FRIDAY, 29 OCTOBER 1993
Felt very bouncy and much improved by the time Hugh came round at 10.30. Worked and fiddled at sketches and then, at 6.00 Robin Hardy came round to go through the script of Bachelors Anonymous, the idea being to see if there was any chance of working out a rough and ready schedule. How many days shooting in France, how many in studio, how many on location, that kind of thing. Pleasant enough time chatting it through until 9.00. Then I bunged myself over to 2 Brydges Place for a dinner with Ian Brown,† Alfredo* and Cosmo Fry. Turned out that on Booker night Roddy Doyle and party had come over after the award to continue their celebrations. Then who turned up but Salman Rushdie? On his own. Highly risky you’d’ve thought.*
Pleasant dinner, followed by two rounds of Perudo. Then, bother it, it was 2.00 suddenly. And I have to be up at the crack tomorrow to take a train to Bath. Poo.
SATURDAY, 30 OCTOBER 1993
Struggled out of bed at 7.30 after three hours sleep, into a car driven by some maniac who wanted to tell me about his idea for a novel, ‘I asked if I could be given this job specially …’ I dare say I’ll hear from him again some time.
Was being towed around by a girl called Alex Lankester, who seemed very sweet; the usual pretty leggy thing that they employ for these gigs. That sounds very sexist but it can’t be a coincidence, surely? We arrived in Bristol and were met by a charming Reed Publishers rep called Andrew Whitaker. Snatched a cup of coffee in the Bristol Waterstone’s and went out to meet the queue. A lot of signing, but very friendly. The manager said it was a record attendance, most books sold in such a session ever.* Gratifying. Then we went off to another Waterstone’s in Bristol where I was interviewed by a TV crew and signed some stock.
Then we drove off to Bath where the queue was astronomical, really wore my hand out. Two very strange psycho-fans turned up. Trembling, barely able to speak, one of them said ‘oh my God, I’m coming, I’m coming.’ Whoops. Finally got through it all, biffed off to W. H. Smith’s to sign some stock and then back to London.
Arrived at 7.00 in time to snadge over to 2 Brydges Place again for Kim’s birthday party. Highly agreeable. Chatted to Shawn Slovo† a lot and to Jo Laurie and Kim and lots of other poppets. Greg was on excellent form and Hugh left at one point to pick up his nephew Hugh Lassen from the airport and bring him back on his motorbike. Rather snazzy for a 17 year old, I should imagine, being whisked through town on the pillion of a Triumph by your famous uncle. Left at 1.00-ish and tumbled tired but stupid, into bed.
SUNDAY, 31 OCTOBER 1993
It was all going to fizzle out into a placido domingo* … got up very late, shopped a little, got the papers and the New Avenger’s tapes and snuggled in for the day.
Then Kim rang to remind me that I had left a bag behind at Brydges Place. He and Al would pop round some time to deliver it to me. Fair enough. Then of course, it gets later and later in the afternoon, so Kim and Al suggest we meet at Joe Allen’s for the handing over of the bag.
No sooner sat down at Joe’s than the waiter brings me an enormous Armagnac, courtesy of a rather cute young boy sitting elsewhere. Kim and Al very amused. We chat, we chew the fat, we nibble dinner and time passes. The little chap comes over to our table. About eighteen I suppose and very sweet.
‘I’m sorry to be gauche,’ he says … pronouncing it ‘gorsh’ rather divinely. We’ve all done that with words we’ve only seen written down: mīsl’d and ímpious for example instead of misléd and impīous. He hands me a note and trots out. The note gives his name; he admires my writings and stance on the age of consent and gives a telephone number. Do call. Oh my.
Alastair drove me home and I invited them in for a drink. Alastair didn’t want to but Kim did so we cheerfully bade him farewell and stayed up for hours and hours. We can talk forever, which is so happy-making.
And so the month ends.
MONDAY, 1 NOVEMBER 1993
Up in time for a Voice Over. Sanatogen Multivitamins ‘Do you feel all right?’ Good bloody question. Struggled back in time for work with Hugh only to discover that the Spectator needed my copy for the diary today. Had completely forgotten the whole damned thing. Agreed months ago during a Spectator lunch that I would do the Diary column for a couple of weeks. Therefore spent most of the day writing that instead of a sketch. I’m a bad bunny. Got it done anyway. Think it’s OK.
