Fry_ A Memoir Part 12

Sometimes together and sometimes apart, Hugh and I found ourselves inside the world of the commercial voiceover. Neither of us yet had the kind of vocal heft that afforded us the chance to do the really s.e.xy part of the work, the endline that final slogan which was most usually the province of either hard-smoking and-drinking fifty-year-olds like the legendary Bill Mitch.e.l.l, whose vocal chords had the deep, authoritative resonance that carried the advertiser's message home, or of vocal magicians like Martin Jarvis, Ray Brooks, Enn Reitel and Michael Jayston, who were in such heavy demand that they carried little pagers clipped to their belts so that their agents could push them from job to job at the shortest notice. I remember David Jason, another very busy and talented voice artist, showing me how they worked. They did no more than beep, which was a signal to phone the agent, but I was hugely impressed. One day, I told myself, I would own such an object and I would treasure it always. Somewhere I have a drawer filled with at least a dozen old pagers in a.s.sorted stylings and colourways. None of them is treasured; they were barely used at all.

At our level Hugh and I were required usually to do silly comedy characters for radio ads, a huge new booming industry that was taking advantage of the proliferation of independent radio stations that were popping up all over Britain throughout the early eighties as a result of 'second tranche' franchise contracts. It is very beguiling to look back at a period of time and imagine that one was happy then, but I really believe that we were. Life in the gla.s.s booth was simple but presented pleasing challenges. Often an engineer or producer would press the talk-back b.u.t.ton and say something like, 'Yeah, that was two seconds over. Can you do it again, shaving off three seconds, but don't go any quicker.' That kind of apparently absurd request starts to make sense after a while and Hugh and I both took great pride in our ability to make good on them. An internal clock starts to build itself in the brain so that within a short time we were both able to say, 'That was bang on, wasn't it? Maybe half a second under?' or 'd.a.m.n, at least thirty-five, that one, we'll go again ...' and be proved right when the engineer played it back with a stopwatch. A trivial skill, the proud acquisition of which some might think a waste of an elite and expensive education, but I know, as I have said, that we were happy. How do I know? Well, we said so. We actually dared to say it.

In those days the studios we found ourselves in most often were those of Angell Sound in Covent Garden, opposite the stage door of the Royal Opera House. Hugh and I would emerge from a session, blink in the bright sunshine of the day, say 'Shirt' and walk south-west along Floral Street, crossing James Street until we reached Paul Smith's. At that time this was the great designer's sole London presence. Perhaps he had a shop in his native Nottingham, but the Floral Street branch was certainly the only one in London. Like David Jason he is now a knight, but back then Paul Smith was just beginning to achieve a name as the designer of choice for men who were shortly to be dubbed 'yuppie'. His reputation, unlike that of the yuppie, has emerged unscathed from such a calamitous calumny. In the early to mid-eighties the first noises of what was to be the post-Big-Bang, newly enriched, newly confident professional cla.s.ses were beginning to be heard as they clamoured for stylish socks, shirts, croissants, frothy coffee and G.o.d help us all conspicuous braces. I suppose Hugh and I fell into a subset of this new category.

One morning as we emerged from Angell's I distinctly remember us having a conversation that went something like this: 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, this is the life.'

'We are so f.u.c.king lucky.'

'Twenty minutes in a studio, not a minute more.'

'No rope was older and no money ... moneyer.'

'We should buy a shirt to celebrate.'

'We should always always buy a shirt to celebrate.' buy a shirt to celebrate.'

'And then maybe a CD or two.'

'And then definitely definitely a CD or two.' a CD or two.'

'Perhaps followed by a coffee and a croissant.'

'Certainly followed by a coffee and a croissant.' followed by a coffee and a croissant.'

'You know, I bet we will look back on these as the best days of our lives.'

'When we're old, fat, bitter and unhappy alcoholics, we will remember when we would saunter into a voiceover studio, saunter out again and buy a shirt and a CD and go to a cafe and have a croissant and a cappuccino.'

