‘We were never together.’
‘But we made love. Doesn’t that mean something.’
‘Why should it.’
‘Why should it. Don’t you know why. Hey christ. Look would it help if I told you Jorricks is taking me to Farm Street Church and I was putting fifty quid in the till and lit a couple of dozen of them Catholic candles for the memory of Al’s soul. Sorry Jesus. I mean, I swear I mean Al’s recovery honey. My words are mixed up. Three deals coming out of New York are bouncing around in my brain. Honey for Christ’s sake have mercy on me too, the way you do on Ah’
‘Al is dying.’
‘So am I honey.’
‘You’re not listening to me. He’s not expected to survive the night. Your partner Binky just rang me.’
‘That interfering bastard. How would he know.’
‘He was at the hospital. And if you don’t have the good manners not to start picking over Al’s bones before he is even dead I don’t want to hear of or even speak to you again.’
‘O jesus. Let me call you later. This is all such a fucking misunderstanding honey. And look, you know my number home. And if I’m not there I’m at the Dorchester Hotel. To reach me all you do is ask to speak to Mr Jeremiah Kelly. It’s the code. Tomorrow the code name is Mr Hans Arafat. And I swear. I really do. Right in this snowstorm. Where traffic’s crawling at the moment, that I’m heading to Farm Street. Jorricks, Farm Street, please. Now you just heard me. We’re on the bridge now crossing the Serpentine in the Park and we’re taking the next turning left to go to the church.’
‘Where you go is entirely your own business.’
‘O jesus don’t do this to me. Come on.’
‘Please don’t whine and beg.’
‘I’m not begging. Whining a little maybe. OK. Ring you later. After I’ve been to the church. Which will give you an idea of how sincere I am. Goodbye.’
Through the churning snow the limousine cruising slowly eastwards past the whitening stretches of the Park. The shadowy tree branches bending their snow laden boughs. Up Park Lane and across in front of the tiny garden and fish pond in front of the Dorchester Hotel. Christ that building rising white and resolute like the prow of a ship has saved me many a time in a storm. Jesus, what happens to all the little goldfish in that pond this weather. Flick on the lamp. This is such a sudden relief to just sit and read the papers. Always good gossip stuff in this Londoner’s Diary. Written with a certain flair. Holy jeez. What the fucking hell is this.
MOST EXPENSIVE MUSICAL EVER
This awed reporter finally cornered the elusive heir to two of Britain’s larger fortunes, Binky Sunningdale, the Eton and Oxford educated legendary figure of recent show biz fame and the only son of the fabled beauty Lady Otto-line. Finding him comfortably luxuriating in his elegant West End suite of offices, where lunch was lavishly served by Mr Sunningdale’s private chef, Mario, I ventured to ask Mr Sunningdale, producer of London’s biggest current smash hit ‘Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot’, which some critics advised to ‘Miss It, Don’t See It, It’s Too Awful’, how it was that he is now launching what is thought to be the most lavishly expensive and star-studded musical ever to be seen in London, dwarfing even his present show. The blondly handsome Mr Sunningdale, as he blew his cool cigar rings over one’s head and commented upon my grandmother’s real pearls, upon which it appears Mr Sunningdale’s attention endlessly lingered, enlightened one immediately. ‘Of course, my dear, with the public so much behind us and clamouring for seats to our present little effort, we are rather planning something new and entirely different, in financial if not aesthetic terms so to speak.’
Regaling this reporter for more than a pleasant hour on antique theatrical posters, and serving some of the most exquisite wines with pheasant and judging by the charming Mr Sunningdale’s past performances as a producer, one was enchanted and assured that we can only sit now on the very edge of our seats with eager anticipation for the new delights this unapologetically upper-crust gentleman has in store for us. I for one will be there on opening night, wearing my real pearls and hoping again to catch sight of and have a further few amusing words with the elusive Mr Sunningdale.
______________________
‘Holy jesus christ that fucking son of a bitch, who the fuck does he think he is giving himself credit for my fucking production he tried to close. And thinking he can now go and do this without a word to me.’ ‘Is everything all right back there Mr Schultz.’
