‘Jesus Terence you’re not threatening to leave the show and threatening to fucking well close us down again.’
‘Never never me dear darling boy. Wouldn’t dream of it. Not even for the likes of the biggest salary in the biggest musical of all time and Binky Sunningdale who would think he had me signed up. Here let me put me arm around you. And Hollywood can go and fuck itself as it has been doing in its multitude of contortions down through the ages. How would I ever dream of deserting the brilliant likes of you with whom I have such civilized intellectual rapport. Sure just let’s settle on a certain percent of the gross.’
‘Holy shit Terence no gross, net profit maybe.’
‘Ah the word gross has a nice agricultural sound to it. Like golden wheat ripening in the field.’
‘Wheat growing doesn’t make a sound Terence.’
‘Ah it does, it does me boyo, like heavenly harps, once heard never forgotten. But drink up. And fill you up again. Women are there to be fucked and only fear keeps them faithful. We have to break hearts me boyo. And get our own broken in return. But why should we take shit from any woman or any man.’
‘Amen Terence. Amen. And holy fuck you’re as profound as you are incorrigible.’
‘Sure let me render you a little of Mother McCrea and a bit of O Danny Boy when the pipes were fucking calling him from West Hampstead to Camden Town. Ah but the sophisticated likes of you now I’m sure would prefer a bit of Puccini. And so here we go, from La Boheme.’
Magillacurdy jumping up on the dressing table, his bottle of whiskey swinging and smashing a light bulb as arms outstretched he takes in a lungful of air. His mellow resonant tenor voice rattling the window panes. Till the tannoy was announcing five minutes to curtain and an hysterical stage manager was pounding on the door.
‘Jesus Terence, the curtain’s going up for Christ’s sake and you’re not even in costume.’
Out in the hallway a grinning Magillacurdy with his hand and arm contorted behind his head, pulling his own head away around the door frame. Magillacurdy goosing his waiting dressing lady jumping for safety with a giggling squeal.
‘Now there’s a pair of rear cheeks for you me boyo on this lass and never mind me costume. Naked tonight. No costume on Magillacurdy me dear darling boy. Naked. Give them an ancient Gaelic treat.’ ‘Jesus christ Terence put on your fucking costume, you’re going to get the Lord Chamberlain to close us down.’
‘I tumesce as I sing me new song me boyo, called As Nature Did Intend.’
‘Holy shit, sounds familiar but that’s a fucking good title.’
‘Ah me boyo give me death or publicity for by god for a long time previous did I cower in ignominious obscurity. But I knew that together with our big pricks distended and your testicles in a sling and with our copyrights under our arms we could ascend into orbit together. And sure wouldn’t it be appropriate if I took with me that little extra percentage of the gross.’
The dressing room door closing. Magillacurdy singing away down the hall. Urgent calls of his name coming over the tannoy. Schultz taking another swallow of whiskey and opening a pink and perfumed envelope.
Dear old Siggy or is it Ziggy,
I hope you remember me and forgive me if I’m getting in touch too soon. Me and my girlfriend were watching when you drove away that day in that big fantastic car. Is that really yours. Pardon the question. But actually I really would like to see you soon. I haven’t got your address nor has my father the tax collector, ha ha. (That’s a joke just in case you’re worried that I forgot you were Sigmund Sunningdale in the lingerie trade.) So I am hoping that this reaches you at the theatre.
Yours faithfully and truly your old cocksucking friend Cynth.
P.S. One of my previous boyfriends (22 years old) who once was an electrician but short circuited too many people’s houses, once worked at the theatre. How do you like that for a coincidence. Plus pops I’m looking forward to you giving me a little more of what you’ve got big boy.
P.P.S And hey pops. Wow are you in the headlines. I really like well known people. I think they are real dinky. And hey I can’t wait till you push my belly button and ring my bell of love.
