Ian McKellen rang too. He wants me to present some bloody Age of Consent* benefit at the London Palladium for Stonewall. Well, not present, just introduce. I’ve also agreed to do a debate at the Cambridge Union on the same issue. All these things are going to take up time I cannot spare. After all, there’s the Sam Wanamaker Globe bash at the Albert Hall too.
Talking of the Albert Hall, I’m going to the Last Night of the Proms on Saturday, after Charles and Carla Powell’s wedding. Well not their wedding, their son’s.
Played golf in the afternoon, during a lull in the weather and a lull in my inspiration. Played like a fucking genius. As I was addressing the ball I just knew that it was going to go long and straight. For the first time in my life I consistently hit overlong and had to go down a club at almost every hole. Birdies and pars and virtually nothing else. Ridiculous because I am the most uncoordinated, least able striker of a ball who ever pulled a club from a bag. But every dog has his day, I suppose. I will probably never play another round like it, so it is as well to be pleased.
The novel steaming along too. Not that it’s anything other than balderdash, but at least I feel as if I’m achieving things. Elements are coming together. So far, however, it is lacking in any passion. I want people to cry at parts of it, and those stages haven’t yet been reached. Gonna be tricky. Ner-night.
THURSDAY, 9 SEPTEMBER 1993 – GRAYSHOTT
Reasonable day. Fair old quantity of work done, over 4,000 words. The post contained Greg Snow’s present from Florida: The Cunt Coloring Book by Tee Corinne. I quote from the introduction. ‘The Cunt Coloring Book published in 1975, was immediately and wildly popular, although many people complained about the “awful” title. Three printings later, in 1981, the title was changed to Labiaflowers and the book virtually died. So much for euphemisms. Welcome once again to the Original Cunt Coloring Book (with a few additions). May you color it with pleasure. The drawings in this book are of real women’s cunts. My love and thanks to the many women who participated with me in this project and to those who encouraged and counseled me. These pages are a celebration of your energy.’
That was from the foreword by Tee herself. There is also a little prefacing essay entitled ‘In The Beginning’ by one Martha Shelley.
In the beginning we come from the cunt, not from some man’s side; and we are washed in the water and blood of birth, not the spear-pierced side of some dying god. In the beginning women made pots and jars shaped like wombs and breasts, and decorated them with triangles, which were symbols of the cunt.
So the first art was Cunt Art. The bones of the dead were laid in jars – perhaps to speed the soul to its next womb? Did the ancient women sing, how delicate, sensitive, delicious, how strong the ring of muscle between one life and the next? There are tribal women today who sing praises of their cunts, how pretty and long and full their lips are, how the hair curls and glistens with moisture.
Well, I mean dah-ling …
Naturally the pages themselves contain hideous warped oysterish things that look like the result of an explosion in an organ-donor depot. I hope that doesn’t sound misogynistic – a Cock Coloring Book would be just as beastly.
The book even has an ISBN no.* can you credit it? For the rest, there is sadly, no text, just these line-drawn quims.
Otherwise, the only other post was a card from Rory Bremner, asking me to be a ‘guest-writer’ on one of his new Channel 4 shows. Kindly offer but I think I’ll pass.
Rang Kim during the second Short/Kasparov game. He seems to think, with me, that Nigel’s blown it again.† Invited K to accompany me to the opening of La Bohème and Oleanna, the new David Mamet. Still no news from Hugh and Jo L. They must be dropping even now, surely?
Had a reflexology and aromatherapy massage. Not bad. Still feel pretty energized. All my masseuses now seem to be in agreement that I am ‘balanced and relaxed’, which is pleasant.
Spoke to Scott Rudin. He’s pleased I had the session with Terry Gilliam about T’s new film The Defective Detective, but wishes I was harder on Terry about the script. Hyuh! What’s it to do with me? I’ll try and liaise with Scott about my next script for him when I’ve done with the novel.
Sue F. faxed me with a suggestion for the jacket. ‘How about Michelangelo’s David wearing Y-fronts?’ Well, I mean really! A tad homo-erotic, for a novel that is primarily non whoopsy. Thought of a scene today in which Davey will fuck a horse to heal it from some mysterious illness like ragwort poisoning. Could be good.
News just in. Nigel drew the game. Phew. Ho-hum.