‘No everything is wrong. Let’s just get to the church.’
The limousine pulling up to park in Farm Street. Past a pub and in front of this ecclesiastic building. Schultz limping up the steps. Pushing in through the two swing doors into the solemn candlelit darkness. Jesus this nice quiet little street here in the middle of Mayfair. And my stomach has to be churning in anger. I don’t believe in this Catholic shit. But I need somewhere to pray. That that fucking Binky is put in his place. And Al goes burning up in ashes at the crematorium. But jesus holy mackerel, this place in here is beautiful. Peaceful. God. Christ. Voices singing. An organ playing. What the hell do these Catholics do. I guess go kneel down. These voices are fantastic. Listen to that tenor and that bass and the choir back up. Nobody must be paying them that much to be singing here in a church with nothing but a priest, a couple of kids on the altar and few old people hanging around in the place. I could put this on in the West End. Design a bigger altar. With a big back lit backdrop which could be heaven. Jazz the music up a little with a few risque lyrics, put a little nudity around the edges, and shit, pack ’em in. Next time I get any shit from any singer in the cast they’re going to get fired and replaced by these gems here.
In front of the votive display of candles Schultz taking out a roll of bills and counting off five ten pound notes. Reaching to stuff the folded bills in the slit of the brass receptacle. Suddenly stopping. Hey christ this is fifty quid. What am I doing, taking and putting in five tens. When I could put in five singles. Who’s to know the difference. It’s the gesture that counts. Plus how’s God to know.
Schultz taking twelve candles and lighting each with a taper. Stick them here to burn. I guess five quid is a small token to pay to see the end of Al. Although jesus I’d stuff in a hundred as an offering if I really knew it would mean the last that I’d ever see of that old fart. O christ I guess it’s too sad. All those flaming candles. Jesus and I guess if the truth were to be known I’m going to kind of miss the son of a bitch. All the fucking enjoyable conversations we used to have on the phone. And some not so fucking enjoyable. Goodbye Al. It was nice knowing you. But a fucking lot nicer fucking your girlfriend. O christ my mind keeps putting words into my mouth that I don’t mean. Even though I mean them. ‘Excuse me, Mr Schultz, New York is again on the line.’
In the last pew of the church on a side aisle Jorricks tapping the shoulder of a kneeling head bowed Schultz. Schultz turning to look up. Tears in his eyes.
‘O Mr Schultz I am sorry to disturb you like this. But I thought you might want to take this call. A gentleman Mr Jewels on the line said he wasn’t going to phone back again.’
‘OK Jorricks I’m coming. In a second. Tell them to hang on.’ Schultz standing by the pew. Turning in the shadowy light. Sniffing the smoke of incense. A lady dipping her fingers in a font and blessing herself. Touches her forehead breast and shoulders in turn. Christ I’m doing the same. And see what this hocus pocus does for me. Now that I find I’m surrounded by a lot of fucking betraying enemies again in the form of one guy called Binky Sunningdale. Getting up and assuming all the credit. And my motto is. Don’t let anyone go through the revolving doors of life in front of you. And if it’s ever a matter of eating humble pie, I’ll eat it if it’s there but not if some fucking bastard is shoving it in front of me.
Schultz stepping down the church steps. Holding the car door open, Jorricks with an umbrella, the big snowflakes making white spots on the black silk. Schultz lowering himself on the soft upholstery and pi
cking up the phone.
‘Hello. Schultz here.’
‘Joe Jewels here. Hi ya kid. Well well. Tracking you down is getting to be difficult. Someone said you were in a church. Must be a misunderstanding. Anyway I won’t beat around the bush. One hundred and thirty five thousand. Half up front on signature. Half on the opening night. You listening.’
‘Yeah I’m listening.’
‘Well you heard me.’
‘Yeah I heard you.’
‘Well is it a deal.’
‘I got two more bids to hear from.’
‘I just withdrew mine kid.’
‘OK goodbye.’
‘Hey wait a minute kid. I’ve been at the top of this business twenty five years. What the hell’s wrong with you. You know how much one hundred and thirty five thousand dollars is. Plus two and a half percent of the Broadway gross. Plus equal billing. Plus mutual artistic approval. Plus round trip first class expenses to New York.’