We have so far missed becoming alcoholics, and Hugh has never been fat. I am not sure if we are bitter, but we are certainly old-ish, and I think each of us would admit that the realization that we were unlikely to be as happy again was accurate. We really can look back and see those days as perfect. Intensely acute moments of love and parenthood and achievement might, and did, come to one or other of us at different times, but never again would we experience such a period of chronic content. We wanted nothing, we were slowly earning reputations and money without being crushed by celebrity and riches. Life was good. The most unusual aspect of it is that we knew it at the time. If you tell a schoolchild that they are currently experiencing what they will look back on as the best years of their lives, they will tell you, if they favour you with anything more than a black look, that is, that you are talking c.r.a.p.

London was extraordinarily exciting to me. The CDs, cappuccinos and croissants were the acme of sophistication and symbolic of the great social and political sea change that was coming. The process of gentrification that was already beginning to remodel the seedier parts of Islington and Fulham was being contemptuously described as 'croissantification' by those alarmed at the incoming tide. The Falklands Conflict had transformed Margaret Thatcher from the least popular prime minister in fifty years to the most popular since Churchill. A surge of patriotism and confidence was beginning to swell in the political seas. It would soon enough become a tsunami of conspicuous spending for the lucky ones who rode high on the wave and a deluge of debt and deprivation for the victims of 'the harsh realities of the marketplace', as Keith Joseph and the Friedmanites liked to call monetarism's collateral damage. I wish I could say I was more politically alert, angry or interested at this time. Smoky, boozy nights up in the bar of the Midland Hotel with Ben Elton had gone a long way towards pulling me out of my instinctive dread and dislike of the Labour party; the sheer vulgarity and graceless meanness of spirit of Margaret Thatcher and so many of her ministers made it very hard to feel any affection or admiration for her, but my eyes were too firmly fixed inwards towards myself and the opportunities coming my way to think much about anything else. If I colaphize myself too drastically for such an unremarkable and venial failing in one so young it would sound unconvincing. After the teenage years that I had undergone, I find it hard to blame myself for taking pleasure in the fruits that the world now showered down upon my head.

Crystal Cube Aside from the individual a.s.signments that had come my way the musical, the film and the offer of a part in Forty Years On Forty Years On Hugh and I wanted to continue writing and performing together. The spanking to our self-confidence administered by Ben's astounding prolificacy notwithstanding, we still hoped (and somewhere inside ourselves believed) that we might have a future in comedy. Accordingly, Richard Armitage sent us to a meeting at the BBC. Hugh and I wanted to continue writing and performing together. The spanking to our self-confidence administered by Ben's astounding prolificacy notwithstanding, we still hoped (and somewhere inside ourselves believed) that we might have a future in comedy. Accordingly, Richard Armitage sent us to a meeting at the BBC.

In those days the house of Light Entertainment was divided into two departments, Comedy and Variety. Sitcoms and sketch shows flew under the Comedy flag and programmes like The Generation Game The Generation Game and and The Paul Daniels Magic Show The Paul Daniels Magic Show counted as Variety. The head of Light Entertainment was a jolly, red-faced man who could easily be mistaken for a Butlin's Redcoat or the model for a beery husband in a McGill seaside postcard. His name was Jim Moir, which also happens to be Vic Reeves's real name, although at this time, somewhere in 1983, Vic Reeves had yet to make his mark. Hugh and I had first met the executive Jim Moir at the cricket weekend at Stebbing. He had said then, with the a.s.sured timing of a Blackpool front-of-curtain comic: 'Meet the wife, don't laugh.' counted as Variety. The head of Light Entertainment was a jolly, red-faced man who could easily be mistaken for a Butlin's Redcoat or the model for a beery husband in a McGill seaside postcard. His name was Jim Moir, which also happens to be Vic Reeves's real name, although at this time, somewhere in 1983, Vic Reeves had yet to make his mark. Hugh and I had first met the executive Jim Moir at the cricket weekend at Stebbing. He had said then, with the a.s.sured timing of a Blackpool front-of-curtain comic: 'Meet the wife, don't laugh.'

