Sunday 23 September 2007
darkneon writes...
My head’s thumping like a drum! I tell you, that was the weirdest night of my life, The way he was screaming, I thought they were going to kill the bastard or something. Which, come to think of it, might not have been a bad idea.
I wish I knew what I’d drunk. Truth of the matter is, I have no bleedin’ idea. There was some orange stuff, I know that - kind of fizzy like weak lemonade - with all bits floating around in - something ‘punch’. It landed one on me, that’s for sure. Then I think we had some beer. And maybe some gin or vodka or something. And then someone - oh, shit! I can’t believe I did it - someone handed out some tabs of neon. I never take that stuff, me. Never. I don’t like stuff that screws around with my head. No bloody wonder I feel like a soddin’ zombie.
I wasn’t the worst, though. Not by a long way. There was that blonde woman, the one on the telly, in some comedy or soap opera or something. I never watch that stuff but I knew her face and someone told me she was a big star and she was especially big at the moment because she’d been dating a pop singer - one of them New Romantics, I think - and it was all over the tabloids, which I didn’t know because I never read them. Anyway, she wasn’t there with a pop star but she was all over some bloke who someone told me was a footballer, which I also didn’t know because I never watch the football.
And there was another woman, who looked like she was forty but said she was twenty-six, who tried to get her hands down my jeans; she said she was a TV producer or something and she could introduce me to all sorts of people and I said, yeah, I bet you could, and then I said I had to go for a pee and when I came back she was chatting up some kid who only looked like he was about sixteen.
The toilet, incidentally, is something to behold. It’s about the size of my entire flat and it’s got marble walls and subdued lighting and mirrors everywhere and gold fittings and carpets that are white and furry like soddin’ polar bears or something. Why anyone would want to have a crap in a room like that beats me, but that’s the way they are, these rich geezers, they got so much dosh they don’t know what to spend it on so they spend it on fur-lined bogs and rococo loggias.
A loggia, by the way, is like an upmarket patio and Frankie Fischer has a rococo one which I wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t told me - which he did, as a matter of fact, about twenty times. “This,” he said, “is my loggia. Rococo. Marble from Italy, awnings from Harrods.”
Not sure what you’re supposed to say when someone says stuff like that. I just said, “Oh,” or something. To be honest, I can’t really remember what I said. Not towards the end, anyway. I was too far out of it. Tell you the truth, I don’t even know when the party did end. I think it was still going on when I left. Yeah, it must have been. If I’d have been the last, I’d have remembered it, but I don’t so I can’t have been. If you see what I mean.
The thing I do remember was all the bloody commotion when that silly bastard turned up. Must have been around midnight. No idea what the silly twat was doing there, really. I mean, the story I heard was that there’d been some kind of bust up between him and Frankie Fischer a couple of weeks ago. Not that I ever figured out how a cheap little tart like Welsh Willy got mixed up with that lot in the first place. Though I can guess. Anyway, the way they were carrying on last night, I don’t think he’ll be invited back. He spewed up all over Frankie Fischer’s bed for one thing. Shit, what a bloody mess! I wouldn’t be surprised if that gets in the papers. Someone said there were some reporters there - gossip columnists, or something. What the fuck did he invite gossip columnists to a party like that for? I mean, Frankie bloody Fischer is supposed to be a family favourite, nice, stay-at-home, clean living kinda guy and all that. My gran loves him. But that was more like a fucking orgy than a party. My gran would have nightmares if she found out. I mean, it stands to reason, if stuff like that gets in the newspapers it’s the end of Frankie Fischer’s career, isn’t it.
Anyway, I don’t know what happened in the end. Frankie and old baldie took the kid off to one side for a good talking to, I know that much. I got a feeling they might have given him a bit of a slapping while they were at it. Which, to be honest, he deserved. I think he gate crashed, as a matter of fact. I definitely got the impression that Frankie was not glad to see him. The air was frosty between them, if you know what I mean - and that was even before he puked all over Frankie’s bed.