Dreadful news broke about River Phoenix dying. Mortifying. So adored him. I remember changing a line in Peter’s Friends to make a mention of him. When Emma’s character in the movie tries to seduce me I tell her that I’m sort of bisexual but that I don’t do anything with anyone at the moment, but if I did, she would be ‘right there at the top of my wish-list along with Michelle Pfeiffer and River Phoenix’. Always got a huge laugh. Such a sweet boy. Looks as if his death might be drug-related, which is bizarre because I always thought he was a terribly straight sort of chap, all environmental concern and poppety prudishness. Oh cripes. I remember choosing him as a pin-up for the Oldie. ‘Yum yum’ I had written … And there on the wall is a photograph of him, just above the desk where Hugh works when we’re sketch writing. I’m looking at him now, so earnestly beautiful. Running on Empty my favourite film of his. I love all Sidney Lumet’s work and he brought out the absolute best in the Phoenix who will never rise from the ashes. Oh dear, I’m actually a bit damp eyed. Bit like when Bobby Moore died earlier this year.
In the evening hastened to the Garrick for a dinner given by Lord Alexander, the chairman of the Nat West Bank. This had been arranged courtesy of Charles Powell. Arrived in good time to be greeted by Lord A, Bob as he is known to his chums. Thoroughly charming fellow: his wife Marie I had sat next to at Charles and Carla’s wedding, or rather the wedding of their son Hugh. She’s a lawyer with a lovely soft Irish voice and nice soft views to go with them. Then Dennis Thatcher turned up and a strange woman called Bishoff, very nice, but oddly shy or neurotic or something.
Dennis, I have to confess I took to enormously. Right wing, natch, but very wonderful. Much better read than I had ever imagined. Loves history, knows a great deal about it too and was, I think, pleased to talk to someone of my age who wasn’t pig ignorant. Went so far as to describe me as a ‘brilliant conversationalist’. Lumme.
Home reasonably early. Few lines, bed.
TUESDAY, 2 NOVEMBER 1993
Up early and round to the Lauries’. We are to drive off and inspect the kitchen of my house in Norfolk. Jo has been superintendent in charge of a massive rebuilding project, of a kind that would make a Pharaoh think twice.
Hugh accompanies and we drive through a grey day to West Bilney. Amazing job has been done so far, I just didn’t recognize anything. The carpentry, the roof lowering, the floor. Incredible. Simply incredible.
Spent a few hours there chatting to Brendan the builder. The architect Nigel Harding hasn’t made provision for facilities for rubbish. Stupid little details, but fantastically important. I compile what I’m told is a ‘snagging list’. Cannot believe Jo L’s skill, commitment and kindness in giving me all this time and talent. Wound our way back, via A.J.’s family restaurant and an enormous burger.
Back at the flat waited for Sam Mendes to come round and talk about the Elton John musical. He likes the script but wouldn’t want to work on anything unless it was much more interesting and dangerous and sharp. Quite right and makes me feel a prune for being involved in the thing as it stands. He’ll talk to John Reid. If I had a couple of months to make it far more original then he would have loved to have done it. The swine is absolutely right. Not a swine of course. Thoroughly good man. Still only 28 and one of our best directors. Handsome too and brilliant at cricket. Tchah! Some people.
Went with him to the Groucho and we bumped into Griff there. Griff and I proposed and seconded him for the Grouch and we wandered in for sustenance. Old Jim Moir was there (aka Vic Reeves) and he joined us for merriment. Bought a couple of grams from Jethro and wandered home in rather a wired condition to watch Stalag Lu
ft as it aired. Then bedness and blankness.
WEDNESDAY, 3 NOVEMBER 1993
Hugh called in early this morning to report sick: or rather Jo did on his behalf. Flu, sinus, that kind of nonsense. This has left me with the day to myself. A chance to ‘clear my desk’ of plenty of correspondence and other dribble. A sketch didn’t come though, so I biked off a mock sketch to Hugh detailing how difficult it is to write a sketch.
A car came at sevenish to take me to Alyce Faye Cleese’s. We’re off together to The Canteen, the Marco Pierre White restaurant, as guests of Michael and Shakira Caine. Arrive in time for a glass of wine with A F. Cleese himself is ‘tired’ as always and not up for fun and larks … hence my role as walker to A F.
