Potter Versus Posh
This week Harry Potter and David Beckham both hit Los Angeles. They could hardly be more different, one is a squeaky voiced over-hyped kid with a massive PR machine behind him, the other is Harry Potter.
This week Harry, Ron and Hermione got their stars on the Hollywood walk of fame, hands and feet in the wet cement. We had Ron on the show, a shy, weirdly normal kid, who said that he’d just bought himself an ice cream van, just for the hell of it.
They were photographed on Hollywood Boulevard outside Mann’s Chinese Theater. It’s a famous tourist trap where on a weekend up to a hundred street performers , look-alikes and superheroes, work the strip for the tourists who want to get their pictures taken with Chewbacca, Spiderman, Marilyn Monroe.
Seemingly one of the problems is that some of the less scrupulous street performers will just leap in to the shot and then demand money from the tourist. At least once a month the cops are called in to restore order among the movie icons, imperial stormtroopers, and befuddled tourists.
There is something oddly pleasing about the TV footage of an angry six foot five dude in a Chewbacca outfit, minus the headpiece, being huckled away by the LAPD for nutting a tourguide. “Look at me, ma, I’m on national TV!”
Another time Batman and Spidey got into a stand off with some striking construction workers who didn’t want them to use their portaloo and before you could say Holy Shit the black and whites were on their way again.
The latest fracas involved a Chewie making a lewd and libidinous gesture towards a Marilyn Monroe while she was being photographed then running off before the cops could find him. Only here on the walk of fame could a six foot five alien dive into a crowd and disappear.
All this is a long way from the Posh and Becks machine, but it seems to me that it’s not a foregone conclusion that they will crack America and earn the money their publicists claim .
For a start if there is one thing that we are not short of here in Los Angeles, it’s malnourished women with implants who have an inflated sense of their own importance. Posh’s reality show ‘Coming to America’ has gone from a six part series on the struggling network NBC to a one off special, forty minutes of her house hunting, fretting over her driver’s license photos and showing off her cupboards and her much touted dry sense of humour.
I read on a British tabloid website that Rebecca Loos is trying to take credit for strengthening their marriage by having affair with him, which is a bit like Hitler taking credit for the founding of the state of Israel.
Soccer as they call it is big here like La Crosse is big in Europe. It is popular with Latinos but beyond the age of twelve kids play baseball, basketball or American football. A live sporting event with plenty of ad breaks for TV, t-shirts fired into the crowd with a canon, celebrities on giant jumbotron screens, cheerleaders and instant replays. It is a sport branded so aggressively it would make Posh and Becks blush at the modesty of their ambitions.
Beckham is now at an age when footballers used to start looking around for a good pub to invest in and he joins a team who are underperforming in a league that looks to me like an above average pub team, the mismatch has the feel of a movie.
Beckham’s gig here is clearly a sideshow to the main event which is the attempt to launch the Beckham Brand here in America. Seemingly they are massive in Japan where people love the fact that they are both so clean looking, like a Barbie couple. My guess is he’ll be seeing a vocal coach to deepen his voice so that he can start acting.
Meanwhile I have been doing my own modest bit for the Ford Motor Brand doing more sketches to plug their new SUV on the show. Yesterday we did two sketches on the coast in Malibu, one involving rock climbing and the other surfing. Even though most of the hard stuff was done by body doubles, the few hours of rock climbing, sucking in my gut on the beach and being hit in the nuts repeatedly by my own surfboard have left me feeling like I have played ninety minutes against Vinny Jones.
Watching Joe the professional climber stick on a ginger wig and a kilt, climb a sheer cliff face like he was a monkey, fall two stories onto a crash pad then leap up and do it all again was a laugh.
The real highlight of the day for me came after I staggered out of the water having failed to even get up on the surfboard in the rough seas to watch my pro surfer double as he weaved and bobbed casually through the waves in a kilt.
There was something about that image of a guy skimming those waves in a soaking wet kilt, Braveheart meets the Beachboys, that made me smile at the wonder and the silliness of it all.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
sunday times column week nine
Dead Famous
On Sunday we drove half an hour down to the boardwalk at Venice Beach. A cross between the Barras and a low rent seaside circus, it is the scummy tidemark on the bath that was the Sixties.
There is a guy who looks like Osama Bin Laden on roller skates with a little amp and an electric guitar who plays Hendrix songs as he speeds backwards along the beachfront.
You can get a massage, a healing, some sage or have your name carved on a grain of rice. Semi naked jugglers, toothless tarot readers, acid casualties hawking sandals, tie die t-shirts, posters of Al Pacino all vie for your money.
Hare Krishnas, fire eating Latvians, and bored looking Scientologists all compete for the Sunday crowd. There is a sand sculpture of a dragon, a woman shouting about circumcision, and a guy doing a robot dance to fund his planned trip to Mars.
My own personal favourite is the guy who emerges from an actual trash can holding a sign, Spare Some Cash For Poor White Trash, but the cops move him on, as he doesn’t have a licence.
At the end of the Boardwalk is Muscle beach - a former haunt of our Governor, an open air gym where bulked up, steroid stuffed musclemen preen and pose, their oiled up muscles glistening in the late evening sun.
Venice reminds me a bit of the Barras in Glasgow: the guys hawking plates, selling dud batteries, and those same Scarface posters, that weird conjunction of enterprise and desperation.
Though for surreal madness you couldn’t beat Paddy’s market, a street market in the Gallowgate in Glasgow’s East End where you’d see a guy selling a broken shoe lace, a comb with even fewer teeth than he had and a broken light bulb with all the solemnity of an auctioneer at Sotheby’s. Paddy’s Market is most likely all gentrified now and has been turned into a Charles Rennie Mackintosh themed delicatessen.
Los Angeles is a dangerous place. There are mudslides, flashfloods, race riots, earthquakes, drive by shootings, coyotes, rattlesnakes and wild fires.
It was the 4th of July the other week, it is sort of Guy Fawkes’ night meets Ne’erday, lots of parties and people dressed up in clothes made from the Stars and Stripes.
Fireworks are illegal here due to the fire risk, we are in the midst of the longest drought on record. It’s mostly official firework displays but people sneak them in from the neighbouring state of Nevada where seemingly almost nothing is illegal.
One guy made the news after he got into trouble though he’d tried to make sure he wouldn’t be seen by having his private firework display somewhere discreet, in his house.
On July fourth there are always a few injuries caused by ignorance of the basic principles of Newtonian physics. In some of the less affluent parts of town they shoot guns into the air, forgetting that what goes up must come down. So there are always people who land up in the ER because some gangsta shot a bullet that landed on them. They even have ads on the back of buses asking people not to do this.
With all this danger you have to think ahead. There is a huge cemetery here called Hollywood Forever. It was run down and in a mess when two young guys took it over a few years ago and turned it around, making it the in place to be buried.
Its most famous resident is Valentino, who died at 31. It was said that each year on the anniversary of his death a mysterious grief stricken lady in black would turn up at his grave. It turned out when someone did some digging that she was an actress in the pay of the studio. The great director Cecil B De Mille is buried there in a grave facing his beloved Paramount Studios across the road. For the more obscure residents they even have a website, findagrave.com.
