Thursday, June 5th, 1975

Cast my vote in the Referendum (the British electorate was asked: Do you think that the United Kingdom should stay in the European Community). I voted ‘Yes’ because I was not in the end convinced that the retention of our full sovereignty and the total freedom to make our own decisions, which was the cornerstone of the Noes’ case, was jeopardised seriously enough by entering the Market. And I feel that the grey men of Brussels are no worse than the grey men of Whitehall anyway

But I didn’t decide on my vote until this morning, when I read the words of one of my favourite gurus, Keith Waterhouse. He would vote ‘Yes’ he thought, but without great enthusiasm for the Referendum or the way its campaign has been conducted, because of the attractions of the European quality of life! And he concludes, ‘I may be naïve in hoping that remaining in Europe will make us more European, but after a thousand years of insularity from which have evolved the bingo parlour, carbonised beer and Crossroads, I am inclined to give it a whirl.’

Footnote: 67 percent said yes. Of the administrative regions, the only rejections were in Shetland and the Western Isles.

I’ve spent so much of my life knowing Terry that it’s very hard to take in that I shall no longer be able to put an arm around him or ask him which of the twenty-seven beers he’s just sampled I should drink, or thank him for the most amazing dish he’s created or watch his indignation when I mention one of the many buzzwords which unfailingly caused him to ignite. “Democracy’ was one. “America” another.

It’s not easy to define what it’s like just being with someone. Memories drift in and out. In the Oxford Revue at the 1964 Edinburgh Festival we performed a version of the Manfred Mann hit ‘5-4-3-2-1’, which we re-christened ‘R-S-P-C-A’. It required the cast to line up on stage in a blackout. The only access was a flight of very steep stairs. Terry was halfway up the stairs when out of the darkness came a loud discordant ear-splitting crash, a moment’s silence, followed by a plaintive high-pitched cry. ‘Oh no! I’ve broke my sodding guitar’.

It wasn’t Johnny Cash, but it was a wonderfully endearing moment.

What else do I remember? Giving blood together – Terry enthusing, “They give you a cup of tea!”. Being asked to be the first to use the newly opened public toilets in Lambeth Walk. Terry and I, bladders at a standstill, as the band played outside, and reporters gathered for our verdict. Queuing up to buy the Sergeant Pepper album and spending the entire working day, when we should have been writing jokes for David Frost, playing it over and over again with forensic delight. The night I had to drive Terry to the local hospital after he’d slashed his finger while shucking oysters. The sight of two Pythons walking in, one with his hand up in the air, so raised the spirits in A and E that the doctors asked if we could come in more regularly.

Terry was a quiet thoughtful man, but once he’d taken refreshment he could become dangerously relaxed. His unscheduled striptease on stage at the Oktoberfest Beer Festival in Munich was later described by Eric, who witnessed it, as one of the most potentially suicidal performances he’d ever seen.

Tunisia 1978. Terry directing The Life Of Brian and playing the hermit at the same time. Discussing camera angles whilst stark naked save for a long grey beard (attached to his genitals by gaffer tape I believe)

After the Meaning Of Life our working lives went off in different directions but we continued to meet up for a beer, or a game of squash, or a meal and we’d chat about our different projects. Terry was unfailingly supportive, but honestly critical too. He had a way of nailing down what was not working and suggesting a way round it. He treated me as if we were still writing together.

Terry was warm, generous and sociable. Always interested in meeting new people and sharing his enthusiasm with them. I’ve made many good friends through Terry and their messages and memories, coming in over the last few days, all conjure up a vision of a good man.

And that’s really it. Terry was a good man.

A bright light will have gone out in many lives with the news of the death of Nancy Jones on the 20th December.

Nancy, born in Detroit and working for Buddha records in New York when I first met her, was one of the great stalwarts of Monty Python. Frustrated by American television’s lack of interest in Python she concentrated on making sure our albums found their way to America, whilst seizing every opportunity to introduce the shows themselves to the American public.

I first encountered her devotion to Python’s work in June 1972 when Terry Jones and myself met up with her on our arrival in San Francisco at the end of our first-ever visit to the States. In 1973 Nancy persuaded most of us to come to California after our not entirely successful Canadian stage tour. She virtually put her job on the line by managing to book us on top shows like Johnny Carson and The Midnight Special, and far from discouraging her, the fact that these appearances were met with complete incomprehension only caused Nancy to re-double her efforts to introduce Python to her homeland.

Her patience was rewarded the next year, when, almost too ecstatic to speak, she called me to say that PBS had taken the shows for America. What followed in the next few weeks was a growing number of similar calls from Nancy as Python swept the college circuit right across the States, becoming a massive cult hit.

Nancy was by now Monty Python’s US Manager. Her music connections and her mixture of charm and dogged persistence was perfect for our predominantly young audience.

When, in 1976, the BBC made a sale of some of the Python shows to ABC television, without our agreement, Nancy it was who encouraged us to follow Terry Jones’s suggestion and mount a legal challenge. She organised lawyers and testified, along with myself and Terry Gilliam, in the Federal Courthouse in New York. We lost the battle, but won the war. On appeal the BBC were found to have acted unlawfully. The US judges ruled that the copyright lay with Python and none of our work could be sold without our permission.

Nancy went on to help the films Holy Grail and Life Of Brian become big successes in much of America.

She was in charge of publicity on Monty Python’s last film, The Meaning Of Life, where she met actor Simon Jones and much to everyone’s surprise and delight they married and a few years later had a son, Tim.

The transatlantic marriage ensured that Nancy visited London regularly, and though Python group work was declining, Nancy was always there, ready to offer her expertise to help and advise both the group and individuals with their projects.

Nancy never lost her ability to mix business with pleasure. She was a party giver and partygoer and the most wonderful friend and companion, funny and sympathetic and outstandingly loyal.

She brightened up, but never dominated a room. She had the gift of listening and caring about people. Python benefitted so much from her quiet, persistent enthusiasm and all those lucky enough to know Nancy benefitted from her warmth, her sense of fun and her wonderfully positive approach to life.

Yes, the light she brought to so many lives will be irreplaceable, but the memories of Nancy will be joyful and unforgettable.

From the heart.

Recovery going well. All good inside my chest. The hard thing now is trying to stick with the surgeon’s advice to take three months off, whilst fighting an unexpected and irresistible urge to get back to work. I limbered up with a breakfast with Zoe Ball, Mel C and the amazing Jack Savoretti band, followed by a quiet rest on Mr. Norton’s sofa with The Rock and Dr Who and Kevin Hart and Harry Styles. And now I see that BBC One has scheduled Worzel Gummidge, in which I play the Green Man, just after Christmas.

So, amazingly, I’m suddenly quite busy. Just don’t tell my surgeon. Happy Christmas y’all!

This 2014 snap of dialogue recording for Terry Jones’ movie Absolutely Everything, offers a rare sighting of one of the most important members of the Monty Python team, our sound genius Andre Jacquemin (arranging the mikes) I first worked with Andre on commercials back in the late 1960’s. I’m still working with him today – recording commentary for the Clangers. He’s been the man behind the desk for so long, and produced such fantastic work, that it’s time for Andre to be unmasked!

Andre Jaquemin’s website and Instagram.