Eric Idle has been refreshingly honest about his treatment of fans, admitting that he could be brusque with them — sharp and dismissive — particularly in the early years of fame. It wasn’t cruelty, he’s said, so much as armour: a way of keeping the world at arm’s length when recognition followed him everywhere. Then Robin Williams came along and changed how he saw those encounters altogether.
Idle has often reflected on how Williams made him rethink what a brief meeting actually means. For the celebrity, it’s one interruption among many. For the person asking for a photo or a word, it can be a moment they’ll remember forever. Williams understood that instinctively. Watching him with fans, Idle realised that kindness didn’t require giving everything — just giving something human.
“I used to be really unpleasant.”
“Then Robin Williams taught me that that sort of encounter is very important to people.”
The lesson, Idle explains, wasn’t about lingering or performing. It was about making the moment real. He learned to keep it simple — to introduce himself and ask a name — breaking the awkward barrier between “star” and “fan”.
“So when they come up, I say: ‘I’m Eric, what’s your name?’”
“Then they become a person and see you as a person, too. There’s a human connection, not some stupid, starry thing.”
Their friendship didn’t begin smoothly. Idle and Williams first met in London around 1980 and, by Idle’s own admission, didn’t immediately like one another. It was later, when Williams stayed with Idle in France, that the bond deepened — away from stages and expectations, built on shared humour, quick minds and mutual respect.
Williams’ influence stayed with him. Idle has spoken candidly about how show business often begins with ego, and how empathy has to be learned. Watching Williams with people — his warmth, generosity and attention — reshaped how Idle behaved in public, and how he understood fame itself.
“I think you learn empathy.”
“You start by being an egotistical s*** by going into show business and then you can behave very badly.”
The friendship makes what came later especially painful. In 2014, as Monty Python prepared for their London reunion shows, Idle invited Williams to appear as a surprise guest. Williams declined.
“I don’t want to be onstage.”
At the time, Idle didn’t push the matter. Only later did he recognise it as a warning sign — something quietly wrong. Williams’ death later that year hit him hard, and he expressed his grief in a short blog post, Good Night Robin, thanking his friend for the laughter, the kindness, and the love he gave so freely.
“Good night Robin. Thanks for all the laughs.”
“Forever in your debt.”
Looking back now, Idle’s reflections are simple rather than sentimental. Fame doesn’t excuse bad behaviour, he believes. Williams taught him that a few seconds of kindness could matter more than any joke — and that remembering people are people, not interruptions, is a lesson worth carrying long after the applause fades.
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