Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [224]
I suggest that the only way really to ensure that a provincial theatre receives the credit and attention it deserves for pioneering new plays is to have a clause in the contract which says the play cannot be shown in London for a period of, say, eighteen months from its out of town opening. Then get Tom Stoppard, or some other London darling, to write a masterpiece, and for eighteen months the provincial theatres might be full of coachloads from Hampstead and Kensington.
Sunday, February 13th
Our croissants, duly delivered, slipped down a treat and, after breakfast and a quick check to see that Sheffield United had resumed their slide down the Second Division, I took all three children to the Holiday Inn for a swim.
Rachel ‘helps’ us all get dressed. She likes these sort of activities and supervises most efficiently – wandering up with various pieces of clothing which, if you are not exactly ready, she will drop in a puddle on the floor.
Monday, February 14th
It’s another splendid morning and I go down to Camberwell on the bus. It’s good to be able to pace one’s life, so that if I want to take an extra 30 minutes to get to Terry’s by bus I can. The walk at the other end is a slog, but on a day like this it’s all justified by the feeling of busy, buzzing London life all around. Faces in the sunshine. The river sparkling as we ride over Westminster Bridge.
Terry suggests a beer for lunch and we have a couple of pints at a rather unpleasantly refurbished Young’s pub beside Peckham Common. Sitting next to us are a very odd middle-aged couple, a little tipsy. They have two Pekinese dogs which they treat with affected bantering politeness. The woman licked pieces of chocolate before giving them to the dog and the man accused Terry of coming from Wrexham.
Wednesday, February 16th
To the BBC. Meet Jim Franklin and his PA Eddie Stuart. Jim Franklin, straight, direct, likeable, a special effects boffin, who lovingly describes how he yesterday shot John Cleese being run over by a bus with a flowerpot on his head for a Diana Rigg show.
We talk over attitudes to the shows. Should we have an audience on? Jimmy Gilbert pops his head round the door to say he wants to show it to an audience. When we ask why, he says ‘Because it’s funny.’
‘Well, then it doesn’t need an audience to tell people that,’ I counter.
‘I’ve heard that before,’ says Jimmy.
I wouldn’t worry, but he has an infuriating habit of being right.
Thursday, February 17th
Down to Camberwell on the bus again. An hour and a quarter door to door. Normal car journey: 35 minutes. Read Memoirs of George Sherston – a world away from Walworth Road in the drizzle. But then not as far away as one might think, for Sassoon is always detaching himself from the stereotyped county hunting image. He’s interested in people, really. And there’s a lot of them in the Walworth Road today.
A solid work day at Terry’s. By the time I left at five, ‘Eric Olthwaite’ felt in much tighter shape.
In to London to the studio, passing through Covent Garden on the way. Studios, galleries and smart new restaurants are sprouting daily now. The rush is on to be in the new trendy quarter of London, now that threats of large-scale demolition and ‘development’ seem to have receded. Once again feel that going in with Terry G on Neal’s Yard was one of the best things that could have happened to a lad with £70,000 to spend.
Drop in at Penhaligon’s to buy some of their aftershaves, which brighten up my mornings immeasurably. Talk with Sheila Pickles,1 who I think at first thought I was something the cat had brought in. I had on my Kickers with holes in, my jeans with holes in and my Fiorucci anorak with the hood up. And her shop is very smart.
Sheila promised to publicise my studio to her well-connected film friends. Zeffirelli apparently is working on the Life of Christ at such a slow rate that Python could still pip him to the post. He has to make it in