Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [200]
A hot evening – doors and windows open all over Gospel Oak.
Thursday, July 1st
So far an excellent week for writing. On Tuesday I worked an almost unbroken seven-and-a-half-hour-stint typing, correcting, revising, sharpening and generally putting together the northern tale (‘The Testing of Eric Olthwaite’).
Talk to Gilliam at Neal’s Yard late Tuesday, where I’m having a fitting for the Dennis costume. He’s slightly worried, and so am I, that various actors are very keen to get in ideas of their own – which don’t exactly fit in with the spirit of the movie. Harry H Corbett wants his codpiece to be gradually enlarged throughout the film. Max Wall suggests putting small rubber balls in the end of the fingers of his gloves, so when he takes them off they bounce.
Down to Terry’s, revelling in the Mini sunroof, where we work on with ‘Curse of the Claw’.
The writing seems to come easily and the plot and story falls into place so well that by 4.00 we have completed a sixth Ripping Yarnl The third since we began writing again after New York – so that’s three half-hours in five weeks.
So I left TJ at 4.30; we don’t in fact need to write any more scripts until next year – and July will see us, for the first time, largely going our separate ways. And yet during this last spell of writing I’ve felt closer to TJ than at any time since before the Grail. I feel happy that the demarcation problems following on from Tomkinson have not, in any way, appeared to lessen our writing strength, or weaken our writing relationship. We’ve adjusted (or is it just me?) to our new work relationship and actually improved our personal relationship (or is it just me?).
From TJ’s to Anne’s. Whilst I’m there a phone call to say that the appeal judges in the US have just laid down a twenty-page judgement on the Python v ABC case, which is unequivocally favourable to Python. This sounds better news than we ever hoped for.
Saturday, July 3rd
Woke this morning determined to drink only moderately today. Failed hopelessly. No sooner had last night’s mixture of lager and cider seeped through my system than it was being quietly worked on by some very more-ish sangria at the Denselows.1 Helen and I and Rachel were round there for a lunch party, which turned into a very late barbecue.
An interesting split of guests between a large group of peaceful, rather bucolic folk, who turned out to live in a commune in Haverstock Hill. They sat indoors most of the time, whilst out in the blazing heat – near the drinks-were Robin’s media friends from Panorama, Bush House, The Guardian, etc.
The communites were amicable, but tended to talk about ‘cosmic awareness’ and ‘waves of communication responses’. I find unless you know a little of their terms of reference, it’s hard to climb aboard their thoughts. But a man called Ian, who was a sort of translator-figure for them, was very chatty and asked us along any time. He said he was in charge of security.
Tuesday, July 6th
Off to some bookshops and then over to Professor Dr Powell for what turns out to be quite a tough piece of surgery on my back left lower teeth, which have been giving me trouble over the last two months. Powell digs deep and furiously. It’s the first surgery since 1972 and he certainly is thorough over it. It’s stitched and I experience with a stirring of nostalgia the taste of the dressing over my gums.
I drive from Powell’s over to Shepherd’s Bush. Join about fifty others in the tiny Bush Theatre to see Blood Sports by David Edgar.
I only stay for the first hour – but saw an actor, Simon Callow, who I think would be excellent for RSM in ‘Across the Andes’ – because I know the injections are about to wear off and the tooth (or what’s left of it) will start hurting.’Bone just melts away in your mouth,’ was one of the encouraging things Powell had said as he levered and drilled and scraped away at my jaw.
Well, it did begin to hurt. Hardly slept