Sydney.
On the flight from Perth to Sydney John and I were discussing the state of Python finances and we came to the conclusion that the only sensible thing to do was to auction off Terry Gilliam. Obviously it is sad at this stage of life to have to let someone go but if someone has to be sacrificed then better to let that be the one who was, at least partially, American. Of course he will be missed. Not by us obviously. But wherever there is trouble to be stirred, or budgets to be exceeded then there obviously he will be missed. And of course at this difficult time it is his family we feel for, because they still have to live with him.

Yes,it is a pity to break up a set, especially one so old and over valued as Monty Python, and you may indeed ask why anyone would want to buy Terry Gilliam in this difficult market, so to make it more enticing we are offering a set of stainless steel steak knives, a two week holiday in Rhyl, and a complete set of Michael Palin travel programmes. That should at least sweeten the pot, and we would like to point out that this is the first time any of the Pythons have come onto the market in recent times, and while they are old and in many ways useless, they do have a certain social cachet, they brighten up the living room, and make excellent conversation pieces. In addition Terry can draw, and let it be said very well, so in that sense he is a big draw. Offers please to the Python web site.

Sadly on the way to Sydney John and I both failed a drug test: we neither of us had any, so if there are any doctors in the area, please remember we somehow have to stand up and be funny at the State Theatre tomorrow (Monday) night, and again Tuesday and Wednesday.

We came whistling in from Western Australia on Friday evening, John cramped and uncomfortable on what is laughably called Business, but which for him is Torture Class. I attempted to tempt him to join me in the flesh pots of Sydney, but he very sensibly said he was going to rest. Unfortunately for me I was still in time to join the Mark Joffe weekly renewal class, which takes place at a place imaginatively called The Place, and which involves the consumption of vast amounts of alcohol, attractive young people, and a certain amount of pork. I am assured there was a great deal of hilarity and apparently I was tremendously funny but my mind was on higher things as my saintly wife was en route and arriving in the morning and it behoved me to get to bed before Dawn. In the event Dawn must have stayed in the taxi because the next thing I knew my long standing sweetheart the bride was hammering on my door demanding to be let in. And this I might add before 10 a.m. Shows what a nice man I am that I admitted her, but I shall draw a discreet veil as to just what went on during our marital renewal, let me just say eggs were involved.

The day passed very sweetly with me hobbling with her down Circular Quay to the Sydney Opera House, where we filmed a short video in front of the Pyramids, and sent it as a surprise contribution to an old friend who is either turning gay or sixty. I forget which. Let me just say that making travel documentaries does not seem to be all that demanding, and although the Pyramids seemed slightly more ovoid than pyramidal I do not see what all the fuss is about Michael Palin. It’s quite easy pretending to be nice on camera, and I may say I pulled it off effortlessly. Even my wife was surprised. And as they say if you can still surprise your wife after a hundred and eighty years then there’s nowt wrong wi Yorkshire lad. I’m not quite sure why they say that, or indeed what it means, but I am informed that this is so. Idle is a Yorkshire name, my father was a Yorkshireman and I am apparently entitled to vote for Geoffrey Boycott for something so I should know of what I speak. I should. Speaking of the legendary Yorkshire philosopher I am reminded of the many happy times spent in the Sebel Town House in the early eighties, with the perpetually thirsty David Gower and the unsatisfiable Ian Botham. Ah those happy nights, where I would emerge at lunch time with a raging headache to switch on the telly only to find the impeccable Gower thrashing a century before lunch. Happy Days.

So there we are. Our generous Promoter has given us another day off, and I shall probably spend it alternately eating eggs with the wife, yelling curses at my damned tendon and hobbling around the hotel. I may just have to have the entire leg off. It seems the only sensible, not to mention painless, way forward. May I wish you all a fairly decent Sunday, two healthy legs, eggs, and great joy in whatever churches or watering holes you find yourselves in. And always remember Terry Gilliam’s wise words: “Why me?”

Comments are closed