IT’S TWO IN THE MORNING AND WE’RE CROSSING A MIGHTY LONG BRIDGE. I THINK WE’RE JUST OUTSIDE BALTIMORE HEADING NORTH FOR NEW YORK CITY. WE JUST FINISHED A GIG IN WASHINGTON AT THE 9:30 CLUB, OUR FIRST-EVER nightclub. They put down seats and erected a large stage but it was essentially a rock club, and it was packed. They were hanging from the rafters, and we did great. Skip was here a couple of months ago with the Sex Pistols. I see myself now as a sort of elder statesman Johnny Rotten. Our Greedy Bastard agent is keen to expand the platform for this show and I must say he was right on with this club, as we did very well. We started later than usual and the bars kept them tanked up and in a great mood.
“The atmosphere’s electric,” said Larry as he wired me for sound. Sure was. They added about ten minutes to the show in laughter and ad-libs. I got the eBay winners to sing “Happy Birthday” for John Cleese. He turned sixty-four. Oy vey. Happy birthday, John.
Ron Devillier was in, but sadly I never got to see him. I intended to thank him publicly for all he did for us, but he had to run off early for babysitters. Ron was the man who first put Python on TV in the States, when he ran PBS in Dallas in the early seventies. Now he sells the reruns of the Python TV shows for us. People are always surprised to learn that Python broke first in Texas, but there it is. A hit in Dallas. Just like JFK. [A joke in very questionable taste.—Ed.]
I am a bit puzzled by your government, which does seem to be environmentally retarded.
I ’m just a foreigner. My vote doesn’t count. And with the new electronic voting machines soon neither will yours.
Rather worryingly I have started to lose my voice. I blame the Washington Terrace Hotel, which was like a sauna. It might have been Saudi Arabia. I had to put the AC on and open the window. Let’s hope the voice thing is just a temporary glitch. Or I’ll have to bone up on my mime.
We slide through the tunnel from New Jersey into NYC at four in the morning, where I sack out, exhausted, and when I wake up there is my lovely Tania for breakfast. We seem to get on okay. A spot of shopping and then lunch at Brasserie. A quick raid on Rizzoli’s bookshop for the new J. M. Coetzee and a new Martin Amis, then we spot my pal Jim Piddock outside the hotel. Tonight a movie and no show! Tomorrow a return to the cheap hucksterism and low-life grubbiness of showbiz. Hey-ho.