The second event took place on a freezing winter’s day in the grand old house Luton Hoo, former seat of the Marquesses of Bute and latterly the diamond magnate Julius Wernher, much of whose famous Fabergé collection was stolen from the house in a daring motorcycle raid. I was using it (some time after this burglary) as a location for scenes for the film Bright Young Things, an adaptation of Evelyn Waugh’s second novel, Vile Bodies. I tentatively asked Johnny one day whether he would consider playing the part of Old Gentleman at a Ball. He immediately consented. I explained that what I wanted him to do in his scene was to spot Miles, a fey young man played by Michael Sheen, apparently taking a pinch of snuff from a small silver box. Miles would offer the old gentleman a pinch of this ‘snuff’, which was peculiarly white for milled tobacco, and then resignedly allow him to take more and more in odd moments when we returned to them as the ball progressed. Johnny was very excited to be playing his first drug scene so late in his life and took it, as he did all his work, very seriously. Though just about stone blind and in a large chilly house, he asked for nothing extra. We had made up a small interior tent for him, however, which we furnished with a day bed and five-barred electric heater.
A few years later Johnny lay dying in a new house in Denham Village (The Gables I think it was called), up the road from Hills House, where they had spent so many years. I went to visit him. He had a chest infection and couldn’t really speak, but I sat and held his hand. I had brought with me an iPod, on which I had uploaded as many Noël Coward numbers as I could find. He was dressed, as he liked to be, in a velvet jacket, his KBE and CBE medals proudly attached to his chest. I put the iPod down by his side and gently pushed the earbuds in. As I heard Coward’s voice crooning ‘I’ll See You Again’, I saw his mouth form a smile and tears leak from the corners of his eyes.
Back at the Savoy Hotel a few days after the Mills–Branagh dinner party I am waiting at six in the morning for my car to take me to Wrotham Park for the day’s filming on Peter’s Friends. I find myself chatting to Arturo, one of the linkmen.
‘You a fan of Frank Sinatra, Mr Fry?’
‘Am I? You bet I am.’
‘Ah, well. He’s coming to stay with us today.’
‘You’re kidding!’
On the ride up to Hertfordshire I rehearsed what I’d say if I bumped into the great man. Ol’ Blue Eyes. The Chairman of the Board. The Voice.
The filming, as it does, went on and on and on and on and on. It must have been past midnight before I drew up again at the Savoy. Arturo opened the door for me.
‘That was a long day, Mr Fry.’
‘Looks like it was for you too.’
‘Just started my shift, sir. Now, why don’t you follow me? Something I’d like you to see.’
Baffled and faintly irked – all I could think of was bed – I trailed after Arturo along the passageway that led, and still does, to the American Bar. We went down the steps, and Arturo pointed towards a man sitting in a pool of light, head bowed over a crystal lowball glass, backlit cigarette smoke ribboning up. A living album cover.
‘Mr Sinatra, I’d like you to meet Mr Fry, a long-term guest.’
The man looked up and there he was. He pointed to the chair opposite him.
‘Siddown, kid.’
‘Kid’. Francis Albert Sinatra had called me ‘kid’. It reminded me of the moment in Richard Lester’s The Three Musketeers when Spike Milligan says in a stunned, reverent voice, after Charlton Heston has grasped his wrist and whispered him into conspiracy against his wife (Raquel Welch), ‘The Cardinal has taken me by the hand and called me friend!’
I think I had about three minutes alone with Frank before the room was filled with old friends and I found myself pushed to the edge of the party. But it was enough, and I wound my way back to 512 as one in a holy dream.
A few days later I saw Arturo on duty again. I pumped him by the hand and pushed a fiver on him.
‘As long as I live I will never forget that moment, Arturo. What a favour you did me. I can never thank you enough.’
‘It was my pleasure, Mr Fry.’
‘Is he still here?’
‘Left this morning. Quite funny actually.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, just before he got into his car for the airport he gave me a roll of cash. Great thick roll it was. “Thanks for a terrific stay, Arturo,” he says. “Well, thank you very much, Mr Sinatra. Always a pleasure for us to have you at the Savoy.” “Tell me,” he says, “is that the biggest tip you’ve ever had?” I look down at the money. Huge roll of twenties and fifties it was. “Well, as a matter of fact, sir, no it isn’t,” I says. He looks most put out. Most put out. “Well tell me,” he says, “who gave you a bigger one?” “You did, sir, last time you stayed,” I says. He got into the car, laughing his head off.’