Since the new and enterprising owners took over they’ve started showing movies there once a fortnight in the Summer, for ten bucks you can watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest projected onto a white wall in the cemetery. There was even talk of the Zombie movie, “Dawn of the Dead” being in the programme but the graveyard owners stepped in and nixed it.
They do funerals from around eighteen hundred bucks or nine hundred quid, and they’ll even do you a sort of highlight reel of your life. For friends who care but don’t want the hassle of actually having to show up at your funeral they offer a service where mourners can watch your funeral on line, cybergrief.
There is even a guy out here who runs something called Dearly Departed Tours, for the more morbid tourist. Scott Michaels will drive you to the site of The Manson killings, passing the house of the Menendez brothers who murdered their parents. He’ll recount the story of the Welsh actress who met her death by jumping off the Hollywood sign, before they fenced it off. For a bit of light relief en route you can see where Hugh Grant was busted with Divine Brown and take a pee in the public lavatory where George Michael fell foul of an off duty cop. Classy, and the whole thing only takes half a day.
On Sunday we drove half an hour down to the boardwalk at Venice Beach. A cross between the Barras and a low rent seaside circus, it is the scummy tidemark on the bath that was the Sixties.
There is a guy who looks like Osama Bin Laden on roller skates with a little amp and an electric guitar who plays Hendrix songs as he speeds backwards along the beachfront.
You can get a massage, a healing, some sage or have your name carved on a grain of rice. Semi naked jugglers, toothless tarot readers, acid casualties hawking sandals, tie die t-shirts, posters of Al Pacino all vie for your money.
Hare Krishnas, fire eating Latvians, and bored looking Scientologists all compete for the Sunday crowd. There is a sand sculpture of a dragon, a woman shouting about circumcision, and a guy doing a robot dance to fund his planned trip to Mars.
My own personal favourite is the guy who emerges from an actual trash can holding a sign, Spare Some Cash For Poor White Trash, but the cops move him on, as he doesn’t have a licence.
At the end of the Boardwalk is Muscle beach - a former haunt of our Governor, an open air gym where bulked up, steroid stuffed musclemen preen and pose, their oiled up muscles glistening in the late evening sun.
Venice reminds me a bit of the Barras in Glasgow: the guys hawking plates, selling dud batteries, and those same Scarface posters, that weird conjunction of enterprise and desperation.
Though for surreal madness you couldn’t beat Paddy’s market, a street market in the Gallowgate in Glasgow’s East End where you’d see a guy selling a broken shoe lace, a comb with even fewer teeth than he had and a broken light bulb with all the solemnity of an auctioneer at Sotheby’s. Paddy’s Market is most likely all gentrified now and has been turned into a Charles Rennie Mackintosh themed delicatessen.
Los Angeles is a dangerous place. There are mudslides, flashfloods, race riots, earthquakes, drive by shootings, coyotes, rattlesnakes and wild fires.
It was the 4th of July the other week, it is sort of Guy Fawkes’ night meets Ne’erday, lots of parties and people dressed up in clothes made from the Stars and Stripes.
Fireworks are illegal here due to the fire risk, we are in the midst of the longest drought on record. It’s mostly official firework displays but people sneak them in from the neighbouring state of Nevada where seemingly almost nothing is illegal.
One guy made the news after he got into trouble though he’d tried to make sure he wouldn’t be seen by having his private firework display somewhere discreet, in his house.
On July fourth there are always a few injuries caused by ignorance of the basic principles of Newtonian physics. In some of the less affluent parts of town they shoot guns into the air, forgetting that what goes up must come down. So there are always people who land up in the ER because some gangsta shot a bullet that landed on them. They even have ads on the back of buses asking people not to do this.
With all this danger you have to think ahead. There is a huge cemetery here called Hollywood Forever. It was run down and in a mess when two young guys took it over a few years ago and turned it around, making it the in place to be buried.
Its most famous resident is Valentino, who died at 31. It was said that each year on the anniversary of his death a mysterious grief stricken lady in black would turn up at his grave. It turned out when someone did some digging that she was an actress in the pay of the studio. The great director Cecil B De Mille is buried there in a grave facing his beloved Paramount Studios across the road. For the more obscure residents they even have a website, findagrave.com.
Since the new and enterprising owners took over they’ve started showing movies there once a fortnight in the Summer, for ten bucks you can watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest projected onto a white wall in the cemetery. There was even talk of the Zombie movie, “Dawn of the Dead” being in the programme but the graveyard owners stepped in and nixed it.
They do funerals from around eighteen hundred bucks or nine hundred quid, and they’ll even do you a sort of highlight reel of your life. For friends who care but don’t want the hassle of actually having to show up at your funeral they offer a service where mourners can watch your funeral on line, cybergrief.
There is even a guy out here who runs something called Dearly Departed Tours, for the more morbid tourist. Scott Michaels will drive you to the site of The Manson killings, passing the house of the Menendez brothers who murdered their parents. He’ll recount the story of the Welsh actress who met her death by jumping off the Hollywood sign, before they fenced it off. For a bit of light relief en route you can see where Hugh Grant was busted with Divine Brown and take a pee in the public lavatory where George Michael fell foul of an off duty cop. Classy, and the whole thing only takes half a day.
sunday times column week eight
Sts wk 8 column version 2.
On Monday my eleven year old daughter went off to Camp Hollywoodland, an all girls sleepover camp. She said she was nervous about the spiders and the other kids, though I suspect that this might have been partly a ruse to get us to buy her more new stuff, torches, sleeping bag, suitcases, all pink of course.She is only actually gone until Saturday morning but she insisted on a ‘care package’ or goody bag which we sent off on Tuesday with more pink stuff. Meanwhile her six year old brother, possibly in an act of protest at this preferential treatment, has decided to cut his own fringe so that we had to take him to the barbers early the next day to try to fix it.
Until I was eight or nine my Uncle Paddy used to cut our hair, he lived downstairs from us in the same tenement and had us sit backwards on a chair while he attacked our hair with some kind of implement designed for shearing sheep. I remember being delighted when I finally went to a proper barbers and found out that getting a haircut didn’t necessarily have to be physically painful. God, I sound like Molly bloody Weir.
Ben Kingsley was a guest on the show, I call him Ben although he is Sir Ben because we are now friends. He was on plugging his latest film” Kill Me” in which he plays a hit man who goes to AA to stop drinking and become a better hitman.
He agreed to be in a recurring sketch called ESPN UK where Craig plays a sort of mad George Best character and I am the posh straight man, Sir Cecil Wellsley Hogg, glued on moustache and tweed suit, I look like my Geography teacher from the seventies. We cast Sir Ben as the new coach for LA Galaxy who was a former hard man who has renounced all violence In real life he seems so gentle and optimistic but when he turned nasty in the sketch and smashed a bottle over Craig’s head, it brought back memories of bar fights in Rutherglen. I really felt quite scared.
