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BRIGHT SIDE GETS BRIGHTER

In 2005, John Du Prez and I won a Grammy for Best Musical Show Album for Spamalot. On Thanksgiving Day that year, our New York cast sang “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” on a float all the way down Broadway in the Macy’s parade. Soon after, we opened a highly successful North American tour in Boston. Spamalot would eventually open in London, Germany, Spain, France, Sweden, Holland, Norway, South Korea, Australia, and even Japan, where I sang “Bright Side” in Japanese on Japanese TV:

Gin Se Lacuni E Qui YoYo…

Well, that’s how they wrote it out for me phonetically. I attended many opening nights in cities I had never yet visited—Barcelona, Madrid, Oslo, Stockholm, Malmö, Copenhagen, and Budapest, as well as a delightfully sexy production in Paris and a brilliant mad version in Mexico City—and always ended up onstage singing with the cast.

John Du Prez and I put “Bright Side” into our next show as well, a comic oratorio called Not the Messiah (He’s a Very Naughty Boy), based on The Life of Brian, which we premiered in Toronto at the Luminato Festival, conducted by my cousin Peter Oundjian, the principal conductor of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra. Peter had encouraged me to find something two improbable cousins could do together. When I suggested Not the Messiah, he loved it. Christopher Sieber, our wonderful first Galahad, came up from our Broadway company to play Brian. He would later play Galahad again for us in London. We did a further two performances outdoors at Caramoor with the St. Luke’s Orchestra and Chorus at the bottom of Martha Stewart’s garden. The oratorio went down so well that later in the year we added a second act, and John Du Prez conducted his own brilliant score on a tour of New Zealand and Australia, including two performances at the Sydney Opera House. A year later we went on a U.S. tour to Houston and Wolf Trap—an outdoor venue near Washington with a 7,000-seat theater—culminating in two glorious nights at the Hollywood Bowl before 24,000 people, where John wrote some special encore music for fireworks, based on our “Galaxy Song.” We finally filmed Not the Messiah for DVD at The Royal Albert Hall in 2009 with Michael Palin, Terry Jones, Terry Gilliam, Neil Innes, and Carol Cleveland, to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of Monty Python.

I was asked to sing “Bright Side” again for Prince Charles’s sixtieth birthday concert in November 2008. This was a charity show for the Prince’s Trust at the New Wimbledon Theatre, with many funny people, including Joan Rivers and Robin Williams. I decided to play a gag similar to the one I had pulled on his mother. I was closing the show, and John Cleese introduced the English National Ballet, warning the audience it might be rather tedious. A beautiful Brazilian ballerina danced the Dying Swan surrounded by a bevy of young girls in tutus from the English National Ballet School. As the Swan expired I popped up from the middle of the corps de ballet in a tutu and said, “Cheer up, ducks, you know what they say…

Some things in life are bad…

Once again, we totally surprised the audience and they all laughed and happily sang along as we filled the stage. Unfortunately, as this was the closing number and there were to be drinks afterwards, I hadn’t realized I would be trapped onstage to meet Prince Charles while still dressed in a tutu. If you want to be really laughed at by people, try wearing a tutu to a Royal cocktail party.

The photo that went ’round the world.

I had met Prince Charles at Billy Connolly’s Highlands home, where we would gather with comedians like Robin Williams, Steve Martin, and Eddie Izzard. The Royal Heir loves comedians. One night he came to dinner and everybody was being a bit polite as we sat down, and nobody said anything. There was an awkward pause as we sat around the huge dining table.

“Billy,” I said eventually, “is there anything to eat?”

Well, that kicked off Robin and the evening became uproarious. Later on, wiping tears from his eyes, Prince Charles said to me, “Eric, why don’t you become my jester?”

Everyone looked at me. No pressure.

“Why would I want a fucking awful job like that?” I said.

He laughed his head off. In another century, he could have laughed my head off, but I guess that’s the job of the jester anyway, to put you back in the moment. Secretly, of course, I was very flattered, which I guess is why I wore a tutu and a bloody swan on my head for him.

Perhaps my favorite time singing “Bright Side” was in June 2010 at the American Film Institute tribute to Mike Nichols. It was a glittering Hollywood occasion and again I was to close the show. I decided to come on dressed as Emma Thompson from Mike’s superb production of Angels in America, in a wig, a white frock, and huge angel wings. At the sound check I tried out my costume and decided to surprise Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, who were onstage rehearsing “Mrs. Robinson.”

“Hello, chaps,” I said behind them.