‘And next time he stays you’ll get an even better tip,’ I said.
‘Ooh, the thought never crossed my mind,’ said Arturo.
Dear Diary
By 1993 Peter’s Friends had come out, Fry and Laurie had had a second series, and I had written my first novel, The Liar, and a collection of journalism, essays and other scraps called Paperweight.
I am an irregular diarist, but the months leading up to the completion of my second (and favourite) novel, The Hippopotamus, and the delivery to my flat of its galley proofs were well covered by me. I offer them to you because I think they recapture better than my memory ever can the hectic, intensely busy and fractured nature of my life back then. That it was leading to a catastrophic explosion I did not realize. Perhaps it will be apparent to you as you read. I have remained loyal to the intentions laid out in the first entry and have not altered or added, except for the sake of respect for those who would rather be kept out or have their identities masked. From time to time footnotes have been added for the sake of clarity.
MONDAY, 23 AUGUST 1993 – LONDON
I’m going to be 36 tomorrow: three dozen, a quarter of a gross. A very factorable number, but otherwise nothing special. Nonetheless it seems a good time to restart my diary. (First resolution: no going back and altering this chronicle. No reading back, no emendations, no retrospective editorials. It must come out of me absolutely in one. Otherwise, what’s the point?) Ha! ‘Oh, what’s the point?’ … the last words in Kenneth Williams’s diary, just published and just skimmed through by me. I’m mentioned once in the index, a reference to an appearance on a Wogan that KW guest-presented. ‘Stephen Fry OK’, that’s my reference. An epitaph. Listening to Strauss’s Alpine Symph. while writing this. It’s on Radio 3 as a prom. Rather wonderful version by some Russian conductor I’ve not heard of.* Introduced in traditionally hushed tones by James Naughtie. Naughty James sat next to me at the John Birt Cup Final lunch earlier in the year. Nice chap.
Lazy day today. Very lazy: like all the days I’ve spent recently. Having such a reputation for hard work is satisfactory and bolsters my amour propre but it is such a lie. Spent most of the day polishing off the seating-plan for tomorrow’s birthday dinner. How can it take that long? Well, I’ve decided to do anagrams for the guests’ names. Here’s a list, with explanations:
Henry F. Pest – Me
Lacey Easy-Fleece – Alyce Faye Cleese (wife of John Cleese, Okie psychotherapist)
Irma Shirk – Kim Harris (darling friend from Cambridge)
Lady Orlash – Sarah Lloyd (wife of John)
Mercie H. Twat – Matthew Rice (sweetie designer and splendour)
Sonia Wanktorn – Rowan Atkinson
Katie Labial-Scar – Alastair Blackie (friend of Kim, agent, and my gardener)
Martie Badgermew – Emma Bridgewater (wife of Matthew Rice, designs crockery)
Jones Leech – John Cleese
Maria Sillwash – Sarah Williams (producer, currently back with Nick Symons)
Harold Clit-Shine – Christian Hodell (assistant of Lorraine)
Julie Oar – Jo Laurie (wife of J. H. C. Laurie)
Coke Toper – P
eter Cook
Reg Gowns – Greg Snow (friend from Cambridge)
Slim Noble – Simon Bell (Oxonian layabout and charmer)
Nik Cool – Lin Cook (wife of Peter)
Dolly John – John Lloyd (producer of Blackadder etc.)
Mario Nolan–Hitler – Lorraine Hamilton (my agent)
Miss Nancy L. Soho – Nicholas Symons (old Cambridge chum producer of Bit of F&L)
Antonius Stanker – Sunetra Atkinson (wife of Rowan)
Eli Cider – Eric Idle
Uriah H. Glue – Hugh Laurie
Anyway – spent all fucking day working out those anagrams (Alyce Faye Cleese way the hardest – all those bloody E’s and Y’s)* while I should have been working on the nov. Satisfactory in its way. In the background Radio 3 (not music this time but the Test Match – England won can you believe it? Never doubted them. Atherton clearly good captain; he’ll have his hellish moments in the years to come, but a sound fellow) while I strained my verbal skills on this useless anagrammery which will probably annoy the guests tomorrow anyway. No bloody fun in the world any more: no one doing mad silly things, no one playing practical jokes or organizing stupid parties with games and tricks like they did in the 20s. Even melancholy Virginia Woolf (heard Dame Edna on Kaleidoscope† a year or so back: ‘Darling Virginia, a woman with whom I have so much in common, except of course that I can swim.’) even she and her set used to love practical jokes. Everyone’s so sodding serious and ordinary now.