We arrive at Chelsea Harbour and I watch glued at the bar as Norwich keep Bayern M. to a 1-1 draw and go through 3-2 on aggregate. Yippee. Michael and Shakira join us … Michael grew up in North Runcton, near King’s Lynn so he harbours a secret love of Norwich City. Then David and Carina Frost turn up and we watch until the match is over. David was a fine footballer as a youth and trialled for Norwich, so he supports them too. Good dinner. I sat between Carina and Shakira. The latter is absolutely delightful, and almost impossibly beautiful. Carina is just as delightful in a quite splendidly batty way. Terribly enthusiastic about all her friends. Get quietly sozzled. Just one line in the bog, otherwise full behaviour. Tomasz Starzewski* was at another table and full of beans. Told him to be sure and turn up to the Perudo evening. Home at one-ish and straight to bed.
THURSDAY, 4 NOVEMBER 1993
Up fit and ready for the day thanks to the previous night’s moderation. Jo phoned in to say that Hugh would be staying in bed most of the morning and joining me for an afternoon’s Alliance and Leicester VO.
So I had to face Chris and Jeff from the Labour Party on my own. H. and I have agreed to do a Party Political broadcast for Walworth Road.† Jeff Stark is the director. We’re doing it because it’s actually rather a fun script. Jeff wants us to play all the parts in it, but I think it’s best if we don’t. For a start it’ll be less work on the day and there is also the extra element of comedy to be considered that some good and unexpected luvvies will be able to add.
Brimped off for the VO. Hugh looking a bit pale and yucky, a bit drawn and wobbly. All went okay and I returned to the flat to climb into my best bib and tucker. Zimmed round to Emma’s house. I am her date for the preview of Remains of the Day which also opens the London Film Festival. Em being made up by some private m/u artist, so I drink and chat to her. She then climbs into the most stunning top I’ve ever seen. Its quality is somewhat shat on by the news that it is Armani and costs £6,000. Not even a dress, for the lord’s sake. Em hasn’t bought it, you understand, they’ve lent it to her. This is what happens when you win an Oscar. Into the limo and ho for the Odeon Leicester Square. Huge crowds as always, somewhat amused to see me instead of Ken dismounting. Em, like Princess Di, leaps for the crash barriers and chats to the waiting throng. I stand on one leg looking like an arse until she joins me. Bit of posing for the paps, and then inside. Em has to wait downstairs because she’ll be appearing on stage for the opening speeches and so on. I go up and find myself next to Jenny Hopkins, wife of Tony (also starring in the movie) and Greta Scacchi. Film highly enjoyable, perhaps a leeetle too long, but some stunning performances from Em and Tony. Then we trot off to the Café Royal for the party. Manage to get a line in the loo before joining the table where Kim and Shawn Slovo are already there. Slovo hated it, natch and Kim was less than thrilled I think. Hugh Grant and his ravishing lady are present. I quiz him on Four Weddings and a Funeral which he has just made. He loathed doing it, thinks he’s crap in it and wanted to punch Mike Newell most of the time. Bet he’s brilliant though. Also asked him about the rumour that Madonna wanted to shag him. Turns out it’s true. James Fox also present: what an absolute sweetie. Adorable chap. Very good in the film too, in that wonderful mournful weak way he has.
Sir Dickie (Lord Dickie, I beg his pardon) came up and took both my arms and gazed lovingly into my eyes in that way he has and told me I must see Shadowlands … usual suspects also present included Kenith Trodd,* Ben Kingsley and assorted baggages. Walked home pissed but reasonably cheerful round about the two o’clock mark.
FRIDAY, 5 NOVEMBER 1993
Voice Over at 10.00 for Biactol, followed by writing with Hugh all day until biffing off to the Garrick for a drink with Robin Bailey.† He had rung me up with some story about a taxi driver whose first wife had been a waitress at the Chelsea Arts Club: a painting of her hung in the bar. Would I as a member take Robin to see if it was there? I said yes, let’s dine there. He suggested meeting first at the Garrick for a snort.* He turned up over an hour late. I think he’s gone a bit potty. Incapable of anything other than weird conversation, acting out pretend bitterness at his career. Bit sad. We dribbled off to the Chelsea Arts and awaited Johnny Sessions who was to join us. He arrived, thank God and injected some sanity and wit into the proceedings. Drunken dinner which I hated: had forgotten what a ridiculous place the C.A.C. is. Good initials. Home late.
SATURDAY, 6 NOVEMBER 1993
Robin Hardy came round at 10.30 and we worked for hours on the script of Bachelors Anonymous. Ended up feeling more cheerful about it than I had for weeks. Managed to persuade him to cut a number of dodgy scenes and take a more serious view of the love story. Then shopped a bit at Fortnum’s and spent the evening in front of the telly. Mm. Sober and sweet at bed-time.
