In Praise Of Gin And Tonic. Heroin. Mountain Rescue. The Smell Of Eternity Vanishes. Instant Fatherhood.

One January night in 1972 I lay languidly draped over the comfortable deep red Chesterfield. I listened to the tiny clangs as bubbles of carbon dioxide effervesced their way past my ear to burst at the top of a quadruple glass of ginandslim-linetonicwithicebutnolemonin. I relaxed in the sheer lack of austerity in this, the largest room in my penthouse in Belsize Park. Banks of spotlights focussed harsh geometric slabs of magenta, emerald green and beige across the walls while from a thurible effused frangipani, bergamot and chypre, compounding a mirantic furlor of didantillism. From some forty feet away I could barely make out the distant drone of my brother, who is, after all, a surgeon examining a friend of mine. This friend had an umbilical hernia I thought needed attention. His examination complete, my brother agreed and

we set about making the arrangements for his admission to hospital.

This particular friend in need of surgery was also a heroin addict which slightly complicated arrangements in that we had to make sure the hospital fully understood his need for large quantities of opiates. He had been treated for his addiction by methadone substitution but lapses were frequent and the only constructive thing I'd been able to do for him was to show him how to shoot up properly and give him a liberal supply of disposable syringes and needles, which would at least minimize the trauma to his veins and exclude millions of nasty bugs from his bloodstream. He was to be cured of his addiction a year later while working in Germany. He was discovered to be addicted and they treated him harshly but effectively by immediate complete withdrawal. The efficacy of this cruel but dangerous regime I was later to bear in mind during my Chapter Nought days....

But to return to the point reached earlier in this chapter, my brother and I had now just finalized arrangements for his hospitalization when the telephone rang and a voice said, 'Is that Dr Graham Chapman?'

'Yes,' I riposted.

'Ah,' said the voice, 'you're just down as ''Chapman, Dr G." in the book, I just wanted to check. I've got a young man staying who's quite ill. He's got a high fever but he refuses to go to a hospital or see my doctor. He says that he's met you. You gave him your autograph once. He says he would see you.'

'Who is that?'

'You wouldn't know if I told you but it's Richard Milner.'

'You were right,' I told the voice and that the best thing would be to wrap him up well, and bring him round, as we seemed to be holding a mini-surgery at my flat that evening anyway. Half an hour later he arrived, a good-looking young man, introducing himself as John Tomiczek. I had seen him outside a Kensington restaurant, the long dark hair, olive complexion, bright blue fur-lined jacket and blue and maroon trousers jogged the memory. I showed him into the main room and took a brief history. He was seventeen years old; from Liverpool and in London staying with a friend

A mirantic furlor of didantillism

while waiting to take up some sort of apprenticeship with a shoe firm. He had had two similar attacks of fever at roughly monthly intervals but this was the worst yet. He also complained of tiredness, general muscular pains and headache.

My brother examined him and finding enlargement of the superficial lymph nodes considered glandular fever (or infectious mononucleosis, if you prefer, though why you should I don't know), the most likely diagnosis. The fever at monthly intervals sounded more ominous, however; reminiscent of a Pel Ebstein fever found in the more serious condition of Hodgkin's disease (lymphadenoma if you prefer that!) We decided immediate hospitalization would be wise and with the aid of his Efficaciousness A. R. Bailey, Physician, had him admitted to the Royal Northern Hospital for bedrest and the appropriate clinical tests.

The tests confirmed the diagnosis of glandular fever and showed that he'd had a fairly severe infection which had affected his liver.

Two weeks later the ambulance service rang me to say, 'We've got a John Robert Tomiczek here who has only given us your address - since you had him admitted, where should we take him?' They actually sounded busier than that.

'Bring him here,' I said, thinking, 'Well, we can sort everything out between ourselves....'

John arrived and certainly looked better, though still pale and weak. We had a spare room now that Brendan had left and since John was rather non-committal about this friend he'd been staying with, Richard Voice, I thought that, rather than have him going off, popping into pubs, doing further damage to his liver, perhaps a short convalescence with us would be wise.

I asked him about his family and background but because of his strong Liverpool accent and an ability to feel less well whenever he was questioned I let things ride, thinking, 'Well, he'll tell us when he's ready. Meantime, we shall make sure he eats well and continues to recover.' This proved difficult in that he only ate fish and chips and jam 'butties'. But four weeks later he had indeed recovered....

I had just finished an intense writing stint and thought that a weekend away would be a good idea and so it was that

David; Andrew, my Irish-Portuguese chauffeur; John and I set off to go to North Wales. I had equipped all of them with climbing-boots, anoraks etc.: at last I had a team who would come climbing with me.

It was an uneventful journey apart from a major accident when a twenty-five-ton truck drove into the side of my Van-den Plas Princess, at 50 mph¹. Fortunately the car bore the blow pretty well and we were able to continue our journey. There were two doors on the other side of the car, after all. Rather later than I'd hoped that night we checked in at the Pen-Y-Gwryd Hotel at the foot of Mount Snowdon....

It was February and Snowdon can be a difficult proposition in the winter but we were well equipped: ice axes, ropes, carabiners, space blankets, emergency rations - the lot.

The next morning when we set out from Pen-y-Pass there were patches of blue in the sky and the air was crisp. Up above us Crib Goch, the first peak in the Snowdon group we were about to climb, stood covered in cloud down to just above the snow-line. We would have at least a thousand feet of snow and ice to tackle before reaching its summit. From Crib Goch I was hoping to complete half of the Snowdon horseshoe by going onto the top of the highest peak and then make our return to base, coming down via the easy Pyg track.

I think John was a little alarmed at the number of people he saw coming down having failed to get up: I was slightly apprehensive myself but confident that this was nothing four fit young men couldn't take on.... At one point there was a tricky little slab of rock covered with ice, which in the cloud gave the appearance of being steeper than it actually was. John was worried at this at first but I lowered a rope to him to make sure that he got up safely. We very rarely needed to cut steps and made good time up to the summit itself.

The ridge extending from Crib Goch to the main body of Snowdon is a narrow one and in these conditions represented a knife edge of rock covered with ice; steep snow slopes fell precipitously on either side disappearing into the cloud below. It was appallingly cold; way below zero and the wind tore at us, showering us with spikules of ice....

