More Fool Me (35 page)

Then the music drama itself. An absolutely knock-out production by Graham Vick, with Bernard Haitink on unbelievable form in the pit. Just sensational. Thomas Allen a fabulous Beckmesser, possibly the best acting performance in London at the moment, never mind the singing. And John Tomlinson a sensationally dignified and wonderfully voiced Sachs. Oh, I can’t tell you Daisy dear, the best evening I’ve had in years and years. One forgets just what a great man Wagner was. This was Art, this was total magical real uncompromising Art. Genius is, I’m afraid, the only word. Unparalleled genius.

We stumbled out into the light and headed for Orso for our dinner. Ned Sherrin was there, natch, chatted to him awhile and chewed the fat. I tried to explain to Hegel to Johnny: he said it was fascinating but that he knew he would forget every detail of it the moment I had stopped speaking. I know what he means. That’s why I love talking and teaching: the act of reproducing ideas out loud reinforces them in the head. If, every time you read a complex book or idea, you had to explain it to someone else, you’d never forget it.

We shogged back to my place a little drunk and stayed up for hours. Johnny stayed in the spare room and I fell into bed, unable to sleep till way past four.

TUESDAY, 9 NOVEMBER 1993

Woke Johnny at 8.15 and fell back to slumber. Dimly remember J. bidding me farewell. Jo forwarded me a letter to tell me that a set had become available in Albany. Then other Jo, Jo Laurie, rang to say that I had to go round a bed shop in Chelsea with her to choose 5 new beds for West Bilney. She turned up in a cab with Hugh. Hugh went in to work and I zipped off with Jo.

In an hour I spent £11,750 odd quid on some beautiful beds and six hundred quid on material to upholster one of them. Stunning stuff though.

Then back, through terrible traffic (State visit of TM the King and Queen of Malaysia or somesuch) to the flat. Hugh stayed for a while and then went off to interview a headmaster for the boys’ prep school. I rang the secretary of the Albany trustees and arranged to see it this afternoon. Set up a meeting too with Jethro at the Grouch at 5.00.

Messed about, then the copy-edited proofs of
The Hippo
arrived and I went through them. Off to the Albany next. I think the set has great potential. I’d need to redecorate quite substantially. Definitely an exciting prospect. No children, no dogs, no noise, no publicity are their rules.

Then to the Groucho for an hour or so: scored a couple of grams off Jethro and popped upstairs for a wine-tasting, which was charming. Back home to meet one Sir Peter Ratcliffe, who is in charge of the charity for which I’m speaking at the premiere of
The Man Without a Face
next week. He told me all the stuff about the evening and when I was to make my address. ‘The Prince of Wales is
delighted
that you are speaking …’ all that sort of thing. I’m going to have to be rather good I fear.

Then to the Groucho again, bit more wine-tasting and down Old Compton Street to the Ivy, where I was due to have dinner with Tomasz Starzewski. There was a sign on his doorbell which said ‘9.10 Stephen … gone to the Ivy.’ This rather confused me as my watch assured me that it was only 8.30.

Toddled to the Ivy, no sign of the man. Then he turned up. The sign was left over from yesterday … doh! He thought he had arranged to see me on Monday … in fact it was definitely Tuesday. Anyway, no harm done. Charming evening, all well. He lent me
The Witkiewicz Reader
. Back home by one ish. Read in bed.

WEDNESDAY, 10 NOVEMBER 1993

Somehow an incredibly busy day on the phone. Sorting out the Perudo evening on the 17th, who’s to be on my table, that kind of thing. Also, I have taken the more or less momentous decision to go for the Albany set that I saw yesterday. A lot of work needed: forward Jo Laurie and her team, but it could be something, I think.

Rang around the place trying to get references for the Albany Trustees. Banker plus two personal. Tried to get hold of Charles Powell, but he’s all over the place, obviously. Managed to get John Birt’s secretary: she said he’d ring back … which he did pretty quickly. Frankly, whatever else they say about him, he’s always been an absolute poppy to me. Spoke to Carla and she invited me to a black tie dinner she’s holding in honour of Colin Powell, the US Chief of Staff during the Gulf War. She’s a firm friend and is inviting just about everyone in the world, so I’m
rather
honoured. What a couple.

