Archives for posts with tag: South London

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There is a distinct similarity between Prospect Heights now and Brixton, South London in the late 80’s.

The ethnic mix, the 19th Century architecture, the potential.

Caribbean accents shouting over the sleepy neighbourhood.

A man, wearing his dreadlocks crammed into a woolen hat, screams at a lover. “Suck my dick you bitch!” his roadside companions say, “Chill man.” He ignores them, grabbing hold of his cock through his baggy jeans. “Go on, suck my fucking cock you fucking bitch.”

Every morning at sun rise I walk the dog through the fetid neighbourhood.

The once elegant streets, charming garden enclaves, Victorian arches to long abandoned mews. The beaux-arts flourishes and tatty pediments, the flaking eves and badly painted architrave in desperate need of wholesale renovation/conservation.

“This is the front line.” I hear a cocky young white boy say to his distressed looking girl.

The charming coffee shops and elegant restaurants are already here. Franklin is heralding the beginning of the great gentrification. Some of the multi-occupancy dwellings have already been restored to their original 19th Century grandeur. The streets will be reclaimed.

Yesterday, after my long walk, I met a young actor kid who sat with us and told his life story.  Later that day I met his gf, he gave me a button that says ‘Is That A Poem in Your Pocket?’  We are going to take some pictures today. I want to wrap him in a sheet like those Eve Arnold pictures of Marilyn Monroe.

I hung at the club with my old friend S and my occasional fuck…  Levi.  I met Anthony S for lunch. I took pictures of Hudson Taylor and discussed the extraordinary work he does for the LGBT community.

S and I had a lovely dinner at Cafe Select then headed over to the Bowery Hotel when we met occasional film producer Sofia Sondervan.  On the way there, S warned me that Sofia was prone to heavy drinking and bouts of anger stemming from post natal depression.  She told me that they had fallen out but S  had since forgiven Sofia.  Sofia had ‘taken a break’ from the film industry.  Sophia’s  most notable achievement in film? The lamentable Party Monster. The true story of Michael Alig.

Sofia is a sturdy woman, sporting large country hips perfect for child bearing. A character Thomas Hardy might have written  The  face of a jolly farmer’s wife, complete with ubiquitous ruddy complexion and broken veins in her nose and cheeks.   A solid, Dutch female,  roll-mop eating her way though her late 40’s.  Her large, masculine hands more suited to kneading dough that writing script notes?

At first she was utterly charming, her blue eyes flashing flirtatiously.   She showed me a picture of her dog.  She ordered martinis.  She was accompanied by a young woman who could very well have been her daughter.

After a few drinks some women disintegrate. Usually older,  blousy blonds… like Sofia.

She embarrassed us all by telling loud stories of S’s past  sexual conquests… then made sure single S was aware that she (Sofia) was married and had a child.  Her increasing drunkenness thinly disguising her passive aggression.  The subtext was clear:  like many married people Sofia looks down her nose at her unmarried friends.  The tyranny of marriage.  She announced that she had ‘fully financed and cast’  her new film.  Triumphal, decadent and wholly ersatz.

I asked, quite innocently, if the young girl sitting with her was her daughter.

Sofia baulked. “No”, she said. “How could you say such a thing? This girl is 29 years old”.

“Oh,” I said. “She looks like a 19-year-old.”

“Yes”, the girl said smugly, “I get that all the time.”

It wasn’t the most helpful thing to say. It didn’t exactly help Sofia out of the vain quicksand into which she now began to rapidly sink.

“How old do I look?” She asked.

“55?” I guessed.

Sofia ‘suddenly’ realized who I was. Her tone changed. She had been reading this very blog. She had read the LA Weekly article about me going to jail…

“What is the difference between jail and prison?” She mocked.

“I”m assuming that you are a bit touchy about your age.” I mused.

Sofia decided that this was a good time to unleash the hounds.

She told me what she knew… real and imagined. That I hated AA.  That she had ‘heard’ things about me from other people.  ‘She invented fights with Joe Simon and mocked the white in my beard. Yes, she tried to shame me for being older than her.  She pretended that I had ‘friended’ her on Facebook when the opposite was true.

For those of you who know me… and I mean… KNOW me… this drunken attack was ill-judged.  S left the table.  I cocked my semi-automatic and took aim into the fat, menopausal, drooping face of Ms. Sofia Sondervan.

“Do you want some good advice Sofia?” I asked quietly. “If you don’t want men to think you are 55 years old… lose some weight, get those unsightly bags removed from under your eyes and do something with your hair.” I smiled comfortingly into her bovine face. “I mean, let’s face it… your credits are lacking, your choices are poor. You should be at home with your husband… if he can bear the sight of you. If touching that aging, crepe skin and those white, wiry pussy pubes  still turns him on. At least you have your baby… the great thing about babies? They’ll give you unconditional love regardless of what you look like.”

She took it well. Gulped at her dirty martini and smiled at her friend.

“Did that make you feel better?” She asked naively. “Oh yes,” I said. “I can live quite well on a diet of pure vitriol.”

“Tell S, ” she parried, “Both of us are married.”  Her smug friend nodded in agreement and held up her left hand.  “…and we both have kids.”

As I was leaving I saw the equally reptilian Producer Dan Halsted sipping water with his pugnacious assistant in another part of the bar. All the freaks were out last night. He’s probably at an AA meeting right now conning the assembled crowd with his story of perfect recovery. Fuck. What a cunt.

Gary Winick (Tadpole 2002) died.  He was 49-years-old.

Gary once introduced me to Mark Ruffalo.  Mark wouldn’t remember me, Gary would.

Gary was one of the forward thinking guys who set up the ground breaking film production company InDigEnt.  He was a really, really sweet man.  No news as to how he died but I think, from what I can remember, he may have had a serious illness that he kept quiet about.

He was very discreet.

Crikey, so many deaths!  I just diligently report them.  It’s rewarding to find something nice to say about the recently departed like poor Wally in Whitstable.

In Jean’s case, it was quite hard.  We hadn’t spoken for ages because we had a money issue that neither of us wanted to resolve.  He was a terrible drain on his friends and family.  Let’s put it this way: it was very hard for Jean to enjoy his gifted life without endlessly complaining or taking drugs.

People die.  I just put on my bombazine shift and write the bleeding obituary.

Perhaps I should try writing my own?

I would entitle it:  WEAK TEA  or  LOUD AND DIM or NOTHING REMARKABLE.

To be run in the Whitstable Times in the event of my death:

Surly Duncan Roy (65) found dead in his Swalecliffe bed sitting room.  Former Lord of The Lies refused medication for obvious mental illness and made unremarkable films.   Campaigned for the Red Spider Cafe.  He will not be missed.

I have not written a last will and testament so the fuckers can squabble over what is left.   I may leave it all to that little girl or to a bat charity or Jake’s ex-girl friend.  That would be funny.

Watched Oscars.  Was James Franco stoned?  No!  He’s been sober for YEARS.  He just looked a bit unprepared.  I would have preferred if Social Network had won best film.  It deserved to.  The Kings Speech is constipated TV tosh.   Tom Hooper is a director of no importance.  Why does Colin Firth KEEP telling the world how important Tom Ford is to him and how he wouldn’t be receiving these awards without having met him?  I thought that Firth had a rather long and distinguished career before meeting Ford?  Are they or have they been…fucking?

It occurred to me why Portman trumped Benning…Portman has more mileage in her and will generate more cash for CAA.  Poor Annette Bening so obviously deserved that Best Actress Academy Award but she’s an old mare and who writes great roles for old mares that Meryl Streep isn’t getting first refusal?

Clip Clop Annette.

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