Читать книгу The Confessions Collection - Rosie Dixon, Timothy Lea - Страница 80

‘I know, I know,’ says Justin, raising his hand. ‘I know exactly how you feel. It was most unfortunate that you chose that moment to burst in on us. Of course I was going to explain all about Oliver NTwist.’

It is an hour after the remarkable revelation at the studio and we have saved Dad’s life – much to Sid’s disgust – and sent him home with a bewildered Mum. Justin is pouring generous slugs of scotch and explaining all.

‘Oliver NTwist?’ says Sidney.

‘The Central African market is very big for us,’ soothes Justin. ‘They’re not very well up in Dickens so we have to simplify the story line, give it a flavour that appeals locally.’

‘You were making a blue movie,’ accuses Sid.

‘We call them Black and Blue movies,’ says Justin in his best George Sanders voice. ‘Listen, Sidney old bean. I feel I must explain one or two facts of life to you. The old motion picture industry in this country is a teeny weeny bit dicky, to put it mildly. Employing directors of Ken Loser’s class costs a great deal of money. Your contribution, greatly appreciated as it is, covers only a fraction of your overheads. In a high-risk business such as this we have to take every opportunity to recoup our losses before they occur. Now. There is a guaranteed world market for films of – shall we say – a slightly risqué nature. By making these we can subsidise works of art such as the current Loser epic.’

‘I didn’t know I was putting up money for blue films,’ says Sid.

‘My dear Sidney. You are putting up money to finance a masterpiece. Put yourself in my shoes. Have I the right to put your money at risk when I can ensure a very healthy return for you as well as allowing you the satisfaction of participating in the creation of a work of art? There is a considerable amount of capital tied up in this studio and the equipment you see lying around. If we can utilise that twenty-four hours a day then we are maximising profits. You obviously look for a return on your money?’

‘Of course, but I thought it would all come out of Oliver Twist.’

‘It probably will but I feel it my duty to guard against disappointments. The public are very fickle. You can’t guarantee success with purely artistic ventures in the same way that you can when you leaven the mixture with a trace of eroticism. By shooting Oliver Twist in the day and Oliver NTwist and Olivia Twist at night we double the profit potential.’

‘What’s Olivia Twist?’

‘For the Swedish market. Again we’ve taken a few simple liberties with the original story line. We have replaced Fagin with the madam of a brothel – not Jewish of course, the anti-semitic aspects of the story have always been quick to give offence – and changed all the pickpockets to tarts.’

‘I think it works better like that anyway,’ says Sid. ‘What was that you were saying about profit potential?’

‘Very satisfactory. You could see a two hundred percent return on your investment. If we’re shooting at night, of course.’

Sidney nods his head and I can see him racked by the conflict between artistic integrity and a few grubby greenbacks. Eventually he draws himself up and utters the words that prove to me that when it comes to the crunch Sidney can be relied upon to act in a way consistent with the principles in which he believes so deeply.

‘Can we shoot on Sundays?’ he says.

‘I think it’s all very dicey,’ I say to him later. ‘Shooting with a non-union crew, flogging skin-flicks to Bongo Bongoland. It’s a bit of a come-down, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t you ever listen to anything anyone says?’ chides Sid, who changes faster than litmus paper. ‘You’ve got to make a few compromises these days. It’s the end product that matters.’

‘You mean the shekels you’re going to rake in?’

‘No! I mean the best Oliver yet.’

‘I reckon you’ve got two of the best Twisters already. That man Justin is nothing more than a con man and Loser is a nutter. Have you seen any of the rushes of his stuff yet? It’s junk.’

Sidney starts doing his pillar-box imitation. ‘It hasn’t been edited yet, has it?! No need to get all narky just because you haven’t been made the bleeding star of the film.’

‘All this sex and violence is played out, Sid. People want something light and cheerful.’

‘ “People want”, “people want”. People want shaking up, that’s what they want. Remember what Loser said: “to vomit is to feel”.’

‘On the strength of what I’ve seen I’d say: “to see is to throw up”.’

‘You can sneer,’ snarls Sid, ‘but you wait ’til the film opens. Rave reviews and queues all round the Empire.’

‘You mean the British Empire, do you Sid? Surely you’re not thinking of Oliver NTwist. That should get them padding down to the chief’s clearing.’

Sid’s reply reveals that his nerve ends are fraying and in the weeks that follow, tempers all round the set become strained to the point of rupture. Glint’s booze intake hits new heights and he only puts down the bottle to grab another hopeful starlet. Dawn Lovelost is also hitting the bottle and says that she is drinking to forget. Quite what, it is not very clear but those who have seen her before the camera suggest it is probably her lines. Loser’s hysterical fits become more frequent and even Justin starts losing his cool and is heard to snap at the faithful Mac.

