More Fool Me

  I had some lines of coke for the first time in months and months. Weird having that old feeling coursing in the blood again. A large hammer of guilt was banging away in time to the accelerated beating of my heart. All that health and weight loss at Grayshott and now I was guzzling pink champagne* like a beast. That’s the trouble with the old nose-candy: it may suppress your appetite but it sure as hell increases your intake of alcohol. Still, one night in five hundred can’t be fatal. Fuck me, it’s appealing stuff though. Simply too gorgeous and delicious to be trusted. I could fall back into my old ways oh so easily.

  Stayed and chatted for much longer than I otherwise would as a result of the Charlie. Ian, Ceri and other of Alastair’s Oxford friends made up the majority of the guestage. Quite fun. Got back at two-ish. Not an excessive amount of leg-thrashing, skin-twitching insomnia. Probably clocked out at three.

  SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 1993

  Awoke at 11.00-ish feeling worse than I have for ages. But not a massive hangover. Knew I’d be able to work when it came to it. Took things easily and wrote two and half thousand words … not as good as I have been, but that’s understandable under the circs.

  Watched the Peter Finch Oscar. Christ he was excellent. Terribly moving. The witty lines excellently thrown away. How will I ever beat that? Lionel Jeffries splendid too.* Very painful.

  So far we have 69,009 words for the novel. Have written a diary entry for the queeny character Oliver Mills who gets ‘cured’ by Davey rather as the horse did. Decided against actually writing the scene itself.

  The thing seems to be taking shape. Oh God, it’s so hard to tell any more. When you’re inside something for so long, what do you really know about it?

  Humpy-hip. Beddly-poos.

  MONDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 1993

  More work. What else can a chap do? Again, seems to be proceeding all right. But Christ knows if it means anything.

  My taxi returned from the garage, new radio and cassette fitted, the kind with a removable front. They’ve done a lovely job on the cab itself, but the fucking radio is dead. Boo.

  At six-ish Kim came round, with a line of coke for us each to enjoy before the theatre. While he was chopping up I printed out the horse-fucking scene for him to read. He seemed to take to it well: really liked it I think.

  Fortified artistically and nasally, we trolled to the Duke of York’s for the first night of Oleanna. Rather ordinary first act, which disappointed me and then – kerboom! – the thing exploded and you had the ordinary nature of the pre-interval set-up reinterpreted in front of your eyes. Wonderful stuff.

  Never seen so many people streaming out of a theatre talking. Everyone had something to say. I discovered that I was sitting next to Edwina Curry of all people. She, naturally, had very firm ideas about it all. Piffle, as you would expect. ‘He failed her.’ What, so he deserved to lose his wife, house and job, did he? What would Edwina’s life be like if she was punished for a sexual indiscretion of that kind?*

  We avoided the party afterwards and wound our way to the Brixtonian in Neal’s Yard, where Alastair’s friend Ian Poitier was having a birthday party. A sweet poppet from the W. Indies, Ian was at Oxf. with Al. and says he’s a cousin or nephew of the great Sidney. We left there, however, and went to the Ivy actually to eat. Bumped into Simon Gray who, natch, hated Oleanna. Then home for kip.

  TUESDAY, 21 SEPTEMBER 1993

  Sat for Maggi again all morning. She has started the big oil now and I hope will be done by Friday. It’s fun but intense. Nipped back home for a spot of work and then off to Mount Street to see Dougie Hayward the tailor to be measured for a suit. He’s going to make a dark blue job. Never had one that colour before, but it could work. He makes for Michael Caine and John Cleese (who recommended him) very much the man of the 60s along with Tommy Nutter, tailoring for Terence Stamp and those kind of people. Not sure my bulk will bring out the best in his snipping, but we’ll see.

  At seven-thirty, after a lot of heavy writing, which went pretty well I think (did the scene in which Davey persuades the fourteen year old with a brace on her teeth to give him a blow-job) I taxi-ed to Ben’s flat. He’s in a bit of a state, poor love. His psoriasis is spreading vilely. He’s trying this Chinese figure, Tong, who did so well for Jo Laurie, but so far no success. He’s told Ben to steer clear of yeast, which means no beer, which Ben hates. But if tension is a cause, then it’s amazing Ben hasn’t got it worse, frankly. Neil and Glenys Kinnock came round and we walked to the Bombay Brasserie. Both N & G in excellent form. I was delighted and amazed to hear that they had come to the same conclusion as me, which I would never have dared raise otherwise, thinking it sacrilege … viz. it’s time the Lib Dems and Labour got to-bloody-gether and prepared to kick the Tories out. Very good fun.

