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Ford doesn’t like Barry Norman, for the same reasons, I think, that Peter Noble doesn’t – they find him too critical of the industry. I think this is his greatest quality – and a vital antidote to the ‘everything in the garden’s lovely’ attitude of Noble. But he conceded that it is a good idea, but maybe next March when we’re all smart and the new signs are up.

He completely missed my point that when we need them is now – so that we don’t have to pull any wool over anyone’s eyes. We have a full and thriving studio, which is good, but we also have the problems of a studio trying to heave itself out of a depression which was, four years ago, almost fatal. This is the first time I’ve felt seriously at odds with the competent G Ford. I was disappointed at his lack of imagination.

Wednesday, November 16th

The weather has settled down, after the frantic activity of the last week it’s raw, cold and dry. The gales seem to have blown themselves out.

There’s been a flurry of activity this week from Jimmy, Jim Franklin and others to try and ‘firm up’ Ripping Yarns or ‘Palins’, as Jimmy insists on calling them and, after their offers today, the nearest thing I have to a future now looks like stretching until the end of 1979 at least.

Friday, November 18th

My hopes of going into writing retreat at Charney Manor – beautiful house, Quaker-run, therefore lots of peace – are dashed. It’s full.1 After much phoning, end up at the Bell Inn, Charlbury.

A two-hour Shepperton board meeting. I suggest that Film ‘77 be approached. Clive very enthusiastic and the board authorises me to get in touch.

Saturday, November 19th

Fine, fresh, very cold day for William’s seventh birthday. Tremendously excited (both Willy and Tom). William is up from a quarter to seven until midday before he even realises he’s only got pyjamas on.

At two I drive up to Hampstead to open the Red Cross Bazaar (in lieu of Terry J, who’s in Tunisia). A crowd (small) of mostly old ladies, who wouldn’t know me from Adam, huddle against the cold, outside the locked door. ‘Let us in,’ they beseech me. But the Red Cross won’t open their doors until two, so the queue shivers. It’s all rather pitiful.

I give a short opening exhortation, then everyone gets stuck in at the bargains. At a quarter to three I run an auction, and by three I’m out – profusely thanked and presented with a gun (toy) to take to William for his birthday. I can hardly say ‘a gift from the Red Cross’ as I give him this device for blowing people’s heads off.

Willy’s birthday party is more an exercise in crowd control – nine highly excited nippers, apart from Willy, storm the house and hold us besieged for two hours. William very cleverly avoids most of the shindig – and tucks himself away upstairs to lay out his pressies.

As quickly as they have come, they’re gone. The hurricane has passed through and Helen and I slowly pick up the pieces.

Sunday, November 20th

Chop wood for the fire and clear up in preparation for lunch party. Ron Devillier, of Dallas, Texas, the man who finally got Monty Python onto American TV, is in town, got in touch, and I’ve invited him for lunch with Mary, Ed and Catherine.

Ron is now the buyer for the entire PBS network and is based in Washington. Big, bearlike, bearded, with a wide, generous, easily smiling face, Ron is immensely and immediately likeable. Though he does wield power and influence, he still comes across as an almost boyish enthusiast.

Over lunch he tells the true story of Python in the US. In 1972 Ron was in New York. ‘It was raining, and I had nothing to do,’ was how he started the tale. So Ron rang Wyn Godley of Time-Life Sales and asked if there was anything at all left for Ron to view. Wyn looked at his lists and said there was a BBC comedy show called Monty Python, but everyone who’d seen it had rejected it. Ron was a little intrigued, and it was a filthy day, so he went over to see it.

It was Monty Python’s ‘Montreux’ episode. Ron liked it. Took a copy back to Dallas, looked