1. Actually it was 40...

Suddenly everything went crimson with little gussets of gamboge, but Evans knew what Scott was thinking: That bally man Oates has been a pain in the neck ever since we hit Antarctica nine months ago. The frost over Evans' eyebrows and icicles in his beard can't hide the fact,' thought Scott, that Evans' lips, though green with cold, would if they could, have said what he knew him to be thinking. Oates was a bore, an unmitigated crushing bore; whatever possessed them to accept such a fellow in the first place. 'Well, he's nipped out for one of his boring little walks. He'll be back in a minute, screaming odes at us at the top of his voice over the howl of the wind.'

The two men stared at each other, then, acting as two men, crawled out and dismantled the tent, ran off and piled it onto the back of the sledge. The sledge, covered with bodies of the dead dogs whom they later intended to give a decent English burial, was heavy, but the thought of Oates quoting 'a thing of beauty is a...' made them pull even harder and they broke into a jog as the thought of Oates' premature return struck them both.... Soon they were miles away, safely encamped again, making up stories about how brave Oates had been, 'walking out like that, saying, "I'm just going out for a walk," though really we both knew he now considered himself a burden on us.' Tee hee hee, they both thought until they didn't....

... Almost as suddenly, everything went white and we were progressing along the ridge, for safety in the high wind quite often sitting astride it, with one leg hanging either side. We were getting along; slowly but safely and I was thankful for the cloud; if any of the party had seen the drop each side they might have been as worried as I was.

We came to the end of the first part of the ridge and the going became easier but I thought we'd better abandon our original plan and get down sooner. I was thinking of safety and the pub opening hours.

I decided to take a more direct route down a gully to our left. To make a quicker descent I unroped the whole team for the climb down the snow slope. John, thinking, 'What a relief, it's all over, we're down the dangerous bit,' leapt off

i₇8

ahead. I stopped him and we all roped up again. I knew that steady progress was better than haste because at the bottom of these couloirs what in summer is a waterfall in winter becomes a miniature glacier. Sure enough, when we got down to the point where the waterfall should have been there was an ice floe.... I had to cut steps down it carelessly.¹ It took about an hour and a half to get down the ice slope but as soon as we were at the bottom of it we were almost on the snow-line: scattered patches of snow and rocks above a scree.

On easier ground again we unroped. We could actually see the Pyg track three hundred feet or so down below us. John again set off rather too quickly and I shouted at him to slow down. Unfortunately he'd picked up so much momentum he couldn't stop, tripped and somersaulted about thirty-five feet down the mountainside. In the process he cut his forehead and collected some chest abrasions and a possibly fractured left leg.

We climbed down to him and tried to carry him but the pain from the leg was soon too much for him to bear. I stayed with him, wrapped him in space-blankets and patched up his forehead with surgical tape, sending David and Andrew down with our map reference to get the mountain rescue team.

The weather was too foul for the helicopter to fly and so we had to wait for the R.A.F. mountain rescue team to come on foot. Even though we were much lower down the mountain than we had been it was still extremely cold and by now darkness had fallen: a high wind and driving snow enhanced the sense of danger.

I had a torch and a whistle and began S.O.S. signalling but John and I had to wait there for four hours before any sign of rescue. Another party, loosely fitting our description - two men, one young, with a broken leg - had fallen lower down the mountainside. The R.A.F. picked them up and thought they had rescued us. They hadn't.

The team arrived back at base and there waited an anxious David and Andrew. 'It's OK, we've got them,' said the R.A.F. David, looking at the faces said, 'That's not Graham

I. Carefully.

and that's not John either.' The R.A.F. team set out again, with David showing our route of descent.

Four hours at minus temperatures in the dark somewhere on a mountainside is a bit telling on the spirit and strength. John wasn't too bad, as some other climbers had stopped on their way down and provided extra blankets. I was worried. I continued blowing my whistle and flashing the torch at intervals, as you're supposed to, and waited for a return signal. Wonderful. I heard their whistle way below and to the left of us. I increased my blowing. A marvellous moment this: I heard a distant shout - they must have seen my light. I saw their light quickly return my flash. That was fanbloody-tastic. F-bloody-anta-bloody-st-bloody-ic. All thoughts about what Eternity smells like had vanished.

They climbed up to us and gave me some hot soup as John was carefully strapped onto a tubular alloy mountain rescue stretcher. Then we had to lower him down the mountainside. Quite a big team is involved in these kind of operations -you have one person going down in front to work out the best route, a couple of bearers at the front, three either side of the stretcher and a team of about eight others hanging onto ropes behind so that the stretcher can be lowered down crags and cliffs.

Being a non-injured party I was naturally expected to help and so took my place hanging onto one of the ropes at the back. I was so exhausted I couldn't help for long - my hands couldn't grip any more and I kept stumbling. The last three hundred feet down were too much for me. I gave up and said, 'Sorry, I can't help any more,' and slid down the rest of the way on my arse; I couldn't even walk - it was appalling.

Once the stretcher-party reached the footpath they set off at a quicker pace. One of the R.A.F. team stayed with me just to make sure I didn't stagger into the lake which was almost as exactly near o°C. as you can get without water being ice. The unfortunate thing was that what is normally a causeway across the lake, Llyn Llydaw, in the winter isn't: it is four feet deep in ice-cold water, either side of which, should you step off, is forty feet of ice-cold water, which isn't good for anyone's health. Either that or you go round the lake, a four-mile slog. I didn't want to go four miles, as

opposed to a hundred yards, neither did the man with me. But we had to cross that lake guided only by the lights of the Land-Rover on the other side. It was pitch black and if we'd slipped off on either side we'd both have been dead - no doubt about it. We got across, up to the waist, in my case, in ice-cold water, at the end of what had been rather a long day. (David had by now crossed it three times....)

We arrived back at the Pen-Y-Gwryd and John was taken off to hospital. We discovered that all the residents had been listening to the rescue on short-wave radio because the owner of the hotel, Chris Briggs, used to be a mountain rescue organizer. His hotel, after all, was the base for the training of the Everest team. We got back there to, well it wasn't thunderous applause, but it was a lot of interest because they'd been listening to the mountaineering drama in progress. The rescue team had no time to receive 'thank you' drinks: they were already out scouring the peaks for three more missing climbers.