And bellies, buttons and bells and a postscript to you too kid. And I may just go and ring that bell. And give you what you’re ready to take. Holy jeez Rabbi. Advice. Advice. Here I am shaken to the spiritual core in Scotland, now back suddenly in London reality. Trying to cut down on the coincidences in my life. Louella giving me the cold shoulder and still all I want to do is fuck her. And now there’s suddenly more women to choose from than I can shake my prick at. It’s now for a change, who am I going to reject. And send tearfully away. I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings. But being utterly fair to everybody isn’t exactly what I do best. Rabbi maybe I’m heartily sorry for what I’ve done to women but I am more heartily sorry for what they’ve done to me. As sure as my momma gave me matzos, Cynthia’s got beautiful legs, belly and tits but she’s being so fucking indiscreet that it’s stopping my heart in its tracks. This letter could have fallen into the hands of my wife’s lawyers who are trying to get every corroborating letter from every girl I ever threw a corroborating fuck into. They’re even dying to get documentary evidence I grimaced and stuck my tongue out and to photostat it fifty times and circulate it to my mother, father, the principal of my high school, and who knows, even the president of the half assed college I went to. Christ every newspaper editor in London has his tongue hanging out in his eagerness to expose my guts spilling in the street, so it could end me up being in the holocaust, the inquisition and all the pogroms that ever happened all put together. And then surrounded by my Arab Semitic brethren standing with spears ready to all shove them up my ass at once. Plus Cynthia, your fucking previous boyfriend electrician must still be working at the theatre by the way some of the fucking stage lights are still fucked up. Anyway jesus, I can’t complain a trip to the hospital plus a quick detour to Scotland has brought me a lot of new contacts. And one unforgettable, one, extraordinary not ordinary. O jesus what am I doing. Teetering on the brink again of true love. And now I hope it’s not with someone who’s multi orgasmic with multi guys and maybe with fucking multi microbes she could be giving me and I should need such terror and horror to rip me asunder in my prime. Maybe I could take it in my declining years when I’m already walking wobbly kneed towards the embrace of death. Like my parents who in their struggles even made my own shoes when other kids bought theirs new and shiny in the store while my father with my shoes, to save on leather always made them too tight. He said Sigmund, nothing you wear should you ever buy even wholesale. And now the lawyers of the fucking woman I made the mistake of marrying are accusing me of owning a dozen different companies I’ve set up everywhere from the Isle of Man to Switzerland in order to keep their clutches off my money. Which you greedy grasping fuckers is exactly what I’ve done. And you can scream all you want but you can do fuck all about it. And now at least for a while buying out Binky I can show them I’m a quarter of a million pounds in debt. Holy Rabbi, how do I just survive and move that big black cloud out of my life and get to become a bachelor in one piece again so that I can savour the prime time of my existence which is just dawning. Sigmund, no problem. Do like I told you before, and if I didn’t tell you. I should have. Just keep your prick in your pants. And for relief just pull.
Schultz sitting back on the green upholstered couch catching sight of another postscript on the back of Cynthia’s envelope. Holy shit, more unadulterated indiscretion. In big capital letters she’s asking when big boy are you coming back to have your stitches out. And can I watch. And now christ somebody else has found out where I am and knocking on the door.
‘Yeah who is it.’
‘It’s urgent sir. I’m the assistant stage manager. Robert.’
‘Well what the fuck is it. Bob. Open the door.’
‘I’m sorry sir to disturb you like this. But members of the Royal Family and a party of friends have just been r
eceived by the manager Mr Valentine in front of house.’
‘So invite them in. Bob.’
‘But sir, we were only alerted to their arrival ten minutes ago. And there’s a boy who with your permission is up in the royal box occupying the royal retiring room, and there’s not a seat free in the house. And Mr Valentine the manager wants you to have him vacate.’
‘Holy shit. Like hell that kid’s vacating. Nobody but nobody not even members of the Royal Family are going to move that kid.’
‘O my god sir, confidentially this is terrible, terrible.’