A relative of mine owned and ran a pub in Barrowland called the Clyde Vaults, it was what was know as a “wine shop”. I once heard a guy in Glasgow tell his pal, “see you, you’re that drunk, you’d get a knock back from the Clyde Vaults.” It was described by the Sunday Mail pub spy review in the following glowing terms:” this has to be the dirtiest pub in Scotland, possibly the world.” It had the nick name of Lourdes, because so many of its clientele would go in on crutches but later emerge singing and dancing, miraculously healed by the curative powers of “the wine”.
The big news here is of course Paris getting back out of the slammer again. She is on Larry King live on CNN today. Larry King is an old ham from radio who has a reputation for being easy on his subjects and astonishingly under prepared. He interviewed Paul Ringo Yoko and Olivia Harrison yesterday and kept on calling Ringo George.
The more reputable media covering Paris’ release are there supposedly to analyze the media circus surrounding her release, as if somehow their lights and cameras and crew are not really a part of it.
This is a kid who was drunk driving and then driving while banned but after three weeks in prison there seems to be this weird rush to canonize her, or maybe it’s just that Lindsey Lohan is still in rehab and it takes everyone’s mind off the war in Iraq.
We did more bits for the show shamelessly plugging the Ford Escape, where I play the host’s mad bekilted Scottish cousin. After tearing a seam on the thirty six inch waist kilt they hired for me, George in wardrobe took me aside and with all the discretion of a senior oncologist asked me in a whisper, ?” like this was a question that might wound me to the core. “Has someone put on a couple of L.Bs ?”
On Friday we’ll shoot a scene where we go horse riding which might be awkward for me as the closest I’ve ever been to a horse was a donkey ride on the beach at Saltcoats in the late sixties. Americans don’t call it horse riding but horse back riding, as if to distinguish it from sitting on the horse’s head, I suppose.
I took my kids to see Evan Almighty, the sequel to Jim Carrey’s Bruce Almighty this time with Steve Carrell as an anchorman turned congressman who is told by God to build an ark. It is reportedly the most expensive comedy ever made because the director tried to use real animals over special effects as far as possible. Having seen it I felt that they should have used a few more computer generated monkeys and spent the money saved on a couple of re-writes.
On Monday my eleven year old daughter went off to Camp Hollywoodland, an all girls sleepover camp. She said she was nervous about the spiders and the other kids, though I suspect that this might have been partly a ruse to get us to buy her more new stuff, torches, sleeping bag, suitcases, all pink of course.She is only actually gone until Saturday morning but she insisted on a ‘care package’ or goody bag which we sent off on Tuesday with more pink stuff. Meanwhile her six year old brother, possibly in an act of protest at this preferential treatment, has decided to cut his own fringe so that we had to take him to the barbers early the next day to try to fix it.
Until I was eight or nine my Uncle Paddy used to cut our hair, he lived downstairs from us in the same tenement and had us sit backwards on a chair while he attacked our hair with some kind of implement designed for shearing sheep. I remember being delighted when I finally went to a proper barbers and found out that getting a haircut didn’t necessarily have to be physically painful. God, I sound like Molly bloody Weir.
Ben Kingsley was a guest on the show, I call him Ben although he is Sir Ben because we are now friends. He was on plugging his latest film” Kill Me” in which he plays a hit man who goes to AA to stop drinking and become a better hitman.
He agreed to be in a recurring sketch called ESPN UK where Craig plays a sort of mad George Best character and I am the posh straight man, Sir Cecil Wellsley Hogg, glued on moustache and tweed suit, I look like my Geography teacher from the seventies. We cast Sir Ben as the new coach for LA Galaxy who was a former hard man who has renounced all violence In real life he seems so gentle and optimistic but when he turned nasty in the sketch and smashed a bottle over Craig’s head, it brought back memories of bar fights in Rutherglen. I really felt quite scared.
A relative of mine owned and ran a pub in Barrowland called the Clyde Vaults, it was what was know as a “wine shop”. I once heard a guy in Glasgow tell his pal, “see you, you’re that drunk, you’d get a knock back from the Clyde Vaults.” It was described by the Sunday Mail pub spy review in the following glowing terms:” this has to be the dirtiest pub in Scotland, possibly the world.” It had the nick name of Lourdes, because so many of its clientele would go in on crutches but later emerge singing and dancing, miraculously healed by the curative powers of “the wine”.
The big news here is of course Paris getting back out of the slammer again. She is on Larry King live on CNN today. Larry King is an old ham from radio who has a reputation for being easy on his subjects and astonishingly under prepared. He interviewed Paul Ringo Yoko and Olivia Harrison yesterday and kept on calling Ringo George.
The more reputable media covering Paris’ release are there supposedly to analyze the media circus surrounding her release, as if somehow their lights and cameras and crew are not really a part of it.
This is a kid who was drunk driving and then driving while banned but after three weeks in prison there seems to be this weird rush to canonize her, or maybe it’s just that Lindsey Lohan is still in rehab and it takes everyone’s mind off the war in Iraq.
We did more bits for the show shamelessly plugging the Ford Escape, where I play the host’s mad bekilted Scottish cousin. After tearing a seam on the thirty six inch waist kilt they hired for me, George in wardrobe took me aside and with all the discretion of a senior oncologist asked me in a whisper, ?” like this was a question that might wound me to the core. “Has someone put on a couple of L.Bs ?”
On Friday we’ll shoot a scene where we go horse riding which might be awkward for me as the closest I’ve ever been to a horse was a donkey ride on the beach at Saltcoats in the late sixties. Americans don’t call it horse riding but horse back riding, as if to distinguish it from sitting on the horse’s head, I suppose.
I took my kids to see Evan Almighty, the sequel to Jim Carrey’s Bruce Almighty this time with Steve Carrell as an anchorman turned congressman who is told by God to build an ark. It is reportedly the most expensive comedy ever made because the director tried to use real animals over special effects as far as possible. Having seen it I felt that they should have used a few more computer generated monkeys and spent the money saved on a couple of re-writes.
sunday times column week seven
Gabriel had his kindergarden graduation this week, his second graduation ceremony in under a year, they seem to be very big on this out here. These five year old kids wearing pale blue mortar board hats and marching on the spot while saluting and singing “You’re a grand old flag, you’re a high flying flag…’ Is it cute or is it brainwashing or some weird combination of all of these.
I spoke to a guy this week who used to work with Bill Cosby who came from the projects here in LA and after a hugely successful career in television he now has his own building in New York with leather covered floors and a sidewalk with underfloor, heating to avoid being sued by people who might fall on the ice there in the Winter.
Here in Los Angeles The norms of showbusiness have percolated down into very stratum of society, estate agents, or realtors as they call them here are everywhere, and no just the name of the company but their headshots, smiling at you from bus shelters and benches,
A lot of them look like actors or models, as if their photos are saying I’m only doing this for a bit until I land that juicy part. Some of them are on the phone, as if too say, I’m selling so many houses I don’t even have time to put the phone down for a photograph. As if I care what the guy who finds me a house looks like, now a photograph of the house, that might be helpful.