At last it is finished and I, for one, have no idea what the whole thing was about. I thought I knew the story of Oliver Twist and I never remember a bit when everyone wore gas masks and hit each other over the head with cucumbers. Nor the scene when Fagin takes Oliver to a brothel and every bed has an alligator in it. Most directors would have settled for dummies but Loser has to ransack a private zoo. Not only that but he has this bleeding great gorilla that moves up and down the corridor. I was dead choked because when I heard about the brothel sequence I thought I was going to be in like Flynn. But not a sausage. Loser did want somebody to get into bed with an alligator but I did not reckon it was my cup of tea. Even though the bleeding things were supposed to be under sedation they kept rolling off the beds and scuttling across the floor. Very unpleasant it was. One of them bit through a power cable and electrocuted itself and I wished it had been holding hands with its mates at the time.

The gorilla was no charmer either. It did take a fancy to Sid though and kept trying to stroke him. Naturally everybody used to ask Sid when they were getting hitched and this drove him mad. On one occasion I gave Charley – that was the gorilla’s name – one of Mum’s bananas – you know, the brown ones – and it galloped across the set and shoved it in Sidney’s cakehole. Didn’t even take it out of the skin either. I tried to make Sidney see the funny side but his sense of humour deserts him sometimes.

With the film in the can the next thing to look forward to is the première and remembering Sid’s words about the Empire, I am eager to find out where this world-shattering event is going to take place. I have always imagined myself wearing a white tuxedo and hot-knobbing with a bunch of Lea-crazy starlets. The flash-light flashing, the champagne corks popping. Then, the excited whisper going round the assembled throng as we form a line to curtsey to some regal personage: Lew Grade, Bernard Delfont, someone like that.

‘The Bioscope,’ says Sidney.

‘The what?! Where’s that?’

‘Notting Hill Gate.’

‘You’re going to have the première there?’

‘Justin says it’s more fashionable to have your première out of the centre of London these days.’

‘Oh, Justin says that does he? Well, that must be all right then.’

‘No need to get all narky,’ says Sid menacingly. ‘You don’t have to come.’

‘I’m not certain I’ll be able to. Have you got a map of the area? I’ve never heard of the Bioscope.’

‘It’s an underground cinema.’

‘Oh, it’s in the underground, is it? Doesn’t the noise of the trains –’

‘Shut up! You know what I mean. It specialises in revolutionary cinema. Underground films. Wendy Arsehole, that kind of thing.’

‘You mean Andy Warhol, you berk.’

‘Him too. No need to get all worked up about it. I watch BBC2 as well, you know.’

‘Only Floodlit Rugby League. Oh, Sidney, I can’t believe it. This blooming great cultural masterpiece creeping on at the Bioscope, Notting Hill Gate.’

‘Don’t knock it! Ken thinks that it’s exactly right for the film. He doesn’t want it to go in to one of those big, flashy places where they clean the wash basins and the pile on the carpet tickles your tonk. He says this is people’s cinema.’

‘Well, I hope he’s right. I hear we haven’t got anyone to distribute it yet?’

‘They’re just hanging on for the reviews. There shouldn’t be any problem. Not with Loser’s name attached to it. I’m expecting a couple of the big boys to come to the première. I reckon they’ll be impressed.’

‘Talking about who’s coming to the première, Sid, what about Mum and Dad?’

‘Yeah, I thought about that too. I can’t see your old man in a dinner-jacket somehow. Now a straitjacket, I can see him in one of those all right.’

‘It would break Mum’s heart if she didn’t come.’

‘Yeah, I know. I’ll invite them and hope Dad doesn’t show up. Once we mention he’s got to wear a dinner-jacket that should put him right off.’

But it does not put Dad off. Though he shakes his head and says ‘Notting Hill Gate! I thought we’d given them their independence years ago.’ I can see him filing the date away in his evil little mind; fully intending to put in an appearance.

The night in question is dark and drizzly and instead of searchlights sawing the air there is the fluorescent light from the ‘Sixteen machine – no waiting, 24-hour-a-day Laundromat’ next to the Bioscope, which seems to be drawing a slightly larger crowd than our première.

Sid and I stand next to the pay box, or in the foyer as Sid chooses to call it, waiting with Justin to receive the guests. I notice that some of the fat, elderly men who were at the casting session are also present. This time accompanied by plump, furry women with hair that looks as if it has been stuck together with Araldite and then sprinkled with Christmas-tree glitter.