Anyway John had been taken off to Bangor hospital and David, Andrew and I felt we deserved several pints of beer and quite a few scotches, a meal and more scotches, only to be rung up at about n o'clock by Bangor hospital who said that the young man called John Tomiczek was refu^ii.g to stay in hospital. I asked them about the X-rays, whether they'd X-rayed his head because of the injury to it. They had; no signs of damage and his leg had only a hairline fracture. I thought, 'He's had a hell of a day anyway and obviously wants to be with his friends.' I told them, 'Send him round to the Pen-Y-Gwryd Hotel and I'll do a head chart on him, we can have him back to you in twenty minutes if anything goes wrong.' This meant checking his pupils, pulse, blood-pressure and breathing-rate regularly. So, after all the exertion that day, I had an alarm clock brought to me and got up every half hour to begin with and then every hour to check all those physical signs.¹ It was an exhausting process but all was well.

The next morning the local police came round to the hotel wanting to see me and asked, 'Who is this John Tomiczek -what do you know about him?' I told them the story of how I came to meet John and how he came to be with us. They

I. Except the blood pressure. I'd somehow forgotten to pack a sphygmomanometer....

then said, 'What would you say if we told you he's fourteen years old and has been missing from home for nine months?'

I said, 'I'd tell you exactly what I just have - that's what happened.'

If it had not been so, the word kidnapping would spring to mind but I'd been trying to find out where his parents were etc. etc....

What had happened, of course, because of the routine police check-up on the mountain rescue, was that they had actually found out his home address; his father was coming to collect him....

He was a bit late in arriving. It's not far from Liverpool to the Pen-Y-Gwryd - about a two-hour drive, but his father took five. I thought, 'If that was a son of mine I'd have been there in a flash.'

But after I had queried his delay with a raised eyebrow, John's father and I got on very well. We both came to the conclusion that if he were taken back to Huyton, Liverpool, he would only run away again. John's mother had died some five years ago and his father had four other children to look after on his own. A proud man, understandably he did not want institutional care for them. John had been asked to leave one rather strict R.C. Grammar School and was a persistent truant at another. We asked him, 'Would you go back to school if you stayed in London?' 'Yes,' said John. So informally he became my ward and I his guardian.

An odd feeling, suddenly becoming the 'parent' of a teenager. All my paternal instincts emerged. My experiences with Brendan and Jimmy had shown me that this behaviour pattern was innate: suddenly it was exactly as if John were my son.

Before returning to London John went to stay with his father for a couple of weeks. We were going to Jersey to do some Python filming and John arrived back in London in time to join me on that trip. I was very pleased to see him; so was David, so was Brendan. Our flat was his home. Brendan and he even built a new cage for our white mice.

The local nick, the Hampstead nick, rang that very morning and ssaid, 'We'd like to have a talk to you Dr Chapman, about the John Tomiczek business.'

I said, 'Oh. Oh well, all right/

'Shall we come up to your place?'

'No, no, I'll come up to the police station, don't worry.' I told them. 'As it happens, John's here at the moment, he's just arrived.'

'Is he? Well you'd better bring him too.'

John and I both went up to the police station. We had about three hours before catching the plane for Jersey and we were kept there for two being questioned, John being rather more fiercely interrogated than I; after all I was a doctor. A rather nervous Sergeant Greene of the CID, the Hampstead perverts branch, was questioning me. Eventually he plucked up courage: 'There's one thing I do have to ask, Dr Chapman.' After a long pause, 'Are you a homosexual?' I said, 'Yes.' He was expecting the more convenient answer, 'No,' and then everything would have been all right. We would have just gone. But, having had several articles published in which I stated that I was a homosexual, I didn't feel I could say 'No'. And I couldn't honestly say 'No', anyway, but they obviously had to check to make sure nothing was 'going on' between John and myself.

They then tried to get in contact with his father and eventually reached him by telephone and said to him, 'I gather you've given permission for your son John to go to Jersey with Graham Chapman.'

His father said, 'Yes, that's true.'

The police then said, 'Did you know that Dr Chapman was homosexual?' and he said, 'Yes.'

And there was nothing they could do, 'much against their better judgement'. We just caught our plane to Jersey....

It may surprise the police but I happen to believe, along with every homosexual that I've ever met, that it is anti-social and insensitive in the extreme for anyone, of whatever sex, to attempt to force any sort of physical attention on another person....

John had found a stable, happy home and soon had a circle of friends at his new school. Apart from my being a bad influence, in that my drinking habits encouraged him to drink too much at one time, I think David and I have done a pretty good job. We're very proud of him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A Chapter of Violence

The Man With The Torn-Out Tongue. Miss Finsbury. Detectives In The Bathroom.

A girl styling herself'Miss Finsbury' rang to ask if I would help her charity by drawing the raffle at an old folk's evening festivity. The old folks were in for a treat; a pantomime performed by locals, followed by a raffle drawn by someone they'd been told was a celebrity and then a cup of tea and some biscuits afterwards. All I had to do was draw the raffle, it sounded simple enough so I agreed to Miss Finsbury's request.

The day arrived and I went to Finsbury Town Hall. There were a lot of old-age pensioners watching a pantomime and a very beautiful creature wearing a sash with 'Miss Finsbury' written on it introduced herself as Anna, last year's Miss Finsbury. She was more attractive than most beauty queens I had seen and had obviously done a bit of homework on me - she had a secret stack of cans of lager - the only other refreshment available being tea. I downed a couple of cans and distributed the prizes at the raffle with great speed and in a loud voice, hardly giving the old folks time to ask, 'Oo's 'ee?', then went

back stage for a few more lagers while the organizers 'pushed' the tea and biscuits. It was all very simple and I had a very pleasant chat with the extremely pleasant and intelligent Miss Finsbury.

A couple of weeks later she rang me up again saying that this time there was another similar charity function that 'I thought would be more entertaining' because it was a disco-dance for younger folks. All I would have to 'do' would be another raffle. I said, 'Yes, fine. Where is it and how would I get there?' She said, 'Don't worry about that, I'll pick you up on Tuesday' - the whatever it was.

Around about eight o'clock on Tuesday-the-whatever-it-was, along came Miss Finsbury with a somewhat older lady and I invited them in for a drink, before setting off to the large pub which was the venue for this disco evening. I turned the football on the television off, saying it didn't interest me as I used to play Rugby and I remember the older lady saying that in her opinion Rugby was more of a man's game than the rather namby-pamby football and expressed interest in broad shoulders and meaty thighs. She could possibly have been Miss Finsbury's mother but I didn't ask. The two were in definite agreement about men. After a few gin and tonics, John, myself and the two ladies set off for the pub somewhere on the North Circular Road. Miss Finsbury was delightful company and we chatted happily on the way there and when we arrived the disco was in full swing in the large room at the back of the pub. After a few drinks I got up onto the stage and did the raffling. Because the raffle was for an old folks' charity I'd bought quite a few books for the raffle and so had John. He finished up winning two of the main prizes. That was my work finished for the evening and so I told Miss Finsbury I'd see her at the bar and buy her a drink.

