YESTERDAY WE DROVE 280 MILES TO OTTAWA THROUGH GLORIOUS SUNSHINE WITH THE LEAVES TURNING RED AND ORANGE AND GOLD AND BEETHOVEN PLAYING ON THE SURROUND SOUND. I FELT THE PASTORAL Symphony was an appropriate choice. Or as the sex therapist once described it: the Past Oral Symphony. At a gas station while reloading the Greedy Bastard buses we all piled out and took photos. It’s Thanksgiving weekend in Canada, and the roads are packed. We are going up to Gatineau to play the Casino du Lac-Leamy. A French casino. A first for me.
Ottawa is a glorious city situated at the confluence of the Rideau and Ottawa rivers. The latter separates Quebec from Ontario and, more important, the French from the English; and, like so many other things, it sounds better in French: la Rivière des Outaouais. This magnificent old city of massive gray stone, castellated buildings with elaborately carved Norman windows, capped by steeply angled roofs of green copper, is filled with fountains and squares, markets and malls, and a big, broad river spanned by many bridges. It feels more like Europe than North America. This morning the view from my gabled windows in the Château Laurier hotel is breathtaking. In the faint, pinkish blush of dawn, a perfect pale hunter’s moon hangs over the stately river; three huge plumes of steam from a power station on the far shore fill the middle distance with haze; the bright oranges and reds of the turning leaves bisect the powdery greens of the trees, giving a tinted picture-postcard look to the entire scene. As if on cue, the rising sun lights up the waterfront, adding highlights and reflections while the moon fades gently into the morning.
Everywhere this city is draped in the improbable red-and-white maple leaf flag of Canada. Canada itself is improbable. The only other collaboration between the French and English (apart from the Hundred Years War) was Concorde. Mercifully, they have soccer here, which is what Americans call football. We like to call it football because, unlike American football, it is played with the feet. We go to an English pub to watch England play Turkey, an important European football qualifier that promises to produce high anxiety. Thank heaven they had toilets.
The basement of the Duke of Somerset pub was rapidly filling up as game time approached. The England supporters were out in force and in great voice.
“You’re shit, and you know it,” they sing loudly at the Turks on the screen thousands of miles away in Turkey. It is an extremely tense game, a needle match, and the winner qualifies automatically for the European finals next year. A draw (tie) will put England through in first place. A loss will result in a potentially nasty play-off. England have a very strong team and play magnificently. They are all over the Turks for the first twenty minutes, until they finally wake up and remember it’s their pitch. Then they look menacing, but wait, the fabulous Steven Gerard dances into the box and is blatantly tripped. Penalty. Got to be one–nil to England as David Beckham steps up. But what’s this? The goalkeeper dives the wrong way, Becks slips on the wet grass, and the ball is skied sixty feet over the bar. A most unusual sight.
“Blow it like Beckham,” says Peter.
The Turkish players rush over and taunt Beckham as he lies on the ground, yelling in his face. This is not cricket. It is not even soccer and the nastiness continues into the tunnel at halftime, where a mini riot breaks out. Later on the Red Sox and the Yankees re-create this incident, but thoughtfully remain on camera so we can all enjoy it.
There is tension as the two teams return to the pitch and Pierluigi Collina, the huge, bald Italian referee, is everywhere, his determination to leave this thing at nil–nil to avoid a riot becoming increasingly evident. In the last quarter England are content to soak up the pressure, and you get the feeling that the Turks have lost heart. They have never scored against England and this magic spell seems to dominate their thinking. The final seconds tick away agonizingly, and suddenly it’s over, and England are through. The pub erupts like a volcano. The crowd, many in England shirts, begin jumping up and down and singing “Always look on the bright side of life—duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh.” Normally I hide at moments like this, but, dammit, England have just qualified in first place over the wily Turks and I rush forward to the singing crowd and give them high fives. Even a few Turkish supporters come over and shake my hand. Now the pub starts to sing “One Eric Idle, there’s only one Eric Idle” and after a chorus of this ego-boosting massage the only thing I can do is announce there are TWO Eric Idles, though one is called Michael Palin. Then, blow me, if they don’t start singing “Philosophers Song”: “Immanuel Kant was a real pissant…”
Time to leave, or Peter and I should just stay and do the show right here.
The bus drivers say the difference between the French and the English sides of the city is that on the French side the lap dancers don’t wear panties. Good to know these things. The Casino du Lac-Leamy is on the French side, though I still wear panties. It was a good show, though I was rotten, well at least until act two. I couldn’t focus, perhaps due to the large amounts of steroids my doctor is cramming into me to try and reduce the foot pain. If this is what it does to my brain, God help California under Arnold. I was all over the place. I managed to skip an entire sketch in act two, but my cast are very bright and wonderfully alert people, and they segued right along as if nothing had happened. They did this so efficiently, even I didn’t notice.