Hugh and I were shown into his office. He sat us down on the sofa opposite his desk and asked if we had comedy plans. Only he wouldn't have put it as simply as that, he probably said something like: 'Strip naked and show me your c.o.c.ks,' which would have been his way of saying: 'What would you like to talk about?' Jim routinely used colourful and perplexing metaphors of a quite staggeringly explicit nature. 'Let's j.i.z.z on the table, mix up our s.p.u.n.k and smear it all over us,' might be his way of asking, 'Shall we work together?' I had always a.s.sumed that he only spoke like that to men, but not so long ago Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders confirmed that he had been quite as eye-watering in his choice of language with them. Ben Elton went on to create, and Mel Smith to play, a fictional head of Light Entertainment based on Jim Moir called Jumbo Whiffy in the sitcom Filthy Rich & Catflap Filthy Rich & Catflap. I hope you will not get the wrong impression of Moir from my description of his language. People of his kind are easy to underestimate, but I never heard anyone who worked with him say a bad word about him. In the past forty years the BBC has had no more shrewd, capable, loyal, honourable and successful executive and certainly none with a more dazzling verbal imagination.

Hugh and I emerged from our meeting stupefied but armed with a commission. John Kilby, who had directed The Cellar Tapes The Cellar Tapes, would direct and produce the pilot show that we were now to write. We conceived a series that was to be called The Crystal Cube The Crystal Cube, a mock-serious magazine programme that for each edition would investigate some phenomenon or other: every week we would 'go through the crystal cube'. Hugh, Emma, Paul Shearer and I were to be the regulars and we would call upon a cast of semi-regular guests to play other parts.

The Crystal Cube, with Emma and Hugh.

The Crystal Cube. The warty look was created using Rice Krispies. True story. The warty look was created using Rice Krispies. True story.

Back in Manchester filming Alfresco Alfresco, we began to write in our spare time. Freed from the intimidation of having to match Ben's freakish fecundity, we produced our script in what was for us short order but would for Ben have const.i.tuted an intolerable writer's block. It was rather good. I feel I can say this as the BBC chose not to commission a series: given that and my archetypical British pride in failure it hardly seems like showing off for me to say that I was pleased with it. It is out there now somewhere on YouTube, as most things are. If you happen to track it down you will find that the first forty seconds are inaudible, but it soon clears up. Aside from technical embarra.s.sments there is also a good deal wrong with it comically, you will note. We are awkward, young and often incompetent, but nonetheless there are some perfectly good ideas in it struggling for light and air. John Savident, now well known for his work in Coronation Street Coronation Street, makes a splendid Bishop of Horley, Arthur Bostrom, who went on to play the bizarrely accented Officer 'Good moaning' Crabtree in 'Allo 'Allo! 'Allo 'Allo!, guested as an excellently gormless genetic guinea-pig, and Robbie Coltrane was his usual immaculate self in the guise of a preposterously macho film-maker.

If I was disappointed, upset or humiliated by the BBC's decision not to pick up The Crystal Cube The Crystal Cube, I was too proud to show it. Besides, there were plenty of comedy and odd jobs for me to be getting on with in the meantime. One such was collaborating with Rowan Atkinson on a screenplay for David Puttnam. The idea was an English Monsieur Hulot's Holiday Monsieur Hulot's Holiday in which Rowan, an innocent abroad, would find himself unwittingly involved in some sort of crime caper. The character was essentially Mr Bean, but ten years too early. in which Rowan, an innocent abroad, would find himself unwittingly involved in some sort of crime caper. The character was essentially Mr Bean, but ten years too early.

I drove up to stay with Rowan and his girlfriend, Leslie Ash, in between visits to Manchester for the taping of Alfresco 2 Alfresco 2. The house in Oxfordshire was, I have to confess, a dazzling symbol to me of the prizes that comedy could afford. The Aston Martin in the driveway, the wisteria growing up the mellow ashlar walls of the Georgian facade, the cottage in the grounds, the tennis court, the lawns and orchards running down to the river all this seemed so fantastically grand, so imponderably grown-up and out of reach.

We would sit in the cottage, and I would tap away on the BBC Micro that I had brought along with me. We composed a scene in which a French girl teaches Rowan's character this tongue-twister: 'Dido dined, they say, off the enormous back of an enormous turkey,' which goes, in French, 'Dido dina, dit-on, du dos dodu d'un dodu dindon.' Rowan practised the Beanish character earnestly attempting this. In any spare moment in the film, we decided, he would try out his 'doo doo doo doo doo', much to the bafflement of those about him. It is about all I remember from the film, which over the next few months quietly, as 99 per cent of all film projects do, fizzled out. Meanwhile, journalism was taking up more and more of my time.