At the bar with John I was trying to get the attention of the waiter. The man standing next to me said, 'I'll get these, Graham.' I looked at him. He was about six foot tall, I suppose - wide, not fat but definitely wide and solid - the sort of figure that reminds me of a Victorian door, strong, tough and not to be thrown about lightly.

I said, 'No, thank you very much, I'm getting a round for someone else.' I noticed that just behind him stood a slightly

i8₅

Til get these, Graham/

smaller person who nevertheless reminded me of the sort of man who could well have been a middle-weight boxer — not particularly huge but power-packed. This man said nothing but seemed to be very definitely with the man who looked like the Victorian door.

'No, no, no/ said the Victorian door. 'I insist, Graham. What do you want?'

I said, 'A large Gee and Tee for me, same for John, oh and I was getting a Bacardi and coke for Anna, you know, Miss Finsbury/

He ordered the drinks and said, 'It's only fair for me to get the drinks, you've done your bit for the evening haven't you?'

I thanked him and insisted that I should get the next round. He then, with a slight but definite 'loom', said in a very measured voice, 'You like Anna, don't you, Graham?'

I sensed some other meaning behind this but, being innocent anyway, said, 'Yes, yes, I like Anna.'

Had the man grown? He certainly looked larger.... 'I thought you did,' he replied quietly, weighing the effect of each word. 'She's a nice girl.'

'Yes, she is a nice girl, very, very pleasant....'

'Well, you'll be needing this, then,' he said and out of his inside pocket he produced the thickest bundle of ten pound notes I'd ever seen.

I said, 'What's that?'

'It's a thousand pounds for you.'

I said, 'No, it isn't.'

'Yes it is, Graham. Go on, keep it.'

'What for? It's got nothing to do with me.'

'It's yours isn't it?' He looked even larger....

'No it isn't, I haven't done anything to earn it.'

'It's yours, keep it.' His silent friend's taut muscles rippled visibly.

'Look, I really don't want it, thank you very much, I earn my own money. What I did this evening was for charity. I don't want it, thank you very much.'

'Well, you'll be needing it now, won't you?'

'No I won't.'

'Oh yes you will.'

'Why, why should I need it?'

'Well, you'll be looking after Anna now, won't you?'

My brain reeled.... 'No, no I won't be. No, no I won't be looking after Anna.'

'You like her don't you?'

'Yes I do like her but that's all, I've only met her once before this evening.'

'She's talked a lot about you, Graham. Go on take it, you'll need it.'

'No thank you....'

Still the boxer-looking gentleman behind said nothing.

'Here have this, then,' he said as he brought out another wad of notes looking exactly like another thousand pounds. 'Go on, it's yours, put it in your pocket, just take, it's yours.'

I don't know why but something somewhere in the back of my mind told me that if I accepted this money I would be admitting guilt and that somewhere later in the evening my throat could have been pulled out. Maybe the back of my mind was exaggerating but I wasn't taking any chances. As firmly as I could under the circumstances I said, 'I don't want any of your money thank you very much. Now let me get you that drink. I've got to go very soon.'

I tried to order a round of drinks from the barman but he had already begun to pull down the iron grid at the front of the bar to close it. I pleaded with him through the descending shutter, 'Could we have just one more quick round, please?'

'No, it's well after hours, we're closing.'

'Please, just one more won't hurt.'

'No, we've shut.' Clang.

The door-like man then said, 'Don't worry Graham, I'll fix it,' and disappeared through a door at the side of the bar. A few moments later he came back and so did the barman. The barman looked very pale and trembled as he fumbled with the latches and bolts opening up the bar again. The bar was open again and orders were being taken. The middleweight boxer stood there and still said nothing. We exchanged pleasantries about the entertainment business and that evening in particular and how nice Anna was to involve herself in charitable works....

On the excuse of going for a pee I managed to nip off and find Anna behind the stage and said, 'There are a couple of

people I'm a bit worried about out there. You did promise that a taxi would take me home afterwards. Could you please order a minicab now and tell it to come round to the back of the pub not the front? Please could you do that for me quickly?'

She said, 'Yes,' she understood. She thought she knew who the people were that I was talking about and she would arrange everything - no need to worry, just leave in ten minutes out of the back of the pub. I felt relieved and went back to finish another drink with them, and saying, 'Well I have to be going now, nice to have met you both, cheers, all the best...'John and I walked off, slipped through a door at the back of the stage and went out to the back of the pub.

There was a waiting mini-cab. I glanced in at the driver and said, 'Hampstead?' He said, 'Yes,' and, looking over our shoulders John and I climbed into the back of the car.

My heart skipped a beat or two.

Reclining against the upholstery were the man that looked like a door and his friend that didn't speak. The door man, whom from now on we might well refer to as 'Trevor' said, 'Hello Graham, we've got to go back through your part of town. We thought you might like to stop off at a little place for a drink, like.'

'No, no, I'm very tired, I'm just going home to Hamp-stead, perhaps another time.'

Trevor said, 'No, it's a great little place - not too many people know it, just one drink eh, Graham?'

I began to have visions of a quiet little place that we could be taken to where one could be nailed to garage doors and have one's head screwed to a coffee table, or perhaps one's legs stapled together - that sort of little place.

This particular evening I hadn't been drinking very much (for me) - I'd had a couple of little smokes - and, considering the situation in which I now found myself, I remained relatively calm. I insisted that this cab was going to Hampstead to drop me off at my house. The cab driver now joined in and said, 'Yes, Hampstead, that was the job, that's where I'm going. If you want to go anywhere else, get another cab.' He said this in a rather tremulous voice. I think he didn't want to be a party to any nailing to garage doors or screwing to

coffee tables that might have gone on later in the evening. He obviously knew the two people in the back of his cab and was scared.

But Trevor continued to insist that we go to this quiet little place he knew. I thought that, rather than the quiet little place Trevor knew, it would be wiser if I invited them round for a drink at my place. At least that was my territory. I knew where there were telephones. There were neighbours and there was also an ice-axe behind the door in a cupboard near the stairs. It seemed to me that there were better opportunities for survival in my own environment. They agreed to this, at least, when I say 'they', Trevor agreed and the other gentleman said, 'Mmrnnn!' The other gentleman, it now became clear to me, had previously restricted his conversation to grunts because he had no tongue. I assumed that this had probably been removed because of some indiscretion earlier in his life. I didn't care to question Trevor about it at that particular moment.