She told me an
extraordinary
thing. Paul Johnson, whom I’ve only met twice (and on both occasions he has been rather scowly), and Carla were in their Catholic church this morning, Carla to pray for Nicky her son, who’s having a brain scan (‘too much bonking, darling. I know it. He’s my beautiful son, but he does bonk too many girls.’) and Paul because he’s
always
in there apparently. Paul said that his wife Marigold, who was with him at the Saatchi’s lunch on Sunday, is a great fan of mine and would love to get to know me better. Paul, on the other hand, when Carla told
him
that she liked me too, growled ‘But he’s a socialist, isn’t he?’ To which Carla promptly replied, ‘but so were you darling, when you were his age!’ Paul then agreed and said that they should pray for my deliverance from socialism. So. Carla and Paul Johnson get down in a Catholic church in London and pray for me to be converted to Conservatism. Most peculiar.

Carla was howling with laughter as she told me: well, she’s Italian and has a splendid attitude to everything. Dear me, however.

Anyway, she thought Charles would be delighted to write a reference for me. He’s a busy man however, so I might get a back up reference from Max Hastings.

Managed to write a small sketch: Hugh was away all day on a recce for his commercial. Then I turned to the copy-edited version of
The Hippo
. This has to be in today in order to get the thing fully done in time for proof copies to be out in December. The copy editor (Hugo de Klee … splendid name) has done an excellent job I think. Somewhat pernickity about the shooting scene, but very attentive. So I spent three or four hours going through that and reminding myself of it.

Six o’clock and off to the Savoy to meet Kim before the first night of
Eurovision
.
^*
We sat and supped Old Fashioneds, said ‘hi’ to Neil Tennant and Julian Lloyd-Webber and others who were there then toddled to the theatre. Jo in attendance, waiting for Hugh, whom she hadn’t seen all day. He fetched up at last, having forgotten all about it and only realized when he had got home and found Melissa their nanny baby-sitting.

The show was about the campest thing you could ever imagine. In fact, not very good. Made tolerable only by one astonishing performance from an actor called Julian Dreyfus.
^*
One to watch without question. The whole ‘drama’ was incredibly amateurish and lumpen in structure. Some excellent farce scenes involving, of all things, the ghosts of Hadrian and Antinoüs, but somehow it was all a bit stupid. It won’t appeal that much to gay audiences because they will have seen it all before at Madame Jo Jo’s and a million nightclubs and gay theatre happenings up and down the country. The person in our party who enjoyed it most, as it happens, was Jo Laurie. She didn’t like it when it started going on about love in the second act, however.

The Ivy afterwards for dinz. I coked up in the loo, which I have no doubt Hugh and Jo noticed. Oh dear I am an arse. I expect there’ll be what I believe is called an ‘intervention’ soon. I keep picturing it. All my friends bearing down on me and me denying everything until my pockets are emptied. Oh the shame. Lots of wine and coffee and home by quarter to one. Then stupidly sat and gazed at the TV while doing the crossword and chopping more lines. Bed by half past two. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

THURSDAY, 11 NOVEMBER 1993

Poppy day, seventy fifth anniversary thereof. A day for sitting at home and working. Bad news popped in. The legal secretary of TVS who own the lease on the set in Albany rang up to say that there was a first-comer who has now definitely expressed an interest and she feels duty bound to give him first crack of the whip. Poo. I’ve amassed a startling collection of references, however. One from Sir Charles Powell, one from John Birt and one from Max Hastings. All very splendid. Charles begins his with the typically, but lovably, pompous ‘Gentlemen …’ Heigh ho. Unless this chap pulls out at the last moment or can’t get the right references, it looks as though I shall have to wait more.

Car came at sevenish to take me to the studios for a
Clive Anderson Talks Back
. Bamber Gascoigne was another guest, plus a chap who gives (and is a walking example of) body piercing. He had studs in his tongue, a massive spike through his septum, one through his lower lip, nipple rings, and, though this was never shown, a Prince Albert. Crumbs. I think I was alright. A very startling reception from the audience, who appeared to be delighted to see me. Much whooping and cheering. Very gratifying, but I should imagine intensely irritating to the TV audience. Spoke a bit about the horse scene in
The Hippo
and about politics. Did my ‘family values’ stuff, rather hard-hitting but well received from the audience.