They turned around, saw me in full drag, and couldn’t continue.

What are you laughing at?

On the show, an announcer said, “And now to close the show, here is Oprah,” and I came out dressed as Emma and began to sing. I left the stage descending on a host of stars, including Steven Spielberg, David Geffen, and Oprah herself. I remember thinking, I like my life, as I searched for Emma Thompson. As I approached her, she fell off her seat. Mike had tears in his eyes as I ended up singing the final chorus to him. At least I didn’t have to stay dressed up like that at the after party.

Ah, dear Mike. I was proud to be invited to speak in his honor at a seventy-fifth birthday dinner thrown for him at David Geffen’s remarkable art-filled house in Bel Air and attended by Diane Sawyer, Mike’s wife, gracious and beautiful as ever, as well as the Hankses, Larry Ellison, David Mamet, the list went on. When it was my turn to speak, I stood and pulled a piece of paper out of my pocket, and began seriously.

“Is there any greater pleasure in life than having your face licked while ejaculating into the body of a younger woman? [Pause] Oh. I’m sorry. That was for something else.”

I threw the paper away and produced another from my pocket. I began again.

“Is there any greater pleasure in life than having dinner with Mike Nichols? Well, yes. Obviously, there is one. But apart from that…

“When I asked my wife what it was about Mike Nichols that was so special, she said, ‘Oh, just hurry up and come.’ ”

I added a few more low comments before concluding: “Here’s a little poem I wrote for you, Mike:

“Love makes the world go round

Love conquers all

True love will never forget

The world loves a lover

Love’s all you need…

And I am Marie Antoinette.”

I was asked to sing my song once again, to my surprise, at the closing ceremony of the London 2012 Olympic Games. My friend Patrick Woodroffe, who lights up the stars, from Dylan to the Stones, said, “You have to do it, Eric, it’s a classic.” And so, one August night in 2012, I found myself standing by one of the six wide entrances that dotted the arena. The turf was damp beneath my feet. I could see Russell Brand on top of a garishly painted double-decker bus, accompanied by brightly colored Beatles figures. The Spice Girls passed me, standing on top of London taxis.

“Fucking hell that was scary,” said Posh.

“Time to go,” said an assistant, and I made my way in darkness past hundreds of extras held back by tape. The enormous crowd was painted in colored light. Patrick would be given an OBE for his incredible work. I made my way towards the wooden scaffolding holding up the impromptu stage that had arisen in the last sixteen hours in the center of the 90,000-seat arena, filled with the sweat and memories of thousands of athletes from around the world.

I had been hiding in a small holding area somewhere under the massive new concrete stadium, in a caged-off space with a fridge, a tiny truckle bed, and a kettle. I was reading Camus’s L’Étranger in French all day to prevent any anxious English thoughts intruding. Pretentious? Moi? Actually, it was very calming. I had been there since ten in the morning waiting for the chance to rehearse my number. It never came. Tonight, live on worldwide television, would be the first time I climbed out onto that stage. No point in panicking. Back to the Algerian beach with brother Albert. I popped my head out briefly as the show started. Timothy Spall came by as Churchill.

“That was terrifying,” he said.

I retired to my French. Still forty minutes to go.

Suddenly it’s time. I’m dressed in what is supposed to be a cannoneer’s outfit. A body double of me is to be fired out of a cannon in a deliberate misfire that will land him in a hole center-stage. It will be me who emerges.

I’m led out amongst hordes of changing dancers. They glance only briefly at me. I smile and nod. I do this every day, right? Somewhere high above, in a box, are my wife, son, daughter, and cousin Nigel. Don’t think of them. It’s just another show.

I cross the damp grass of the stadium, reaching the mineshaft entrance, where I’m greeted by friendly Cockney voices.

“ ’Ello, Eric.”

Huddled under the stage opposite was an unbelievable sight: seven of the most beautiful girls in the world, stunning in white, feathered angel costumes. The crew could hardly take their eyes off them.

“Is this heaven?” I asked a stagehand who was staring at them openmouthed.

“Oh yes,” he said.

“Funny, they don’t look like virgins to me.”

Odd how a gag can calm you before you face the storm. I’m in a hole under a stage in the center of the Olympic Stadium. Suddenly the wooden ceiling slides open. We’re getting close now. I can hear my old pal Jeff Lynne singing on the PA. “Mister Blue Sky.” My cue to move.

I’m led forward and crouch at the foot of some low stairs.