We drove back to my place, the fifth floor flat in Belsize Park. We arrived outside the block of flats and left the cab and Trevor told the cabman to wait for them. This was encouraging. We climbed up the stairs and went into the flat and I began to pour them some drinks in the kitchen. Trevor now explained to me that Miss Finsbury's husband was 'doing' some forty odd years inside one of Her Majesty's Prisons for causing grievous bodily harm during the course of an armed bank robbery and that he, Trevor, was the man designated to look after Anna - make sure no harm came to her - if I got his meaning. He'd formed the impression I'd been seeing rather a lot of her. I explained that I hadn't and he seemed to accept that for a moment or two.

Trevor and I had a long conversation in the kitchen, the details of which I shall give in a moment. Meanwhile John spent his time with the man with no tongue in the main room. The man with no tongue was trying to explain something of what was going on by writing notes on the only available piece of paper, one of John's history text books, the appropriate portion of which I hope you will see reproduced on this or another page.¹

I. We've put it on page 192, squire. (Printer.)

It seemed that the boxing gentleman would do anything for Trevor because he had once saved his life when they were both in the Merchant Navy. His tongue had been removed because of something he'd rather not write about. He said that he liked John and myself and was a bit concerned for my welfare, because Trevor sometimes went a bit too far. Seeing John's concern about this he wrote, 'don't worry about

TREVOR HE BAD IN THE BRIAN. IF HE TOUCH GRAHAM I KILL HIM.'

Meanwhile in the kitchen, I was rapidly coming to the same conclusion, namely that Trevor was completely out of his brian. A possible psychopath; a large one and certainly not to be trifled with. I remembered watching a psychiatrist friend of mine, Dr Robin Anderson, dealing with a paranoid schizophrenic who went completely 'gaga' one evening in a Hampstead restaurant. This particular person, a London School of Economics lecturer, suddenly loudly proclaimed that he was worse than Hitler and would shoot the balls off all the students who were fucking his wife. He said he had a gun in his brief-case and would shoot everyone in the entire restaurant. Robin dealt with this very well. The restaurant had quickly emptied of everyone, of course, apart from ourselves. By talking to the man and asking him why he thought he was worse than Hitler, he immediately involved him in some detail he felt obliged to explain. This had the effect of keeping him off'boiling point'.

I tried to take the same kind of interest in everything that Trevor said in the hope that he wouldn't become possessed by the red mist of rage....

'You like Anna, don't you Graham?' He was beginning to grow larger again....

'Yes, I do like Anna.'

'She's very nice, isn't she?'

'Yes she is very nice'—

'Only she belongs to someone else, like....' He couldn't have looked larger.

'Good, yes.' I was sure she did, good-looking woman like that.

'I'm kind of, like, her old friend, you know. I'm looking after her.'

'Yes, yes and very well too, jolly good. Would you like another drink?'

'Have you had Anna?' I couldn't move.

'No, I haven't. I told you, I've only met her twice, once at the old people's thing and then again this evening, that's all.'

⁴Yes but she came up here to the flat didn't she?'

'Yes but with an older woman, who, I think, was her mother and they can't have been here more than half an hour.'

'You were a bit late arriving at the pub.'

'Were we? We stayed here for half an hour. Look, I did not touch her. I haven't had her. She's very beautiful and I could be tempted but I've told you the absolute truth.'

'Yes I'm sure you have, Graham, yes I'm sure.'

'Look really, if you don't believe me - Look, I'm a pouff.'

'Don't give me that, mate, so am I. I think we both know that doesn't change anything, does it, Graham. Now about you and Anna....'

There seemed to be very little way out. He was convinced that I had done something. However, I was convinced and correct in saying that I hadn't. This kind of conversation continued for some time with as many diversions interrupting his line of questioning as I could possibly throw in. I placed a great deal of faith in him being convinced by the truth. I also had a strange inner calm that could possibly be attributed to the joint' I'd had earlier, but we were now beginning to assume an almost doctor-patient relationship.

I was certainly taking the whole thing more calmly than I would ever have thought possible in the circumstances. At the end of yet another prolonged interview even Trevor seemed to think that I had been telling the truth. John and the gentleman with no tongue rejoined us and everyone appeared to be reasonably happy. More drinks all round. John and the tongueless middleweight played a noisy game of 'football' on a machine we had in the hall. I had a particularly irritating neighbour downstairs who throughout the day used to annoy me, since I worked at home, by knocking down walls and rearranging the interior of his flat, making a terrible racket. Anyway this evening, like many others, the mild little man came up to complain. He rang the doorbell, I opened the door.

'Excuse me, I hope you realize it's 12.30 at night and there is rather a lot of noise.' He'd hardly finished saying this when the gentleman with no tongue grabbed his head and Trevor rammed the door shut on his neck....

Now that we were all friends I felt braver in their company

and managed to calm down Trevor and his friend. 'It's all right, he's from downstairs, he means no harm, don't worry,' I said, prising the door open and allowing Mr Black-and-Decker to pull his head back out of our door. I went outside and explained to him.

'Mr Black-and-Decker, I sometimes do have some very odd people in my flat. Sometimes it's part of my work; I enjoy having odd people around. This time it isn't. These are the oddest and certainly the most dangerous people that I have ever met. I advise you to go downstairs and treble bolt your door and say nothing.' He, quaking as he was, shivered his way downstairs and did exactly that. I thought it wiser not to make any suggestions to him along the lines of ringing the police. I had no wish to be misinterpreted by my 'guests'. That incident over, I went back in.

The game of football was finished. John had made the mistake of winning but fortunately the gentleman with no tongue was a good sport.

Trevor then said, 'Graham, can I have a word with you?'

'Yes, sure,' I said, thinking perhaps of one more interview in the kitchen.

He said, 'No, come in here.'

'Where?' I said.

'The bathroom.'

'All right,' I said, fearing I didn't quite know what. A pretty horrible but a strangely distant fear. I was no longer really afraid; I suppose it's a kind of dull acceptance that if something really fearful is about to happen and is unavoidable then it's unavoidable, so why get excited about it? So I went into the bathroom. There, terrifyingly, predictably, while holding his empty glass close to my throat, twisting it round as though preparatory to plunging it through my carotid artery, he said, 'Graham, tell the truth. Did you have Anna?'