‘Oh, my Gawd,’ says Sidney. ‘Take a butcher’s at that.’ I follow his eyes and see Dad who is approaching us dressed in morning suit and top hat.

‘At least he’s left his binoculars at home,’ I say but Sid is in no mood for jokes.

‘It’s diabolical,’ he says. ‘He’s trying to make a laughing stock of me, I’ll swear it. Did you ever see anything like it?’

‘Now that you come to mention it, Sid,’ I say, ‘Yes. I have. Cop a load of Mum.’

Yes, Mrs Lea has not been left behind in the smutter department. She looks like a cross between a pearly queen and one of those daft birds you see photographs of on Ladies’ Day at Ascot.

‘Blimey, I’ve never seen so much jewellery on anybody,’ says Sid. ‘She looks like a mobile junk shop.’

‘Yoo hoo,’ hollers Mum, as I try and hide behind Sidney who is trying to hide behind me. ‘Ooh, but we did have a lot of trouble finding this place. My feet are killing me. We had to stand on the bus.’

‘I’ve got a diabolical crick in my neck,’ grumbles Dad. ‘Standing downstairs with one of these hats on. I was bent double.’

‘Why didn’t you take it off?’ I ask.

‘He couldn’t, dear,’ explains Mum. ‘It was a bit big so we had to wedge it on with pieces of newspaper.’

‘I hope it was the Sporting Chronicle,’ snarls Sid. ‘Whatever made you put that lot on?’

‘We both wanted to look nice for your film,’ says Ma indignantly. ‘Don’t start having a go. If you knew the trouble I had to get him to wear something nice.’

‘He looks smashing, Ma,’ I say hurriedly. ‘You both do. Don’t you reckon, Sid?’

Sid swallows hard. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,’ he says.

‘Let me introduce you to one or two people.’

Even Justin looks a bit taken aback when he meets Dad, but under thé influence of a few stiff scotches which are being dispensed from the pay desk, I begin to feel much more relaxed. Dawn Lovelost rolls up but does not get out of her car because not enough people have arrived. She has departed to drive round the block a few times when Glint Thrust appears, supported by two incredible blonde birds with legs going up to their armpits and smiles as wide as watermelon segments. When I say supported, I mean held off the ground. Glint is so stoned he staggers into the Laundromat and tries to check his cloak in to one of the washing machines. He slumps down in a chair and is only just prevented from knocking back a beaker of detergènt powder.

Sandra Virgin’s knockers are the next stars to arrive closely followed by their proud owner and a ripple of anticipation runs through her self-supporting bra as she bends down to kiss Mr Guttman, the geezer who caught Sid on the job with his ‘daughter’. That lady is nowhere to be seen but Samantha is tripping about, dropping people’s coats and spilling drinks like she has been doing it all her life, which she has. She informs me that there is going to be a post-première party at Justin’s flat where we will be able to wait for the first newspaper reviews to arrive. ‘I hope you’re coming,’ she burbles. ‘It’s usually most tremendous fun.’

‘Wild whores will not be able to drag me away,’ I say, favouring her with a touch of the wit which has earned me the title of Clapham’s answer to Noel Coward. Sam nods without smiling and goes on her way. I think she finds my brand of sophistication a bit overwhelming.

Now, at last, Dawn decides to honour us with her presence. Unfortunately it is now raining quite hard and in her anxiety to get into the cinema she manages to slam her stole in the car door. She takes one regal stride forward with the word ‘Darling!’ framed on her lips and then spins round as if brought up short in an apache dance. There is a loud ripping noise and she sits down in the gutter. Glint leads the cheering from the Laundromat where he has now persuaded a few people to ask him for his autograph. We rush forward to pick her up and it is obvious that she has knocked back more than a few shots of nerve tonic before venturing out.

‘Terribly bad luck about the weather,’ sighs Justin. ‘I think it’s keeping people away.’

Whatever the reason, there are certainly not a lot of people present apart from those appearing in the film and their next of kin.

‘Do you recognise any film critics?’ I ask Sid.

‘No. But Justin says the bloke who does the Women’s Institute Round-up for the Kensington Clarion is here.’

‘That’s blooming marvellous, isn’t it? We won’t be looking back, now.’

‘Don’t be sarky, Timmy. It doesn’t suit you. The critics are probably here incontinent.’

‘I think you mean incognito, Sid. Incontinent means you piss all over everything. Still that’s probably what the critics will be doing, isn’t it?’

