26

THE TONY FAIRY

One morning in the Eighties when I lived in St. John’s Wood, I received a large package with an invitation which said in big gold letters:

Congratulations, Eric Idle, Tony Award Nominee. You, Eric Idle, have been nominated for a Tony Award. We would like to invite you to New York for the Tony Awards Ceremony and we are very happy to inform you that you have been nominated for Best Female Performer on Broadway.

I have to admit that this was a shock. I certainly hadn’t expected it, but I am a polite man and I wrote back.

I am so thrilled to receive this nomination. It is one of the greatest honors of my career. It is particularly thrilling for me because not only have I never appeared on Broadway, I am not even a female. I would be delighted to attend your awards ceremony. Would you like me to wear a frock?

There was a series of embarrassed phone calls, and sadly it turned out it wasn’t for me at all. It was for Chita Rivera. Well, it’s a mistake anyone could make, Eric Idle, Chita Rivera…I very much enjoyed the confusion and for a long time I counted that nomination as one of the most unlikely near-achievements of my career. So, it was something of a surprise when I actually did receive two real Tony nominations, for Best Book and Best Lyrics in a Musical Play on Broadway for Spamalot.

I had never actually seen a Tony show before I attended Radio City Music Hall for the 2005 Tony Awards. Most of the audience of all sexes were drooling over Hugh Jackman, the host. Spamalot had been nominated for thirteen Tonys and had already lost six when I spotted Mike Nichols heading urgently up the aisle toward me.

“They’re going to stiff us,” he said. “You have to think of something to say.”

In a previous life, I wrote ad-libs for David Frost, so I didn’t panic. David would say, “I need a line to get me over to the junkies,” and I’d scribble away and, live on air, David would say the line I’d given him exactly as if he had just thought it up.

“I’ll have a go,” I said, wondering if the junkie line could be of any use.

Mike returned glumly to his seat, and I was so busy racking my brains for something amusing to say that wouldn’t sound bitter and twisted, but incredibly mature and suitably grateful for being ignored and passed over completely, that I barely noticed when I personally lost the next award for Best Book of a Musical. My lovely wife, looking adorable in Harry Winston diamond earrings, on loan for the night, gave my hand an encouraging squeeze. Advised by the virtually irresistible Hugh Jackman that this would be a good time, Tania then exited to the bathroom during what was promised as a long commercial break, only to be replaced in her seat by a mature-looking lady in a large and very bizarre hat, which resembled a ginger tomcat squatting on her head. It is axiomatic that there must be no empty seats visible at TV awards shows, and highly dressed extras are employed to deftly slide into the gaps when people pop out for a smoke or a pee. Of course, this was the very moment the cameras singled out me and “my wife” for our close-up as I bravely lost for Best Lyrics in a Musical. I was so busy trying not to laugh at this strange woman smiling proudly by my side, giggling in the knowledge that people all over America were going, “Whatever happened to Tania?” and “Has he gone mad taking up with a weird Cat Woman?” that I didn’t even have time to feel disappointed. We had after all already been winners at several major Broadway awards ceremonies, and Mike had picked up a variety of oddly shaped statuettes and made a series of increasingly funny speeches. My favorite, when once again his name was announced as the winner, was watching him walk up slowly, look genuinely puzzled at the audience, and say sadly, “I miss failure.”

On Tony night, the Pigeons of Irony were coming home to roost as we continued to miss out on Best Choreography, Best Score, Best Actors, Best Sets, Best Lighting, Best Costumes, Best New Shoes, etc., etc. Finally, the Tony Fairy relented and the utterly deserving Sara Ramirez headed up the aisle to accept her award for Best Performance by a Featured Actress in a Musical, thanking us, her parents, and Claritin. And then, of course, Mike’s nightmare was over as he won yet another Tony for Best Director. I crumpled up my pathetic half-written one-liners in relief.

But fate had one more surprise in store for us. After a very long and occasionally interesting evening, the inestimable Hugh Jackman read out the name of Best Musical of 2005 and, incredibly, it was Monty Python’s Spamalot. Wow! Who would have thunk it? Our cast of knights and wenches spilled out onto Hugh Jackman, whooping and hollering, and the auditorium was filled with smiling producers hurriedly heading for the stage. I beat them to it by a good yard. Mike gave me a proud hug and I barely restrained myself from kissing Hugh Jackman. There would be time for that later.

We danced and partied in the brilliant way our company had perfected. It was a wonderful evening. I, who had been sober for five years, had “just the one” glass of champagne to celebrate, and that one glass went on for twelve years, as they do. I’m back on the wagon now, much to the disgust of some of my friends, especially in France. I’m far less fun but I get more done, and at my age the less you fall over the better. Gravity, once your friend, becomes your enemy. Sorry, people, you can say “break a leg” but it’ll have to remain metaphorical. I broke a leg last year, and I hadn’t even had a drink. It cost so much that I seriously considered marrying my surgeon. He was cute, too. I guess it might have been the painkillers. Once after ankle surgery they gave me a morphine button, which I could just press to top up. I knew I was doing too much when I became aware that I thought Regis was the funniest, smartest, and wittiest man on TV. Wait! Could it be the morphine?

At the end of the night Tania, like Cinderella, had to return the loaner jewels to Harry Winston. A long line of limos outside their Fifty-Eighth Street side entrance meant they’d had a busy night. At the Tonys, discreet security guards had hovered everywhere. Discreet if you consider seven-foot linebackers clearly packing heat a form of discretion, but for heaven’s sake, they were lending actors jewelry. So, as we pulled up, Tania reluctantly kissed good night to the glittering diamond earrings and the gorgeous diamond-and-amethyst ring, and I took them inside and dropped them in front of a man in shirtsleeves. He had a snub-nosed .38 sitting on the desk in front of him in case anyone changed their minds. I changed my mind the next day and snuck back to Harry Winston and bought the diamond-and-amethyst ring for Tania. I mean, how often do you win a Tony?