Still, that’s not my problem. My problem is my head. Which, at the moment, feels that it doesn’t really belong to me. Which I wish it didn’t. The way it feels right now, if I lost it on the buses I wouldn’t bother reclaiming it. The thing is, I never normally touch neon or any stuff like that. To tell you the truth, I don’t even remember who gave it to me. It might have been that blonde actress from off the telly for all I know. Shit, I hope I don’t end up in the papers...
Saturday 22 September 2007
darkneon writes...
The party tonight. Don’t know if I’ll bother going, really. Probably just a lot of old queens there. Still, it’d be interesting. To see how the other half parties, I guess.
Did the final fitting this afternoon. The suit. I got to admit it looks pretty slick. Well, it will when they repair it, anyway. I’d put it on and was twirling around to take a look in the mirror when bloody Max comes twatting about, pulling the sleeves and messing around with the shoulders and God knows what and, as always, he has a big fat cigar in his mouth and the silly bugger only goes and drops some burning ash onto one of the sleeves of the jacket. Eric sees it right away and brushes it off but it’s too sodding late by then. It leaves a bloody great sodding hole in sodding the sleeve, don’t it. I told Max, “You should give up smoking. Your time of life. It could damage your health.”
“Yeah,” says Eric, “Especially if he was to burn a hole in one of the Chiswick Boys’ suits.”
The Chiswick Boys being one of the gangs that frequents the establishment. Anyway, Eric says he can fix it by tomorrow and I trust Eric more than I trust Max. When Max tells you his word is his bond (one of his favourite expressions) you know he’s pulling a fast one. It’s only after I left that I remembered tomorrow is Sunday. What the hell, it can wait till next week. it’s only a sodding suit.
Anyway, I wasn’t planning to wear the suit to the party. If I go, that is. I reckon it’s going to be hot this evening. Muggy. Indian summer as you might say. So better to dress casual. Tee-shirt and jeans.
If I go. Which, as I said, is by no means certain. I probably won’t bother going, in fact. Not my scene, if you know what I mean...
Monday 17 September 2007
darkneon writes...
Did an afternoon down the shop. Mick was in a good mood, for a change. Seems to have ‘come to an accommodation’ is what he calls it, by which he means he’s done a deal with the plod so they won’t be pestering him again for a bit. I don’t even ask for the details. I don’t want to know, to tell you the truth. The less I know, the safer I am is my view on the matter.
He’s got some real dodgy stuff in the back room these days. I mean, he’s always done a bit of chicken and S&M but usually just the safe stuff - kids on the beach, blokes wearing gas masks, that kind of thing. But some of the stuff he’s got in now, it’s beyond that. Continental stuff - you know, a bit of Greek, a bit of necklace, Oliver up the Khyber, stuff you’d never think anyone would want to see, let alone get turned on by. I told Mick, I said, if you get raided you’ll end up doing time but he reckons there’s nothing to worry about since he’s ‘come to an accommodation’.
Well, that’s his problem. I just serve out front every once in a while. Anyone asks, I don’t know nothing about what he’s got in the back room. I’m just casual labour.
I told Mick about my invite. To Frankie Fischer’s party. He gives me a sort of leer and says, “Oh yeah, one of his little fuckpigs, are you?”
“What d’you mean?” I say, “There’s nothing going on between me and him. I never even met him till the other day.”
“Taken a shine to you, that’s what he’s done,” says Mick.
“Get away,” I tell him, “He’s old enough to be my soddin’ granddad .”
“That’s why he’s taken a shine to you,” says Mick, “Known for it, he is. Likes a bit of chicken, likes a bit of rough.”
“Yeah well,” I say, “I wouldn’t say I’m chicken exactly,” - subtly avoiding, you will have noticed, the question of whether or not I might be described as a bit of rough.
“When you’re his age,” says Mick, “Anything under 30 counts as chicken. So you, my son, are barely out of the bleedin’ egg!” - and the old bugger starts laughing so hard at his own joke that he practically chokes to death on the fag he’s smoking.
“Yeah, well,” I say, “I can understand why he might have been seduced by my radiant loveliness. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to end up in bed with him,” and as I’m saying this I’m thinking of one of the magazines I’d seen in the back room with boys and old men and the things the dirty old bastards are doing and for a moment I can’t help picturing Frankie Fischer’s face on top of one of the old men’s scrawny necks leering down at me and shaking his wrinkly chest menacingly.