  Trailed back home at one-ish.

  WEDNESDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 1993

  A frustrating day, if the truth be told. Not enough chance to work. David Tomlinson* had invited me to lunch at Carluccio’s restaurant in Neal Street. Wonderful place, fabulous funghi, good wine and the company of David, Richard Ingrams, his assistant at the Oldie Isabelle, and Beryl Bainbridge, who’s always a lark. But too much incredibly fine whisky. Woozily wandered home and got into the cab to go for a costume fitting for the Juvenal thing I’m doing next week. Cabbed back, fell asleep for half an hour and then had to get ready for the theatre. Went to see Simon Donald’s new play at the Donmar The Life of Stuff: started badly but perked up. Very much a young inexperienced playwright’s work, but full of heart and shocks and some wit (mostly derivative and inconsistent if the truth be told). Was with Lo and Christian (Simon’s a client of Lo’s) as well as someone called Sarah and her boyfriend Dominic Minghella, brother of Anthony, also a writer apparently. They’ve built some whole new complex by the theatre called Thomas Neal’s, sort of mall really. We dined at a new Mezzaluna there, part of the same chain you find in LA and New York. Then off home again.

  THURSDAY, 23 SEPTEMBER 1993

  More productive day. 77,000 words done! Gosh I hope it’s all right. Did a VO for Matchmakers at 11.00, with John Junkin of all people. Stout fellow, friendly, not sour, curmudgeonly and feeling passed over like so many his age … Barry Took etc.

  I’m writing this at 4.45. Have to shower and change for the premiere of The Fugitive. I’m taking Alyce Faye: sending a stretch limo round to pick her up, the works. It’s at the refurbished Warner West End, thence we go to a party at the Savoy, though we’ve also been invited to a party Michael and Shakira Caine are giving, so we might pop there first for an hour or so. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow, Daisy Dear. (Daisy is short for Daisy Diary, it’s what the character Oliver Mills calls his diary in The Hippopotamus – that’s definitely the title, I’m sure of it now). Must go and dress for tonight. Tell you about it tomorrow.

  FRIDAY, 24 SEPTEMBER 1993

  Well, last night was amusing enough. The limo that arrived was longer than a cricket pitch and whiter than a cricket boot. Alyce Faye highly amused. We had a voddie together and then hit Leicester Square. Absolutely thousands of people. What are they all doing? Most peculiar. In the foyer, hundreds milling about and, on TV screens, an in-house Ent. Tonight style show with comedian Andrew O’Connor, some bint called Amanda and good old Iain Johnstone all conducting interviews, with street people, celebs and film people respectively. Highly embarrassing. We went in and took our seats early. Only to discover that actually we were in cinema number 5, out of 11. The Fugitive was being shown in 9 of them. We were not in the same one as Princess Di and the A list. Feel acutely embarrassed and hope Alyce Faye isn’t affronted. Doubtless John Cleese, had he come, would have been in amongst the big nobs. They are showing the TV celeb show on the screen. Insane. Baz Bamigboye appears and says that only the nobodies would have turned up this early … glunk.

  Anyway, film happens: damned good thriller. Tommy Lee Jones absolutely top hole. We streak for the exit. See a big white limo passing, but being moved on to do another circuit. I go out to stop
it. Huge cheer from crowd.

  It’s not our limo. I walk back to the foyer: huge laugh from crowd. Get trapped by a genuine TV crew and chat to the interviewer for a bit. Limo comes and we go. Weird feeling being pressed upon at all sides. People think it might be Madonna inside.*

  We go first to the Hyde Park hotel to Michael Caine’s and Marco Pierre White’s new restaurant. We’re in time for wine and friandises … very fond of Shakira Caine. Michael is fine, but seems a bit pissed. Very sharp man in his own way but often cross and bitter. What he has to be resentful of I can’t quite guess. I think he still feels the British class system held him back. Seeing that he and Sean Connery are far and away the biggest film stars we have produced since the war, with maybe the exception of Richard Burton who’s hardly aristocratic either, I don’t quite get it. But Caine can do no wrong in my eyes. He was Harry Palmer in The Ipcress File for heaven’s sake.

