Paying for it

You know, I often get asked the question "Do you pay for it?"
It's an impertinent question, and one I always try to dodge. The idea that people might judge me for paying for something like that, is a bit like attaching a mouse to a stick and asking me not to play golf with it. Totally abhorrent.

Whatever your views on the subject, and frankly, you can keep your sordid little views to yourself, I think when it gets to my ripe old time of life that I should be able to maintain a little dignity, which in essence means I think I should not have to pay a penny.

When I was younger and more naive I think I probably paid more often than I should have.
And the experience was always a let down.
If one pays for something, one expects something in return, and it always seemed a joyless and predictable experience, made worse by the fact my wallet was lighter.

With age comes experience, and also the reluctance to wash so often, and I now find ways to get out of paying. That way the disappointment is tempered by the fact that at least it was free.

After saying all this, I don't have anything against writers per say. But I do find it all rather unsavory to have to actually pay them...

Coma

I've just woken from a coma, and frankly I'm not happy.
Apparently, it's 2008! Well that's news to me.
I've also looked at the mirror and I appear to be very old indeed. Which also seems jolly unfair.
It seems I was found face down in an alley in London's Soho a month ago, with a nasty rash and no money. I think that's why there appears to still be some kind of itching under my hospital jim-jams.

I notice the world of film has ground to a halt in my absence, so as soon as I get out of this dreary place I intend to embark upon my next epic 'Satan's Foot', which I believe will be my biggest (indeed, my only) hit to date.

I can only be brief, as I had but 50 pence to spend on internet access and I'm keeping back the other 20p to bribe one of the nurses to rigorously interfere with my privates.
At my age one needs to really thrash the old chap about to get any kind of reaction, and even then he seems pre-occupied.

Good afternoon to you all, and remember to use the 'sanitary gel' on the way out.

A bloody outrage - Cannes 2008

After a lengthy absence, induced by an incident outside a public house in Bury St Edmunds, I am back to share my considerable wit and wisdom to a starved public.

Greetings to you all, little people.
I expect many of you are making phone calls and sending messages around the globe at the sight of this blog post. I know, I know. its all very exciting. but calm yourselves dears or you'll do yourselves a dreadful mischief.

I'm off to Cannes in just over a week.
Before you ask, I will not be publicly revealing when or indeed exactly where, for fear of a stampede. i can reveal however that I will be making my own moral stance this year.
let me explain...

Cannes used to be about filmmaking and the promotion and platform of new international film talent.
Well, in recent years, I was delighted to see that loathsome trend had come to an end, and these foreign types had finally cottoned on to the fact that the festival should be about tits and grins, with a fair dollop of botox into the bargain.
Finally, these wretched little films with their drugs and anti-war messages had been shown the exit door, and we were left to the superficial debauchery of fame and glamour. Just as it should be.

So. Why am I aggrieved you may ask?
Well. this year, i hear that there is talk of the 'independent spirit' returning. I've even heard of a film that is screening that doesn't have a star in it! What utter outrage. it's like biting into a chocolate cake and finding its made of shit. A profound kick in the teeth.

Well... I for one will be trotting around La Croissette in protest. Shouting and bawling and behaving disgracefully.
I intend to eat and drink until I literally pop.
i intend to visit every brothel, every beach party, and the inside of every young mouth I can safely place my genitalia.
and I won't bloody stop.

It's a small gesture, but I think they'll be forced to take me seriously.

hiring and firing

When you get to my ripe old age, theres not a lot you can tell me about how to make a film.
In fact I'd be as bold as to say, I wrote the book on making films, then sold the option to myself.
Yes... what I don't know about films can be put into an oven and served up to a family of starving midgets.
Now... my latest venture is a bona-fide commercial success. how do I know this? I'm bloody clever, that's how. Don't be so damn impertinent.
My aim is to make this film for as little as possible and make as much profit from the sales as I possibly can.
I'll make all kinds of outrageous promises to everyone in my employ, of course. I was thinking of dishing out percentage points that add up to 678%. That'll throw them off the scent.

This week I interviewed a number of over-eager young directors to make this film I'm calling 'Got Buzz' (I think it's a huge commercial success, did I mention that?)
I sat in my large black leather chair and listened to their 'pitch' whilst being tugged off by my young friend Kenny. (It helps me concentrate)
They all seemed very eager, but frankly I found it all rather tiresome.
I just want them to make this film quite honestly. There was a lot of sleep-inducing talk of 'vision' and 'connection' and 'motivation' and 'being an artist' and blah blah blah... Good Bloody Lord. I don't want any of that. i just want them to wave the camera at a load of young pretty people who are being either ; -
a. killed
b. fucked.
c. A combination of the two.

Anyway. I sent them away with a flea in their ear and a beetle up their arse. utterly tiresome.
For me, a director is there to do exactly what I want, and nothing more. Couldn't be simpler. If I say jump, I expect acrobatics on a grand scale. If I want my shoes polished I want the little fucker to polish it so hard my toes are revealed.

I'm thinking of being a director myself. Cut out all this nonsense...
But it seems like too much hard work...

a musing

Traveled to the county of Essex this last weekend, and retired myself to what I thought was a quiet country hotel.

Turned out that the bloody place was some sort of haven for local weddings, and I was depressingly interrupted from my slumber by the continued pestilence of happy couples and the incessant cheeriness of their many (loud and vulgar) guests.

The saving grace of the whole horrible experience was the presence of 'Essex girls'. A particular favorite of mine.
Generous of thigh and stout of calf, I was perpetually stimulated by the short-skirted, pale and chunky delights that strutted around the hotel grounds.

On one occasion I found myself blagging a glass of bubbly and ingratiated myself with one of these lovely creatures.
I proposed we make intimate acquaintance in the adjacent lavatories, but her suggestion of funding her ailing modeling career in exchange for a brief tug on my flaccid member seemed an unequal deal and I made my excuses.

Thereafter, I repaired to my hotel room and ransacked what little dignity I had left, whilst thoughts of cheap smelling flesh danced through my imagination.

Later that evening I made my way carefully (I'm 71) to the hotel's 'fine-dining' restaurant, where I enjoyed stuffed pigeon and a main course that featured lamb and something purple.
All washed down, of course, with a vintage Liebfraumilch.

It was after the third brandy that I suddenly hit upon an idea for a new film project.
As I gazed upon the carcass of my completed meal, I imagined a talking lamb that goes to Hollywood and falls in love with one of those young socialite types.
The lamb, a gentle and modest creature, makes the young superficial lady lover see the error of her facile ways and they go on a journey of self discovery to the Arctic, where they discover a way to halt global warning.

its a love story with an ecological message!

I hurried back to my hotel room to grab my pen and aper.

At 1:00am the paramedics finally loaded me into the ambulance.

Will it always be this way.... I wonder?