There was a big response to the thank you letter I wrote to the wonderful David Bowie for lending me his house on Mustique. Here is another Doreen letter. A fax this time, thanking him for a Mediterranean cruise which he took us on with Iman, where we had a lot of laughs.

A Fax: To David

From: Eric, Tania and Doreen.

July 1991

      The chip pan hasn’t stopped frying once since we got back, Doreen has been that keen to take away the taste of all that mucky foreign food she’s sure we ate while we were abroad. “In foreign parts” Doreen calls it, with more than a trace of single-entendre. Mike was a Gourmet chef we told her but Doreen only snorted contemptuously and said Eydie Gorme was a singer and couldn’t cook to save a lobsters life. So its been beans, beans, beans,fry ups, bacon butties and chips with everything since notre retour.

      The snaps of the cruise came back from the Chemists and Doreen thinks Captain Jeff is a dish. What a hunk! He reminds her of an old boyfriend from Redditch, a motorcycle mechanic who was the fastest thing on a saddle, before being sadly crushed at a Slade Concert, in a sudden rush for the doors. Simon, she thought, an absolute treasure.

“If lips could talk I bet there’d be a volume in those.”

But the two girls worried her.

 “Girls at sea are so susceptible to sailors” said Doreen.
  “I know I was. And that was just in Birmingham, without all that rolling around on water.”    

Natasha, the English one, looked “a bit too nice”, and Doreen knows how fast nice girls can turn when in port, (or in sherry). As for the other girl, Eva, “Well” as Doreen put it delicately, “She’s not only foreign she’s a Dane, and look what Danish girls did to Hamlet. One went bonkers and the other was his mother!”

She’s had a soft spot for Hamlet ever since little Mel Gibson played the big Scandinavian schizophrenic with the heart of gold for that nice Italian gentleman, Signor Whatsirelli, as Doreen calls him. 

      She also liked the hunk below stairs, the blond boy from the Navy. She likes engineers, “they’re very good with their hands, and I bet he’s seen a porthole or two. So who’s the cuddly balding little feller?”

  “That’s Richard” I said,

“Uhm looks like Dick to me” she remarked obliquely.

And when I told her he was the mate, she said she wouldn’t mind mating with him any day; or the little dishy one, who looked like a young Gary Lineker. Such a nice boy, with a great pair of thighs.

“I bet he has natural ball sense.”

“Neil,” I said.

“I’d kneel any day” she said pouring another glass of Vino Huddersfield, on special offer from Tescos, with a label design by Prince Charles in aid of Save the Soviet Whales from Aids Trust. She wondered if the crew would like a nice pin-up of her for their quarters – she knows how sailors get.

“I was for a while Miss Redditch” she said.

And who, after all would miss Redditch?

    Doreen knows a thing or two when it comes to sailors. “I’ve had them up to here,” she said mystifyingly touching her armpits. In fact lets face it, she’s cruised Birmingham from top to bottom in her better days as one of the most popular Hotel Receptionists in the Midlands and also claims that when she was a Nurse she took part in one of the greatest ever Naval Operations of all time, at the Selly Oak Hospital, when Lt. Commander Ronson became Mrs Janet Twigge. Doreen claims to have held the scissors, and swears there is a video of the whole operation. But you can only get it if you sleep with Richard Branson, so that’s out.

      David she thinks looks far too thin, and as for that Somalian girl, well stand her sideways and you won’t know she’s there. Thin as a Polish couture rail. So she has offered to turn that pastry cook off the boat and come over for a couple of weeks of good old honest to God English puddings, spotted dick, jam roly-poly, semolina and toad in the hole, which Doreen swears she does as a “an after” with pineapple chunks to give it that Hawaiian flavour. She found the recipe in a copy of Yes Mum, her favourite magazine which is mainly pictures of the Queen Mum, knitting patterns and recipes for Gin pudding.