‘So what’s confidential and what’s terrible. It’s not like it’s the Queen. Get chairs, Bob. Put pillows on them. Here are fucking cushions and chairs in here. The seamstress can quick sew on some gold braid. Put the blue bloods sitting in the standing room back of the stalls.’ ‘Sir that’s strictly against fire regulations. And Mr Valentine has already asked the boy to leave. And the trouble is, the boy’s crying.’ ‘He what.’
Schultz jumping up from the couch, rushing out into the hall and through a steel fire door to the stage. Running behind the scenery backdrop. Dust up the nose from all the dancing feet. And this way out another steel fire door, in and out passage ways and up a narrow stair through another steel door, and down and up another set of stairs. Holy christ they must be at least really getting better, I forgot all about my balls.
Schultz stopping. Suddenly looking up. In the faint glow of lights, the manager Valentine standing at the top of the landing.
‘O there you are Mr Schultz. I was just on my way to find you. I heard you were backstage.’
‘I’m backstage all right.’
‘You’re invited by His Royal Highness to have a drink with the royal party at intermission. And I’ve put that boy out.’
‘You what.’
‘Out. I’ve put him out.’
‘I’ll break your fucking ass.’
‘I beg your pardon. How dare you threaten and use that language to me.’
‘You bet I’ll use it. You put that boy back in.’
‘I will not, ducky. The royal box and royal retiring room are reserved for members of the Royal Family at all times without prior notice and as you are only a lessee of this theatre you are not entitled to pre empt their prerogative.’
‘Get fuck out of my way. I’ll show you who’s a lessee and who the fuck is entitled. And who you can pre empt.’
‘Look ducky, I’ve already had my fill of that big Irish lout of yours Magillacurdy pissing on the footlights, don’t you come another inch closer. And your private life has already publicly scandalized this theatre, which till you came along had an illustrious history. You ducky are a flash in the pan. And an American interloper who doesn’t understand what he’s doing. And I’m certainly not getting out of your way to have members of the Royal Family inconvenienced and caused embarrassment by someone who thinks he’s somebody because he’s keeping a harem in Belgravia.’
The bow tied manager holding his arms out across the narrow stairway and pressing his large stomach forward. Schultz climbing up a step and raising his fist.
‘Don’t you dare put your hands on me ducky.’
‘You fucking well get out of the way or I’ll knock your teeth down into your pansy socks you fucking imbecile.’
Schultz advancing another step. The manager backing up the narrow stairs to the landing at the top. The pounding sound of the chorus tap dancing on stage. A burst of applause from the audience.
‘I’m getting one of the royal detectives to deal with you ducky and you’ll find yourself with a ball and chain around your neck in the Tower of London near where your conspicuous wife had occasion to jump. And no wonder. You’re nothing but an upstart Jew.’
Schultz leaping the last step to the landing. Unleashing a straight right fist plunging between the manager’s upraised hands and landing smack mid nose. The theatre manager reeling backwards grabbing out at the walls as he falls. The loud clang of the fire alarm bell suddenly ringing out. The orchestra stopping mid phase, and the dancing chorus in mid tap. Voices raised all over the theatre. In the audience screams. A bomb. Terrorists. Another voice from on stage shouting out. Calm please. There’s no danger. No terrorists. The exits are clearly marked. Take your time. Walk don’t push. Magillacurdy’s singing and shouting voice rising above all.
‘Let the peerage go first and let the middle classes go second. And let the working classes stay and keep the home fires burning.’
The pavement jammed outside the theatre. People packed on the balcony above. In the drizzle of rain the audience standing shivering, their programmes clutched in hand. Men in evening jackets and ladies in backless gowns. Understudies, wardrobe mistresses, stage hands and a half nude chorus and cast pouring out into the street from the stage door alley. The wail of sirens out across London and the sound of approaching fire apparatus. Schultz’s car moving forward at the behest of a beckoning policeman. The royal party climbing into their waiting limousines with their blue lights lit above the windscreen, quickly pulling away down the street towards the square celebrating the previous battle of Trafalgar. And holy shit are you by any fucking chance Rabbi listening to this. I should have stayed up in the windswept chilly wilderness of Scotland. Because any second now some of these bastards are going to ask for their money back.