FRIDAY, 10 SEPTEMBER 1993 – GRAYSHOTT
Last full day here. Arose in time to do some work, biffed off for the massage and heat treatment and returned to the room to find a message under the door: ‘Please ring Rebecca Laurie, 071 580 4400, Room 101.’ Just for a moment I thought I’d gone mad and then … of course! Jo decided to have a Caesarian today. The child had been up there for too damned long, putting on too much bloody weight. 8lb 13oz. Jo was barely able to walk or breathe. The doctors thought it would probably stay up there for another two weeks, just liked it too much. University College Hospital said they wouldn’t do a section for another fortnight, so Jo and Hugh took the reluctant decision to go private at the Portland. A big bonny baby girl. I shall see her on Sunday.
Plenty of work, then a holistic massage, pleasure as always, followed by a swift nine holes. Some great shooting, some average (as if you care).
Then more work: reached three hundred words shy of the fifty thousand. That means I’ve written just about 30,000 words in the last eleven days. Not bad. I’ve just finished writing the scene in which Davey fucks the horse. My lord I’m going to get some stick for that. ‘So, did you try it out, Stephen? … in the interests of research naturally … hyerk, hyerk …’
It might be dreadful I suppose, we shall see. Wonder what Sue Freestone will think. Final treatment tomorrow will be a facial with which to present a smooth and glossy countenance to the wedding and the Proms. All in all, this has been a truly splendid stay, I’ve lost over a stone in weight. I’ve enjoyed the work once it’s started flowing and I’ve been more relaxed and happier than for years. And I’ve kept off the booze, plenty tomorrow though …
It’s past 11.00 now and I shall hope to be asleep by twelve. Nightly-nightington.
SUNDAY, 12 SEPTEMBER 1993 – LONDON
Back in town, one stone two pounds lighter and thirty thousand words to the good. Finished off with a facial yesterday and hit the A3 looking shiny, fit and relaxed. Those fine dryness lines the commercials love so much didn’t have a chance. I challenged the visible signs of ageing.
Arrived in time to zip over to Lipman’s in the lower Charing X Road where I hired a morning suit, my own being stuck up in Norfolk. Then I bought a print at the Chris Beetles Gallery for the happy pair, quick change in the flat before high-tailing it by taxi to the Old Church, Chelsea. Charles and Carla Powell looked in great nick. Well Sir Charles has aged a spot, but that’s hardly surprising as he regularly jets to Hong Kong for half hour meetings with Chris Patten* before jetting back again the same day. Takes a toll. Carla, on the other hand in supreme shape. Spending most of her days in Italy looking after her father. Their son Hugh was marrying one Catherine Young, daughter of Sir William and Lady Young, whoever they might be. He is a director of Coutt’s the bankers but chaps of his background are directors of banks much in the way they might be members of a squash club. Dennis Thatcher was there on the groom’s side, as were poor old Rosemary and Norman Lamont.* Ha! That’ll teach him to be a loyal Tory.
Good service: Schubert’s Ave Maria and Mozart’s Ave Verum, beautifully sung. Good trumpeter in evidence for inevitable Jeremiah Clarke† and Grand March from Aida.
Soon as the service was over I cabbed back to the flat to change for the Albert Hall. Arrived good and early so I could track down Patrick Deuchars who runs the place. He had invited me for the Prom’s Last Night and I had initially turned him down, thinking I’d st
ay for the wedding reception. It occurred to me last week that this was silly as I really wouldn’t know that many people at the wedding and the L. N. of the P’s would be larkier. So I rang John Birt’s‡ office and said I could come after all. That’s right. John Birt’s office. Like an arse I had thought it was he who had invited me, not Deuchars. John is always inviting me to something after all … Wimbledon, Cup Final etc. His office had said ‘fine, help yourself … no problem. You’ll be squiring Lady Parkinson (wife of Cecil).’ Only then did I realize my bloomer. At the RAH therefore I found Patrick who was highly amused and said not to worry. John Birt when he arrived was similarly tickled, so was able to play the self-lacerating idiot and make them feel good.