Columnist Britain's magazine industry started to boom in the early to mid-eighties. Tatler Tatler, Harper's & Queen Harper's & Queen and the newly revivified and the newly revivified Vanity Fair Vanity Fair, what you might call the Princess Di sector, fed the public appet.i.te for information about the affairs of the Sloane Rangers, the stylings of their kitchens and country houses and the guest-lists of their parties. Vogue Vogue and and Cosmopolitan Cosmopolitan rode high for the fashion-conscious and s.e.xually sophisticated, rode high for the fashion-conscious and s.e.xually sophisticated, City Limits City Limits and and Time Out Time Out sold everywhere, and Nick Logan's sold everywhere, and Nick Logan's The Face The Face dominated youth fashion and trendy style at a time when it was still trendy to use the word trendy. A few years later Logan proved that even men read glossies when he launched the dominated youth fashion and trendy style at a time when it was still trendy to use the word trendy. A few years later Logan proved that even men read glossies when he launched the avant-la-lettre avant-la-lettre metros.e.xual metros.e.xual Arena Arena. I wrote a number of articles for that magazine, and literary reviews for the now defunct Listener Listener, a weekly published by the BBC.

The Listener Listener's editor when I first joined was Russell Twisk, a surname of such surpa.s.sing beauty that I would have written pieces for him if he had been at the helm of Satanic Child-Slaughter Monthly Satanic Child-Slaughter Monthly. His literary editor was Lynne Truss, later to achieve great renown as the author of Eats, Shoots and Leaves Eats, Shoots and Leaves. I cannot remember that I was ever victim of her peculiar 'zero tolerance approach to punctuation'; perhaps she corrected my copy without ever letting me know.

Twisk was replaced some time later by Alan Coren, who had been a hero of mine since his days editing Punch Punch. He suggested I write a regular column rather than book reviews, and for a year or so I submitted weekly articles on whatever subjects suggested themselves to me.

By now I had bought myself a fax machine. For the first year or so of my ownership of this new and enchanting piece of technology it sat unloved and unused on my desk. I didn't know anyone else who owned one, and the poor thing had n.o.body to talk to. To be the only person you know with a fax machine is a little like being the only person you know with a tennis racket.

Cryptic in Connecticut One day (I'm fast forwarding here, but it seems the right place for this story) Mike Ockrent called me up. Me and My Girl Me and My Girl was by this time running in the West End, and we had all been thrilled to hear that Stephen Sondheim and Hal Prince had been to see it and had written to Mike expressing their admiration. was by this time running in the West End, and we had all been thrilled to hear that Stephen Sondheim and Hal Prince had been to see it and had written to Mike expressing their admiration.

'I told Sondheim that you have a fax machine,' Mike said.

'Right.' I was not sure what to make of this. 'I see ... er ... why exactly?'

'He asked me if I knew anybody who had one. You were the only person I could think of. He's going to call you. Is that all right?'

The prospect of Stephen Sondheim, lyricist of West Side Story West Side Story, composer of Sunday in the Park with George Sunday in the Park with George, Merrily We Roll Along Merrily We Roll Along, Company Company, Sweeney Todd Sweeney Todd and and A Little Night Music A Little Night Music, calling me up was, yes, on the whole, perfectly all right, I a.s.sured Mike. 'What is it about exactly?'

'Oh, he'll explain ...'

My G.o.d, oh my good gracious heavens. He wanted me to write the book of his next musical! What else could it be? Oh my holy trousers. Stephen Sondheim, the greatest songwriter-lyricist since Cole Porter, was going to call me up. Strange that he was interested in my possession of a fax machine. Perhaps that is how he imagined we would work together. Me faxing dialogue and story developments to him and him faxing back his thoughts and emendations. Now that I came to think of it that was rather a wonderful idea and opened up a whole new way of thinking about collaboration.

That evening the phone rang. I was living in Dalston in a house I shared with Hugh and Katie and I had warned them that I would be sitting on the telephone all night.

'Hi, is that Stephen Fry?'

