No, sir, I reek of perfume because I’m about to become an ex-virgin

IN July 1964, we flew to New Zealand, where it was the mid-winter of 1922. Our first hotel was a good indication of what was to come. It was modelled closely on Norman Bates’s motel in Psycho.

Cleese on a tour of New Zealand with, among others, Bill Oddie, front right, and Jo Kendall, in white behind Oddie.

IN July 1964, we flew to New Zealand, where it was the mid-winter of 1922. Our first hotel was a good indication of what was to come. It was modelled closely on Norman Bates’s motel in Psycho.

We soon discovered that the country was completely clueless. Bill Oddie walked into an ice-cream parlour and ordered a banana split.

The chef took a banana, peeled it, split it in half and presented it to him. Graham Chapman caused consternation by ordering a “three-egg omelette”.

“A three-egg omelette?” “Yes,” said Graham, “a three-egg omelette. Made with three eggs ...” He received a large omelette with three fried eggs on the top.

So relaxed did I become that I made an important breakthrough: I started to feel comfortable in the company of women.

Up until now I had faced a seemingly insuperable hurdle: the feeling that, when I was on my own with a person of the same sex as my mother, I had to put on some sort of act.

I had no clear idea of what the act needed to be, just a deep intuition that there was some mental button that, if I could ever find and press it, would shove me into a more male persona.

But in the six weeks that I travelled around New Zealand in the company of Jo Kendall — a member of the cast who was fun, relaxed, and probably the first young woman with whom I felt (almost) at ease — I underwent a sea-change.

I am not for a moment hinting at a romance with Jo; it was just that the experience of being around a cheerful, chatty, undramatic friend-who-happened-to-be-a-girl nudged me in the direction of being a little more “myself”.

And a few weeks later I was presented with the surprising offer of a chance to lose my virginity.

The New Zealand girls were a wholesome and cheery bunch and I must have been losing my stiffness and rigidity (I speak metaphorically) because in Christchurch I met a girl — we’ll call her Ann — with whom I felt really relaxed and who thought me hilarious.

She found my impersonation of a mouse the funniest thing she had ever seen. We enjoyed a couple of evenings of entirely lust-free meetings, and off I flew to Auckland for the last stage of the tour.

I was embarrassed that I still was unable to drive a car, so to fill my afternoons usefully, I arranged some driving lessons, but then received a phone call from Ann, making it quite clear that she was coming to Auckland the next day, and would be staying with me at the hotel.

The message was unequivocal, even to dopey old me. Intimacy would be taking place.

The next day, trying to anticipate what normal human beings did when faced with romantic encounters, I decided that apart from flowers in the hotel room, I should buy Ann some scent, to create the right atmosphere.

So I visited the perfume department of the local store, but found it difficult to find a scent that I liked, which meant that it took me some time before I could hurry off to my driving lesson.

Arriving late, I was shown into the driving seat; the instructor sat next to me, and started introducing himself; and then he froze, snatched his hand back, flattened himself against the passenger door, stared with a look of horror straight out of the windscreen, and went white.

I looked at him and saw fear. I explained that I was not a complete beginner. He nodded but would not look at me.

I put my hand out for the keys, but this caused him to bang his forehead on the visor.

Did he think I was an escaped psychopath? Then I noticed he was covertly opening a window and I finally got it.

He’d read about actors — worse, English actors — and I smelt like a direct hit on a perfumery. This so-called “driving lesson” was clearly a prelude to something much more intimate — an act so alien to New Zealand culture that it was probably punishable by ritual disembowelment during half-time in a rugby match.

I immediately started talking about my “girlfriend” who was arriving that afternoon, and how I was thinking of proposing marriage, but it was to no avail.

A travesty of a driving lesson now took place, as I jerked the car around, stalling it at 10-second intervals, and then just got out, apologised and walked away ...

After that, the evening was a relative anticlimax, thank God.

Ann and I had a few drinks, went upstairs, and she made it easy for me, bless her. I had no idea how to please her, but she seemed perfectly happy, and there was affection, and she only asked me to do my mouse impersonation twice.

This took place at the Station Hotel, Auckland, mid-winter, 1964, and I was nearly 25 years old.

When I was in New Zealand in 2006, I met Ann again, and I was pleased and proud that such a lovely and kind woman had been my first love. Thank you, Ann.

Buy So, Anyway ... by John Cleese for the special price of $26 including delivery. Order online at heraldsun.com.au/shop, call 1300 306 107 from 10am Monday or post a cheque to Book Offers: P.O. Box 14730 Melbourne Vic 8001. allow 14 days for delivery.

Originally published as No, sir, I reek of perfume because I’m about to become an ex-virgin