'I've told you, no. I met her twice. Once with the old people, once here tonight for half an hour with the older woman and at the disco, that's all.' The glass twisted round two or three more times. He glared at me. Days passed. He finally saw that I was telling the truth and put the glass down. 'Well, let's have one more drink then we'll be off.'

It seemed as though the ordeal was over. We had a drink

and I went to look out of the bedroom window to see if the cab was still there. It wasn't. The driver wanted no part of the evening's business.... I told them that the cab had gone. Trevor swore a bit and said, 'Don't worry, we'll get home all right.' I told them I'd ring for a cab for them. There was a minicab firm just down the road that I had an account with and they'd be around in five minutes.

'No, no, don't worry about that, Graham.'

'No, it's easy, they know me, no problems.'

'Don't bother, the police will take us....'

'What?'

'The police'll take us.' He smiled.

'Look, I'll ring for a cab.'

'No, Graham,' and he lifted up the receiver and dialled the police station and said, 'Hello, this is 14 Denham Court, fifth floor flat. There's a geezer 'ere runnin' around with a knife. No, no I think you'd better come quicker than that 'cos he's got this other geezer out on the balconv.' Click! The receiver went down. About a minute and a half later the doorbell rang and there at the front door was a uniformed sergeant and two plain clothes detectives. The detectives seemed to recognize Trevor and his friend and walked straight into the flat. I stayed to talk to the uniformed sergeant who'd been told firmly to wait outside. I said to him, 'I don't know who these two men are but, whatever you do, please could you get them out of my flat.'

Meantime the two detectives had joined Trevor in the bathroom where, coincidentally, they were overheard by John who'd gone for a pee in the bog, next door. The gist of the conversation was that Trevor would give the two policemen £250 each, if they would drive him home, which they agreed to. The two detectives left, saying everything was all right and Trevor and his friend left waving a cheery goodbye.

There seemed little point in reporting any of this to the police. Clearly some of them knew already. I accepted the whole deal on Trevor's terms, and have never seen or spoken to Miss Finsbury again. Really, honestly, ]_ haven't!!!...

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Hardrock Cafe

Topless Go-Go. A Scene Of Excremental Trendiness. A Sicilian Vampire. Intra-Muscular Penicillin.

Paul McCartney had just formed a new group called Wings, and they were making their UK debut at the Hardrock Cafe in Piccadilly, an excre-mentally trendy hamburger joint. One of George Melly's ex-wives/girlfriends/ husbands/boyfriends rang and asked if I'd be prepared to compere the evening. 'This sounds interesting/ I thought, ⁴and not too taxing', as all I would have to do would be to announce the other acts filling in before the 'big' moment. I had never met Mr M. but had once sat behind him in a viewing theatre while listening to the music he'd composed for The Magic Christian. Here was an opportunity to meet the front pieces of the said Mr M., while engaged in good works. It was for the benefit of a group called Release, who dealt with the problems of that section of society who could afford to go smoking, shooting and sniffing certain substances. I was all in favour of this, as I've always believed that people should be allowed to do what they want with their bodies. After all, it's all they've got. I agree with the law that it is

wrong for anyone to go round poking other people with sharp pointed sticks,¹ but if someone wants to poke himself with a sharp pointed stick, that's fine by me. They can go and batter themselves to death with huge lumps of poisoned granite for all I care. There is the problem of an over-populated world....

The other point of course is tell someone not to do something and they're bound to want to. When suicide was illegal, it had a certain glamour about it, it was an act against society, against the law. Then someone apparently came to his senses, realized that there was no point in punishing a corpse, and the law was changed. The expected chains of suicide parlours did not spring up. Even the poor attempted suicides no longer found themselves hounded by the police or mentioned in the press, and so lost the attention they were in search of. Less important than a parking offence, suicide was dead.

This is a great shame. As a species, can we really afford not to have people committing suicide? If the law had any global conscience it would surely make suicide punishable by a fate worse than death, to enhance its popularity. In fact now that I've come to my senses on this issue, I realize I was talking nonsense about the abuse of drugs. They should be made more illegal - even aspirin and tea. At present aspirin kills an average of seventy million people each year in Northumberland alone. Imagine if it was made illegal - boy, what a figure! In no time at all we'd have the population of Britain down to two million or so, and be self-sufficient again, and no longer dependent on these wretched Arabs, d'you hear? And if the population fell below the optimal two million mark, sex could always be made illegal for a controlled period of time, till the required number was reached....

I arrived at the Hardrock with Tom, my driver, and John. I was supposed to introduce the guest-groups to a crowd of rich pointless layabouts who were showing how cool they were by taking no notice of anything that surrounded them, including each other.

I have never since met such a concentration of undeservedly rich, immodest, exhibitionist, trendy, conceited,

i. Should they not want to be.

vacuous, mean-minded, illiberal, self important set of microcephalic twits. Neither would I wish to. They regarded themselves as something apart from mere mortals and should have been. Their twittering vapidities reached a noise level several decibels above the pain threshold of a Tyneside ship riveter. One idiotic son of a millionaire watch-salesman, who thought it was hip to spend his father's fortune on releasing Betty X, a convicted mass-murderess and racialist, had thought it amusing to bring his screaming one-year-old daughter to have her ear-drums pierced by famous musicians. I announced the first group. No-one was bothered, so I stood on an even higher box, had the sound turned up, and bellowed at them. Three or four people turned round, and the first set began. I can't remember their names - they were very good, and their loudness completely drowned the screams from the baby. The rest of the room was unaffected, surrounded by a sound-shield of self-importance. One or two of them may have enjoyed the music but were afraid to be seen doing so, in case it wasn't quite cool enough.

The next act was two topless go-go dancers. They were looked on as being uncool by everybody. That annoyed me. While the next group was playing, I overheard the girls talking backstage.

'I was so embarrassed

'So was I. Weren't they awful?'

'It's not that, dear. My son's headmaster was out there, and we've got to go out again - like this. I'm sure he recognized me.'

'I should think he was the only one that did. And if he's seen you once, what's wrong with twice? We've worked for weeks on this act and that snooty lot out there didn't even look. We might as well have had clothes on.'