'S-s-speaking.'

'This is Stephen Sondheim.'

'Right. Yes of course. Wow. Yes. It's a ... I ...'

'Hey, I want to congratulate you on the fine job you did with the book of Me and My Girl Me and My Girl. Great show.'

'Gosh. Thank you. Coming from you that's ... that's ...'

'So. Listen, I understand you have a fax machine?'

'I do. Yes. Certainly. Yes, a Brother F120. Er, not that the model number matters at all. A bit even. No. But, yes. I have one. Indeed. Mm.'

'Are you at home this weekend?'

'Er, yes I think so ... yup.'

'In the evening, till late at night?'

'Yes.'

This was getting weird.

'OK, so here's the deal. I have a house in the country and I like to have treasure hunts and compet.i.tions. You know, with sneaky clues?'

'Ri-i-ght ...'

'And I thought how great it would be to have a clue that was a long number. Your fax number? And when people get the answer they will see that it's a number and maybe they will work out that it's a phone number and they will call it, but they will get that sound sound. You know, the sound that a fax machine makes?'

'Right ...'

'And they will hear it and think, "What was that?" but maybe one of them, they will know that it is in actuality a fax machine. They might have one in their office, for example. So they'll say, "Hey, that's a fax machine. So maybe we have to send it a message. On a piece of paper." And they will fax you for help.'

'And what do I do then?'

'Well, here's the thing: beforehand, I will have faxed you their next clue. So when they fax you asking for help, you fax that clue back in return. You understand?'

'Yes, I think so. You send me a fax which is the next clue. Then I wait by the machine on Sat.u.r.day afternoon ...'

'Evening, night. It will be afternoon in Connecticut, but in London it will be like nine, ten, maybe eleven o'clock. You're not going out at all?'

'No, no.'

'Because it is crucial crucial that you are in all the time and that you are right by the fax machine so you can hear it when it goes off.' that you are in all the time and that you are right by the fax machine so you can hear it when it goes off.'

'Absolutely. I'll be there. So, just to make sure I've got this right. Sat.u.r.day night I wait by the fax machine. When I get a fax asking me for a clue, I send to your fax number in Connecticut whatever it is that you will have faxed me earlier?'

'Right. Isn't it great? It will be the first-ever fax treasure hunt. But you have have to be by the phone all Sat.u.r.day night. You will be?' to be by the phone all Sat.u.r.day night. You will be?'

'I'll be there. I'll be there.'

'OK. I'll give you my fax number. It should appear on the top of the fax anyway, but I'll give it to you. And I'll need your fax number.'

We exchanged numbers.

'Thank you, Stephen.'

'No, thank you you, Stephen.'

Between that call and Sat.u.r.day evening he called four or five times to check that I had not changed my plans and was still happy to sit by the fax machine and await developments. On Sat.u.r.day afternoon at about four I received a fax from him. It was an impenetrable diagram with some sort of code written alongside it.

I faxed back a note to say that I had received his clue and would fax it as soon as I received a request from his treasure-hunt contestants.

I sat with a book, ears flapping, for the next five hours. I had not put out of my mind the possibility that Sondheim might yet ask me to work with him on his next musical, but the thought that he only wanted me for my technological toys could not be entirely dismissed.

Some time before ten o'clock the fax machine rang. I put down the book. It was Atlas Shrugged Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, I remember quite distinctly, which was hypnotically dreadful. I stared at the fax machine as it answered the call. Its shrill cry was cut off. The caller had hung up. I imagined a garden in New England and a group of capering Sondheim friends. by Ayn Rand, I remember quite distinctly, which was hypnotically dreadful. I stared at the fax machine as it answered the call. Its shrill cry was cut off. The caller had hung up. I imagined a garden in New England and a group of capering Sondheim friends.

'How odd! It made a kind of awful chirruping sound.'

'Oh! Oh! Oh! I know what that is. It's a fax machine!'

'A what-all?'

'You know. For sending doc.u.ments? Stephen's got one in his den, I'm sure I've seen it there. Let's go to it. My, such larks!' know. For sending doc.u.ments? Stephen's got one in his den, I'm sure I've seen it there. Let's go to it. My, such larks!'