  We get back in the limo and head for the Savoy. More interviews on camera and then I’m left in peace. Gobble some lobster, command a table and some wine. Chat to Mo and Iain Johnstone. Michael White† and Jerry Hall pop by. We decide to leave. Home by 2.00.

  Why does one attend such things? Well, it’s honestly the only time I ever go to a cinema. You can just about guarantee that people will behave at premieres and they certainly won’t ask for your autograph or giggle. I don’t think I’ve got many more in me though.

  This morning up early, not hung over, another sitting with Maggi. Goes all right. Leave her place after four solid hours of standing and drive off to do some shopping for dinner on Sunday. Did I mention that Nigel Short and his wife Rhea and Dominic and Rosa Lawson and Kim Harris are popping in for dinner then?* Can’t shop tomorrow because I’m off to Cambridge.

  Anyway shopped and got back to the flat. No real concentration enough to work on the penultimate chapter, which is where I’m at. The Ryder Cup has started, for one thing. Oh – Manchester has lost its Olympic Bid.† No real surprise. Absolutely typical John Major failure, however. Australia, the Lucky Country …

  Anyway spent most of the afternoon half-watching the golf and going back to clean up and rewrite the last few sections. 78,685 words. Lumme. When I think back to how depressed I was on the first Monday at Grayshott. How within an ace of calling it all off I was … not that it’s necessarily any good what I’ve got. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

  Well, it’s 11:03 now, best be making an early night of it. We’ll chat tomorrow, ‘if I’m spared’ …

  SATURDAY, 25 SEPTEMBER 1993

  Strange kind of a day. Had agreed, somewhere back in the mists of time, that I would drive to Cambridge and appear in a kind of ‘celebrity’ University Challenge game, hosted by Bamber Gascoigne. It was for the Alumni Weekend, which rather American sounding thing is an innovation. I arrived in time to do some shopping before the lunch. Bugger me Cambridge gets crowded these days: it’s almost an unworkable city now. You have never seen such crowds, and if London had to put up with that kind of traffic there would be riots. Riots. Bought some books on equine anatomy and health to see if I can get Lilac’s disease right in the novel. Also finally bought Donna Tartt’s Secret History which everyone has been going on about and I suppose I ought to read. No sign of a book called Trainspotting which Simon Donald had told me to catch up on. By a Scot called Irvin(e) Wels(c)h I think the name is.

  Got to the Grad Pad* in time for the lunch. I was on the Vice Chancellor’s table, opposite Bamber and Germaine Greer and wedged between a couple of dons. Nice guy called Harcourt, Australian economist, on my right, zoologist called, I think, William Foster on my left. Sebastian Faulks was there too, which is good because I’ve just started on his novel Birdsong. Our team was completed by Valerie Grove.

  The actual game was played in the Lady Mitchell Hall on the Sidgwick Site. Needless to say we trashed them. Germaine Greer said to me afterwards ‘Jeez, you’re so competitive’ which I thought was highly revealing. She’s a good stick though, for all that. It’s clear in her conversation however that she still feels the need to prove herself all the time, which given her intelligence and confident eloquence is odd. No it isn’t. We’re all like that, eloquent or not. We just show it in different ways. Kept back for a few interviews and the like, one for CAM magazine, some graduate thing, and another for Varsity.

  Drove back home listening to Day 2 of the Ryder Cup. It’s going to be fucking close. Bit of telly, some small amount of work on the novel. London is not as good as Grayshott …

  Ner-night.

  SUNDAY, 26 SEPTEMBER 1993

  Up fairly late, tiny bit of novelizing, but most of the day spent chewing my nails at the Ryder Cup. We lost, boo-hoo. All a bit embarrassing, because it was down to Barry Lane chucking a three hole lead and turning it into a one hole loss all in the course of the last five holes. Also Costantino Rocca fucked up. All a bit of a shame. More English Majorite loss and gloom.