‘I know. I just said I have two more bids to hear from. You could have bought this show when it opened for a tenth of the price. What are you bellyaching about now.’
‘If you call these kind of terms I’m giving you bellyaching.’
‘You’re giving me. You’re giving me a competing bid that’s what you’re giving me.’
‘OK I tell you what I’ll do kid. One five O. That’s final.’
‘Hey Mr Jewels keep your toupee on. Nothing’s final.’
‘Hey you ought to talk to Al. You tell him what you’re doing. Turning down a record sum of money against a record cut of the take.’ ‘Al’s dying. He could be dead right now.’
‘Is that right. Well Al always was a success at whatever he attempted. And if he’s doing that now he won’t fail. Give him my regards from Broadway when you see him will you. I’m adding five thousand. Not a cent more. One five five.’
‘Three percent of the gross.’
‘Hey what the hell are you out of your mind kid. Three percent is what I pay the director the choreographer, the designer combined.’ ‘Three percent of the gross.’
‘Jesus kid nobody this side of Jerusalem will give you three percent of the gross, not even for the world rights to the last supper and crucifixion.’
‘Three percent.’
‘OK kid, three.’
‘Plus I want.’
‘Stop, stop kid. Hey hasn’t five flops in a row taught you anything. Now you got one temporary hit.’
‘This hit is permanent. And it was three flops in a row.’
‘OK three, you sound proud of it kid. But you know, let me tell you something. Greed is a necessary evil in all of us. But greed is a mean spirited characteristic in a human being that can crush somebody else’s heartfelt generous optimism in the future. And your greed could break this show. And I wouldn’t wait two seconds after it lost two nickels to close it down if it starts losing money. But let me tell you something else. There is nobody on Broadway who would do more than I would to make a success of a show. I’ll get up and wag my own prick at the audience and get arrested for it and get thrown into prison. Just to make publicity to make the fucking show go.’
‘OK Joe. OK give me a day to think about it.’
‘You have five seconds to think about it kid and this time I’m not kidding when this phone goes down.’
‘Hey don’t try to put a gun to my head.’
‘Kid, I’m just putting numbers in your ear. And I’m counting five seconds. So listen. One. Two.’
‘Joe I got other bids coming.’
‘Well you take them then kid. There are other shows I can buy cheaper and pay somebody one and a half percent of the gross and maybe make even bigger hits out of them. So I’m counting. Three. Four. Because when I say five. This bid you don’t have no more.’ ‘It’s a deal.’
‘Jesus kid. Who taught you this kind of cliff hanging ruthless tactics.’ ‘People like you Joe. That’s who taught me.’
‘I’m a romantic kid. Stage struck. That’s why I let you get away with this. What do you want all this money for. This deal is a disgrace to the whole industry. And they better never hear about it. My lawyers will have the papers on the plane to London tonight. Goodbye.’
Schultz’s stately black gleaming limousine passing slowly round the ancient soaring plane trees of Berkeley Square. The snow swirling in bigger flakes. Never can forget that the roots of these trees are down deep nourished all these years by victims of the bubonic plague. Christ we survive and build on catastrophe. All you got to do is keep on fighting and never give up. At last for sure I’m sitting on top of a real smasheroo hit spreading its tentacles across the globe. The only fucking Englishman in the ointment is Binky. Imagine such words, the unapologetically upper crust Mr Sunningdale. So upper crust he’s got silver spoons rattling out his ass. Mustn’t jump to conclusions, these trumped up interviews always usually amount to a load of shit. And that avaricious bastard Jewels. Didn’t even notice I said Al was dying. Jesus, maybe he did. And he’s going to feature the event on Broadway. The Resurrection. Al Duke Goes To Heaven. One thing I know, never trust anybody or anything in show biz. But at least now in the last five minutes and right at the number five, Joe Jewels capitulated. Five could now be my lucky number. Five quid in the church box for candles. Pity for the sake of this number my full hard on is six inches long. But it’s just exactly that extra inch that women fall in love with. Pricilla before we got married used to measure it seven inches from the hilt, but it was cheating. Christ marriage and they suddenly start thinking they got a fucking work horse butler under their thumb who polishes the princess throne they sit on. And bottles their farts for posterity. Jesus I’m going to become a Catholic. Come out of that church and five minutes later there’s one hundred and fifty five thousand dollars comes clanking into the till. Holy shit I don’t want to be superstitious which I fucking already am but maybe I should go back and put the fifty I originally promised in the offering box. Jesus, I guess it’s a form of lying like one does saying all the beautiful things you say to women in a cold fuck when you don’t believe a word of it and are ready to put on your pants and leave in five minutes.
