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
Seventy. Victoria's Secret.
Wednesday,
December 10, 2003 - Fillmore, San Francisco.
My
wife came to visit me here in San Francisco. I had to run
out to Victoria's Secret and buy lots of sexy lingerie. It's
amazing what I have to wear to attract her attention these
days…
Of course she doesn't stay for the show tonight. She goes
scuttling off this morning with the Williams's. I hope she
gets private jet lag. Seriously she is a very nice chap. And
she is coming to Vegas this weekend. We had a lovely dinner
with Robin and Marsha last night at Aqua and they kept
bringing us endless tasting courses. Lots of great laughs,
none of which I can remember. [Not much fucking use mentioning
it then is it? Ed.] Sorry. It was something to do with
Bush standing next to a turkey, and saying 'I'm still President,"
even though the turkey got more votes. Robin formally
welcomed me into the Comedians League, and officially paid
for my dinner. So thanks pal.
Yesterday we pulled in to San Fran and were met by a TV crew
who filmed me off my Tour bus and on to a Trolley, where a
couple of game ladies dressed as Santa's helpers were very
amused by me. The return trip was crammed with British tourists
who were very friendly. Then an interview for the local news
and a car to the much postponed Vanity Fair shoot.
CALL
SHEET
Project: Monty Python
Shoot Date: Tuesday, December 9, 2003
Location: Blue Sky Studio 2325 3rd Street. Suite 434, San
Francisco, CA 94107
Call Time: Talent @4:00pm
After all my kvetching the Vanity Fair shoot was a lot of
fun. I thought the curse of Python was going to strike again
when the Limo company called up and said the car they were
sending had crashed en route, but they soon had a replacement.
I don't know how top secret all this stuff is, but suffice
it to say the "costume" turned out to be a coffin.
It should be quite a funny spread when it's all done and I
was impressed by the speed and efficiency of their whole team.
They stuck me in a night shirt and a dressing gown designed
by an incredibly expensive designer whose name I have already
forgotten. I know, I know. I'd make a terrible gay man. I'd
like to join. It's all the rage but I think I'm just
too old. Who wants to read "60 year old British virgin,
seeks to swap sides. 1 previous wife, 1 current. Looking for
similar in the Bristol area." It just doesn't have the
appeal does it?
"What a pity we don't have a night cap" I said as
we admired me in my name-forgotten expensive designer night-gown.
Instantly Kim Meehan, the stylist, whipped an expensive shirt
off the rack, grabbed a pair of scissors and hacked it into
an elegant night cap complete with tassel (pulled from a ski
hat) in just a few minutes. Then she raced for the airport
to fly to London to prepare wardrobe for Mike and the Terrys
on Friday. The other costume I wore was a fabulous three-quarter
length coat with teddy-boy velvet lapels. Very Rutles. Then
they threw a bowler hat on me and handed me a furled umbrella
so I suddenly looked like I was auditioning for a remake of
the Remake of The Avengers. In the end the effect is
kinda Renee Magritte meets Patrick McGee.
The amazingly swift and efficient photographer Art Streiber
had been reading my Tour diary and opined I must write it
at night since I sound so grumpy, but no, I replied, "I
can be very sweet at night. I am naturally grumpy in
the mornings." We immediately decide that I should have
a guitar with me in my last resting place, and so one swift
cell phone call to the unflappable Skip and he pulls my Baby
Taylor off the bus and throws it into the back of a limo and
voila we have a guitar. (It's the one Clint Black sent me
to celebrate the birth of his daughter Lily Pearl.)
Diana Schmidtke, the "groomer" does her best to
make me look attractive after-life and she herself is very
attractive and actually quite breathtaking when she finally
takes her coat off. Fabulously shaped as a matter of fact.
She has a fascinating tattoo which disappears tantalizingly
into her… Good job the wife was there. The trouble and
strife [1] arrived at the hotel
just as I was leaving and we almost made our mistiming a classic.
Tania was about to enter the "up" elevator as I
stepped out of the "down" elevator. Another two
seconds and we'd have missed each other. I think our lives
are like that. It's amazing we ever met. But she came with
me to the shoot so I was able to be the target of her dry
comments as they groomed me. "Stay" I say. "I
can't" she says "I have workmen in."
Now the day has all gone pear shaped, as they say in England.
It's 3.25 and I'm waiting for a car that hasn't shown up to
take me to a live radio show which begins in five minutes
at a radio station I know not which in a location I know not
where. And my feeling? Anxiety? Panic? Anger? Mounting frustration?
Nah Relief. Somebody screwed up somewhere, so I can sit and
have a cup of tea in peace. So how was it writing Monty
Python.....? Another chance not to have to answer that
question.
OK, after many calls betwixt Wendy the PR person, Skip, the
Concierge and the Radio Station, not one of which is actually
interesting, they finally figure out the fuck up. The car
was waiting downstairs for Mr. X [2],
my super secret identity which they give to the hotel to protect
me from the legion of panty throwing women, who would otherwise
be unable to resist the impulse to call me up in the middle
of the night and offer me blow jobs. So when the Bellman asked
the car driver if they were waiting for Mr. Idle the man naturally
enough said no. So there you go. I always thought these pseudonym
things were bollocks. They largely prevent my family calling
me…
Footnotes:
- [1]
Wife. Cockney Rhyming slang. Trouble and strife = wife.
- [2]
Mr. X. Not a real pseudonym but a phony pseudonym intended
to conceal the real pseudonym. Which is Mr. Y. No.
Shit. Bollocks. Dammit.
|
