Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [139]
As we walked back to Ron’s car and drove down towards the railway bridge, I reflected on how much more far-reaching an event had taken place here than the great and utterly anti-climactic triumph of America – the landing on the moon. The ‘60s and the ‘70s are notable for their disasters, not their triumphs.
American Airlines flight to NY. At La Guardia, as I wait for our luggage, with my armadillo’s explicit and rather white rear end sticking out from under my arm, a heavily furred and expensively coiffed American lady drawls at me, ‘Where d’you get that?’ I explained I was given it by some friends in Texas. She obviously couldn’t comprehend this … ‘Well, I’m from Texas and I wouldn’t have given you a thing like that.’
We are spared the Essex House Hotel again and stay instead at the Navarro, also on Central Park South. This is a smart, pleasant hotel, which is mercifully not part of a chain. A comfortable suite – this time on the 12th floor and overlooking Central Park.
. I have a bath and, feeling greatly refreshed and looking forward to an evening with no interviews, TV phones to answer or any promotional activity of any kind, skip through the NY Sunday Times, and then down to the bar to meet Nancy. But the day is not to end totally pleasantly, for Nancy is suddenly recognised by Kit Lambert, manager, or ex-manager, of The Who (whose film Tommy opens in NY on Tuesday). He shouts, there is much embracing as of old friends, and he joins us at our table. He is quite obviously in an emotional state. Though he is clearly aware that we are all listening, he seems anxious to hire Nancy to work for him and offers her £1,000 a day. Nancy laughs it politely away and remains noncommittal. But Lambert has an even less tolerable friend, an English accountant, who laughs gratuitously and ingratiatingly at Lambert. He tries to chat up the waitress and makes a thoroughly unpleasant mess of it.
A young boy arrives, sits quietly and eyes the decaying Lambert with a mixture of disappointment and disgust. After a half-hour that seems like a lifetime, the festering and smouldering atmosphere is relieved by the arrival of a girl, who is also English and clearly has the unenviable task of fixing dinner for this frightful threesome. After an hour, they leave. I had warmed to Lambert in the meantime. At least he sounded bright – he reminded me of the hero of Lowry’s Under the Volcano, with often flashes of a brilliant display of knowledge – of languages, literary references, etc. And so it didn’t come as a great surprise to hear from Nancy that he is a brilliant failure. He is suing, or being sued by, The Who, who now clearly try and avoid him. He has a self-destructive urge, which takes the form at present of regular over-indulgence in cocaine and alcohol – and from his face (a handsome face) and general bearing, it looked sadly as though he was doing a good job of it.1
Monday, March 17th, New York
Back to promotion with a vengeance today.
A photographer was trying to get some zany photos. ‘Could you all lie on the bed as if you’re dead, please? “No,’ was the easiest and most painless reply. Once again we have to go into our spiel about not doing zany pictures. It now sounds like some sort of religious thing – like Jews not eating pork. But in the end we used the armadillo a lot and that seemed to keep him happy.
Down to the bar for lunch and a drink with Rik Hertzberg and friend from the New Yorker. We ate looking out over Central Park South and the very well-heeled class of persons passing by. Definitely one of the world’s superior sidewalks. At one point a man came in and shook us all by the hand.