Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [245]
Thursday, August 25th
A phone call from Tariq Ali, of all people, who wants me to write an appreciation of Groucho Marx, who died this week aged 86, for Socialist Challenge. Decline on the grounds that I don’t know enough about him, and suggest Ian Davidson. But Tariq doesn’t sound very interested – they’re really only after big names, these socialists.
Saturday, August 27th
A fine morning for Clive Hollick’s wedding party at Shepperton. We all drive over there in our Saturday best. The Old House is a perfect location. Tables have been set out on the verandah and the rich green lawn (well watered this year) stretches away, dominated by the great cedar tree. A band from Ronnie Scott’s plays, there’s sparkling wine and a buffet. Croquet and cricket on the lawn.
Don’t know many people, but Simon A is best man, resplendent in white suit and hat, dark blue shirt, blue tie and shoes. Looking like the Young Burl Ives. A best woman there as well, as it is a very egalitarian occasion. Simon tells some of Ronnie Scott’s old jokes, but they are rather borne away on the wind.
The Old House really is a remarkable relic of the days when film moguls built themselves headquarters which were as extravagantly theatrical as the films they made. As I wandered through it, marvelling at the richness of art nouveau plasterwork and fine stained glass windows, I felt a definite twinge of remorse that I was one of the four people who confirmed the decision to lease it off for 999 years to Ramport Ltd. Still, I rationalised through my glass of Veuve de Vernay, they will have much more money to look after it than we will.
Sunday, August 28th
Down to Dean Street in Soho for my postponed day on Eric’s Rutles film All You Need is Cash. They’re not ready, so I wander into Soho Square, which is a peaceful refuge and very quiet today without cars or bustle. A few tramps sitting or lying on the benches.
We end up shooting in Golden Square, near Piccadilly. I’m playing the part of Eric Manchester (Derek Taylor), who is being interviewed and giving confident denials about the ‘petty pilfering’ at Rutle Corps – whilst behind him the entire building is being emptied. George Harrison – complete with grey wig – interviews me. Later Ronnie Wood turns up to be a Hell’s Angel.
It all seems very pleasantly disorganised. The cameraman/director Gary is American. He shoots everything hand-held. It’s a totally different world from the careful, painstaking preparations of Hall and Franklin on Ripping Yams.
A lunchtime drink in a quiet, uncluttered pub in Poland Street with Neil I, Eric, Ronnie Wood and George H. But only minutes after saying how nice it is to be in Soho on a Sunday, we’re kicked out as it’s two and drinking-up time. England, oh England, you perverse and silly land.
Back home for a wash and then out to Richmond at the invitation of Ron Wood. He lives in one of the prime sites in all London. On top of Richmond Hill, with a view over the Thames as it curves round and away into the trees.
Ron is living with wife Chrissie and Jess, their son, in the cottage down the hill from the main house. It’s a pretty little cottage, not too vast, and makes a change from the usual cavernous rooms and feeling of aimless spaciousness which pop stars with lots of money usually seem to live in.
He plays a tape of their most recent concert – at a small club in Tokyo, the same club where Margaret Trudeau’s1 friendship with the Stones was first noticed by the press. They played the club unannounced – everyone had come to hear a popular local band.
Anyway, after watching the sun swell and turn from yellow through orange to crimson before sinking triumphantly below the western horizon, we walked down to the cottage and drank wine and Chrissie Wood showed me round the big house and we looked out at a truly stunning