Who was there? Well, a load of old Tories really. Michael Heseltine and his wife. They turned out to be enormous fans of J&W. ‘We’ve got a butler who absolutely bases himself on your Jeeves,’ trilled Mrs H. ‘Lah-di-fucking-da, darling,’ as I stridently didn’t say. Peregrine Worsthorne and his wife Lucinda Lambton, who came in the most extraordinary Union Jack frock, Alan Coren and his wife Anne, Terry Burns of HM Treasury, Debbie and David Owen, the latter hot-foot from his notable failures in Switzerland.* Jane Birt and self made up the numbers. I like Jane I must say – American, as is Debbie Owen.
Pretty good time had by all, though the event is significantly less moving in the flesh than on TV. Secretly I felt it all rather anticlimactic, as if I had been expecting some other element that actually wasn’t present. We dined afterwards at Launceston Place, the Owens giving me a lift in their brand new Volvo. Rather comical actually. They argued about absolutely everything. The way to the car, how to get to the restaurant, how to park once there. I said, ‘Well, if you can’t decide how to walk to a parked car, no wonder there’s such hell in Bosnia,’ a bit obvious, but really … U.N. negotiator and he can’t negotiate a one-way system.
Sat at one end of the table flanked by Lucinda and Lady P. She’s all right is our Lucinda I think, in a batty aristo way. A professional enthusiast, and therefore slightly overdone, but I think not a fraud. Home to bed at two-ish, my latest night for a fortnight.
Today I went to the Portland to inspect young Rebecca Laurie, who is stout and sweet. Jo, poor thing is absolutely knocked out, pneumonia, the works. She’s got either a nebulizer or an oxygen mask on at all times. Hugh showed up and seems, for him, rather confident about the novel he’s writing. I bet it’s blissfully funny.
Strange things, private hospitals. You ring a number on the phone and get the answer ‘Room Service …’ I had noticed a TVR parked out the front which had the number plate A1 OB ST, which turned out to belong to Mr Armstrong, the consultant who did Jo’s Caesarian. He turned up too, all jeans, Kickers, navy blue Guernsey sweater, your casual Home Counties weekend uniform.
Then back home and a bit more work on the nov. I think I may be able to do things here. I damned well hope so. Only a thousand words today. A lot of fucking about with the formatting of a couple of faxes that are contained in the novel.
Well, it’s past midnight and I’m for sleepies.
MONDAY, 13 SEPTEMBER 1993
A quiet day. Barely stepped out of the flat. A lot of letters to get out of the way, which I managed. The world has gone wild today on account of the PLO Israeli agreement being signed in Washington. Henry Kissinger and other so-called wise old birds are being very cautious. Not surprising, really. A lot of work to do yet, if right wing Israelis and nationalist Palestinians are to be quietened.
Worked on a different kind of chapter of the novel. The third person narrative of Michael Logan’s upbringing, vaguely based on my grandfather’s life. Where else would I get the idea of a Hungarian grower of sugar beet?
Not much else to report. Still trying to eat well, but it’s so hard not to raid the fridge. Must buy a set of scales, that would help.
TUESDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 1993
Up early to sit for Maggi Hambling again. It started badly, both of us a little nervous. She grew in confidence however, drawing with a stick of charcoal that was roughly the size of a milk-bottle. Amazing implement. Christ it’s a chore standing stock still for so long. Towards the end she played some Ink Spots on the cassette player and wanted to draw me as I danced, a procedure she finds endlessly amusing, as does anyone fortunate enough to witness so rare and unwilling an occurrence. A car came to pick me up at 12.45 to take me to a studio in Islington for photographs for the Radio Times. All to do with Stalag Luft whose screening date they really can’t decide upon. I think it’s back to late October again now, having been the 8th at one point. The photoshoot, by Brian Moody, absolutely sweet guy as a lot of good photographers are I’ve noticed, was followed by an interview. Reasonable outcome I hope. Must say I felt good all through, despite longing to be at the keyboard novelizing. The Grayshott effect still keeping me relaxed and cheerful.
More work in the evening, hours of it. Continuing the chapter in which we go back to Europe to see Michael Logan’s father as a Hungarian Jew.
WEDNESDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 1993
Another sitting with Maggi. She wanted me to bring a DJ this time, more consonant with whatever image she has of me. As we progressed I realized these sessions weren’t enough for her. She has a large black canvas she wants to paint in oils, and we clearly didn’t have time to get near it. I suggested another couple of sessions and she was clearly relieved. Next week then.