SUNDAY, 7 NOVEMBER 1993
Up at 11.15 just in time to climb into a suit for Sir Charles and Lady Powell to pop round and pick me up. We were all going to a lunch at Josephine (née Hart)† and Maurice Saatchi’s house in Sussex. Very grand. The world and his wife were there. Nicholas Soames, bless him, and his intended, Serena, Melvyn Bragg, Simon Callow and his friend Christopher,* Sir Norman Fowler, Michael Howard the Home Sec., John and Jane Birt, Alan Yentob, Christopher Bland,† Paul Johnson, Simon Jenkins, Gayle Hunnicutt, Alastair Goodlad, Grey Gowrie, Pamela Harlech and others too splendid to mention. Wine and chat flowed, all rather good fun. Signed a copy of Paperweight for the Saatchi child, Edmund, who is eight and very bright clearly. Josephine told me she had gone into his room last night and found him reading P’weight. He asked ‘Mummy, what does “biopsy” mean?’ Sweet.
Rode back with the Powells again and home in time for telly and bed. Without coke again. That’s two nights in a row. It’s becoming a habit.
MONDAY, 8 NOVEMBER 1993
Hugh couldn’t come round today: meetings for his advert next week. I messed around doing correspondence and sorting things out generally. Voice Over in the morning, followed by a researcher popping round for the Clive Anderson I’m doing on Thursday. While chatting to her Alyce Faye rang up and asked me whether I would like her tickets for The Meistersingers currently wowing them at the ROH. I squeaked Yes! with great excitement, said to be a great production. Immediately rang up Johnny Sessions to see if he could come. Starts at 5.00 of course. He replied with equal alacrity and I spent the rest of the day in a fever waiting for the tickets to be biked round. Bathed and climbed into a suit and Johnny appeared at 4.00. We cabbed in to the Garden and ordered our first interval drinks. Sir Kenneth Bloomfield (Bromfield?) was there: a governor of the BBC, Ulster Civil Servant. I’d met him at Birt evenings, proms that kind of thing. Simon Hornby* also present.
Then the music drama itself. An absolutely knock-out production by Graham Vick, with Bernard Haitink on unbelievable form in the pit. Just sensational. Thomas Allen a fabulous Beckmesser, possibly the best acting performance in London at the moment, never mind the singing. And John Tomlinson a sensationally dignified and wonderfully voiced Sachs. Oh, I can’t tell you Daisy dear, the best evening I’ve had in years and years. One forgets just what a great man Wagner was. This was Art, this was total magical real uncompromising Art. Genius is, I’m afraid, the only word. Unparalleled genius.
We stumbled out into the light and h
eaded for Orso for our dinner. Ned Sherrin was there, natch, chatted to him awhile and chewed the fat. I tried to explain to Hegel to Johnny: he said it was fascinating but that he knew he would forget every detail of it the moment I had stopped speaking. I know what he means. That’s why I love talking and teaching: the act of reproducing ideas out loud reinforces them in the head. If, every time you read a complex book or idea, you had to explain it to someone else, you’d never forget it.
We shogged back to my place a little drunk and stayed up for hours. Johnny stayed in the spare room and I fell into bed, unable to sleep till way past four.
TUESDAY, 9 NOVEMBER 1993
Woke Johnny at 8.15 and fell back to slumber. Dimly remember J. bidding me farewell. Jo forwarded me a letter to tell me that a set had become available in Albany. Then other Jo, Jo Laurie, rang to say that I had to go round a bed shop in Chelsea with her to choose 5 new beds for West Bilney. She turned up in a cab with Hugh. Hugh went in to work and I zipped off with Jo.
In an hour I spent £11,750 odd quid on some beautiful beds and six hundred quid on material to upholster one of them. Stunning stuff though.
Then back, through terrible traffic (State visit of TM the King and Queen of Malaysia or somesuch) to the flat. Hugh stayed for a while and then went off to interview a headmaster for the boys’ prep school. I rang the secretary of the Albany trustees and arranged to see it this afternoon. Set up a meeting too with Jethro at the Grouch at 5.00.
Messed about, then the copy-edited proofs of The Hippo arrived and I went through them. Off to the Albany next. I think the set has great potential. I’d need to redecorate quite substantially. Definitely an exciting prospect. No children, no dogs, no noise, no publicity are their rules.