RUTLAND IS A TOTAL TRIP. BEING HERE FEELS SO GREAT FOR ME. I HAVE SPENT SO MANY YEARS WRITING THINGS ABOUT RUTLAND THAT IT SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE THAT IT IS A REAL PLACE. EVERYTHING SAYS RUTLAND: THE Rutland Bank, the Rutland fire station, the Rutland chapter of the Shriners, and the Rutland Order of Mooses (surely that should be Meese?). It all looks like something I wrote.
We climb onto the bus to go to our first theater. It’s only a short journey by Palin standards, about five minutes, but as we pass the neat Palladian front of the Paramount Theatre I get what the French call a frisson, which, I believe, is a small ice cream. [Bollocks.—Ed.] Peter Crabbe regales us with a history of the theater.
“Houdini performed here,” he says, “and Mark Twain and Sarah Bernhardt.”
“What did they do?” someone asks.
“Monty Python skits, I think.”
“And Houdini escaped,” says Peter.
“From Sarah Bernhardt’s acting,” I add cynically.
Our English driver manages to drive past the theater, so we circumnavigate the center of town for a second time.
“Couldn’t we afford a Yank?” someone asks.
The Paramount is an old and very beautiful theater that has been lovingly restored. Inside it is bright, shining clean, and, amazingly, everything works. It has the feel of the Pump Room in Bath, with creamy paint and gold leaf everywhere. It looks as though Jane Austen just left the building.
“It’s older than some of your material,” says Peter.
Our tech run is delayed while we sort through everything that has been shipped across America from my basement rehearsal room. Larry Mah and Scott Keeton quietly and efficiently go about getting the sound ready, sticking tiny face mikes on us. Neither of them has seen the show yet but I feel very confident with them. Both were along on the last tour, and Larry records everything for John and me in his tiny Sylmar garage studio. He has just finished mixing the third Matrix movie.
We stop/start the show for our technical people. It’s slow going, but it’s the first most have seen of what we are trying to do. We take a dinner break, and the second half goes much quicker, so we are in position for a full dress rehearsal at nine. We may not be here all night as I had at first feared.
The T-shirts have arrived from the Greedy Bastard’s agent and they are somewhat disappointing. The poster T-shirt is fine, and the picture of Nigel Spasm in a pith helmet standing on top of a mountain of money should do well, but I am disappointed by the animals of the Rutland Isles: the bipolar bears are too small and the surfing ape doesn’t work. I long once again for the Penis Fish, though I do like the Tree Farter Squirrel.
Jennifer Julian turns up in a smart black T-shirt that boldly proclaims I LOVE MY PENIS, which draws ironic comments. She claims she got it in a gay shop in New York. Didn’t I write this anthem already?
And then there’s the little Tree Farter Squirrel, which when you get too close emits a powerful…um…reminder of his presence.
Isn’t it awfully nice to have a penis?
Isn’t it frightfully good to have a dong?
It’s swell to have a stiffy.
It’s divine to own a dick,
From the tiniest little tadger
To the world’s biggest prick.
So, three cheers for your willy or John Thomas.
Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake,
Your piece of pork, your wife’s best friend,
Your Percy, or your cock.
You can wrap it up in ribbons.
You can slip it in your sock,
But don’t take it out in public,
Or they will stick you in the dock,
And you won’t come back.
Our dress rehearsal goes surprisingly smoothly and we are out of the theater shortly after midnight. I make one further cut in act one, excising the “Gay Animal Song,” which I felt was one too many gay gags; and after Peter’s glorious Homeland Security rant it’s important to head swiftly to the intermission.
I sometimes wonder why my songs are so filthy and then I look at you lot.
Noël Coward
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, you look and smell divine.
In the Origin of Species
Charles Darwin liked to say
That dressing up and showing off
Was purely male display
But sadly scientifically
He led us all astray
For what he failed to notice
Was these creatures are all gay.
There’s a little bird in Kent
Who’s ridiculously bent
And a rutting stag who is a total deer
There are naughty big blue whales
And the sperm whale prefers males
And the dolphin is of course completely queer
There’s a very brazen chimp
Who is very rarely limp
And a shrimp who’s pink and utterly obscene
While the small transvestite prawn is completely into porn
And the king crab is of course an utter queen.
Gay gay gay
They all are madly gay
But in Victorian times
That was not the thing to say.
In the Rutland Isles’ warm waters
There’s a young cross-dressing tortoise
And an ass who makes a pass at everyone
There’s a masturbating monkey
And a terribly rude donkey
And a very very famous lesbian swan
There’s a big bisexual elk
And a tiny gay young whelk
And a snake who is a rake all night and day
And a sorry little sheep
Who is into Meryl Streep
And don’t tell me that the anteater’s not gay.
Gay gay gay
They all are madly gay
Ten percent of nature’s bent
At least that’s what they say.
We now run fifty-five minutes for act one and forty-six for act two. This will spread with laughs (hopefully) but we are right in the ballpark and can make further tightens when we see how the audience reacts. The good news for me is that I was not wiped out by the show. I had plenty of stamina onstage and my new weight-training regime is paying off, although I still limp like a latter-day Sarah Bernhardt. Where’s Houdini to make this disappear? This is all now very exciting. I have got past my first alarm that no one will find any of it funny and feel confident that at least we can get through the show and they will find it amusing. But as always with comedy, it is only a theory. Tonight comes the test.