“I’ve heard about stuff that goes on at them parties,” Mick says, “Tell you what. You should take a camera. Get a few snapshots. You never know, might turn up trumps. Might be worth a few bob, sell them to one of the papers. They’d pay a bundle for that, I bet.”
He’s a nasty old bugger, Mick. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I get on OK with him most of the time. But I got to admit that deep down under that lovable exterior of his, there lurks a dirty old man.
Wednesday 12 September 2007
darkneon writes...
Special Delivery today. Up to Southfork. Old baldie was his usual cheerful self. I came in, gave him the package and was just about to leave again when this voice called out from somewhere inside the house.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery boy,” says baldie.
Delivery boy for fuck’s sake! After all this time and he still doesn’t even know my bleedin’ name!
“Show him through,” says the voice.
“I said it’s the delivery boy,” says baldie, by which he means ‘who in their right minds would want scum like me dirtying up their piss-elegant little palace?’
But the voice just says back, “Show him through.’
So then baldie leads me down this long corridor, all white walls and oil paintings and stuff, and eventually we turn a corner at the bottom of this big staircase and we veer left and all of a sudden we’re in this big white kitchen - white walls, white table, white every bleedin’ thing, and windows like doors looking out over the garden. And there he is, sitting by the table, wearing a white towelling dressing gown, and he’s got his legs crossed and he’s holding a newspaper in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other and he looks up at me and he says, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
And I say, “Yeah, all right.”
And he says, “So we meet at last.” I am not kidding you, those were his very words. “So, we meet at last,” he says, “I’ve heard so much about you.”
And I smile and say, “Yeah? I bet.”
And he smiles back and he says, “Really, I have,” and he turns to baldie and he says, “Put the kettle on, there’s a love.”
And I’m thinking, ‘Christ! My gran’d be pissing herself if she was here now,’ because she’s a big fan of his. And, thinking of my gran, I almost turn to him and say, “Where’s Shirl?” - Shirl being the glamorous assistant he always has on the show who, for some weird reason, my gran seems to think is his wife or something. But I don’t say nothing. I just drink my tea and I eat a biscuit and he asks me what I do for a living and I tell him I deliver stuff. And he says, “Ah, I see,” and gives me a weird little smile because, of course, he knows the kind of stuff I deliver, and he says, “Anyone I know? That you deliver to, I mean?” And I say, “I couldn’t tell you even if there was. Discretion being the better part of valour and all that,” and he says, “I’m very glad to hear it.” And on the way out he says, “What are you doing a week on Saturday?”
“How’d you mean, I say?”
“I’m throwing a party. A few friends. To celebrate the end of the season.”
I didn’t know what he meant by that until I mentioned it to Max later on and he reckons it’s the end of some show on the telly - The Frankie Fischer Show or Family Funtime or something - I don’t know, I never watch them.
So I say, “I’m not doing anything. Nothing special. But, I mean, you don’t want... “
“Don’t want what?” he says.
And I’m not sure what he’s getting at now, I’m not sure if he’s inviting me to his party or if he’s just having a joke with me or what, so I say, “Nothing. I just meant, I don’t normally do anything special. Not on Saturday. Go down the pub maybe, if you’d call that special.”
“Come to my party,” he says.
I laugh. “Right,” I say, “Me?”
“Seven o’clockish.”
“You serious?” I say.
“Of course I’m serious. “
“OK,” I say, “If you’re serious.”
And anyway, on the way out he takes me into another room - a big room, all white with gold trimmings and a white grand piano off to one side, and he gets this invitation card - white with gold edges - and he writes me an invitation. “Just in case I don’t see you when you arrive,” he says.
And so that’s that. Baldie lets me out and I get the tube back into town.
Don’t think I’ll go. To the party, I mean. Not my scene if you get my meaning.
Maybe I’ll give the invite to my gran. She’d sell her dentures for a chance of going, she would.
Monday 10 September 2007
darkneon writes...