There’s a great indy radio station out here which has a show hosted by Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols. The most intriguing thing about his show is the way that it makes absolutely no concession to an American audience, it’s basically Steve Jones chatting away to himself about nothing in particular Steve Jones plays duets on his guitar on the show with people like Cliff Richard and talks about his health in excruciating detail, “I’m feeling a bit phlegmy today” and “I tried that Viagra once but all it did was give me a headache and made everything look blue.” Steve is now a kind of cockney Tommy Cooper . The first time I tuned in he had Johhny Rotten on with him as a guest. It was surreal to hear those broad London Accents away out here. Johnny was saying “I remember I was out in Rwanda, doing a benefit and singing God Save the Gorillas” Steve says“Yeah, that Rwanda is a right dangerous gaff!”
At the weekend Sarah and I have taken to going for a walk or as the yanks term it, a hike up Runyon Canyon, a half hour walk which ends in a panoramic view down over the whole Los Angeles. The canyon is always busy with people walking their dogs, excercising compulsively, kvetching about the business or more often than not, all three at the same time. As you pass people you catch these odd little snippets of conversation “My personal trainer says that for now I should just concentrate on my pecs.” and “Oh my God, I couldn’t believe it, girlfriend brought his latte, but it wasn’t even non fat!’ and “He’s been kind of depressed ever since I had him neutered” but then as Brendan Behan used to say, every cripple has his own way of walking.
This guy is walking across the Sahara desert, as you do, and his foot hits a bottle by and a genie pops out of it. The genie says to him “I am the genie of the bottle and I’ve been locked up in there for a thousand years, your wish is my command.” The guy looks at the genie and says to him,” Look, I just kind of freed you by accident and there is nothing I really want, I’m pretty happy with my life the way it is.
The genie is very surprised by this and says “ You know, I’ve been a genie for a very long time and in this game you meet all kinds of people but you’re the first person I’ve ever come across who is completely happy with his lot in life, good for you.
The guy says, thanks. I’d love to stand here and chat to you but I’d better be getting on my way before that midday sun really kicks in and he walks off. The Genie thinks about this for a minute and then goes after him and says , “Look, I’ve been thinking about this and though I admire your contentment, if word gets round the genie community that someone freed me after a thousand years, then my name will be mud. There has to be something I can do for you.
The guy thinks about this for a bit and looks at the Genie’s sad face and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. “You see this, he says, “this is a map of the Middle East and people have been fighting over this little patch of desert for as far back as anyone can remember, longer even. Is there any way you could bring peace to this troubled corner of the globe?” The Genie bites his lip and looks pained. “Listen, . weight in gold, sure, forty virgins, not a problem, bigger you know what, dead easy and while that’s a very noble and unselfish wish but I’m afraid one of the genie rules is that we are not allowed to interfere in human history on that kind of scale,what you are asking for is just too big.”
So the guy thinks about this and says, “Look, not to worry, I won’t tell anyone about this so you don’t have to worry about the other genies.”
The genie still feels bad and says to the guy, “Is there nothing else you’ve always secretly wanted to do or to have, play guitar, meet someone from history, date a supermodel” and the guy says, “Actually on the subject of dating, I’ve always harboured a secret desire to understand the opposite sex, to really get what they’re about and how they think and why their take on things is so different from our own, is that something you think you could do for me?”
The genie looks at him with an even sadder face and shrugs and says, “ I’ll tell you what, let’s have another look at that map of the middle East.”
I spoke to a guy this week who used to work with Bill Cosby who came from the projects here in LA and after a hugely successful career in television he now has his own building in New York with leather covered floors and a sidewalk with underfloor, heating to avoid being sued by people who might fall on the ice there in the Winter.
Here in Los Angeles The norms of showbusiness have percolated down into very stratum of society, estate agents, or realtors as they call them here are everywhere, and no just the name of the company but their headshots, smiling at you from bus shelters and benches,
A lot of them look like actors or models, as if their photos are saying I’m only doing this for a bit until I land that juicy part. Some of them are on the phone, as if too say, I’m selling so many houses I don’t even have time to put the phone down for a photograph. As if I care what the guy who finds me a house looks like, now a photograph of the house, that might be helpful.
There’s a great indy radio station out here which has a show hosted by Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols. The most intriguing thing about his show is the way that it makes absolutely no concession to an American audience, it’s basically Steve Jones chatting away to himself about nothing in particular Steve Jones plays duets on his guitar on the show with people like Cliff Richard and talks about his health in excruciating detail, “I’m feeling a bit phlegmy today” and “I tried that Viagra once but all it did was give me a headache and made everything look blue.” Steve is now a kind of cockney Tommy Cooper . The first time I tuned in he had Johhny Rotten on with him as a guest. It was surreal to hear those broad London Accents away out here. Johnny was saying “I remember I was out in Rwanda, doing a benefit and singing God Save the Gorillas” Steve says“Yeah, that Rwanda is a right dangerous gaff!”
At the weekend Sarah and I have taken to going for a walk or as the yanks term it, a hike up Runyon Canyon, a half hour walk which ends in a panoramic view down over the whole Los Angeles. The canyon is always busy with people walking their dogs, excercising compulsively, kvetching about the business or more often than not, all three at the same time. As you pass people you catch these odd little snippets of conversation “My personal trainer says that for now I should just concentrate on my pecs.” and “Oh my God, I couldn’t believe it, girlfriend brought his latte, but it wasn’t even non fat!’ and “He’s been kind of depressed ever since I had him neutered” but then as Brendan Behan used to say, every cripple has his own way of walking.
This guy is walking across the Sahara desert, as you do, and his foot hits a bottle by and a genie pops out of it. The genie says to him “I am the genie of the bottle and I’ve been locked up in there for a thousand years, your wish is my command.” The guy looks at the genie and says to him,” Look, I just kind of freed you by accident and there is nothing I really want, I’m pretty happy with my life the way it is.
The genie is very surprised by this and says “ You know, I’ve been a genie for a very long time and in this game you meet all kinds of people but you’re the first person I’ve ever come across who is completely happy with his lot in life, good for you.
The guy says, thanks. I’d love to stand here and chat to you but I’d better be getting on my way before that midday sun really kicks in and he walks off. The Genie thinks about this for a minute and then goes after him and says , “Look, I’ve been thinking about this and though I admire your contentment, if word gets round the genie community that someone freed me after a thousand years, then my name will be mud. There has to be something I can do for you.
The guy thinks about this for a bit and looks at the Genie’s sad face and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. “You see this, he says, “this is a map of the Middle East and people have been fighting over this little patch of desert for as far back as anyone can remember, longer even. Is there any way you could bring peace to this troubled corner of the globe?” The Genie bites his lip and looks pained. “Listen, . weight in gold, sure, forty virgins, not a problem, bigger you know what, dead easy and while that’s a very noble and unselfish wish but I’m afraid one of the genie rules is that we are not allowed to interfere in human history on that kind of scale,what you are asking for is just too big.”