I was pleased at finding two human beings in the place, and thought they deserved a better chance. Fifteen minutes later, before their next appearance, with a certain amount of shouting and a little pushing, I managed to clear a space on the floor for their act. All was ready and I was about to signal the girls to come out now that they were assured of at least some spectators. A tall, fat, black lady wearing a startling

creation, now made herself apparent,¹ with her huge funnel of a dress in vertical black and white columns of ostrich feathers, complete with a high, arched collar fanning out some feet above her head made from the same pluckings. I had seen her earlier standing in a conspicuous part of the room looking as conspicuous as anything I have ever seen being ignored. Now she was making her final bid to be noticed; she pushed through the artificial cordon I had created and glid hippopotamously across the empty floor towards the bandstand, where she could have had no possible business. I asked her to move back; she continued her unpauntly progress. I asked her again. No response. I then gave her a playful tap with the side of my foot on her ample rump to attract her attention.

At this she spun round and bellowed, 'Get him, Cosmo!' A tiny Italianate creature immediately leapt at my throat with his fingernails. This miniscule fiend had come from nowhere but really knew how to dig his ample nails in. This was such a bizarre method of attack that it was half a second or one before I made any serious attempt to brush him off.

Now the bouncers at the club had been given strict instructions that at the first sign of trouble the person or persons causing it should be ejected. They wanted to make sure there was no trouble, after all it was the first appearance of Wings and, to be fair, looking at the crowd, I think it was a wise precaution. However, they assumed that, as I was twice the size of my assailant, I must have been the aggressor. They hadn't followed the proceedings well enough to recognize that I was in fact the M.C. I was grabbed firmly by two very large gentlemen so that I could no longer use my arms and I was carried outside. They made no attempt to dislodge the persistent Sicilian vampire during this, leaving me to shrug him off at the door. I still don't quite understand why they didn't remove him from my throat as they pushed me into the street. Cosmo was allowed to stay inside, where everyone had started suddenly to look at what was going on. Even the trendiest had cast an odd glance. Those peace-loving cool trend-setters homed in on the violence like Puritans on a knocking-shop.

I. Made herself a parrot? (D.) Apparent. (G.)

- ^pw****"**<**^

4tem

*M

mr

'Get him, Cosmo'

Tom, my driver, who had seen the incident from the bar, rushed out to help. I mopped up some of the blood on my neck with a handkerchief, told them I felt perfectly all right, and was ready to go back inside. I wanted to finish my job, and I wasn't bothered by a few scratches from a silly little man. The bouncers wouldn't let me in. I explained that I was the compere. But they were large gentlemen with tiny brains and hadn't been programmed with this piece of information. I asked to see the Release organizer. They'd never heard of her. I asked to see the manager. ⁴No.' I went through the whole explanation again, and then once more. 'No.' I gave up and was driven home.

The next day the organizer rang up to apologize. I told her I felt fine. It certainly wasn't her fault - you can find madmen in your own living room — and I didn't want to make trouble for her organization. I thought no more about it. Then a few days later large blisters appeared on the right side of my neck, from the jaw to the collar-bone, with the occasional unpleasant scab thrown in. Impetigo, I thought, and dosed myself up with ampicillin - a powerful type of penicillin. After about five days the mess had almost disappeared, but I began to wonder whether Cosmo had deliberately infested his fingernails with bacteria.¹ It's a strange way to attack anybody, though possibly quite common in Naples. A week later the wounds were almost completely healed.

I was glad about that because I was about to start filming a Monty Python television series. Unfortunately I made the mistake of squeezing a small spot above my right eye and very soon I had a very handsome set of blisters and scabs extending over the entire eyelid. The swelling caused a deficiency in the visual department. Thinking, 'Perhaps I'm not a very good doctor, really', I ran off to see the good Doctor Alan Bailey. He poured me a gin and tonic and I felt better already. He said, 'That looks pretty bad, old man,' and suggested large doses of intra-muscular penicillin: that is a syr-ingeful into the bum twice daily. 'Oh shit,' I thought, 'the filming. I can hardly ask Alan to come round at 6 o'clock in the morning and 8 o'clock at night to stab me in the buttocks.' I said I'd do it myself.

I. Streptococcus pyogenes.

At 6 o'clock the next morning I tried to persuade someone else in the flat to do this for me, but there were no takers, so I filled up the syringe, wiped the position of my choice with surgical spirit, and stood in front of a large mirror trying to get a decent view of my rump. I held the syringe poised and thought for a moment about the plunging action about to take place. I put the syringe down carefully, and went and had a large Scotch. I'd given thousands of these injections to other people, and it didn't seem to hurt them. Then I remembered the last time I'd had an injection of penicillin: the sensation of the needle going in was nothing; but the sensation of the penicillin going in was as though I'd been given a present of 2cc of lead in the buttock. I went back to the mirror, looked at my eye and thought, 'Right!' A quick wipe of surgical spirit, then I thrust the needle in quite confidently. Well, it wasn't too bad. I pressed the plunger home. 'O-o-o-o-o-o-oh!' I removed the empty syringe, regained some professional dignity, and said to myself, There, it wasn't as bad as you thought, was it?' 'Yes,' said my right buttock.

The next two or three injections became almost routine. After that, I was beginning to think my right buttock was full, and had to move on to the left. This meant considerable gymnastic contortions.

The penicillin was effective, the impetigo soon threw up the sponge, cringing under the weight of the antibiotic attack. The few remaining penicillin-resistant organisms, if any, died of loneliness. But on the third day of filming we were on location in Ealing. I had run out of disposable syringes, needles and ampoules of sterile water. I waited for a break in the morning's shooting so that I could nip away for a few minutes to a nearby chemist. I had just finished some inane scene dressed as 'Mrs Entity' and there was a brief pause while the cameras were relocated for the 'Colonel' to say something. So it was that I walked into Timothy Whites, the chemist, dressed in carpet slippers, stockings, a print frock complete with false tits, a colonel's jacket, hat and moustache and asked for a supply of needles, syringes and water for injection B.P.C. The ladies behind the dispensing counter eyed me with ill-concealed boggles. The senior assistant pointed out that they could only sell such goods

with proper medical permission. I quickly explained that it was quite all right and told them to look me up in the medical register. This she did and by now the entire staff were peering out from behind the shelves of pharmaceuticals to see the eccentric practitioner walk off with his 'Shooting-up gear!'

This should have been the end of the 'neck incident' but about a month later I received a badly-written letter on solicitor's note-paper claiming damages from me for a lady for 'scratching her chest, causing her severe mental upset and tearing a dress valued at several hundred pounds.' I sent a reply via my solicitor, the gist of which was, 'Piss off

I had plenty of reliable witnesses to the actual events. We heard no more except a 'rumour' that the lady had spent some time in the famous Hotel de la Detention Policiere (Femmes) somewhere in Paris. There'd been some kind of dispute involving 'dud' cheques being passed by the 'gallant duo'....