Sid does not answer that but gives the word for me to start herding people into the cinema.

‘What about Loser?’ I ask.

‘We can’t wait any longer. They’ve nearly finished up all the booze.’ This is certainly true and there is no doubt that, whatever you may think of the acting profession, they can say goodbye to a few bottles of the hard stuff so fast that you can hardly see their lips move. In this respect Dad is not far from being their equal, and he is in excellent spirits as I shepherd him towards the door.

‘Cor,’ he says. ‘Lucky I had your mother with me, the way some of these women are flaunting themselves they’re asking for trouble.’

‘They couldn’t ask a better bloke, eh, Dad?’

‘I’m not saying anything about that, but I reckon if I played my cards right, know what I mean?’

‘Be your age, father,’ says Mum sternly. ‘Don’t let’s have no embarrassment at Sidney’s primula. Ooh, I am looking forward to seeing you act, Timmy.’

‘Well, don’t drop your choc ice, or you’ll miss it.’

‘My grandmother was an opera singer, you know. I think it runs in the family.’

‘She had such a lousy voice she had to run,’ chips in Dad.

‘Shut your mouth!’ snaps Mum. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. You never met her. It’s no accident that Timmy and Jason came along.’

‘What do you mean?’ bellows Dad. ‘That’s exactly what it was. Timmy was practically singing at our bleeding wedding!’

‘I didn’t mean like that!’ says Mum, turning scarlet. ‘I was talking about their talent. That’s inherited.’

‘Yeah. Well, my lot weren’t stupid, you know.’

‘Mum! Dad! Please! Remember what you said. Don’t let’s have a punch-up at a moment like this.’

‘The very idea. Going on like that. Just because Sidney and Rosie were so in love –’

‘Yes, Mum,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Where is Rosie? I suppose she is coming?’

There is no need of an answer to that question because I glance behind me and get an eyeful of the lady herself. Eyeful! By the cringe. I have not seen so much of Rosie since we shared the same bath tub as kids. Her dress is topless, backless and sideless, and it is amazing how the various parts of it succeed in meeting at all. Even the puff sleeves have slits in them and the whole outfit has more cuts in it than a pre-election budget speech. The long skirt is no more than strips of venetian blind hung vertically and the blouse has air vents all down the fuselage. The whole outfit looks like a cotton skeleton.

‘Blimey!’ I say. ‘And in virginal white, too.’

‘Do you like it?’ says Rosie. ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

‘Quite the reverse, Rosie. What do you think of it, Mum?’

‘It’s very nice, dear. A bit – well – you know – sort of –’

‘Diabolical?’

‘Oh, no, dear. I wouldn’t say that.’

‘I would,’ says Dad. ‘I’m ashamed to see a daughter of mine degrading herself like that. You’re making a proper exhibition of yourself. You don’t want to show all you’ve got to a load of complete strangers!’

‘Oh, you’re so out of touch, Dad,’ spouts Rosie, adjusting the top of her dress against the weal mark that runs through her nipples. ‘This is a film première, isn’t it? You’re supposed to dress up a bit.’

‘ “Up” is the word, my girl,’ snorts Dad. ‘I’ve made an effort to meet the standard required. I wouldn’t have you wear that thing to pop out to the kasi.’

‘Because you’re so stupid, that’s why. The human body is nothing to be ashamed of – though I can understand where you got the idea from. These days you dress to accentuate the body, not hide it.’

‘No need to use words like that,’ says Dad. ‘Speak language people can understand.’

‘Rosie! Oh, my Gawd!’ Sidney appears looking harrassed. ‘What happened? Did you go through the automatic car wash?’

‘Don’t you start!’ Rosie’s lip is starting to tremble.

‘I think it’s like one of those costumes they wore on Henry VIII on the telly,’ says Mum soothingly.

‘Yeah. Henry VIII’s. It looks better on a fella. Oh, my Gawd. What have I done to deserve it? Still, never mind, let’s get inside before we miss the start of the film. You look after Mum and Dad, Timmo.’

I am not overchuffed to hear Sid say that because Dad is a dead liability in any place of public entertainment. He starts off by saying he wants to go to the toilet and by the time we get inside the cinema the lights have gone down and we have to feel our way to our seats. ‘Feel’ is the right word. Dad has his hands on every pair of knockers in the row and there are nearly some nasty incidents. ‘They shouldn’t wear dresses like that if they’re frightened of somebody brushing against them,’ he says. ‘They’re asking for trouble.’

‘Sit down, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘The seat folds down, you know that.’

Dad’s habit of perching on a tipped up seat can get on your nerves after a bit.

