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…

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