God knows whether the seating plan will work. If Simon Bell is sober it’ll help. Well I’ll report the day after tomorrow.
Talking of the morrow, although my birthday, I seem to have filled it up with interviews to publicize Stalag Luft,* endless TV magazines and similar.
Bottle of wine at my elbow, Kanonkop, a S. African claret mimic, not enough tannin. Strauss’s storm is brewing up, all those flutey interjections seem borrowed from Rossini’s Wm. Tell overture or I’m a Flying Dutchman.
TUESDAY, 24 AUGUST 1993 – LONDON
Well – thirty-six then. Usual cliché of searching for grey hairs in the mirror. Some individual white flecks around the temples, but it’s hard to tell whether they’re real or a trick of the light.
The whole morning given over to publicity interviews for Stalag Luft at the Groucho. Endless stream of women from TV Quick, TV First, TV Super and TV Cunty all wanting to talk about my celibacy. ‘Surely you must fantasize? Surely you must meet people and … fancy them?’
Basically, they want to know what pictures go on in my mind when I masturbate. Had the same thing a few weeks ago when I went to dinner at Ken and Em’s. Ken got a bit in his cups (it doesn’t take more than a glass with him) and he was all, ‘Come on, darling, what do you think about when you wank?’ Em tried to slap him, but I bet she was too intrigued really to mean it.
Very pleased that my dreams and fantasies aren’t too out there. I mean, only today the papers are full of this Michael Jackson thing. Some woman apparently reporting him for abusing her son. Let’s face it, whoever doubted that Jacko was a boylover? My God, there’s going to be a fall there if they find anything at his ranch. Porn, film, whatever … poor deranged sod, I don’t think his own childhood fell far short of abuse in its way.
Then – the party. Everyone turned up. Everyone got me presents though I told them not to. The anagrams seemed to tickle them all too. Most people in a good mood and seeming to enjoy it, even Rowan managed to last to the end.* I sat next to Jo Laurie and Alyce Faye Cleese, I put Hugh down the other end near Eric and John C. Peter Cook in great form, talking about Derek and Clive which is about to be re-released, most people lightly drunk by the end. The bill came to almost exactly £1,000, which is reasonable, I would say. Damn good tuck. Did I mention earlier that it was at 190 Queensgate, run by Antony Worrall Thompson, who was there and joined for a drink earlier on? Turns out he was at school with John Lloyd. Home with Simon Bell, whom I gave a whisky before he eventually left.
WEDNESDAY, 25 AUGUST 1993 – LONDON
Voice-over with Hugh this morning, for Energizer batteries. Hugh in good form, which is always a treat. A fun one and a half hours. Bumped into Norman Beaton before going into the sound studio. Mad old duck, rather a fan. Wants us to write a sketch for him to be in. Hum.
Afterwards a lot of leisurely shopping down Cecil Court. Bought an original Vanity Fair print of Gillette as Holmes and a signed photograph of Basil Rathbone. Don’t ask me why. Might make a good present. Also got hold of a copy of Ricky Jay’s book Learned Pigs and Fireproof Women which I have been after for ages.*
Eventually got home in time to read a little before popping out to the Institute of Directors in Pall Mall just around the corner. This was to meet a man by the name of Robin Hardy who is producing a film called Bachelors Anonymous (nothing to do with the Wodehouse story of the same name). He wants me to play the second lead and to DIRECT it. Flattering and pleasing that he can be confident enough to give such a relatively big movie to a first-time director, but there is a problem. Firstly, is the script good enough? He has written it himself from a novel called Foxprints by Patrick McGinley. Really rather fascinating, but needs improvement so as not to look misogynistic or just plain silly. The major problem though, is WHEN. I have got to try and finish the novel soon. Then I spend from October to January writing with Hugh for A Bit of F&L series 4. Then we make the thing, six weeks of studio, rehearse/record. That takes us to the end of March. John Reid will, I assume, want to go with the Elton musical next and the BBC will make noises about filming the adaptation of The Liar. There is no chance I could start pre-production prep on Bachelors until end of June, which would mean shooting it in September, over a year from now. Mad to think my life is that booked up. And where does that leave a second script for Paramount and Hugh’s film Galahad? WHY is my life always like this, and why am I complaining about it?