Shifted it from the London Studios to the Groucho for a poker game. Griff and Bob (Ringo) and an actress called Caroline. She was very sweet but introduced a game called Anaconda which all but wiped me out. First time I’ve lost that heavily for years. That’ll teach me. Much of cocaine. Bed at Two.

FRIDAY, 12 NOVEMBER 1993

Up very early for a voice over. It was in Oxford Street so I shopped at M&S afterwards. Back for Hugh, some sketch writing and normal business and then I popped at seven round to Quaglino’s for dinner with Alfredo and Patrick Kinmonth an old school chum whom I’ve only seen twice in the last twenty years. He’s a splendour, however. Painter and now theatre designer. Very talented, very sweet. Had a good dinner, courtesy of Patrick who has Quag’s luncheon vouchers, part payment for decorating one of the pillars in the main dining area.

Back to my place for chat. I disappeared into the loo every ten minutes but they didn’t seem to notice and popped off at 3.00; I knew it was okay because for the first time in ages I could sleep in on Saturday as much as I liked.

SATURDAY, 13 NOVEMBER 1993

Awoke at 12.20 feeling much refreshed. Went out and bought some videos at Tower Records, shopped a little at Fortnum’s and then came back to eat and watch telly. Bliss. First time in ages. At six thirty off to the Lauries’ for dinz. Kim and Al and Nick and Sarah. Good fun. I eschewed coking up in their loo, I know they know and I know it upsets them. Home at half past one.

SUNDAY, 14 NOVEMBER 1993

A very busy day spent completing the
Spectator
diary for next week and writing the speech for the film premiere on Tuesday. Eventually got it all done and then watched a bit of telly before packing and cabbing it to Euston station for the sleeper to Dundee.
^*
Drank a bit of Scotch and ate a couple of sandwiches.
Huge
mistake. For some reason it gave me the horriblesty pangs of indigestion you can imagine. Bloody nuisance, acid gnawing inside me and the train hammering through the night. Very little sleep.

MONDAY, 15 NOVEMBER 1993

Next stop Dundee station at five minutes to six. Absolutely bloody freezing on the platform and the train was ten minutes early, so I had to hang around until my welcoming party arrived to take me off to breakfast. The w.p. consisted of Jim Duncan (the Rector’s Assessor), Ayesha the President of the Student’s Association (DUSA) and Dougie the Senior Vice President. Amiable people. Ayesha is actually rather stylish and splendid, the best of the three I’ve known so far. I’m sure she could
walk
into any job as a researcher for Clive Anderson/J. Ross that kind of thing. Sweet and bubbly. Not a fool either.

Back to Jim’s house, as is traditional, to consume a large breakfast cooked by his dear wife Hilda. Lots of orange juice, black pudding, bacon and so forth. Then there was the usual hour or so of sitting and chatting, catching up with whatever issues are prevalent in the University (none really at the moment, thank God) before our first ‘visit’. I’ve instituted this custom whereby I’m shown round a couple of different departments of the university every Court day. Bit Prince of Walesey, but they all seem to like it, and I find it ‘absolutely
fascinating
’.

Actually we stopped off at Ayesha’s digs on the way because she had promised her flatmates that I would pop round. They were still in bed as it happened: a couple, blond and gorgeous and tousled and studenty. So sweet. Had a coffee while they degrogged. First port of call was the Accountancy and Business School. Not very exciting you might think, but Bob Lyon the dep. head was amiable and so were all the staff. Met a gang of absurdly UN international graduates: from Sri Lanka, Saudi, Bangladesh, that sort of thing. The computer whizz, a splendid hairy faced wonderment called Roz showed me the computers and we did some internetting, trying to chase a Douglas Adams thread. Coffee in the staff room and more chatting before we slid over to the school of Politics and Social Policy. Very amiable bunch of people. Nothing actually to
see
there, unlike visits on previous occasions to other departments where one can goggle at medical equipment, labs and so forth, but nonetheless a charming group of people. Rather left-leaning which is rare for Dundee. Charles Kennedy and George Roberston both products of that school, I believe. They weighed me down with books and pamphlets.

Midday now and time to visit the Principal, Michael Hamlin. Not looking too good: bit of fluid retention under the chin and puffiness about the eyes. Not a well man, I fancy. He’s retiring at the end of the year. We chatted for three quarters of an hour, he calling me ‘Simon’ as usual.