‘I can see better up here.’

‘Sit down!’ hiss the voices from behind.

‘Belt up!’ bellows Dad. ‘I paid for this seat, didn’t I?’

‘NO!’

‘Shurrup!’

I haul him down and after a few minutes rabbiting he begins to concentrate on the screen.

‘Oh,’ he says, all surprised. ‘You’ve got her in it, have you?’

‘Who, Dad?’

‘Her. The Queen Mother. I thought I hadn’t seen her opening anything lately.’

‘This is the Pathetic News, Dad. It’s not the film!’ Really, he is a stupid old berk, isn’t he? When you spend some time with him you can understand what an uphill struggle people like Ken Loser have to bring culture to the masses. And where is Ken? It is surprising that he is not here for the première of his masterpiece.

No sooner has the thought bundled into my nut than the swing doors at the back of the theatre burst open and a white horse gallops down the aisle throwing its rider through the screen. The lights go up immediately and as the horse disappears through the exit marked gents, we see our Ken staggering back into the auditorium. He is wearing a fur hat, scarlet tunic and leather boots.

‘He thinks he’s a hassock, does he?’ says Dad.

‘A cossack, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘For Gawd’s sake, don’t you know anything?’

‘Some kind of circus act before the film, is it?’

‘Something like that, Dad.’

Loser makes a big thing of embracing two birds and a bloke, and slumps down dramatically in a seat which collapses.

‘It’s not his lucky day, is it?’ says Dad.

‘Ssh. The film is starting.’

‘I want to go to the toilet again,’ says Dad.

I know I should go with the miserable old twit but I want to see what the audience’s reaction is to the film. Justin has said that you can tell after the first ten minutes whether you have got a hit on your hands.

For five minutes I squint sideways into the gloom and the bloke on my left begins to nod off. This can’t be good. I am looking around for a more favourable reaction when it occurs to me that Dad should be back by now. What has happened to the silly old bugger? I push past the irritated whispers and go out into the foyer. Dad is standing by the pay box draining a glass.

‘Just helping clear up the empties,’ he says guiltily.

‘Helping yourself,’ I accuse. ‘You’ve been polishing off the left-overs, haven’t you?’

‘It didn’t take me long,’ says Dad, belching loudly. ‘Didn’t think it would, with your precious brother-in-law laying on the booze. That’s just what he does. He lays on it so nobody else can get any.’

‘Don’t be bleeding ungrateful, Dad. You’ve never risked rupturing yourself when it came to lashing out on entertainment. I remember you trying to raffle the cake at Rosie’s wedding.’

‘I was only thinking of raising a few bob for their honeymoon. They weren’t going to eat it all, were they?’

‘Whatever happened to the money, then?’

‘Well. They left in such a rush, didn’t they? I never got a chance to give it to them. Then, your Uncle Raymond came along and suggested we had a few. You know what he’s like.’

‘Yeah, I remember, Dad. Mum didn’t see you for three days, did she? They reckoned you’d gone on the honeymoon.’

‘Don’t bring that up now,’ whines Dad. ‘How much longer is there? I get chlorophyll in that place.’

‘We should be so lucky, Dad. You mean claustrophobia. Blimey, it’s a good job I know what you’re on about, isn’t it? Hey, what have you got there?’ Dad is trying to slip a bottle under the jacket of his morning suit.

‘I found it lying in the pay box. I thought someone might nick it.’ The thieving old git is only trying to stash away a bottle of scotch.

‘Very commendable, Dad. Now, hand it over.’

‘Let’s just have a little drink first, eh?’ Dad gives a nudge and a giggle and I can see the signs that he is on the way. I should be firm but, on the other hand, maybe he will drop off if he has enough booze inside him. He has been known to pass out with his face in an ashtray on more than one occasion.

‘All right, Dad, but make it a quick one.’

Well, it is quick all right. Like emptying a bucket of water down his throat. The morning suit soaks up more scotch than he does. They should like that when he takes it back.

‘Dad, are you sure you want to go back in there? Maybe –’

‘No, son. I want to see what your precious Sid has been up to. Anyway, I like the royal family.’

‘Their bit has finished,’ I humour him. ‘Now, give me that –’ But Dad twists away and takes another swig of scotch before we get through the swing doors.

‘It’s dark, isn’t it?’ he says loudly and resentfully. ‘They don’t make it easy for you, do they?’

‘Quiet, Dad! People are trying to watch the film.’

On the screen Glint Thrust is slapping Dawn round the kisser with obvious relish and the sight is not lost on Dad.

