Sydney Opening Night.

It’s getting to the nitty gritty. Tonight we open in Sydney at the lovely old State Theatre. Three nights here and immediately we move to Melbourne for three more nights. That’s six shows in seven days, which is tough by anyone’s standards. Then it’s arriverderci Australia and on to the land of the Kiwi.

It was a lovely weekend in preparation for all this. The wife is on song and happy to see me, and I have been hopping shopping round Sydney like a one-legged kangaroo on speed, cursing my medical people and limping around grumpily and beginning angry songs:

            You probably don’t need to be told

            But it bloody well sucks to be old…

Collapsing gratefully on to chairs in the Strand Arcade and The Queen Victoria Building, which, sadly it turns out, does not contain the original Queen Victoria’s Secret. Now that would be a fun shop window to create. Or a nice catalogue. Banksy dig out the bloomers for the short middle aged mittel-European models in real Victorian underwear. Actually Terry Gilliam would do that very well. Perhaps we shouldn’t sell him after all. The offers have in any case been derisory and he is a funny man to have around. Last year Variety announced he was dead and we end our current show with a very funny picture of him he shot of his own deathbed and published on his website.

So Sir Limpalot continues and it turns out comedy is not the best medicine. Not doing it on the road anyway. The very essence of stand up is that you can at least stand up, and although we are billed as sit-down comedy, nevertheless we are required by the exigencies of our show to occasionally stand up.

I love Sydney and it’s people and have many friends here. The city has grown enormously since I first arrived in 1976 and I could easily live here. Last night the delightful Little Nell (Nell Campbell) wined and dined me with her lovely family and we reminisced about that first time when we all drove up to the Carrington Hotel in an old green Jaguar and Tim Street-Porter took amazing photographs of that long ago place. Tonight a bunch of friends are coming, and now I am obliged to get up and shave my legs because I am on New Zealand breakfast TV very shortly.

People keep asking me in hushed terms, reserved normally for divorcing couples “How are you two getting on?” And they’re not referring to the lovely missus, but to me and John. They seem surprised when I say “Great. We have terrific fun both on and off the stage.” But what about the Daily Mail they say, and I will ironically acknowledge that of course the Daily Mail knows better than the facts. They should. They make them up. The difference is that when it was first pointed out to me that the Daily Mail (I’m sorry to keep using bad language) was saying that John and I hated each other I immediately emailed John and we had a good laugh about it and compared notes and marvelled at the unhealthy monsters who write for it and their unpleasant motives. The fact remains that we are on the second leg (yes irony) of our second tour and we have had a ball. And we are even planning another. It’s fun sharing the stage with John. It’s fun touring with John. It shows on the stage and it shows off the stage. We have hilarious dinners, and we make the punters laugh. We have known each other 53 years. It’s some kind of a miracle to be back together again at last doing a show for the very first time. Der Daily Mail has a far reach when it comes to damage but always remember that malice is their motive and envy their God. And as we say in Rutland Weekend Television Futuaris Irrisus Redibis Est. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke….

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