio, how many on location, that kind of thing. Pleasant enough time chatting it through until 9.00. Then I bunged myself over to 2 Brydges Place for a dinner with Ian Brown,
^†
Alfredo
^*
and Cosmo Fry. Turned out that on Booker night Roddy Doyle and party had come over after the award to continue their celebrations. Then who turned up but Salman Rushdie?
On his own.
Highly risky you’d’ve thought.
^*

Pleasant dinner, followed by two rounds of Perudo. Then, bother it, it was 2.00 suddenly. And I have to be up at the crack tomorrow to take a train to Bath. Poo.

SATURDAY, 30 OCTOBER 1993

Struggled out of bed at 7.30 after three hours sleep, into a car driven by some maniac who wanted to tell me about his idea for a novel, ‘I asked if I could be given this job specially …’ I dare say I’ll hear from him again some time.

Was being towed around by a girl called Alex Lankester, who seemed very sweet; the usual pretty leggy thing that they employ for these gigs. That sounds very sexist but it can’t be a coincidence, surely? We arrived in Bristol and were met by a charming Reed Publishers rep called Andrew Whitaker. Snatched a cup of coffee in the Bristol Waterstone’s and went out to meet the queue. A lot of signing, but very friendly. The manager said it was a record attendance, most books sold in such a session ever.
^*
Gratifying. Then we went off to another Waterstone’s in Bristol where I was interviewed by a TV crew and signed some stock.

Then we drove off to Bath where the queue was
astronomical
, really wore my hand out. Two very strange psycho-fans turned up. Trembling, barely able to speak, one of them said ‘oh my God, I’m coming, I’m
coming.
’ Whoops. Finally got through it all, biffed off to W. H. Smith’s to sign some stock and then back to London.

Arrived at 7.00 in time to snadge over to 2 Brydges Place again for Kim’s birthday party. Highly agreeable. Chatted to Shawn Slovo
^†
a lot and to Jo Laurie and Kim and lots of other poppets. Greg was on excellent form and Hugh left at one point to pick up his nephew Hugh Lassen from the airport and bring him back on his motorbike. Rather snazzy for a 17 year old, I should imagine, being whisked through town on the pillion of a Triumph by your famous uncle. Left at 1.00-ish and tumbled tired but stupid, into bed.