So the guy thinks about this and says, “Look, not to worry, I won’t tell anyone about this so you don’t have to worry about the other genies.”
The genie still feels bad and says to the guy, “Is there nothing else you’ve always secretly wanted to do or to have, play guitar, meet someone from history, date a supermodel” and the guy says, “Actually on the subject of dating, I’ve always harboured a secret desire to understand the opposite sex, to really get what they’re about and how they think and why their take on things is so different from our own, is that something you think you could do for me?”
The genie looks at him with an even sadder face and shrugs and says, “ I’ll tell you what, let’s have another look at that map of the middle East.”
sunday times column week six
Americans suddenly liberate Paris, again.
Michael Jackson and OJ both got off, but not Paris, she did the crime and faced some time. Paris Hilton is released from prison after 3 days, rumours were that she had stopped eating. Poor old Paris is a hate figure here, epitomizing the famous for being famous set and oddly enough when she went into county prison it seemed that some people were warming to her, since in America there are private prisons where rich criminals can do their time in peace and avoid poor criminals, as they call them, Club Fed. Now that her lawyers have managed to get her out of the forty five days in the pokey I think that she is doing herself no favours and besides it strikes me that she has garnered so much publicity for herself as a brand out of this that she should be paying them.
Meanwhile Lindsey Lohan is back in rehab, Promise in Malibu, it has a reputation for being a little too lenient, but still planning a big bash for her 21st which in California is the legal age for drinking, Brittany is dating her drug counselor and Nicole Richie who is hoping not to get a prison sentence for driving down the freeway on the wrong side of the road stoned out of her empty head may or may not be pregnant.
I am flying to Seattle to shoot the first of a series of sketches on the show sponsored by a car company, it is sponsored product placement to get around the fact that so many people record shows and then watch them later, fast forwarding through the ads. I play Craig’s mad Scottish cousin, who has come to America to meet celebrities and Craig is anxious to avoid. I ask George, our wardrobe guy and the campest man in Hollywood, to find me a kilt for the part as I’ve left mine in London. Apparently they are not easy to get hold of but they do have some, mostly for productions of that masterpiece of Scottish social realism Brigadoon. The one he finds is old, missing its sporran and a little frayed around the edges, having got up at 4 am today I’m feeling very similar.
There is some talk of a bungee jumping sequence and I’m torn between my thrill seeking side and my abject terror of heights. George discretely suggests a pair of flesh coloured dance briefs to go under the kilt. I explain that nothing is worn under the kilt (it’s all in perfect working order) and he goes into an explanation of why if you are being catapulted at a great speed from a high bridge in a kilt, it might be better to have a bit of support for your personal equipment. I decide to pack them just in case, thinking that they may double as a sort of nappy.
I got a day’s work on a movie, The Kreutzer Sonata, it was shot on digital video with a tiny cast, so not exactly big budget, but hey, two hundred bucks is two hundred bucks. I play the Master of Ceremonies at a charity event and since most of it was improvised I had to come up with some jokes. My friend Lenny Levy told me this as his favourite Jewish Joke and I used it in the speech.
Once upon a time there was a very rich, old lady who had only one grandson, a boy of four whom she doted on. She asked the boy what he wanted for his fifth birthday and he said that he wanted to go to the seaside. So she dressed him up in his little sailor suit and his little sailor’s hat and despite the forecast of stormy weather off they went to the seaside.
So they’re standing there staring at the sea when a freak tidal wave sweeps in and plucks the little boy from where he is standing and the sea swallows him up, leaving the grandmother standing there alone.
The grandmother looks up and says to God,” Now look here, God, if you give me back my grandson I will become a much better person, I’ll give to the poor, I’ll pray every day, and I’ll never never ask you for anything else again as long as I live.”
Just then a second freak tidal wave comes along just like the first one and miraculously replaces the little boy on the very spot where he had stood a minute before. So the Grandmother looks down at the little boy and sees that he is soaking wet but completely unharmed, apart from the fact that he is missing his hat.
She looks up at God and says, “Now look here God, he had a hat!”
Michael Jackson and OJ both got off, but not Paris, she did the crime and faced some time. Paris Hilton is released from prison after 3 days, rumours were that she had stopped eating. Poor old Paris is a hate figure here, epitomizing the famous for being famous set and oddly enough when she went into county prison it seemed that some people were warming to her, since in America there are private prisons where rich criminals can do their time in peace and avoid poor criminals, as they call them, Club Fed. Now that her lawyers have managed to get her out of the forty five days in the pokey I think that she is doing herself no favours and besides it strikes me that she has garnered so much publicity for herself as a brand out of this that she should be paying them.
Meanwhile Lindsey Lohan is back in rehab, Promise in Malibu, it has a reputation for being a little too lenient, but still planning a big bash for her 21st which in California is the legal age for drinking, Brittany is dating her drug counselor and Nicole Richie who is hoping not to get a prison sentence for driving down the freeway on the wrong side of the road stoned out of her empty head may or may not be pregnant.
I am flying to Seattle to shoot the first of a series of sketches on the show sponsored by a car company, it is sponsored product placement to get around the fact that so many people record shows and then watch them later, fast forwarding through the ads. I play Craig’s mad Scottish cousin, who has come to America to meet celebrities and Craig is anxious to avoid. I ask George, our wardrobe guy and the campest man in Hollywood, to find me a kilt for the part as I’ve left mine in London. Apparently they are not easy to get hold of but they do have some, mostly for productions of that masterpiece of Scottish social realism Brigadoon. The one he finds is old, missing its sporran and a little frayed around the edges, having got up at 4 am today I’m feeling very similar.
There is some talk of a bungee jumping sequence and I’m torn between my thrill seeking side and my abject terror of heights. George discretely suggests a pair of flesh coloured dance briefs to go under the kilt. I explain that nothing is worn under the kilt (it’s all in perfect working order) and he goes into an explanation of why if you are being catapulted at a great speed from a high bridge in a kilt, it might be better to have a bit of support for your personal equipment. I decide to pack them just in case, thinking that they may double as a sort of nappy.
I got a day’s work on a movie, The Kreutzer Sonata, it was shot on digital video with a tiny cast, so not exactly big budget, but hey, two hundred bucks is two hundred bucks. I play the Master of Ceremonies at a charity event and since most of it was improvised I had to come up with some jokes. My friend Lenny Levy told me this as his favourite Jewish Joke and I used it in the speech.
Once upon a time there was a very rich, old lady who had only one grandson, a boy of four whom she doted on. She asked the boy what he wanted for his fifth birthday and he said that he wanted to go to the seaside. So she dressed him up in his little sailor suit and his little sailor’s hat and despite the forecast of stormy weather off they went to the seaside.
So they’re standing there staring at the sea when a freak tidal wave sweeps in and plucks the little boy from where he is standing and the sea swallows him up, leaving the grandmother standing there alone.