      She thinks she could do something with the boat, but honestly it’s going to take a lot of work. The decor is a disgrace in her view. There’s not a bit of dayglo on the ship and “you can’t have a cruise without raffia.” She would like to do the whole thing over again from stem to stern (and that Captain too given half a chance). She’d like to choose a motif for each floor, one layer orange, the next floor pink, the next Thames mud etc and use some really exciting vibrant materials to cheer up the place – she wonders if you like plaid, because they have some exciting new tartans coming out of Milton Keynes designed by the Duchess of York for Lyn Wyatt’s nouvelle Texan Palace and they look really great on a wall with antelope heads or zebra skin rugs. She also has her eye on some linoleum flooring which would replace that boring white carpeting that she says is so passé. Looks like a toilet paper commercial in her view.

“All that’s missing is the fluffy dog and the Andrex.”

Well you know our Doreen, how she gets after a couple of Babycham. She turned up her nose at the French champagne we bought at the airport at only seven times the normal price. Really they are bandits at the airport. I was compelled to pay ten pounds to use the toilet by a fat sweaty woman of middle-eastern origin, who was growing enough hair under her armpits to fill a duvet – I had nothing smaller and I was bursting. When I asked for some change she pretended not to speak a word of English. I ask you, and running a foreign toilet.

      Well David dear I must close, there has been a major pile up at Spaghetti junction – so must dash. Doreen wants some pictures. She’s doing a talk for the WI on Horrible Deaths, part of her work with the abled to help them cope with life.

      Next year Doreen suggests you take a nice English holiday for a change instead of always dabbling in foreign parts. “What’s wrong with Skegness for a couple of weeks? Or even Rhyll if you must go abroad?”

      She sends her love and suggests that your album cover would look great if only you’d put a nice pair of Y-fronts on that Greek boy. Some things are better left to the imagination she says…

           Love to all as ever,

Eric, Tania & of course Doreen.

India!
Well not quite. The Indian Ocean anyway. The sun is rising golden across the Western desert shining all the way across Australia. We chased it all evening to the edges of the Indian Ocean emerging into a warm dark moonless night in Perth, with an unfamiliar bright star, which the driver assured me was Venus. I’m so upside down here I have to take his word for it. Anyway it’s very bright. And of course I know Venus is not a star, and I will check it out tonight with my little travel binos and my Starwalk app. Do you think I was born yesterday? No I didn’t think you did.   

Now the sun is glinting off the lights of the WACA, which as anyone sensible knows is the Western Australian Cricket Ground. It’s only six a.m.and it looks like it’s going to be a hot one. The flags are flapping on their poles so I’m wondering if the legendary Doctor is in town. This is the Fremantle Doctor, or Freo, a local summer wind off the Ocean which brings some relief in the afternoons.

It’s a public holiday here and Simon, the God of Travel, with a fresh haircut, announces he and the crew ( Simon and Anthony) are going to go to Rockness Island for a day off.

“What’s there?” asks John.

“The Rock Ness Monster” I suggest, and even the driver laughs.

A pleasant four hour flight from Canberra, though these planes are not built for John. He can hardly get out of his seat he is so tall, and an upright posture in the loo is out of the question. He performs a series of stretches in the Galley to the secret delight of the Business Passengers.

Qantas treat us nicely of course, and the lovely stewardess up the sharp end unfortunately manages somehow to spill hot water on her breasts. I ask if she has put ice on them, and she says yes, and I say that while I am not a doctor, if she needs any cream rubbed on them I am happy to help.

Turns out laughter is not the best medicine, but she cracks a rye smile and goes off to feel better.

John and I often observe that you don’t have to go very far in Australia without humour breaking out. We think it’s because it’s such a wonderful life here, and the people are happy and exercise and take weekends off. Unlike our dear cousins in America, who work all the time, have poor wages, almost no holidays and ugly billionaires yell at them for wanting health care. As I say on the show “the trouble with political jokes is occasionally they get elected.” A joke I shamelessly stole from a tea towel in Caloundra market. I have a good one of my own which is on a hotel wall in, I think, San Jose.

 “A lot has been said about politics, some of it complimentary but most of it accurate.”

As I said the other night, if Trump gets elected, the rest of the world may want to build a wall to keep him in.

It’s Labour Day here. A public holiday but only in Western Australia, the other States have other days. It’s a relief for us as it gives us a chance to catch up and deal with the accumulating laundry. A comedy army marches on its undies, (says The Napoleon of Mirth) and we have been moving so fast we are grateful for a couple of days to sort ourselves out.

