Around
the States in Eighty Days
Being an irregular and erratic account by the
Greedy Bastard himself as he sets out to traverse America on
a comedy tour.
Day
Fifteen. Back in the USSA. Autumn in Vermont.
Tuesday,
October 14, 2003
"So, tell me about your life…"
There
can be few more depressing opening questions from an in interviewer.
Have
you no internet? Are there no biographical reference books?
Are there not a million printed interviews? Do you do no
research now, but simply write down what I say? I feel the
words "fuck off" rising to my throat but mindful
of a previous journalist's Dennis Miller warning I choke them
back and start summarizing my life story. It feels sad and
worn and thoroughly unconvincing. I must find a new way to
avoid this question. The previous interviewer proudly told
me Dennis Miller had hung up on him. He took this as a badge
of honor. I notice that Dennis is becoming a bit of a hate
figure. Elton John took a bite out of him the other day. I
suppose that's what you get for flying around with George
W. Or else it's living in Santa Barbara with the over rewarded.
He has become a Santa Barbarian.
The cheapskate Tour Bastards have moved us all here to Burlington
for a day off instead of leaving us in the perfectly wonderful
and superbly cosmopolitan city of Montreal. It was great to
be back in a French speaking place. On stage I slip in the
words "I like the French. Someone should be doing the
job of the democrats." But it's twue, it's twue, I do
like the French. I love their Frenchness. I like their language,
and I like their style, and I like the way they have of living
their lives through their senses, paying attention to the
important things like food, clothing, sexuality, wines, even
their movies. Everything is about enjoying life and that applies
to all classes of French society, not just the wealthy bourgeoisie.
By comparison the Anglo Saxon obsession with duty or the endless
American pursuit of money are simply second-rate ways of being.
I live from time to time in Provence (someone has to do it)
and there are times when I really miss it and today is one
of those. I am having huge nostalgie.
Jen
and I escape for lunch to a magnificent café called
"L'Express." It is perfectly French from the paper
tablecloths on the small square tables, to the hand written
menu in it's glossy wrapper and the huge list of wines. The
food is delicious, freshly cooked and perfectly done and we
succumb to the temptations of dessert: a fine almond chocolate
thing for her and an unhealthy but delicious orange crème
caramel for me. The joy they have in sharing their pleasure
is so great, but today we are back in the land of the Big
Mac. Lunch in my hotel room is a disgusting veggie wrap sent
up by Skip. "Keep telling yourself this is the best sushi
you've ever had" reads his card, as I junk the lot and
reach for a power bar. Oy vey, it's a light year from yesterday.
I managed to cram in about ten minutes shopping, limping lamely
along a treasure trove of bijoux shops on the Boulevard St.
Denis. I could have done my entire Christmas shopping here.
But no, I have an afternoon of interviews to face in a tiny
airless basement room under the theater for two and a half
hours instead of the joy of strolling (well hobbling) through
one of the finest cities in North America, as well as one
of the oldest. I have to come back here soon. Perhaps with
Michael Palin. The people at the table next to me are drinking
Sancerre and that always reminds me of him. We use to drink
buckets of it and swap cases as presents back in the days
when I was a trainee alcoholic. Sadly I never qualified. Who
could rival Graham? Now my gourmandizing days are over and
I pathetically sip a phoney wine substitute and swallow unhealthy
diet colas. I wonder where Michael is now. Probably half way
up the Himalayas.
Commander
Palin's Diary.
Mount Everest. Sunday. Sherpa Biggles says he can get
me to 3rd Base. But sadly he doesn't seem to have tits…
[Stop doing Michael Palin's Diary. This joke is wearing
pretty thin: Ed]
Last
time I appeared at the St. Denis Theater was in the Just
For Laughs Festival in the summer of 2000 when I hosted
one of their Galas. The magnificent Terry Jones joined me
on stage and together we did Nudge Nudge for the first
time since 1842. The show was great fun and at the end I was
whisked away by limo to a small deserted private airfield
where a tiny light in the sky landed and picked me up. It
was Robin Williams celebrating his birthday and together we
flew to Paris for the final day of the Tour de France, to
watch Lance Armstrong ride in to the Champs Elysees for his
second consecutive victory. The sun was shining and the tree-lined
boulevard was filled eight deep with fifty thousand Frenchmen
on their bleachers, and Paris was at its most glorious. Blue
skies, tiny streets, big wide Napoleon 3rd Boulevards. Ah
oui, ca c'est la vie. On the last day of the Tour the riders,
who have just cycled 3,000 kilometers around France in three
weeks, ride proudly into the center of Paris, sipping champagne
and waving to the crowd. One of the US Postal team even wears
a female wig. They complete the race by circling the Champs
Elysees eight times on a two mile course that takes them in
front of the Louvre, (watch out for the cobblestones). It's
more than a parade than a race but a few riders are out to
impress and grab a final Stage victory.