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A Python Stage Tour

Whammo, Zap, Stark-Raving Mad! The Splendid Unpredictability Of Life.

The tour was going well. A success everywhere. I had pulled in Southampton, Oxford and even Cardiff. I ^had expected Cardiff to be a bit of a:hallenge, but, full of gin and the feeling iperiority over mortals which commonly afflicts the adulated, I had reached my zenith in a naughty and, to this day, illegal act upon the floor of an empty dressing-room. The fact that this romance blossomed from love at first sight right through to mopping up in the ten minutes available between Acts I and II of Monty Python's First Farewell Tour, merely seemed like a good idea at the time, your Honour.... Pressure of work, previously unimpeachable character etc. etc.... Sorry, where was I... merely seemed to add piquancy to the occasion.

However, Sunderland was a toughie - only two entries in the Gay Guide, 'open summer, weekends only'. No point in even trying, I thought, on a Wednesday night in March. And so for the first time I went with the others to eat after the show. But I never felt happy in a place unless I'd scored. This

thought nagged as I drank my way through the meal, and watched the others being interested in eating, chatting with wives and non-wives. I had more to drink, and decided to cross Sunderland off the map. On my way past the reception desk I said, 'Good grief, there's no one to go to bed with... where are all the young men around here? This is absolutely dreadful.' I went to my room and fell drunkenly onto the bed, alone.

I woke up at 5 o'clock in the morning to find the night-porter in bed with me, nude. He wasn't particularly my choice of person, but under the circumstances he was welcome. He had let himself in with a pass key, and, faithful to the hotelier's code, put customer satisfaction first. The satisfaction was mutual and I even found myself wanting to stay in Sunderland, because as things would have it, most of the junior staff apparently had a similar devotion to duty....

After Sunderland we spent the weekend in Dallas, Texas, the birthplace of Python in the States. Odd that our television shows were first screened on the public broadcasting service of a town which was looked upon generally as 'a bit' right wing. We were there to assist in a fund-raising week for that particular TV station and I was there to get laid. This time I got lucky - with a Red Indian. After the glitter of the TV show it was 'Wham! Bam!' 'Straight-Back-To-His-Place', a ten-foot-by-six lean-to with good stereo and curious rats at the back of a garage in a part of town tourists don't get to see. Wonderful!

Back to the Tour of England: we stopped off at Windermere for a night on our way down south from Glasgow. A reporter did an interview with Mike, Eric and myself in my room. We all went out to eat but I got bored with eating: I wanted Sex! Sex! Sex! Walked halfway round Lake Windermere. Lifeless: not a soul. I went back to my room in the hotel to go to bed. There was a knock on my door. It was the interviewer.

He said, 'Sorry to disturb you, I seem to have left my microphone.'

I said, 'I bet you only did that so you could go to bed with me.'

He said, 'Oh all right.'

Whammo! Zap! There was no holding me now. Stark staring raving Mad.

New York was 'Fun City'. How about that time in Raffles' Bar - good-looking Puerto-Rican?... Vrooom! - Straight into the telephone booth with him. We dicli/t give a damn -we were young and in love. For three whole minutes we grappled with each other, but, out of concern for the other patrons of the bar we left the door of the booth open - if we'd closed it the lights would have gone on....

Thirty-five thousand feet up in the air with an Eskimo in the toilet of a Boeing 74¹....

We left Sunderland far behind, and as our Range-Rover sped us on our way to Edinburgh at a cool 120 m.p.h. on the hard shoulder with hazard lights flashing, I handed the bottle of Glenfiddich back to the curiously pallid hitch-hiker, saying, 'I can't understand why nobody else is using this lane,' and marvelled at the splendid unpredictability of life.

In Edinburgh I was very naughty indeed.... Two young.²...

1. STOP! STOP! STOP THIS! Stop it! I've no idea which one of you co-authors wrote this. It is out of place, inaccurate and rather strong. Don't you think we should build up more steadily, from childhood sweethearts via light to heavy petting with girls, thoughts of marriage etc.? You know very well there's not a shred of truth in it; why should we take the risk of offending the vast minority of people who, quite justifiably, take offence at offensive things? (G.) Sorry! (D.)

2. I'm afraid I'm just going to have to stop this chapter. (G.)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

More Touring

The Life OfDr Brian. Heterosexual Groupie-Guzzling. Unguents The Bulging' Major.

Throughout Monty Python's tremendously successful tour of Canada my behaviour was exemplary.¹ I met some delightful people and made many friends, including some local dignitaries, one of whom is pictured over the page²....

Meanwhile a short time warp away the scene changes³ to Monastir, Tunisia, several years later the same century, about teatime. I wander down to the hotel swimming pool, order a Seven-Up, never expecting it to arrive, and lie down in the fierce unrelenting sun next to the nude Brazilian lady with the fierce, unrelenting breasts and write this in a book.

For eight weeks I am playing Brian and the Unit Medical Person. Brian is the central character in the film and is

1. That's much more like it!

2. Excellent. I presume the picture you are showing will be the one of me taken with the Commissioner of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Winnipeg. (G.) You could be right. (D.)

3. Does it? I shall be keeping an eye on this, you know. (G.)

Graham seen here with the Commissioner of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Winnipeg.

involved in almost every scene, but it is the people round him who do the funny things and have the funny things done to them. I am trying to play the Unit Medical Person in much the same way. The first few days in Tunisia had their salt tabletic, Lomotilic and occasionally streptotriaditic moments, but were mostly spent being Brian. Work on the first scene started at 7 a.m. and took twelve hours in direct sunlight (it was 95°F in the shade at 9 a.m.) made hotter by two huge arc lamps directed straight into our faces. Add to

that the fact that this scene was being shot so that it would look as if it were taking place at night, and you have a disorientation and mental and physical torture not permitted in wartime.

I was grateful that for the first few days, rumours that I was medically qualified were treated with mild disbelief, and that I was generally regarded as one of the most unhinged of one of the world's maddest groups. My successes with the little pink tablets, however, were quick to blab and word got round that diarrhoea wasn't caused by the weather, nor was it an essential part of being in Tunisia. I was beginning to think things were a bit dull and was idly thumbing through some common need emergencies to refresh my mind on how to deal with such fasci