The grandmother looks up and says to God,” Now look here, God, if you give me back my grandson I will become a much better person, I’ll give to the poor, I’ll pray every day, and I’ll never never ask you for anything else again as long as I live.”
Just then a second freak tidal wave comes along just like the first one and miraculously replaces the little boy on the very spot where he had stood a minute before. So the Grandmother looks down at the little boy and sees that he is soaking wet but completely unharmed, apart from the fact that he is missing his hat.
She looks up at God and says, “Now look here God, he had a hat!”
sunday times column week five
Americans suddenly liberate Paris, again.
Michael Jackson and OJ both got off, but not Paris, she did the crime and faced some time. Paris Hilton is released from prison after 3 days, rumours were that she had stopped eating. Poor old Paris is a hate figure here, epitomizing the famous for being famous set and oddly enough when she went into county prison it seemed that some people were warming to her, since in America there are private prisons where rich criminals can do their time in peace and avoid poor criminals, as they call them, Club Fed. Now that her lawyers have managed to get her out of the forty five days in the pokey I think that she is doing herself no favours and besides it strikes me that she has garnered so much publicity for herself as a brand out of this that she should be paying them.
Meanwhile Lindsey Lohan is back in rehab, Promise in Malibu, it has a reputation for being a little too lenient, but still planning a big bash for her 21st which in California is the legal age for drinking, Brittany is dating her drug counselor and Nicole Richie who is hoping not to get a prison sentence for driving down the freeway on the wrong side of the road stoned out of her empty head may or may not be pregnant.
I am flying to Seattle to shoot the first of a series of sketches on the show sponsored by a car company, it is sponsored product placement to get around the fact that so many people record shows and then watch them later, fast forwarding through the ads. I play Craig’s mad Scottish cousin, who has come to America to meet celebrities and Craig is anxious to avoid. I ask George, our wardrobe guy and the campest man in Hollywood, to find me a kilt for the part as I’ve left mine in London. Apparently they are not easy to get hold of but they do have some, mostly for productions of that masterpiece of Scottish social realism Brigadoon. The one he finds is old, missing its sporran and a little frayed around the edges, having got up at 4 am today I’m feeling very similar.
There is some talk of a bungee jumping sequence and I’m torn between my thrill seeking side and my abject terror of heights. George discretely suggests a pair of flesh coloured dance briefs to go under the kilt. I explain that nothing is worn under the kilt (it’s all in perfect working order) and he goes into an explanation of why if you are being catapulted at a great speed from a high bridge in a kilt, it might be better to have a bit of support for your personal equipment. I decide to pack them just in case, thinking that they may double as a sort of nappy.
I got a day’s work on a movie, The Kreutzer Sonata, it was shot on digital video with a tiny cast, so not exactly big budget, but hey, two hundred bucks is two hundred bucks. I play the Master of Ceremonies at a charity event and since most of it was improvised I had to come up with some jokes. My friend Lenny Levy told me this as his favourite Jewish Joke and I used it in the speech.
Once upon a time there was a very rich, old lady who had only one grandson, a boy of four whom she doted on. She asked the boy what he wanted for his fifth birthday and he said that he wanted to go to the seaside. So she dressed him up in his little sailor suit and his little sailor’s hat and despite the forecast of stormy weather off they went to the seaside.
So they’re standing there staring at the sea when a freak tidal wave sweeps in and plucks the little boy from where he is standing and the sea swallows him up, leaving the grandmother standing there alone.
The grandmother looks up and says to God,” Now look here, God, if you give me back my grandson I will become a much better person, I’ll give to the poor, I’ll pray every day, and I’ll never never ask you for anything else again as long as I live.”
Just then a second freak tidal wave comes along just like the first one and miraculously replaces the little boy on the very spot where he had stood a minute before. So the Grandmother looks down at the little boy and sees that he is soaking wet but completely unharmed, apart from the fact that he is missing his hat.
She looks up at God and says, “Now look here God, he had a hat!”
The Jewish jokes, How was your holiday? It was disappointing. How about the food? It was terrible, and such small portions
Ladies is anything alright?
This guy is walking across the Sahara desert, as you do, and his foot hits a bottle by and a genie pops out of it. The genie says to him “I am the genie of the bottle and I’ve been locked up in there for a thousand years, your wish is my command.” The guy looks at the genie and says to him,” Look, I just kind of freed you by accident and there is nothing I really want, I’m pretty happy with my life the way it is.
The genie is very surprised by this and says “ You know, I’ve been a genie for a very long time and in this game you meet all kinds of people but you’re the first person I’ve ever come across who is completely happy with his lot in life, good for you.
The guy says, thanks. I’d love to stand here and chat to you but I’d better be getting on my way before that midday sun really kicks in and he walks off. The Genie thinks about this for a minute and then goes after him and says , “Look, I’ve been thinking about this and though I admire your contentment, if word gets round the genie community that someone freed me after a thousand years, then my name will be mud. There has to be something I can do for you.
The guy thinks about this for a bit and looks at the Genie’s sad face and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. “You see this, he says, “this is a map of the Middle East and people have been fighting over this little patch of desert for as far back as anyone can remember, longer even. Is there any way you could bring peace to this troubled corner of the globe?” The Genie bites his lip and looks pained. “Listen, . weight in gold, sure, forty virgins, not a problem, bigger you know what, dead easy and while that’s a very noble and unselfish wish but I’m afraid one of the genie rules is that we are not allowed to interfere in human history on that kind of scale,what you are asking for is just too big.”
So the guy thinks about this and says, “Look, not to worry, I won’t tell anyone about this so you don’t have to worry about the other genies.”
The genie still feels bad and says to the guy, “Is there nothing else you’ve always secretly wanted to do or to have, play guitar, meet someone from history, date a supermodel” and the guy says, “Actually on the subject of dating, I’ve always harboured a secret desire to understand the opposite sex, to really get what they’re about and how they think and why their take on things is so different from our own, is that something you think you could do for me?”
The genie looks at him with an even sadder face and shrugs and says, “ I’ll tell you what, let’s have another look at that map of the middle East.”
Elephant shit sweeper up guy story, what you mean quit showbusiness altogether?
Cosby who came from the projects in LA and his building with the leather covered floors and the heated sidewalk to avoid frivolous lawsuits from people who fall on the ice there in the Winter.
Realtors in LA and their headshots.
Johnny Rotten and Steve Jones on the radio, Jonesy’s Jukebox on Indy Radio, surreal to hear those broad London Accents away out here. “I remember I was out in Rwanda doing a benefit and singing God Save the Gorillas” “Yeah, that Rwanda is a right dangerous gaff” Steve Jones who is a sort of cockney Tommy Cooper, plays duets on his guitar on the show with people like Cliff Richard and talks about his health in excruciating detail, “I’m feeling a bit phlegmy today” and I tried that Viagra once but all it did was give me a headache and made everything look blue.
Brendan Behan, “What can’t be cured must be endured” and “Every cripple has his own way of walking.”
The canyon and the walks, the dogs, the anorexics, the gays and the snippets of conversations you hear as you go past. “I would totally look for a new manager” Work on my pecs. I had him spayed and neutered.Oh my God, it wasn’t even non fat!’