I’m limping like a one legged lemur, so I have acupuncture scheduled for tomorrow. This tendonitis is a big p in the a as it means I can’t wander about and explore which is what I like to do in a new city. And Perth is virtually a new city. I haven’t been here since December 20th 2007 when John Du Prez conducted the Western Australia Orchestra and the Cantillation Massed Choir in Not The Messiah our comic oratorio, based on the Life of Brian and Handel (with care). It went over big and as it was late December I remember John and I did an encore with a small electric keyboard and sang Fuck Christmas, which totally collapsed the orchestra, choir and audience equally.

 I’m writing in bed lit by the sun. It’s only 7 a.m. but I have to draw the curtains it’s already so hot. I shall shortly explore the executive lounge for my executive breakfast. Executive is becoming a word with almost no meaning. I use the Executive Toilets, and dial the Executive telephone and do my Executive laundry. It simply seems to mean you have paid more.

I’m pondering a trip to the Margaret Valley but I have so much catching up to do. A diarists job is never done, as I tell Michael Palin and I got a cheap laugh at his expense in Canberra, saying I have a very rare unsigned copy of a Michael Palin Book…. Well he does go everywhere and sign the damn things. John and I discuss the new Gilliam book, which I say is surprisingly well written, and John wonders who wrote it and gets my laugh. I suspect his girls had a hand in it but it is a very nicely designed book and I am being encouraged to sign more copies of it surreptitiously as I did in Eumundi. Someone even sends me a picture of a shelf load of his and Michael’s books in Sydney and suggests I sign them when I’m there. I reply that I assume they have already sold out of all my books…. And of course you can’t sign my latest as it’s only available electronically on Kindle etc. It’s called The Writer’s Cut and if you haven’t downloaded it yet, shame on you. Are you expecting me to write for you forever for free…?

We had great audiences in Adelaide, one with the Pope and one with Cardinal Pell. (Sorry local joke.) More than two and a half thousand on Saturday and almost that number again on our second show who were very raucous for a Sunday night and who experienced our first heckler. A Brit of course, who yells out unintelligibly, so I ask him if he has had enough to drink? Of course no one can hear a word he says so I run off a few one liners about the rude Poms which goes over well, and since he still won’t stop I remember something Robin Williams did to a persistent heckler the night I first met him in London in 1980. I got the entire audience to pray for the death of this unfortunate man. Thank you Robin. And it makes a nice change me taking your jokes… Oh alright bitter posthumous kidding and I never minded him using my material at all because he always took me on great holidays, and I had no other outlet for gags anyway back then.

I remember saying to David Bowie once after a Robin show that I found it hilarious. “You should ” said David “you said most of it at dinner…”

Well I was happy to be Whistler to Robin’s Oscar. I just wish the fucker was still here. In fact both of the fuckers. Dammit.

The heckler was ejected at half time, claiming that he had been going to Python shows since the 90’s and part of Python shows is you heckle the act. He is clearly deluded since the last live Python show was in 1980 and we never had hecklers. They would have had to be insane to have six Pythons mad at them…

Perhaps because of his unwanted contribution the show killed and I have never heard so much volume of laughs on John’s solo gags. I felt rather timid about following him with my little rude songs.

 On the plane from Canberra I wrote a joke for Wednesday…

Yesterday was the marriage of Australian Billionaire Rupert Murdoch to Jerry Hall. “I am the luckiest man in the world” said Mick Jagger.

I don’t think I’ll use it.
 

Our single show in Canberra pulled in 2,600 people to The Convention Centre and we showed pictures of our smashing stay at the Jamala Wildlife Resort, ending up with a photo of us both in the Python enclosure being fed a tin of Spam, which I am happy to say is being retweeted by Conservation groups, because the Cheetah, and indeed far too many species are in danger of being extinct in 15 years. Only 3,000 left in the wild. The white rhino has gone although we tickled three young ones at the Canberra zoo.

I had an early gag for the tour I wanted to try:

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, the white rhino has just become extinct, and I’m not feeling too good myself…”

But I can’t decide whether it’s funny or too sad.