  In the afternoon prepared dinner, just about got everything ready in time for Kim, Dominic Lawson, Nigel and Rhea Short and Dr Robert Hübner. Nigel in tremendous spirits considering he is on the brink of another famous English defeat. Well, not yet on the brink, but he was seriously outplayed by Kasparov on Saturday. A good evening though. Kim on good form, we talked a little about the chess. Then we got into a stupid argument with the rather vain figure of Hübner on the subject of whether or not things are altered by one’s perception of them. He was poo-pooing any kind of thinking which veered from his Ding an sich Germanism. Bit of a prat, if the truth be told. After all, Schrödinger was just as German.* And Heisenberg. And they proposed that things are certainly altered by our perception. Certainly at the quantum level.

  Kim and I promised we’d go next week to one of Nigel’s games. I suspect we’ll make it Saturday, when he’ll be white and have a chance. They left and Kim and I stayed up for another hour. Kim had to shog, because tomorrow is the first day of Frankenstein rehearsals at Shepperton.

  MONDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER 1993

  Day of some novel writing, but I’m finding it so hard to finish. Over 80,000 words done: never thought that day would dawn … but two chapters from the finishing post. Very hard to get them right. Didn’t step out of the flat once. Rang a vet in Newmarket whose name was given to me by the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons. Didn’t seem to have much of a clue about an illness that could be misdiagnosed. Pathetic. I’m going to have to find a vet I can take out to dinner so I can explain it properly.

  Watched Robbie’s new series, Cracker, damned good stuff. He’s on excellent form, really good. Not overacting, just perfect. Then wrote this. Highly dull, I’m afraid.

  Time for boo-boos.

  TUESDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER 1993

  Oh Nigel. Oh Nigel, Nigel, Nigel. He missed a win. He missed his first great win. Oh damn, damn, double damn. Just been watching it on TV. He could have had Kasparov right there on the ropey-rope ropes. He fluffed it. Poor sod, he must be sicker than sick. He made a gigantically wonderful queen sacrifice and should have won. It’s so clear that he should have won. Even I could fucking see it. Blastly damington. What a year for British sport. Is there a chance we can beat Holland to get into the World Cup finals? If there is it’s far from a fat one. Poo and miz and boo and horridy-horridy-horrid.

  Another day spent entirely in the flat. Not a breath of outside air. Getting unshaven and foetid so I lit some joss-sticks or ‘incense sticks’ as everyone now insists on calling them, but the novel proceeded better today. Now up to round about the 86,000 words mark. Man from the Newmarket vet rang today and suggested timpanic colic, which can be diagnosed as spasmodic colic which is worse. Might suffice, we shall see.

  I shall watch Tales of the City which starts in half an hour on C4 and then go to bed. Boo-hoo.

  WEDNESDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER 1993

  90,113 words! Had a sudden and depressing realization last night at one in the morning that everything I’d written yesterday was wrong. Well, not everything, but nearly. I realized the final chapt
er had to run on immediately from the previous. Yesterday I’d set it the following morning and had the show-down in which Ted reveals the fruits of his researches taking place after lunch. As it is, it now takes place at dinner, which I think is better.

  Got up early-ish, worked a bit and then did a voice over at ten. Got back, buying a pair of Doc Marten’s on the way, and wrote till 6.00. Had a meeting with Dave Jeffcock at the Groucho Club at 6.30. He’s producing the Juvenal thing I’m doing tomorrow and Friday and which, dear Daisy Diary, you will hear all about. Wish I wasn’t doing it, though. I could bloody finish the novel this week otherwise. Drank one and a half glasses of red wine. No more. Came back, titivated a bit and counted the words. The novel is now longer than The Liar already. As if that makes a fucking bit of difference, Stephen, you total arsehole.

  Really enjoyed Tales of the City last night. Damned fine. Followed by a highly depressing documentary on ITV about child abuse. The horror of it all.

  John Smith has won his vote on OMOV today, thank Christ. Very, very close. The TUC loses its block vote.

  Heigh ho. Better go and learn my lines.

  HORRIFIED POSTSCRIPT: after doing this diary entry I decided to do some backing up of work on The Hippo. After my return from the Grouch I had worked for 2.5 hours rewriting the work of the day. Saved the wrong file and overwrote the rewrites, if that makes sense. So I might as well have stayed all night at the Grouch. Lost all my rewriting. Piss and fuck.

  THURSDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER 1993

  Well, bugger me with a cocktail onion, what a day. What a day. Up earlyish and then a walk to the Groucho Club where the BBC had set up base camp.