‘Hey, look at that!’ he bawls. ‘That’s not nice, is it? Clobbering a woman. I don’t hold with that.’

‘Well, piss off then!’ hisses a voice from the darkness. Dad does not warm to the suggestion.

‘You want to watch your language, mate. You’ll find yourself picking your teeth out of your hooter.’

‘Shut up, Dad. Get a grip on yourself.’

‘They want to get a grip on themselves!’ Dad points towards the screen and lurches into a row of seats. ‘Look at it! Look at it! It’s disgusting!’

‘Oh! Keep your hands to yourself!’ screams a female voice.

‘You want to dress up then,’ says Dad. ‘A bloke can’t move around here without bumping into your flesh. You trying to inflame people, are you?’

‘It’s the second time he’s done it, Siggy. You’ve got to do something.’

‘You looking for a bunch of fives, are you?’

‘Sit down!’

‘How dare you touch my wife.’

‘I know. It does take a bit of courage, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh!’

‘Sit down!’

‘Shut your trap!’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I burble. ‘He’s a bit overtired. He’s not himself.’ This, of course, is a complete load of cobblers. Dad is behaving exactly like himself. Why the hell did we ever invite the miserable old sod? I try to drag him towards some empty seats but he waves his scotch bottle expansively and succeeds in sprinkling everybody within three rows.

‘Shut up and watch the film, Dad,’ I hiss tearing the bottle away from him. ‘You’re not having any more of this ’til it’s finished.’

‘How can I have some when it’s finished?’ moans Dad, all heartbroken. ‘That’s not possible. You’re not playing the white man with me.’

‘When the film is finished,’ I hiss through gritted teeth. ‘Now belt up!’

But there is still a lot of life left in Dad. On the screen Glint is now tucking into Dawn like she is a flaky meringue and I can see Dad’s evil little eyes gleaming in the darkness.

‘Cor,’ he grunts. ‘That’s not nice, is it? And on the kitchen table too.’

‘It’s not the kitchen table. It’s a tavern.’

‘I don’t care what it is. It’s disgusting.’ And before I can stop him, Dad leaps to his feet and starts chanting, ‘What a load of rubbish! What a load of rubbish!’ I should have guessed that all those evenings curled up in front of Match of the Day would have an effect on him. The violence of the terraces has seeped into his miserable old ratbag body and has at last found an outlet. ‘Off! Off! Off!’ he bellows and hurls his empty scotch-bottle at the screen.

The audience has not been quiet since Dad re-entered the cinema and now the noise takes on uproar proportions. To my surprise a lot of it supports Dad’s point of view.

‘You took the words right out of my ballpoint,’ exclaims a bloke in front of us before sloping out of the cinema.

‘Hear, hear!’ chant others. ‘What a load of rubbish.’

Needless to say the reaction from the posh seats is of a different nature.

‘Evict that enemy of the people’s culture!’ hurls Loser, sprinting up the aisle.

‘Shut him up! Shut him up!’ screeches Sidney desperately. ‘The whole of my future is tied up in this film.’

‘Quite a lot of your past too, I should reckon,’ hisses Dad. ‘It’s disgusting. Filthy!’

‘Get this capitalist pawn out of the cinema!’ yells Loser.

‘ “Porn”. That’s good, coming from you.’

‘Sit down!’

‘Shurrup!’

‘Leave him alone!’

‘Help, help. You’d assault an old man, would you? Help.’

‘Assault him? I’ll swing for him!’ Sidney starts to push down the aisle towards us and for a moment I can see myself in the ridiculous position of having to defend Dad against the thumping he so richly deserves. At that moment the screen suddenly goes blurred and a picture like molten lava running down the side of a volcano, appears on the screen. Apparently the projector has overheated and the film is melting away before our eyes.

As if that was not enough, Loser’s horse, having finished its business in the gents, or not having been able to push down the bar on the exit doors, comes racing into the auditorium again. It obviously does not go to the cinema very often and, taking fright at what is happening on the screen, proceeds to race round and round the theatre, occasionally veering off up the central aisle for a bit of variety.

‘Gee, I’ve been to some premières in my time,’ says the guy cowering next to me, ‘but this caps everything. You limeys really are getting with the razzmatazz, aren’t you? This is more like a happening than a movie.’

As if to prove the point Loser climbs up onto the organ seat at the front of the theatre and hurls himself onto the horse’s back as it careers past. To the loudest cheers of the evening he then gallops up the aisle and disappears into the night through the exit doors.

‘Gee. What a switch,’ says the guy next to me. ‘I can never remember a film ending with the director riding away into the sunset.’