I counted off the minutes as the gang made their way (in my imagination at least) to Stephen's den, whose mantelpiece was crowded with Tony Awards. On the very piano on which he had composed 'Send in the Clowns' I saw in my mind's eye signed photographs in silver-gilt frames of Lenny Bernstein, Ethel Merman, Oscar Hammerstein and Noel Coward.

Just as I was wondering if I might have misjudged the scenario, my fax machine screeched into life again. This time a handshake was made across the ocean and a fax chugged out. I ripped it off and there on the curling thermal paper was scrawled 'Hi! Do you have something for us?'

I duly fitted into the machine the fax Sondheim had sent me earlier, dialled the number and pressed 'Transmit'.

A cheerful 'Thanks!' was returned a few minutes later.

I had no idea how many teams there might be playing and realized that, for all his neurotic calling to ensure my vigilant presence for the evening, Stephen had not told me whether or not this would be a one-time deal.

I woke up at three with Atlas Shrugged Atlas Shrugged on my lap and the fax machine free of further intercourse. on my lap and the fax machine free of further intercourse.

A week later a case of Haut-Batailley claret arrived with a note of thanks from Stephen Sondheim.

The treasure hunt was a great success. Due in no small measure to your kind partic.i.p.ation.

With thanks, Stephen.

Not a hint of a call to collaboration. I still await his summons.

By the time Alan Coren became the Listener Listener's editor, fax machines had become a signature ubiquity of the age, and there was nothing strange about my delivering copy to him that way without visiting the offices in Marylebone High Street from one month to the next. My next struggle, some seven or eight years later, would be to get newspapers and broadcasting companies to sign up to log on to the internet and furnish themselves with email addresses, but that is a whole other story for a whole other book for a whole other readership.

Contortionist Perhaps the most stylish and beguiling figure in the London magazine world in those days was the caricaturist, editor and boulevardier about town Mark Boxer. Under the pen name Marc he had ill.u.s.trated the front covers of A A Dance to the Music of Time Dance to the Music of Time, all twelve volumes of which I had lined up along a bookshelf, next to the Simon Raven Alms for Oblivion Alms for Oblivion sequence (which I much preferred, and still do). In the sixties Boxer had supervised the launch and life of Britain's first colour supplement magazine for sequence (which I much preferred, and still do). In the sixties Boxer had supervised the launch and life of Britain's first colour supplement magazine for The Sunday Times The Sunday Times and now he edited the and now he edited the Tatler Tatler. One day in the mid to late eighties I got a letter from him, asking me to call his office.

'Ah yes. Stephen Fry. How do you do? Let me take you out to lunch. Langan's tomorrow?'

I had heard of Langan's Bra.s.serie but had never been. Founded by Peter Langan, Richard Shepherd and the actor Michael Caine, it had acquired a reputation as one of the most glamorous and eccentric restaurants in London. The glamour was provided by the art collection, the Patrick Procktor menu design and the daily presence of film stars, aristocrats and millionaires; the eccentricity came in the form of Peter Langan. This pioneering restaurateur, an alcoholic Irishman of uncertain temper, was notorious for insulting customers to whom he might take unpredictable dislikes, tearing up the bills of those who dared to complain, stubbing cigarettes out in their salads and ordering them to leave. A bottle of Krug in one hand and a cigar or cigarette in the other, he would lurch from table to table, beaming and barking, grinning and growling, hugging and shoving. The food was good but not great, the atmosphere magical, and the experience, when Peter was around, unforgettable. Don Boyd told me that his wife, Hilary, had once found a slug in her salad. As Peter lurched hiccupping past the table, Don had stopped him and pointed out the unwanted gastropod in his wife's greenery.

Peter bowed forward from the waist to examine the plate.

'Why thank you,' he said, taking up the pulsing, living slug between thumb and forefinger. 'Thank you very much indeed, my darling.' He dropped it into his gla.s.s of Krug, drained it down and burped. 'Like a nice juicy snail, only without the nuisance of a sh.e.l.l. f.u.c.king delicious.'

I arrived early, as I always do for appointments, and was led upstairs. Mark arrived exactly on time.

'Hope you don't mind it up here,' he said. 'It's quieter. In case Peter's about. Do you know him?'