I nearly had a heart attack when I saw the bloody suit. It was all tatty and held together with big stitches with all bits of white stuff sticking out. “Don’t worry,” says Max, “It’s just the first fitting. That’s what they’re always like.”
“Well, I bloody hope it gets better by the last bloody fitting,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “You wait. You’ll turn heads when you wear this suit.”
I think, yes, I wear this suit and people will think I’m Frankenstein’s bloody monster. But anyway, I let them fuss about over me. Max, with his mouth full of pins, keeps tucking a bit in here and loosening a bit there and sticking pins in to hold it all in place and Eric keeps making chalk marks on the material. I say, “Go easy with that bloody chalk, can’t you. I’ll have to get the damn’ thing dry cleaned the way you’re messing it up,” and Max, of course, he just says, “Don’t worry, don’t worry.”
Anyway, after I get back into my own clothes, my jeans and denim jacket, Max slips me the package, as per usual, and I stuff it in an inside pocket. It’s for Frankie Fischer mostly. And also some for Big Pete up in Archway.
On the way out I bump into Welsh Willy. They call him Welsh Willy because he’s Welsh. Not sure if his name is really Willy. At any rate, I don’t think that’s why they call him that.
“How’s things?” I say.
“All right,” he says. He’s not a great conversationalist.
Rumour has it he’s got a boyfriend who’s a pop star. I can’t remember who told me that. That’s what I heard, anyway. Can’t remember which pop stars it’s supposed to be though. No one I’ve ever heard of, I don’t think. Not that I keep up with who’s who in the charts these days.
“Seen Frankie lately?” I say.
“Don’t talk to me about that bastard!” he says.
Welsh Willy used to be one of Frankie Fischer’s boys, until recently. Not sure what the full story is. They fell out is what I heard. There is a rumour that Welsh Willy threatened to blackmail him. Not sure if that’s true, though. If it is, Welsh Willy’s even stupider than he looks - which, as a matter of fact, is pretty bloody stupid.
Wednesday 05 September 2007
darkneon writes...
I went in to see Max today. He’s got a tailor’s shop down Berwick Street, I been saying for ages that I’m going to get a suit made one of these days and it’s been a kind of running joke really because I never wear anything that’s not denim - denim shirt, denim jacket, denim jeans. OK, so my socks and Y-fronts are not denim, but just about everything else is. I got paid today and it was a decent whack so I thought, what the hell, let’s get that suit at long last.
Max himself measured me up and then he had this long argument with Eric, his cutter. I told him I wanted a 1930s style, classic cut, the kind of thing you’d see in an old James Cagney movie. So Max picks out a roll of grey worsted with a thin pinstripe and he says that I’ll be wanting is a double-breasted jacket with no vent, four buttons on the cuffs, no flaps on the pockets and the trousers will be fitted for bracers, a button-up fly, three pleats at the front and legs tapering to 18 inches at the turnups. That’s what started the argument.
“1930s,” says Eric, “That’d be 20 inches all the way down, no taper. In the ‘40s you might have had a taper, but the ‘30s, the ‘classic’ ‘30s cut, I mean, 1932, ’33, you’re talking a straight leg, twenty inches.”
“What are you talking about?” says Max, “A twenty inch leg is more of an Oxford Bag. ‘30s he says he wants. You’re going back to the ‘20s, you are.”
“Twenty inch isn’t an Oxford Bag!” says Eric, who seems kind of angry as though he can’t believe that anyone would doubt his superior knowledge when it comes to trousers, “I’m telling you, a tapered leg would look as out of place on a classic ‘30s cut as a 3-button cuff.”
Anyway, in the end, Max gave in and I went for the twenty-inch leg. I have to go back for a first fitting next week. A first fitting, in case you’ve never had one, is when they drape the suit all over you and pick out the stitches and stuff to make sure it goes in and out in the same places your body goes in and out.
As I was leaving Max’s, I saw a couple of the Murphy boys come into the shop. I smiled and nodded to them and they ignored me back. Max does a lot of tailoring for the shadier elements of London life. That and theatricals. He does a lot of work for film people too. Michael Caine came in last week to have six suits made, apparently. All the suits had to be exactly the same, Max says, on account of the fact that five of them have to have daggers stuck through them.
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