‘Or Ladbroke Grove,’ murmurs Justin. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, please don’t leave your seats. We seem to have had a slight technical hitch but I’m certain we’ll be able to continue showing this absorbing motion picture in just a few minutes. Thank you so much for your forbearance.’

He sits down and the comparative silence makes me wonder what has happened to Dad. I look down and there is the miserable old bleeder stretched out between a row of seats snoring away like the pig he is.

‘Out like a light,’ says Sidney. ‘By the cringe, but I wish I could do something about making it permanent.’

‘Is he all right?’ says Mum, pushing her way to our side.

‘Yeah, don’t worry, Mum.’

‘I’m not worried!’ Mum sounds as if she means it. ‘I don’t want him causing any more trouble, that’s all.’

‘He’s so uncouth, isn’t he?’ sighs Rosie. ‘He lets the tone down everywhere he goes.’

‘Belt up and tuck your tits in,’ snorts Sid. ‘You’re a fine one to talk about tone. The only Tone you know is the bloke behind the bar at the Highwayman.’

‘Do give over,’ says Mum, settling down and resting her feet on Dad’s body. ‘I want to see the rest of this film. I think it’s quite nice, really.’

But Mum does not see the rest of the film because the projector refuses to work and Justin has to bound to his feet again and tell the fast-disappearing audience that he hopes they will see the complete movie when it comes to their local cinema.

‘The week that rubbish comes to our local cinema is the week before the place opens as a bingo hall,’ says one dissatisfied guest grimly. ‘I always thought Loser was a vastly overrated talent and this junk proves it.’

‘I expect Ken will join us at the flat,’ says Justin evenly as the last of the outsiders disappears through the swing doors. ‘Er – I was wondering what we should do about your father, Timothy?’

Dad is still stretched out in the middle of the theatre.

‘Is this place well insured against fire?’ asks Sidney.

‘It’s not well insured against what’s happened out by the gents,’ says the cinema manager who has been jigging about like a prat on hot pricks ever since we arrived. ‘It’s difficult enough getting the staff at the best of times without asking them to clear up things like that.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ soothes Justin. ‘I’ll speak to Mr Loser about it.’

‘It’s his horse you should speak to.’

‘Exactly, exactly. Timothy, I wonder if you would do me the most tremendous favour.’

By the time I have finished doing Justin his favour and washed my hands, everybody else has pushed off to Justin’s flat and I am left to struggle after them by myself. I have been looking forward to this particular knees-up for the last few days but after the events of the evening a lot of my enthusiasm has faded.

It is not replaced when I push open the door of Justin’s swish apartment and observe Dad through a glass darkly.

‘How the hell did he get here?’ I ask Sidney, who is standing a darn sight closer to Sandra’s nipples than she is.

‘He followed us in a tashi – I mean taxi,’ stutters my stoned brother-in-law. ‘Have you met thish lovely girl becaush you’re not going to. You’re far too nishe for him, aren’t you, darling?’

I leave them to become better acquainted and notice that Glint is chatting up Rosie, his finger lightly running up and down her naked arms with the kind of scarcely restrained excitement he normally reserves for the neck of a whisky bottle. Oh well, good luck to them. I’ve done my bit to protect Sidney. I’m darned if I’m going to do any more. It is about time I started looking out for number one.

‘Hello, Timmy. I thought you were awfully good.’

‘Thanks, Sam. I hardly noticed myself.’ This is true. In all the confusion, God’s gift to the British film industry got less than my usual quota of enthralled attention. ‘Still busy are you?’

Samantha shakes her head slowly. ‘No, thank goodness. I’ve been on the go from six o’clock this morning but I think I can relax now. They all look as if they think they’re capable of looking after themselves, don’t they?’

This is very true and an atmosphere of what you might call uninhibited gaiety prevails. It is a mood I must try and make the most of.

‘I can never understand,’ I say gazing into her mince-pies, ‘why you haven’t been snapped up by Justin or some other producer. You have a sweet, unspoilt quality that I find it difficult to put my finger on.’

‘Not for lack of trying though,’ says Samantha, removing my hand. ‘Just because I was weak once it doesn’t mean that I’m going to be at your beck and call. I’ve hardly seen you since that time we had lunch with your brother-in-law.’

‘I know. It just shows you how hard I’ve been working, doesn’t it? And if it isn’t me it’s you. It’s difficult to find the time, isn’t it?’

I return my hand to its original resting place and this time there is no impulse to remove it.

‘You wanted to see me again, did you?’ she says uncertainly.

