Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [264]
This morning we had a read-through of everyone’s rewrites. Terry and I may have had the easiest part of the script, but our work was mostly accepted and approved. John and Graham had worked on the second section, which was stretched out painfully in certain areas – Eric reckoned 25% of it was superfluous. John took this well. He has remarked in several beachside chats last week on how unselfish we all are with our material.
Keith Moon, who arrived here last night – with a formidable effect – hove to, walking up the beach from the Colony Club and bearing a bottle of champagne. He generously splashed this around and we all got very sandy and talked of Shepperton and Malibu. Keith is planning to have a suite built for himself in the Old House at Shepperton. He has positive ideas about the place – including a cricket pitch on the lawn. ‘And football for the roadies,’ he adds.
He’s lived out of England for three years and has saved a large chunk of tax-free money as a result. He bought a house in Malibu Beach, for $325,000, and since then a law has been passed banning sale of any more building land in this sought-after piece of California. All of which is great for Moonie, who is hoping to get one million for his house. It’s next door to Steve McQueen and Herb Alpert. Judging from Keith’s stories Mr McQueen at least will be glad to get rid of him – Keith woke the McQueen household up at four a.m. on his last birthday, trying to score coke from McQueen junior and barking at their dog.
After this jolly beach banter Terry and I set to work rewriting some of this morning’s rewrites. JC and Graham were doing the same, but when I went out into the garden where they were working there was no sign of Graham – just a very aggravated JC, who muttered angrily that he had to spend three-quarters of the time explaining the plot to Graham and that he was absolutely no help at all.
Graham has just knocked on my door, as I write this, to say that Des O’Connor is coming to dinner. We have decided to try and invite someone every evening. We have scoured the island for Harry Secombe, only to hear that he’s left. Marty Feldman cannot be traced, though he’s supposed to be here, as is Michael Caine. Maybe Des can throw some light on this tonight.
Des excels at charades and Keith and Graham do a very good double act and it’s after one before I’m off towards bed.
And even then, a rather maudlin Keith M appears in my room and I offer him some Glenlivet and he talks morosely and not immodestly about his ‘talent’ and how important the Odd Job film1 is, as if wanting some reassurance. He’s been a hit with all of us – less destructive, more gently jolly and humorous than I’d anticipated.
He takes himself and his wondrous Turnbull and Asser gold-trimmed dressing gown off along the beach to the Colony Club. It’s nearly two o’clock.
Wednesday, January 18th, Barbados
Terry J is the only other one who takes any pre-breakfast exercise. He ran with me one day, but now only swims. We compare notes about the sea-lice content of the Caribbean. These invisible creatures are felt, usually in the mornings, as very minor electric shocks along the arms and legs.
I’ve been reading a little about the instigator of this 1947 classical gem -Sir Ronald Tree. Mr Tull1 obviously admired and respected Tree a great deal. He has lent me his own, well-thumbed copy of Tree’s book Wlien the Moon is High.
Tree bought Ditchley Park, a 1720 Gibbs house near Charlbury in Oxfordshire (there’s a neat tie-up with eight weeks ago). In the early years of the war, Churchill’s house at Chequers was considered to be at risk from enemy bombing on well-lit, cloudless nights. On these occasions Churchill