Back home for more work before Kim could arrive to accompany me to the Coliseum for the opening of La Bohème. Helen Atkinson-Wood* rang to ask if I would talk into a cassette for a boy who is a friend of her family. He had a cycling accident and is now in a coma. Turns out to be a huge Blackadder fan. Said I’d do what I can. Naturally I have now discovered that I have no recording facilities here.
Kim arrived looking well and smart and we shogged off to St Martin’s Lane. What a disappointment! Dreadful production, simply dreadful. The work of Steven Pimlott. Chorus abominably handled, no interval, which enraged Kim who thought it made the thing stink structurally. He knows it better than me, so I took his word for it: very short evening even without interval. I would otherwise have assumed that the opera itself was a structural mess. The Rodolfo was ghastly, barely audible above the band, and the whole thing sounds so foul in English. Mind you, I wept like a baby at the end, who couldn’t? Saw Melvyn Bragg there: he’s lost a ton of weight and looks twenty years older for it. His chubbiness was what gave him the boyish, almost cherubic look for which he is famed. Jeremy Isaacs* present also, and Anna Ford and Frank Johnson and assorted Mediahadeen. Kim and I went to The Ivy afterwards. Saw Harold and Antonia, Mike Ockrent (also looking older for weight-loss)† and Tim Rice, mercifully at full weight.
Back in time for bed.
THURSDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER 1993
Sue Freestone today! Great nerves. Final checks, then a print out. She read half before we went to Green’s for a quick oyster or two. Then back to finish. She seemed immensely pleased. Great relief. No real criticism. I worked on her as regards the title Other People’s Poetry and she seems to be warming to it.
At 5.00 I trotted off to the Lauries’ to inspect Rebecca again and deliver my nebulizer, which Jo and Hugh feel they ought to have on hand, given Jo’s recent pneumonic state. Stayed for supper and Die Hard 2.
FRIDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER 1993
Frustrating morning wandering up and down Regent Street and Mayfair looking for a tape-recorder. Maddened by being ignored by the five or six staff at Wallace Heaton in Bond Street. Can’t kick up a fuss or they’d think I was annoyed because of ‘who I am’. Eventually had to go all the way to 76 Oxford Street, where I got a Sony Professional Walkman. Wrote and delivered a monologue as Melchett for the boy in the coma, printed out the novel thus far for Anthony Goff my lit. agent and got a taxi to deliver the tape and the manuscript. Anthony said on the phone that Sue sounded frankly ecstatic about the work so far. I MUST NOT LET THIS DIVERT ME FROM CONCENTRATING.
Then, down to work. It all seems to be coale
scing in my head, and as always when things are apparently going well, elements I had put in the novel frankly on spec early on in the writing, when I had no idea what the plot was doing or what the outcome would be, suddenly make absolute sense and look natural and right, as if I had always known they should be there. What does that mean though?
Heigh ho.
SATURDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 1993
Mostly work, as usual. Had an idea that each chapter should be headed with a verse from Eliot’s poem ‘The Hippopotamus’. It seems so appropriate. I know the poem is really supposed to be about the C. of E., but it fits the character of Ted to see him as an apparently mud-baked hippo who is in fact more likely to rise and be washed by the angels and martyrs than anyone else. Should the novel itself be called The Hippopotamus? Is that over-egging the pudding?
Skipped around St James’s and the Burlington Arcade, trying to find a present for Alastair’s b’day. Ended up getting a rather splendid dressing-gown at Turnbull & Asser. £390 odd but worth it. Kim and he held a party at their place in Dalston. Nick and Sarah were there, but Hugh never showed. Trevor Newton back from his year’s sabbatical in Australia, teaching at Rochester again. He seemed good, if a tad subdued and self-conscious. Strange: at Cambridge he was infinitely more urbane and polished than any of us, but since he’s become a dominie he’s grown away from London; it must be hard for him now that Kim is doing well writing for Ken B. and Greg Snow (also present) is getting on with things as a writer. Why a schoolmaster should feel inferior … yet we know they do. We are the ones who should feel inferior.
Kim and I talked a bit about Oscar. K is getting on with the screenplay for Ken. They showed the Peter Finch film this afternoon, I was writing, so I’ve recorded it to watch tomorrow. Bet he’s unsurpassably good: it’ll only depress me to see him.