Now I can see above me a huge circus cannon. A man dressed identically to me climbs in. The cannon fires. He tumbles out of the mouth of the cannon and falls into the hole in the ground. Unseen mattresses break his fall.

Time to go over the top. A voice in my ear says, “Here it comes.” Then, “Cue Eric.”

I’m on.

I wait a beat.

Make sure the cameras have had time to focus. I pull myself up groggily into the brilliant lights.

“Some things in life are bad, they can really make you mad…”

The crowd roars in surprise as they see me.

“And…Always look on the bright side of life.”

Too fast. The audience has taken off ahead of me. I concentrate on bringing them back to the tempo of the track. In one ear, I can hear the orchestral backing; in the other, annoyingly, the director, talking me through every move.

Shut the fuck up, I’m thinking, so I can hear the damn track.

I have never done this in-ear singing before. I want him to be quiet so I can hear the band, but there’s nothing I can do. I have to keep going. The audience is singing along joyfully now. I’ve managed to slow them down. Now we’re all in sync.

If life seems jolly rotten, there’s something you’ve forgotten.

I turn to the lovely models, who have risen up behind me. They are supposed to react to me but they are frozen, staring glassy-eyed at the spectacle of a packed arena, filled with lights. Move on. I skip round 150 Welshmen from a male voice choir, dressed in traditional Welsh female costume (a reference to “The Money Song,” the first number I ever sang on Python). I skip and dance around a chorus of 550 singers and dancers. I skirt the skating nuns (another Python reference).

“Turn right, Eric,” says the annoying voice in my ear.

I know that. For fuck’s sake, shut up.

There’s a whole new lyric coming up about the Olympics. Mustn’t forget the words. I’ve only been rehearsing them in my head for months.

When you’re stuck on the world stage

With lots of weirdos half your age

And everything is starting to go wrong

It’s too late to run away

So you might as well just stay

Especially if they play your silly song!

Nailed it. Over the dangerous bits now. Ahead now, my favorite moment. Forty Bangla dancers come racing in. Great idea of our director’s, this. Thank you, Kim Gavin! They lift me up and sprinkle me with Holi, throwing dry colored paint at me.

“Remember to throw it hard,” I’d said to them before the show. “It’s only funny when it hurts.”

They do. It does.

Now this dry paint is in my mouth, in my eyes. I’m blinded, I’m choking, I’m lifted off the ground and manhandled. But it feels funny. I recover my voice as they set me down and there ahead of me is my Britannia, soprano Susan Bullock, who was with me in Jonathan Miller’s Mikado at the ENO. She heads towards me and I grab her hand gratefully. Nearly there.

“And always look on the bright side of life!”

I am led away blinded by the paint and deafened by the earbuds. I stumble towards the exit and pull out my plugs. Sue is beaming.

“How did it go?” I say.

She looks at me wonderingly. “Really?”

The stadium is still applauding. I guess it went okay then. I head for the showers, enjoying that blessed moment in show business: when it’s over.

Only afterwards, as all of the performers gathered together upstairs, did it feel better. I said to the Who: “You know who we are? We are the sort of people who will work for nothing.” True, too. Every single major rock star was supposed to attend, but found the financial rewards unattractive. Of course, it wasn’t really nothing. It was a pound. I kid you not. They wouldn’t even pay for airfare. Even that quid wasn’t easy to come by. It took three months of negotiations with an expensive LA lawyer, and they produced a 300-page contract I had to sign giving them, well, everything. One of the clauses required me to insure the audience against any act of terror or physical harm during my performance! When Tom Hoberman, my lawyer, asked how I could possibly afford that, they said blandly that most acts carried such insurance. When John Cleese and I toured, the most we could guarantee was they would be offended.

And there were no cars after the show. For all those glamorous performers, they had arranged a bus! I think that was the clincher for Elton. A bus ride home. For Elton? He dropped out. Actually, the bus turned out to be surprisingly good fun because Tania brilliantly arranged with the caterers to stuff it with champagne and it became quite a party and we did get very rowdy. Lily tells me the young people I partied with all the way home were amazingly famous, One Direction, and Elbow, and such. They partied on when we reached our hotel, but for me, blissful sleep.

Of course, the Olympic Committee never even paid the pound. Some months later, I decided to call them on this and got my California lawyer to send them a letter demanding immediate payment of the fee of one pound. They did see the humor of this and sent a letter of apology with a one-pound coin Sellotaped to it. I told Tom my lawyer that, instead of his usual percentage, he could keep the entire fee. So yes, he has the whole pound proudly framed in his office. I’m generous like that.