‘Hey take us home first Jorricks. I got to get a couple of contracts I got to look at.’
The limousine heading around Hyde Park Corner. Jesus thank god Al’s not in St George’s hospital here where he’d be so near I could hear him croaking out his last. In that arch there they got hidden a police station. I know. One evening strolling home from the theatre I innocently pissed on the lawn and a dozen bobbies waving truncheons jumped out to arrest me for indecent exposure. Adding yet one more time my prick nearly got me into trouble, only this time, for the first time it was flaccid. Told each of the bobbies they could collect a free ticket for two to the show. Or else I might have been in the dock pleading a necessary call of nature to the judge. So much for taking a piss. God doesn’t everything look so beautiful in the snow. Even the prison looking walls of the Queen’s palace. That’s another plus. And something Binky doesn’t know. The Lord Chamberlain called me over to his office. Jesus got to admire these guys. Even though I was feeling fucking superior it was wonderful the way he was able to treat me as an equal. Royalty is planning to confidentially and privately attend at the show. And I’m the one who’s going to be there greeting them in the royal retiring room and showing them to the royal box. And they are all going to get a royal private family confidentiality they ain’t never seen before. With an army of photographers and reporters descending upon their majesties when I confidentially and privately leak the news to Fleet Street. Show could run for centuries. Every social climber would have to see it. Which means nearly every god damn one in the country. So many things to be joyous over why do I even have to mind that fucker Binky. Stealing his pathetic little piece of limelight. Look at this wonderful crescent of houses in this beautiful whiteness everywhere. Maybe no fish shop on the doorstep and you can’t piss on the grass, but there’s not much else wrong with Belgravia let me tel
l you. Who needs a tax dodgers’ towers. Who even needs her. Shit I need her. But soon now, just like his Lordship and fucking Binky, I’m going to have one of those god damn exceptional, luxuriously appointed country residences they advertise. Exquisite miniature estate. Beautifully equipped to satisfy the most exacting standards. Maybe it won’t be like as big as his Lordship’s castle but it will have everything I need. Like a tennis court and swimming pool. And voom, right after Al’s cremation at the crematorium I’m going to propose to Louella marriage that can come right after my divorce. Jesus, this is a dreadful insight I’m having. How do I know Al didn’t explode one of his premature ejaculations in front of Priscilla my wife before he claims he hired her as a temporary secretary. Or jesus while she even worked for him. He could have been asking her for blow jobs under his big mahogany desk. Well who the fuck cares. My dream boat just docked with another one five five on board. With Joe Jewels, the biggest most successful impresario of them all. Crawling on his knees to me with his tongue hanging out as I shove an extra half percent of the gross up his ass that’s going to make him squeal in agony for months to come. So much for pure unadulterated justice. Jesus, show biz is thousands of guys like lemming hordes as they go rushing crawling up on some deal that they think is finally going to make them their fortune, each biting each other’s ass. And the teeth of nearly all of them end up in sunk deep a flop.
‘Hey Jorricks. What’s it a jam. What’s that up there blocking the whole god damn road.’
‘It looks like the fire brigade sir.’
‘Jesus they should pull over a bit and let traffic through don’t they know some people have got to get somewhere.’
‘Sir I believe they are in front of the house.’
‘They what. Holy cow. Not my house.’
‘I’m afraid so sir, it looks awfully like it.’
‘Jesus let’s get up there. Hey let me out, christ.’