Graham Chapman: an unlikely friendship with a Monty Python star

April 1976. There I was, a fledgling reporter for my university's newspaper, come to see Monty Python live at New York's City Centre. I somehow managed to talk my way backstage hours ahead of showtime, when journalists from more grown-up media such as the New York Times were being kept at bay. I couldn't believe my good fortune as I was led through a maze of dressing rooms and wardrobe areas. Gilliam-esque stage sets met my gaze, as did a sign on a half-opened door that read "Carol Cleveland". I remember peering briefly into the empty room and seeing Ms Cleveland's bra hanging over a chair. Heady stuff.

Introduced by his ward, John Tomiczek, I suddenly found myself in front of Graham Chapman. He greeted me affably and invited me to sit while he prepared for the evening's first skit by zipping himself into a Spanish senorita costume.

In a billowing red dress and smoking a pipe, he asked if I would mind watching the show from the wings. When a break came, he'd be glad to speak to me. Mind? I was waiting for a 16-ton weight to drop on my head.

We met again a few days later for a longer interview at his hotel. He was softly spoken, down to earth, yet incredibly idiosyncratic and, well, Pythonesque. I was dumbstruck when he offered his phone number with the suggestion to "ring us up if you're ever in London". While I had no reason to doubt him, my cynical New York nature couldn't accept that this was real.

That summer, however, I made the first of many trips to the UK. I had the paper with Graham's number in my suitcase. I dialled it several times but, like a nervous suitor, quickly hung up before the line connected. Finally, disgusted with my timidity, I let it ring through – and was promptly invited to visit Graham in Highgate, north London.

I didn't know what I'd expected of a Python's home, but it revealed itself as a large white terraced house. John and Graham introduced me to David Sherlock, Graham's partner, and their dog, Towser. The only thing that belied utter normality was a living room cabinet that had a mannequin's head on one side and her legs and feet on the other.

We chatted about politics and their recent holiday over red wine and homemade moussaka. Then, as the afternoon wound down to evening, I suggested I should take my leave. "You'll never get a train to Surrey at this hour," Graham told me. "You're welcome to stay." I was hesitant. First, Graham had a reputation for past promiscuities; second, I subscribed to the maxim that both houseguests and fish start smelling after a bit. However, with few options available, I remained.

The night passed with me staring up at the dark ceiling. Suddenly a sliver of light infiltrated the room as a lone figure entered. "All right?" Graham asked. My brain processed the question, the unannounced appearance and its possible meaning. Were I asked to give a definition of "awkward", this would certainly be it. "Yes," I answered tentatively. He stood by the side of the bed and we chatted briefly. While I can't recall the exact words spoken, it was in the nature of a gentle query. Fear and naivety gripped me.

I explained about the girl I'd just broken up with in the US and that I was straight, but flattered. "That's absolutely fine," he said, gently patting me on the shoulder and closing the door behind him. This was the unlikely start to a years-long friendship with Graham, David and John. In this time, I saw Graham as diligent writer, movie star, alcoholic, activist and ultimately imperturbable, impenetrable human being.

Soon afterwards, John rang to invite me to Highgate again. It was only after I arrived that he mentioned we were going to John Cleese's house in Notting Hill. Wait, what?! This was to be a writing session for the Pythons' upcoming film, The Life of Brian.

Although I would not witness the process directly, I was warmly greeted by Cleese. I recall he had a large library and a cat that miaowed excessively. When I mentioned this , he told me he was planning on having its voice box unfastened so it would not be so annoying, and gave me a wicked smile.

Graham's pipe was ubiquitous, as was his gin. His struggle with alcoholism was a well-documented calamity. But he was always functional, even though he was reportedly consuming as many as four pints of gin a day. The only sign I noticed was his tendency to become extremely quiet. Most of the time, that is. We made many trips to The Angel pub up the road. Once, after ordering the usual "gin, slimline tonic, ice, no lemon", Graham sat nearly motionless for 15 minutes, then let out a shriek that caused everyone to turn their heads. A moment later, he was back to normal.

Graham eventually kicked his alcoholism, but he never abandoned the pipe. It was a habit he had picked up in Cambridge. Of all the reported excesses, it was to be his undoing. I once asked Graham why he chose to parody so many authoritative figures, especially doctors. "Because they don't know their fucking business."

Once I returned to the US we fell out of touch. I heard he was ill with throat cancer and, ironically, under doctor's care. He passed away very quickly in 1989, at the age of 48. Tragically, the recently engaged Tomiczek followed him after a heart attack three years later.

Although my time knowing Graham was brief, he had a profound impact on my life as I became a writer and comedian. He was a kind, decent, curious and exquisitely talented man, this most Pythonesque of the Pythons. I remember seeing a note in his office, written in his hand: "When I get upset I have a tendency to bite scaffolding, which is bad as I've already had three teeth capped this week."