Answers on a plain postcard to Perth. We’re here Wednesday and Thursday if you’re in the area.

Happy Labour Day. 

Jamala Wild Life LodgeSaturday 5th March.

I’m woken to a golden sunrise by the screeching a of a dozen white cockatoos, standing in the tree outside my room, head feathers held high. In the distance lions roar. In the lobby, some closer ancestors, two large colobus monkeys with long white feathered tails try and pretend it isn’t morning.

Thursday afternoon we came bouncing into Canberra via Melbourne through some heavy thunderclouds and dramatic flashes of lightning, and were left sitting on the Tarmac for a while, as it was deemed too dangerous for the ground crew to approach our Qantas flight. Even when they let us off it would be another two or three hours before anyone was permitted on to the apron to unload our bags. Fortunately for us St. Simon whisks us into a People Carrier and sends us barrelling off down the road beyond Canberra to our extraordinary destination, a wild life safari lodge perched beside the dam of a beautiful reservoir. For the public it’s the National Zoo and Aquarium of Canberra, but for we lucky few who get to stay here two whole nights it’s the Jamala Wild Life Lodge, where for the even more fortunate you can get to share your quarters with a Bengal tiger, brown lions, a brown bear, a sun bear or a cheetah. Richard Tindale the owner has built special bungalows with glass walls abutting their dens where your animal sleeps right beside you. We sit in one with an extraordinarily beautiful Bengal tiger who doesn’t bat an eye as he lies napping on his straw. After all this is his place. We are the visitors. You can take a bath beside him if you book this bungalow. In fact the place is so popular you can only stay three nights. John brilliantly found it in the Qantas Magazine and being, let us say, less than enamoured of the charms of Canberra suggested we stay here. Mercifully we got the last two rooms, John in the Lemur suite and me the Hyena. I haven’t yet even seen Canberra, though according to our personalised tour guides we play there tonight at a sold out Royal Theatre.

Our day off begins with breakfast on the terrace. Two very beautiful spotted hyenas idly watch us. Shortly we will get to feed these beautiful and friendly animals, who are not the only ones to have received a vile reputation from Hollywood. Meanwhile beneath us we watch four white lions released roaring from their pens each with huge chunks of meat in their mouths, which they take off into separate patches of shade in their pleasant grassy wooded enclosure. Next it’s another pair of white lions, a brother and sister, who romp into their own world. I watch the huge white male patiently ripping apart his fresh meat breakfast, his extraordinary jaws crushing and tearing the food, licking and probing, crunching and chewing, until nothing remains and they sit contentedly licking their chops. Both John and I have a picture taken with Jake, while Misha, the most beautiful female sits placidly by. You’ll be able to see the pictures we took of our trip on their website jamalawildlifelodge.com.au or more likely their face book jamalawildlifelodge.  It might take me a while to get mine over to them but they’ll probably post the Python Feeding Time picture soon.

All the staff led by Maurits de Graeff are charming and helpful but today our guides are Russell Jackson and Renee Osterloh, and they show us through the huge sea water tanks of sharks and the indoor aquarium, and then help us feed two most endearing spotted hyenas. Soon they whisk us away from the public where John is politely denying he is a zoo animal to tourists  wishing to photograph him and we head off on a golf cart to see the new areas under construction. As well as Emus and Elands, and capuchins and giraffes, and lemurs, and Tree Kangaroos from New Guinea, and a wonderfully odd Tasmanian devil, we get up close and personal with two adorable young dingos, we wander amongst the patient wallabies, and then get to meet a cheetah. That’s right. We get to meet a cheetah. Kyle and Amanda give us safety instructions and then we’re in through the gates, patting this most beautiful creature as he chews on a large leg. Luckily not one of ours. Sadly there are only 3,000 of these amazing animals left in the wild, and in fifteen years they may well become extinct. Kyle McDonald and Amanda Hadley explain that this petting programme is part of an outreach programme to teach people about these creatures, who are being killed off by farmers in Namibia and South Africa to protect their goats and sheep from predation. Perfectly understandable he says, and the only way we can save them is from a new programme of providing the farmers with a large breed of heavy dog, which protects the herds and which will see off any cheetah and predator. These dogs are provided free, and food and all vet costs are also supplied by the programme, and so far it appears to be working. No cheetah will risk an attack on a herd which is protected by a large dog, and will go elsewhere. You can contribute to this programme. John and I are considering a suitable name for a dog.