Michael J. Fox is there with his family. He is a very sweet
man whom I had met previously, and they have been tracking
the tour for some time. Robin of course is being irrepressibly
hilarious and we are amongst a bunch of Texan Lance fans,
including the Mayor of Austen and some people from the Lance
foundation. We are all having a blast enjoying the sunshine
and the occasion, knowing that Lance has won. The race is
technically over. He is ahead by about six minutes. All someone
could do would be to push him over and sit on him, and he
is surrounded by his team mates and domestiques so that could
never happen.
Robin and I give an interview for OLN, the Outdoor Life Network,
which would perhaps be more accurately called the Outdoor
Death Network since most of their programs seem to consist
of advice on how to kill as many living creatures as possible.
The Tour is a nice change for them. We pretend not to be interested
in who has won the Yellow Jersey. We are concerned about the
Pink Jersey, the bicyclist with the best butt…. Well
you know Robin. Whenever interviewed next to him I always
try and look as deadpan as possible and throw in the odd concept
when he pauses for breath. That's all you can do. Even very
very funny people can do no more. Watch Billy Crystal's face
on those charity shows they do together, and Billy really
knows where the laughs are.
So there we are in Paris and the race is down to its last
two laps when a man from the Tour organization asks Robin,
Michael and me if we would like to ride in one of the lead
cars. Like idiots we decline, but they talk us into it and
within minutes we climb over the barriers and leap into a
small red Renault, which appears out of nowhere and pulls
out on to the Champs Elysees. Now we are on the course! We
drive slowly up the cobble stones towards the Arc de Triomphe,
the whole vast crowd on either side of us, chatting away,
eating sandwiches and listening to their portable radios awaiting
the next arrival of the Pelloton. That's about 150 cyclists
pedaling in unison and as I look behind me I already see the
bright headlights of the approaching gendarmes, heralding
the arrival of the race.
"Erm,"
I say to the driver "You'd better watch it. I think they
are coming."
The driver gives a Gallic shrug of immense proportions, the
way you would pass off a typical remark by an English idiot
who clearly knows nothing, and we sit by the side of the road
as this huge flotilla rapidly approaches from behind. I am
getting very anxious now. We are definitely in the way, and
suddenly the blue gendarmes cars flash past us and there quite
clearly is a big wide line of cyclists approaching like an
immense cavalry charge. At the very last moment our driver
guns the car and we pull in directly in front of them!
Oh my God. The leading riders are fifteen feet from us. We
are now leading the Tour de France around the final stage
of the Tour. The two television cameramen standing up on their
motorbikes, grin at us and wave and laugh at our utter astonishment
and joy and total gobsmackedness at this unbelievably privileged
view of a major sporting event. Imagine being just ahead of
the horses in the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby to get
just what we are experiencing here. We are leading the
entire tour round the course in the final stages of the race.
Normally, this is reserved for French Presidents. So we belt
up the Champs Elysees, and round the Arc de Triomphe and back
down the Boulevard again pursued by a bunch of highly colored
cycle shirts. A big wide bend and past the Ferris wheel into
a sudden dip down into an underpass and we watch the breathless
sight of a hundred and fifty pedallers following us downhill.
"It's like a dream" says Michael "a dream where
you are being pursued by a hundred bikes."
And now as we come past Le Crillon Hotel we can clearly
hear the bell for the last lap and we are really going to
be on the final lap of the fucking tour de France. Later on,
watching the replay on TV, we are so close you can see us
in the same shot as the leaders! They are on their final sprint
by this time and our driver has to accelerate sharply to prevent
them running in to us. He is of course no ordinary chauffeur,
but a driver of world class grand prix standard and has done
this for about three weeks, and probably years, so our worries
have been left far behind and we are now all cheering, yelling
and screaming. This is the most exhilarating thing in the
world. Three leaders have broken from the pack and are duelling
flat out behind us, their bikes shifting furiously from side
to side as they stand on their pedals, then angling dangerously
on the corners, as they skim the curb and slide perilously
over the cobblestones racing for the finish. It's the final
stretch and we lead the entire Tour under the finishing line
and then pull in. There is a pause. We are all utterly shocked,
our minds completely blown by what we have just experienced.
Then Michael says "Well, we will always have Paris!"
What a ride. Lance gets his trophy, kisses his wife, holds
his infant son aloft and promises to be back and win it again
next year. So far he has done that three more times. On two
of which I have had the pleasure of being there to watch this
utterly dedicated, completely focused human being who is amongst
the most admirable and heroic of men. To do all this by itself
is amazing, but to do it after cancer is truly unbelievable.