‘Of course I did. I’ve been looking forward to this evening for a long time because I hoped it would give us a chance to be together again.’

It’s awful isn’t it? But sometimes I don’t think it matters what you say as long as you both want something to happen.

‘Oh, Timmy. That is nice.’ She turns her face up expectantly and I do not disappoint her. A gentle kiss to begin with and a firm squeeze of the hand.

‘Do you know your way round this place?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it would be nice to find somewhere a little quieter to get reacquainted.’ I give her another kiss and start moving my hand in an anti-clockwise motion over her bottom – you can use a clockwise motion if you like, nothing is going to drop off.

‘Oh, Timmy, you are naughty.’

‘I can’t help myself. With you looking like that I haven’t got a chance. Come on, Sam.’ I take her by the hand and draw her down the corridor before she can say anything.

‘I’m so weak,’ she murmurs.

Smashing! I think to myself. If I don’t get across this one in two shakes of a donkey’s dongler then Tarzan wears a truss. I push her back into the first bedroom I come across and feel hopefully for a key. There isn’t one but you can’t have everything.

‘Oh, Timmy,’ she says. ‘I do like you.’

That makes two of us, I think as I slip my hands underneath her dress. She makes a yum, yum noise and chews at my lips like she is trying to untie a reef knot with her teeth. Boy! With the effect I have on women I should start taking ugly-pills.

‘You’re wearing knicks tonight.’

‘It’s cold.’

‘Doesn’t feel cold to me.’

‘Oh, Timmy, that’s lovely.’

The next few minutes could be lovely for everybody but suddenly I hear a familiar voice outside the door.

‘Come in here,’ it whispers conspiratorially. ‘I want to show you something.’

Dad! What the hell does he want? I have a good mind to tell him to piss off but a mixture of curiosity and modesty gets the better of me.

‘Somebody’s coming,’ I say unnecessarily. ‘Get in that wardrobe.’

Samantha does not seem over-enthusiastic about the idea but I push her into a jungle of Justin’s trendy threads and bundle in after her. I pull the door to and it clicks shut.

‘U-u-u-m,’ murmurs Samantha, losing no time in getting cracking with her adventurous little pandies.

‘Steady on! I don’t fancy the smell of moth balls.’ But once you switch on Samantha’s ignition her engine starts revving up fit to blow a gasket.

‘’Ere, look what I’ve got!’ Dad sounds as if he is right outside the door of the wardrobe. ‘I bet you’ve never seen one like this before?’ Oh dear! The mind boggles at what the dirty old sod is up to. What stupid scrubber can have got lumbered with him?

‘’Course I have. Is that all you brought me in here for?’ No! That is my Mum’s voice. This is disgusting. Listening to my own mother and father rabbiting on in this vein makes me go hot and cold with embarrassment. What Samantha is doing to the front of my jeans does not help either.

‘You’ve seen one shaped like this?’

‘Of course I have. They’re all shaped like that. Now put it away.’

‘Yes, Dad,’ I breathe, ‘Put it away, please!’

‘You know how it works, do you? You pull this bit at the end.’

‘Of course I know. Now come on. Are you going to play with it all night?’ Mum sounds so matter of fact about the whole thing. I suppose this is the best way to humour him. Or maybe that is what twenty odd years of marriage does for you – very odd, some of them.

‘Look, it goes red when I pull it.’ Really! Would that I could be in any other wardrobe in the whole of North London. It would make your flesh creep with a couple of strangers, but your own Mum and Dad! I find it disgusting even to think of them on the job, let alone having to endure this. ‘I can’t get it in now.’ Dad’s helpless whine sends fresh currents of nausea through my twitching frame.

‘Oh, give it here! You’re like a child, aren’t you? I have to do everything. There, simple, isn’t it?’

‘Watch out! You’ve bent it.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s still going to work. See? Still niffs the same, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah. I’d better put it back.’

‘Hurry up before somebody comes.’

I don’t know whether it is because of a subconscious urge to stop this depravity or the fact that Samantha suddenly squeezes my moth balls, but my shoulder connects with the wardrobe door which swings open to reveal Percy pointing accusingly at my Mum and Dad. Dad has a large bottle of air freshener in his hand and one finger hooked in the wick control as if about to pull it like a hand grenade. Both he and Mum are fully clothed.

‘You filthy little devil!’ explodes Dad. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Just slipping into something cool, Dad.’ I close the door swiftly as Samantha lunges towards me through the lightweights.

‘What’s he on about?’ says Mum.

‘About every five minutes,’ says Dad. ‘Come on, I feel like a drink.’