After many moving moments with the cheetah we pose inside the pen for pictures as Pythons, awaiting feeding time. Someone has thoughtfully provided a can of spam. We mug away, and the cheetah comes and sits behind us, perhaps puzzled by the antics of these antique comics. He makes a wonderful purring noise. We do what we can to spread the word. After all surely we cannot let all these wonderful animals just fade into extinction. This place is not only a tourist resort and a zoo, but also part of an integrated conservation programme, so please if you can, support them in the amazing work they are doing. Or imagine a world with no animals.

As a reward for being fed Spam for the cameras we are led to the bear enclosure where we spoon feed sweet food to a gentle and affectionate brown bear, who has, like many of these creatures, been rescued from a Circus. There is very little chance of John and I being rescued from our particular flying circus, but our hosts treat us so kindly and spoil us so much that we spend all day either being fed or feeding animals. Our final exploit of the day is in the Aquarium where an enormous tawny nurse shark is basking on the sand at the bottom of his tank, but is soon wakened by a kick on the side of the glass by Renee and comes racing up for a bucket of crayfish, which he eats with a loud plosive plop, the noise he makes as he sucks in the squid with extremely powerful suction from the reefs where he lives. John gets down and pats this very friendly but enormous tawny shark.

I don’t have time to tell you of all our adventures here, or all about the kind and friendly people who work here, or the great food served up by Sarah, and the amazing Chef, but thank you Teneal and everyone I haven’t mentioned for making us so at home. I can only encourage you all to come and visit this extraordinary place. I wish I was a bit more competent technologically to transfer our many great pictures to this blog, but I can’t dammit. We are going to try and show a few tonight in our stage show, and I’ll tweet a few but I have to rush right now, as it is feeding time with John Cleese and then sadly we have to pack up and run off back to join the Flying Circus…..

March 2nd Adelaide. Wednesday (I think)

I open my curtains to another glorious summer’s day in Adelaide. The beautiful trees that line the parkways surrounding the gleaming waters of Lake Torrens are already casting deep shadows on the grass. Boats of fours, their oars splashing in sync, are sprinting between the bridges that lead across to the golf courses and picnic sites that surround the inner square mile of this most attractive city. I’m happy to see that there is still so much of that wrought ironwork on balconies that used to define the suburbs of Sydney and which now seem to have been swallowed up by disappointing high rise development. I was always told the iron arrived as ballast in the sailing ships and was replaced by wool on the way home. I’m given a tour of the ex-woollen docks in Brisbane, which have now been converted into pleasant residential buildings. It gives me an idea for an outrageous rant I am developing about how ungrateful Australians are for we Brits bringing them here from the rainy shit hole of an island to a paradise home in the sun. They didn’t even have to pay for their passage. It goes over well and I’m working on it.

Across from my hotel lies the modernistic gleaming white stadium of the Adelaide Oval, a brand new sports facility where they play Cricket, Rugby, and Australian rules football.  Not at the same time obviously.   But Aussies are so into exercise it wouldn’t surprise me.    Stretched out across the background of my view lie the beaches and the sea. A plane drifts gently in towards the airport. I’m going exploring today. The hotel is filled with Castrol executives, who put on motivational tee shirts and attend lectures on motor oil, since there is a huge V8 street race starting here Thursday. I ponder what would have happened if Castro had just added an L to his name….

At night the Fringe Festival fills The Garden of Unearthly delights with food and tents and wine and comics. It looks a lot of fun except that we’re on stage at night and as I am still Sir Limpalot I can’t get out there and wander around freely by day, which is a pity as Adelaide is small enough to walk around and has only a million people. Perfect size.

On our flight in from Brisbane the Captain comes back and asks for a selfie. “I’ve had Prime Ministers, Film Stars, Rock stars and you’re the first people I’ve ever asked.” He’s so happy he ignores my slightly cynical “Who’s driving?”remark and John’s ironical farewell “Good luck with the landing.”