Is that goat fell? No, but it doesn’t look too steady on its feet.
Michael Jackson and OJ both got off, but not Paris, she did the crime and faced some time. Paris Hilton is released from prison after 3 days, rumours were that she had stopped eating. Poor old Paris is a hate figure here, epitomizing the famous for being famous set and oddly enough when she went into county prison it seemed that some people were warming to her, since in America there are private prisons where rich criminals can do their time in peace and avoid poor criminals, as they call them, Club Fed. Now that her lawyers have managed to get her out of the forty five days in the pokey I think that she is doing herself no favours and besides it strikes me that she has garnered so much publicity for herself as a brand out of this that she should be paying them.
Meanwhile Lindsey Lohan is back in rehab, Promise in Malibu, it has a reputation for being a little too lenient, but still planning a big bash for her 21st which in California is the legal age for drinking, Brittany is dating her drug counselor and Nicole Richie who is hoping not to get a prison sentence for driving down the freeway on the wrong side of the road stoned out of her empty head may or may not be pregnant.
I am flying to Seattle to shoot the first of a series of sketches on the show sponsored by a car company, it is sponsored product placement to get around the fact that so many people record shows and then watch them later, fast forwarding through the ads. I play Craig’s mad Scottish cousin, who has come to America to meet celebrities and Craig is anxious to avoid. I ask George, our wardrobe guy and the campest man in Hollywood, to find me a kilt for the part as I’ve left mine in London. Apparently they are not easy to get hold of but they do have some, mostly for productions of that masterpiece of Scottish social realism Brigadoon. The one he finds is old, missing its sporran and a little frayed around the edges, having got up at 4 am today I’m feeling very similar.
There is some talk of a bungee jumping sequence and I’m torn between my thrill seeking side and my abject terror of heights. George discretely suggests a pair of flesh coloured dance briefs to go under the kilt. I explain that nothing is worn under the kilt (it’s all in perfect working order) and he goes into an explanation of why if you are being catapulted at a great speed from a high bridge in a kilt, it might be better to have a bit of support for your personal equipment. I decide to pack them just in case, thinking that they may double as a sort of nappy.
I got a day’s work on a movie, The Kreutzer Sonata, it was shot on digital video with a tiny cast, so not exactly big budget, but hey, two hundred bucks is two hundred bucks. I play the Master of Ceremonies at a charity event and since most of it was improvised I had to come up with some jokes. My friend Lenny Levy told me this as his favourite Jewish Joke and I used it in the speech.
Once upon a time there was a very rich, old lady who had only one grandson, a boy of four whom she doted on. She asked the boy what he wanted for his fifth birthday and he said that he wanted to go to the seaside. So she dressed him up in his little sailor suit and his little sailor’s hat and despite the forecast of stormy weather off they went to the seaside.
So they’re standing there staring at the sea when a freak tidal wave sweeps in and plucks the little boy from where he is standing and the sea swallows him up, leaving the grandmother standing there alone.
The grandmother looks up and says to God,” Now look here, God, if you give me back my grandson I will become a much better person, I’ll give to the poor, I’ll pray every day, and I’ll never never ask you for anything else again as long as I live.”
Just then a second freak tidal wave comes along just like the first one and miraculously replaces the little boy on the very spot where he had stood a minute before. So the Grandmother looks down at the little boy and sees that he is soaking wet but completely unharmed, apart from the fact that he is missing his hat.
She looks up at God and says, “Now look here God, he had a hat!”
The Jewish jokes, How was your holiday? It was disappointing. How about the food? It was terrible, and such small portions
Ladies is anything alright?
This guy is walking across the Sahara desert, as you do, and his foot hits a bottle by and a genie pops out of it. The genie says to him “I am the genie of the bottle and I’ve been locked up in there for a thousand years, your wish is my command.” The guy looks at the genie and says to him,” Look, I just kind of freed you by accident and there is nothing I really want, I’m pretty happy with my life the way it is.
The genie is very surprised by this and says “ You know, I’ve been a genie for a very long time and in this game you meet all kinds of people but you’re the first person I’ve ever come across who is completely happy with his lot in life, good for you.
The guy says, thanks. I’d love to stand here and chat to you but I’d better be getting on my way before that midday sun really kicks in and he walks off. The Genie thinks about this for a minute and then goes after him and says , “Look, I’ve been thinking about this and though I admire your contentment, if word gets round the genie community that someone freed me after a thousand years, then my name will be mud. There has to be something I can do for you.
The guy thinks about this for a bit and looks at the Genie’s sad face and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. “You see this, he says, “this is a map of the Middle East and people have been fighting over this little patch of desert for as far back as anyone can remember, longer even. Is there any way you could bring peace to this troubled corner of the globe?” The Genie bites his lip and looks pained. “Listen, . weight in gold, sure, forty virgins, not a problem, bigger you know what, dead easy and while that’s a very noble and unselfish wish but I’m afraid one of the genie rules is that we are not allowed to interfere in human history on that kind of scale,what you are asking for is just too big.”
So the guy thinks about this and says, “Look, not to worry, I won’t tell anyone about this so you don’t have to worry about the other genies.”
The genie still feels bad and says to the guy, “Is there nothing else you’ve always secretly wanted to do or to have, play guitar, meet someone from history, date a supermodel” and the guy says, “Actually on the subject of dating, I’ve always harboured a secret desire to understand the opposite sex, to really get what they’re about and how they think and why their take on things is so different from our own, is that something you think you could do for me?”
The genie looks at him with an even sadder face and shrugs and says, “ I’ll tell you what, let’s have another look at that map of the middle East.”
Elephant shit sweeper up guy story, what you mean quit showbusiness altogether?
Cosby who came from the projects in LA and his building with the leather covered floors and the heated sidewalk to avoid frivolous lawsuits from people who fall on the ice there in the Winter.
Realtors in LA and their headshots.
Johnny Rotten and Steve Jones on the radio, Jonesy’s Jukebox on Indy Radio, surreal to hear those broad London Accents away out here. “I remember I was out in Rwanda doing a benefit and singing God Save the Gorillas” “Yeah, that Rwanda is a right dangerous gaff” Steve Jones who is a sort of cockney Tommy Cooper, plays duets on his guitar on the show with people like Cliff Richard and talks about his health in excruciating detail, “I’m feeling a bit phlegmy today” and I tried that Viagra once but all it did was give me a headache and made everything look blue.
Brendan Behan, “What can’t be cured must be endured” and “Every cripple has his own way of walking.”
The canyon and the walks, the dogs, the anorexics, the gays and the snippets of conversations you hear as you go past. “I would totally look for a new manager” Work on my pecs. I had him spayed and neutered.Oh my God, it wasn’t even non fat!’