And like
My fat cousin Saul
I’m not
Giving it
18
An assistant stage manager shining the brass plate with Terence Magillacurdy’s name on his dressing suite door. Inside corks popping, the room jammed and awash with champagne, whiskey and beer. Hooray revellers in evening dress, surround Magillacurdy in his jock strap. Ladies hugging and gentlemen patting him on the back. Magillacurdy squeezing tits and pinching bottoms.
‘No vegetable living or fruit alive was ever as tender and delicious as the flora and fauna we’ve got here at our fingertips tonight.’
Eruptions of laughter. Debutante squeals and screams of delight. Naked understudies clutching underclothing. Chorus of dancers in off the stage still dripping sweat. Two newspaper reporters with pencils scribbling across their pads. Magillacurdy with the boy from the royal box and retiring room propped up sitting amid vases of flowers on his dressing table. Schultz standing in the doorway. Magillacurdy raising a fist and shouting over the heads.
‘Make way, make way for the genius of the hour. There he is ladies and gentlemen. The man who makes all this pandemonium possible. The one and only. Maybe even the only one. With his balls in a sling. Part the sea of humanity to let him pass. Let him brush between the arses of these prima ballerinas and into me arms for a hug. Ah it’s been a great night. No bomb will ever stop this show in its tracks. Your little friend here reinstalled in his singular glory in the grandeur of the royal box and retiring room. Sending royalty off home. Ah me boyo what a great old bomb scare it was. And Mr Valentine is nursing a sore nose and saying he is consulting his solicitors. Ah but other than for that mournful reflection, you with your harem in Belgravia do seem still this evening full of piss and vinegar. Smile me boyo, smile. Wipe that look of alarmed pessimism off your face. Except for that mister smooth smart arse little bald director who just walked in behind you as if he owned the place and that poofta he has in tow, there’s nothing to be pessimistic about. Now I told you what the best sound in the world is, now let me tell you what the worst is. It’s the sound of the dismantling and breaking up of a stage set paid for by somebody else’s money, and in front of which you have wrung your guts, emotions, and heart dry, night after night, and then, and before your ears and eyes are averted, the fucking thing is torn to bits.’
Magillacurdy handing Schultz a glass of champagne and throwing an arm around his shoulder and nuzzling his nose in Schultz’s long black curls.
‘Now I haven’t slept a wink for two days, on a bottle of whiskey a day but how about the two of us out to a topless nightclub, for some aberrant behaviour me boyo. Where
we can tell the bishops and members of the foreign office and admiralty with their heads under the tables up between the ladies’ legs to bugger off and leave us brazen bulls to fuck the women and have champagne for the likes of us served free of charge.’
‘Terence go home for Christ’s sake and get some sleep. But you were great tonight. With an utter genius and brilliance.’
‘Ah me boyo your flattery does not go amiss but you didn’t think I had it in me did you. Ah I’ll show you now where it comes from. Off with me jockstrap and never mind my big prick but take a look at me massive balls. Hollywood is negotiating with me to make a film of my life and these testicles will feature in a single frame close up.’
Schultz leading the little boy away from Magillacurdy’s back stage performance and out to Jorricks to be chauffeured home to Croydon. Schultz catching a taxi in front of the theatre. Pigeons pecking awake and roosting asleep all over Trafalgar Square. Down the Mall. Lights on in Buckingham Palace. Past the shadowy looming trees of Green Park. Up Park Lane. Towards Tyburnia. And all the centuries of execution, hanging, drawing and quartering. And let me tell you in show biz London that hasn’t changed. There’s the fish shop. And all the lobster and lemon sole consumed out of there. And something I never noticed before on the sign. As well as game and poultry they also sell ice. And O jesus there’s still lights on up there in the tower, one on in a bedroom, one on in Al’s big reception room. Dare I go up there. Unannounced. I got to. The fucking pain is even greater now of loving her after I’ve just fucked someone else. Correct that. No. Maybe not as great.