He seems a reasonable fellow, this Hardy. Strange place to meet, the IoD. He fits it well, having a rather box-wallah version of an upper class accent. He did, on the other hand, write and direct The Wicker Man, a great classic. I feel it odd that I’ve never heard of him. Lorraine (Hamilton) is running a background check to see what she can see. Perhaps it will be a good thing to do, direct a film. I feel I can. I lack a lot of common sense, always have done, but I think I’ll keep my head above water with a good operator, a good First and someone like Dougie Slocombe to light the film. Lor … what to do, what to do. Just aren’t enough hours in the frigging day, are there, Stephen old love?
THURSDAY, 26 AUGUST 1993 – LONDON
Parents are going to arrive at any minute. Father’s birthday. I’m taking them to the premiere of Ken’s Much Ado tonight at the Empire, Leicester Square and then to a party at Planet Hollywood of all places. So I’ll do this entry now, rather than tonight when they’ll be hanging around the flat.
Actually spent most of the day doing no more than preparing for their arrival. Hiding all the Euroboy videos, tidying up, trotting over the road to Fortnum’s to buy fruit, flowers, tea things and so forth. Spent a merry hour in Hatchard’s buying books. Got Alan Clark’s diaries (signed) for Father, as well as the new Bill Bryson, as he likes him and a biography of Einstein (not the salacious one). For myself I rounded up a lot of books on theology … mostly beginner’s stuff. All this reading of Susan Howatch recently has got me interested in knowing more about the subject. I don’t believe in God of course, but I sometimes think I want to believe. And then there’s that foolish vision of myself as a bishop, sermonizing and saving the poor old C of E from itself. So fond of the C of E. The ‘broad backed hippopotamus’ as T. S. Eliot called her. So much better a liturgy … and the music! Russell Harty* once confidingly said to me, while playing hymns at the piano (he had a perfect ear and could play anything you named that he knew), ‘I don’t think I could ever love anyone who didn’t love English hymns.’ Mind you being a roamin’ cat-lick his last lover the sweet Jamie O’Neill can’t have known much Anglican church music.*
>
Appalling arrogance of me to think that I would be a good church leader without a concomitant shred of faith. Very Henry Crawford.† Mind you, probably a better life than my other footling fantasy, Fry the politician, Fry the scourge of the Right and the hero of the Chamber.
Also, bought a first novel called In the Place of Fallen Leaves, simply ghastly title but Roger, the sweet old queen at Hatchard’s, recommended it.‡
Still haven’t been able to face my own novel. I’m banking on being able to work when I get to Grayshott on Saturday, but how is one to tell? I’m always assuming that words will come and that I’ll be able to get down that tunnel of concentration when I put my mind to it, but there’s so much to do and I do desperately want it to work. If I don’t finish it this year it’ll spill over into next and then what happens to the idea of directing, or the TV version of The Liar, or the Elton John thing, or Galahad or God knows what else besides.
I’ll report on Much Ado tomorrow. I’ve seen it already, at a preview cinema months ago. Really enjoyed it then, but perhaps it’ll be less fun in front of a bigger audience and now that I have expectations. Hugh made a good point about how Ken on film sometimes does this thing of laughing and throwing his head back and slapping people on the back when wit is being offered. He did it in Peter’s Friends and he does it in Much Ado, clearly encouraging his cast to do the same. Especially of course, the blissful Brian Blessed who roars like a speared ox through most of his scenes. Hugh’s theory is that actors laughing prevents audiences from laughing and that this is perhaps true of screen or stage tears as well. Rather a convincing idea. And no doubt the Branagh haters and Ben Elton* haters will be out in force anyway. I’m so lucky that I don’t seem to be quite so despised as they do. Mind you, not as admired either, which is only right. I suppose people think of me as some kind of reliable old thing, rather than as a threat. Ken and Ben are certainly threatening, those who dislike them regard them as the kind of yappy Jack Russells who leap up and spunk all over your trouser crease. The snobbery in Britons makes them believe that I, on the other hand, however rude or leftie I may seem, am fundamentally sound and reasonable, like a trusty labrador.