Is that goat fell? No, but it doesn’t look too steady on its feet.
sunday times column week four
Pirates, Paris and Two Bunch Palms
Thursday I took my kids to see Pirates 3 Dead Man’s Chest. Afterwards my 12 year old daughter came out of the bathroom with a look of barely contained excitement on her face. “Oh my God, dad!” I thought she had just found some money but it turned out that she had just seen Paris Hilton washing her hands in the cludgie next to her.
It might be no bad thing that Paris gets used to crowded toilet facilities and sharing with other girls as on Tuesday she begins a prison sentence for driving on a license after it was suspended for drunk driving.
At the weekend we managed to arrange some child care and spent the weekend at a spa in the desolate town of Desert Hot Springs about two and half hours drive into the desert from West Hollywood.
The spa is called Two Bunch Palms and is on a sacred Indian site. It is famous for its natural hot springs and mud baths, it features as the movie executive’s retreat in the Robert Altman movie The Player. It was once a clandestine hideaway for Al Capone who built a stone fortress there as his hideout from the Feds. They have his bullet proof car on display there.
I went for a run in the desert and saw a coyote, it looks like a skinny dog whose head is too big, not unlike the one in the cartoon.
I thought back to the family holidays we went on as kids. We either went to Ireland or to the West coast of Scotland in our green Morris Oxford, a car with a fold down leather arm rest in the back seat and bright orange pop up indicators.
It was mostly Girvan, for the Glasgow fair fortnight, I have a photo of us sitting in deck chairs, the only family on that beach next to what looks to be an active sewage pipe, on a day when an Eskimo would not venture outdoors for fear of frostbite.
My father sits smiling at us across the years, the only one whose teeth are not chittering, although mind you those teeth are not his, as he lost his in his youth in Ireland playing Hurling, which is somewhere between a contact sport and a martial art.
When he thought that it was time for us to get into the sea, he’d would tell us “Put on your costume” to the occasional surprise of any nearby listeners who might expect some kind of theatrical performance.
Our swimming costumes, maroon coloured and tweedy, were of dubious provenance, possibly hand knitted by some sadistic aunt. They were made of some kind of synthesis of a man made fabric and steel wool.
One of their unique features was that whenever they came into contact with any type of moisture they immediately doubled in weight and size. When I came out of the sea in them I looked like I was wearing a blood red overfull nappy which hung around my knees. Swimming in them was like swimming in leg irons.
If they weren’t hand knitted then they were no doubt purchased at Mrs Murphy’s, a second hand shop next to Paddy’s market in the Gallowgate in the east end of Glasgow. We kids were issued with strict instructions not to tell anyone that our clothes were bought in a second hand store and if the Rutherglen bus passed as my mother was on her way in there, she would dive up a close to avoid being spotted going in there.
At my father’s funeral, Mrs Murphy stood outside the chapel to pay her last respects to my dad. As I carried the coffin to the hearse I passed right by her, “Lovely man that Mr McGrade,” she said sadly,” size ten in a shoe” I couldn’t tell whether she was mourning the loss of a friend or his custom.
Another memorable Scottish holiday was the year we somehow managed to end up renting the lower half of a scruffy council house in Girvan. It rained so long and hard that if we had stayed there any longer we would have had to start building an ark.
It was torture for us as there was no TV downstairs but we could hear the one that was on upstairs, for four kids it was the equivalent of starving to death while living above a bakery.
I have a vivid memory of the one high point of the holiday which was watching the cross eyed boy who lived next door slowly dissect a golf ball with a fork. The first layer under the skin a bunch of elastics, then inside that a gooey substance that looked like what you find inside a chocolate éclair. You won’t see that in your Scottish Tourist Board Ads at the cinema.
Thursday I took my kids to see Pirates 3 Dead Man’s Chest. Afterwards my 12 year old daughter came out of the bathroom with a look of barely contained excitement on her face. “Oh my God, dad!” I thought she had just found some money but it turned out that she had just seen Paris Hilton washing her hands in the cludgie next to her.
It might be no bad thing that Paris gets used to crowded toilet facilities and sharing with other girls as on Tuesday she begins a prison sentence for driving on a license after it was suspended for drunk driving.
At the weekend we managed to arrange some child care and spent the weekend at a spa in the desolate town of Desert Hot Springs about two and half hours drive into the desert from West Hollywood.
The spa is called Two Bunch Palms and is on a sacred Indian site. It is famous for its natural hot springs and mud baths, it features as the movie executive’s retreat in the Robert Altman movie The Player. It was once a clandestine hideaway for Al Capone who built a stone fortress there as his hideout from the Feds. They have his bullet proof car on display there.
I went for a run in the desert and saw a coyote, it looks like a skinny dog whose head is too big, not unlike the one in the cartoon.
I thought back to the family holidays we went on as kids. We either went to Ireland or to the West coast of Scotland in our green Morris Oxford, a car with a fold down leather arm rest in the back seat and bright orange pop up indicators.
It was mostly Girvan, for the Glasgow fair fortnight, I have a photo of us sitting in deck chairs, the only family on that beach next to what looks to be an active sewage pipe, on a day when an Eskimo would not venture outdoors for fear of frostbite.
My father sits smiling at us across the years, the only one whose teeth are not chittering, although mind you those teeth are not his, as he lost his in his youth in Ireland playing Hurling, which is somewhere between a contact sport and a martial art.
When he thought that it was time for us to get into the sea, he’d would tell us “Put on your costume” to the occasional surprise of any nearby listeners who might expect some kind of theatrical performance.
Our swimming costumes, maroon coloured and tweedy, were of dubious provenance, possibly hand knitted by some sadistic aunt. They were made of some kind of synthesis of a man made fabric and steel wool.
One of their unique features was that whenever they came into contact with any type of moisture they immediately doubled in weight and size. When I came out of the sea in them I looked like I was wearing a blood red overfull nappy which hung around my knees. Swimming in them was like swimming in leg irons.
If they weren’t hand knitted then they were no doubt purchased at Mrs Murphy’s, a second hand shop next to Paddy’s market in the Gallowgate in the east end of Glasgow. We kids were issued with strict instructions not to tell anyone that our clothes were bought in a second hand store and if the Rutherglen bus passed as my mother was on her way in there, she would dive up a close to avoid being spotted going in there.
At my father’s funeral, Mrs Murphy stood outside the chapel to pay her last respects to my dad. As I carried the coffin to the hearse I passed right by her, “Lovely man that Mr McGrade,” she said sadly,” size ten in a shoe” I couldn’t tell whether she was mourning the loss of a friend or his custom.
Another memorable Scottish holiday was the year we somehow managed to end up renting the lower half of a scruffy council house in Girvan. It rained so long and hard that if we had stayed there any longer we would have had to start building an ark.
It was torture for us as there was no TV downstairs but we could hear the one that was on upstairs, for four kids it was the equivalent of starving to death while living above a bakery.
I have a vivid memory of the one high point of the holiday which was watching the cross eyed boy who lived next door slowly dissect a golf ball with a fork. The first layer under the skin a bunch of elastics, then inside that a gooey substance that looked like what you find inside a chocolate éclair. You won’t see that in your Scottish Tourist Board Ads at the cinema.
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