Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [58]
It was about 10.00 when I saw Terry in his room. He was sitting in a wicker chair, he seemed composed, reflective and rather distant. I clasped him around the shoulders. He said he was happy just to ‘sit and think about her’. Graham and I left, and went next door to the Klosterl, for a meal with Alfred, Thomas and Justus [our cameraman]. Not a great meal. Back to the hotel at about 11.30.
A note from Al was stuck in my door. ‘Terry’s mother died at 9.20. He has gone to sleep with the aid of a sleeping pill.’
For a moment I felt a strange stifling surge of sadness. My eyes welled with tears and for a few moments the news hit me really hard.1
Wednesday, October 4th, Munich
In the hotel I was waylaid by Madame, offering me a bottle of brandy as recompense for being thrown out of my room last Saturday. I didn’t accept it, but did drink a couple of schnapps with her, and listened to her problems – which seem infinite, ranging from lack of sleep to lack of guests. She seems an unhappy lady intent on making herself more unhappy.
Little time for a bath and a dollop of Yardley’s Black Label Talc, before being collected by my driver for the last time, and taken to the end-of-filming party at the Alter Wirt Gasthaus in Grunwald. He was in a sharp suit and seemed to be positively sparkling with anticipated pleasure.
NB: An important clue to the somewhat enigmatic character, whose driving has so often filled me with fear – he and his wife perform in blue films. Felt less afraid of him when I heard this.
Thursday, October 5th, Munich
A clear, crisp, cold clinical day. Paid my £40 phone bill. The lady at the hotel shared with Monika2 this impression of distant suffering – both had an air of melancholy about them. I wonder if this is to do with the German past. Ostensibly, and materially, more people in Germany seem to enjoy better conditions than in England – the economic recovery from the war has been massively successful. I should imagine that the psychological scars must run deeper.
Must read more German novels – for here if anywhere is a chance to try and prove Solzhenitsyn’s point that art and literature are the only spiritual ambassadors between countries. Will re-read Gunter Grass’ Tin Drum.
Flew back to London with John and Eric. John is a good travelling companion in so far as he is nearly always recognised by stewards and stewardesses who pamper him blatantly; and Eric and I were able to catch a little of this reflected blandishment.
Monday, October 9th
Today I am about to earn £850. This is more than Helen earned in a whole year as a professional teacher.
For this £850 I am required to perform two 15-second commercials for Hunky Chunks. The make-up is poor, the studios of TV International in Whitfield Street are shabby – so why this money? Well firstly because Quaker Oats, the client, make so much profit from selling their foods that they can afford to throw away £850, and secondly because the bait has to be very tempting to make self-respecting human beings, let alone actors, talk about ‘The moist, meaty dog-food that contains more concentrated nourishment than canned dog-food.’
So I sold my soul for £850, and was made to squirm for it. The first ad was done outside in the street with me, a crate of dog-food and a camera. Who should come along as I was recording, but David Jason who lives nearby. He and John Cleese (who was working on the same Hunky Chunks series) hid in a doorway and peered out at me in the middle of a take.
Sunday, October 15th
Thomas and I and William returned from a walk on the Heath to find hordes of policemen in about half a dozen assorted vehicles, milling around Richard and Christine’s house on the corner of Oak Village. In