Not an easy man to know but on top of a dusty mountain in
Provence he wins a stage and as he is being interviewed on
French TV he turns and gives me a big grin and a wave. Go
Lance!
The Radisson hotel Burlington is a bit of a come down after
the Chateau Laurier in Ottawa. And I am in the best suite:
The Ethan Allen suite. I thought that was a furniture shop,
but no he is apparently some local Vermont hero who saved
the state from New York. The walls are paper thin and I can
here the couple next door bickering. In fact they might as
well be in here. I pull out my portable Sony CD player and
stick Vivaldi on loudly and am instantly transported to Venice.
A delicious hot bath and I am feeling happy again. I have
done one interview, a very civilized chap who has clearly
been warned by the belle Tiarra to ask interesting questions.
He does. One interview a day would be just fine. A decent
conversation with a polite stranger. It's the repetition which
becomes so depressing.
Last night we drove overnight after the Montreal show back
into the States. The Montrealians (The Montreeze? The Montruquians?
Les Montresque? The Montregasques? ) are a great audience.
Jen says it's the best I've done. We cross the border after
an hour and the girls flirt with a big Customs man called
Chris and make me sign a program for him. When he asks them
the reasons for their travel they tell him they are searching
for the Holy Grail. It takes him a bit before he finally twigs
what's going on. Then he's all smiles. Which is great because
a Tour bus next to us has all its passengers out with all
their hand baggage open and brother we don't need that with
all our gear. We'd be lucky to make the show in two days…
Tonight we all bond on the bus as there is no sleeping till
we reach Vermont, so I break out my small Taylor guitar and
we thumb through some old favorites in a fake Standards book
I have. It's like camp. Even Skip sings along, though bitching
it's not in his key and he doesn't know these songs. Well
hello, if you tour with the Sex Pistols what chance do you
have to really get to know Broadway songs?
"Where
are the homosexuals when you need them" I ask, as we
break down on a chorus. The indefatigable Gilli leads the
singing. These Australians are powerful Sheila's and no mistake.
She is still rehearsing Jen's back-up for one of her own songs
at 3 a.m. when we finally stagger out of the bus into the
Radisson Hotel.
Next morning I discover the Ethan Allen suite has a great
view of the Car Park, but as I am leaving the room I see through
a picture window opposite an unbelievable view of a wide deep
blue lake with flags snapping in the wind and sail boats tugging
at their moorings. It's Lake Champlain, a mini Great Lake
and what a beauty. Across the choppy water lie long lines
of pale orange hills. What a glorious day. What a glorious
sight. Aha so this is Vermont. There is fresh air out there,
and fabulous views and adventures to be had, and I am to be
stuck in here all day talking about Monty Python and why I
am out on the road. In the cafeteria I can feel Mister Grumpy
settle in beside me. Compulsory music pollutes the air. This
second hand muzac really kills me. It's worse than smoking.
At least smoking doesn't stop your thinking, but this ambient
music, currently it's hits from the fifties, does the opposite
of cheering me up. It makes me resentful and gloomy. I stare
at the tiny tin jug of warm water and the tea bag that is
offered as a tea experience and I feel Mister Grumpy getting
nearer, bickering in his way about the Yanks and their inability
to make a decent cup of tea. "
"It's
all because of the Boston Tea Party" he says. "They
still think the drink is about dumping tea bags into cold
water."
Mister
Grumpy goes on moaning.
"We
could have been in Montreal," he says, "smelling
the fresh bakery smells, and watching the endlessly fascinating
French girls going about their bijoux shopping, but no we
are stuck in a cafeteria listing to Carol King whine on how
she's got a friend."
Not over here she hasn't. What's worse for me is that my daughter
is missing me. I feel bad. I know a thing or two about abandonment
issues. It's tough to have an absentee father. I wish I'd
blown all the publicity they have lined up and flown straight
home to see her. I kick myself for not doing this, since we
now have two days off. My ridiculous English boarding school
sense of duty again. Lily and I chatter away on the phone
but it's not the same as having a Dad around. Thirteen is
a difficult year for girls and there are many issues to deal
with, and a father who is suddenly not there is not the best
support for her. Now I learn that they have changed our itinerary
so that our six days in New York is suddenly cut to three
and that's not enough time with my lovely lady wife either
you greedy bastards…
I can feel Mister Grumpy coming to stay for a few days visit.
Oh damn it. Oh bollocks. Half way up a Nepalese mountain Michael,
sun burned and healthy save for a dose of diarrhea from a
dab of yak's cheese, is busy talking about the Himalayas.
I wish I was on Eric's tour he is thinking…
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