John had a question from the audience Sunday in Brisbane (they come on cards) which he read out: “What’s it like to be lizards?”

“That’s legends” John I say.

But it’s true, we are becoming comedy lizards. We are spoiled rotten everywhere we go. Simon micromanages our every move, from handling our baggage, to always having cars waiting, to being pre checked into hotels, to never having to pick up a check, and even then stuffing cash into our hands for per diem. No wonder it’s hard to go back home to a wife after this. Last time I got home I told Tania that in future I didn’t want a wife, I wanted a Tour Manager…. I’m not sure I was joking.

As if to make the point, on my arrival into a Presidential suite as big as any in Vegas, a perfect sun is setting into the sea. Dare I hope for a green flash? Yes! The sun turns pale green as it hits the ocean, and then becomes a pure brilliant emerald point, ending in a flash of almost purple. It’s the finest I have ever seen, perhaps because I’m on the 24th floor, or maybe that’s just the way it is in Australia, everything is greener and golder.

The only thing I don’t quite understand is why when we land they ask us to put our clocks forward half a hour. Are they kidding? Did they only half want summer time? I still haven’t found a satisfactory answer.

Australia is truly the land of irony. Not only are there comedy festivals everywhere but one glance at a wine list reveals a richness of weird and odd names for the very fine wines they serve here. I found these on the wine list from Sean’s kitchen, which fed me very nicely yesterday for lunch. I made up none of them.

Battle of Bosworth.

Not Your Grandma’s Reisling

Tolpuddle Chardonnay

Ladies Who Shoot Their Lunch. (I am not kidding,) and the same ladies, who apparently really do shoot their lunch also have a red called

Are You Game?

Impeccable Disorder

Down The Rabbit Hole

Two Hands Gnarly Dudes

The Dead Arm Shiraz

It’s endless.
 And the chef of this wonderful place is called Sean Connolly, which is I suppose what the Japanese called the original James Bond.    

Leaving Brisbane spared me watching the Oscars, which are the usual mixture of tedium and embarrassment. How many bearded men can you watch thanking their mothers? Three and a half hours of prize giving. What are they thinking? I’m a voter but I can never stand to watch the show. Or the Dead Carpet. I’m pleased at least for Alicia Vikander who is wonderful and I was happy Ex-Machina won something and The Big Short won best screenplay, introduced by a very funny bit from Ryan Gosling and Russell Crowe, but I’m still puzzled how Samuel Jackson wasn’t nominated for The Hateful Eight. His magnificent performance held centre stage in that movie. Ah well, Award shows are always stupid, it’s like choosing between an Orange, a Banana and a Strawberry for Best Fruit. As I say all Awards are worthless, except the ones they give me.

On our first night in Adelaide we had a glorious dinner at Chianti and as if to karmically punish John, who gibes me nightly on the show for not eating meat, the rabbit he orders removes one of his crowns. I always respond that I do eat fish, but I have asked to be buried at sea to make up for it. Sounds like John should book a burial plot in Watership Down. Anyway he poor fellow has to face the dentist this morning while I take to the hills in search of scenery. If I were him I’d ask them to make his crown opal. I’ve already been busy purchasing these, as I love them, and on each of my trips I take back a souvenir. My son’s pal Ian, showed me one he’d hacked from the rock and then shaped and polished. It was brown with gleaming tints. And then of course he gave it to me. Did I mention Australians are very generous?

The show itself is sold out here for both nights and the crowd last night was noisy and friendly and responsive. John wanders a little in our new narrative, but it doesn’t matter, only we know, and I tug him back into shape only because of the film clip cues. Personally I prefer it when things go wrong. This time, in answer to a question about Terry Gilliam I tell the story of finding his new book “Gilliamesque” in a Sunshine Coast Bookshop, looking around cautiously, surreptitiously autographing it, and then putting it back on the shelf. This goes over really well with a surprisingly big laugh. I may have to make this a practice. In fact I think we should all do it for each other’s books…

Anyway, off to explore the delights of Adelaide, and stay away from the Ladies who shoot their lunch…