Yonks ago—when I was knee high to a grasshopper—I worked on a film shoot for Vauxhall Motors, in Wales. It was a lot of fun, but what I primarily remember was the grip (a chap in charge of moving the camera and of camera dollies and track) parking his van too close to the sea in an area where the tide came in faster than you could run.
Somewhere, I have a series of photographs starting with his van parked on dry beach and ending with the grip swimming out and attaching a buoy to his submerged van’s wing-mirror.
Laugh? We nearly paid our license fees. And the van? The van was swept several miles down the estuary out to sea, and ended up on a sandbank. The grip got a new one on his insurance.
Needless to say we all got a bollocking from the local coastguard for stupidity.
I blogged recently about supermarkets coming in, taking over, and forcing local shops out of business (crushing them financially). This ‘phenomenon’ is happening in every town—large and small—all over the country. Beware! If the supermarkets’ grand plan for world domination hasn’t affected you yet it soon will.
Above is yet another shop from the King’s Road (not the King’s Road in London) biting the dust. Not an orange, apple, potato, kiwi, or bunch of roses in sight: just bags of rubble. This shop has been like this for months. So sad, yet seemingly inevitable.
There has to be something we can do to fight the slow creep of this particular change. But what, I have no idea.
I used to work in film. In film you have, HAVE, to make early call times, and by early I’m not kidding. Then, I used to get up at 03:00 or, with a late lie in, 04:00. Of course it was season dependant and sometimes it was later and sometimes earlier.
Then I moved out of London and gave film work up. Don’t ask me why as I have no idea. Stupidity, probably.
So it was that this morning that I had to get up and be out of the house by 07:00. Not early I have to admit, but for me it was like the crack of sparrows; like ‘bloody hell this is early how am I going to cope?’ I did cope and I did sort out a friend’s email; I got driven home and my body, seriously unimpressed, crashed.
Looking for work, as I am, I’ve determined not to be too proud, or snooty, to at least think about opportunities I come across. So I was quite excited to find the above in the local newsagent’s shop window. It ticked quite a few of my preferred boxes, especially the bit that says ‘Part Time Hours, Full Time Money.’ Yes, I thought, I could do with some of that. ‘No joining fee’ was a plus, too – wise Mr D had obviously saved quite a bit on design and typesetting.
Sadly, or perhaps it’s because I’m English, the sexual element eventually put me off. Sex I like – if they’re honest, who doesn’t? And being paid for same doesn’t particularly make me squeamish or desirous of jumping up and down in moral outrage, or so I thought as I walked home pondering the real meaning of ‘Full Training Given.’
A few years ago I worked on a couple of quite stylish soft porn movies that went out under the name ‘Electric Blue.’ It was fun; the crew and actors were friendly, and my eyes were opened more than once to various … how should I put this … nuances I hadn’t ever considered. Nearing home I weighed the two in my mind: High end London vs Hastings, East Sussex. Eventually, as I put the key in the door, I decided Mr D’s agency, salubrious though it might well be, wasn’t in quite the same league. Besides, if I joined I wouldn’t be filming it … I’d be doing it, and that is a very, very different barrel of eels.
Besides, I’m not sure if Mr D would think I’m staff material. I’d prefer to be wearing skin tight jeans, a silk shirt over a six pack, Gucci shades, and be driving a Cadillac – or whatever the English equivalent is. Also, joining the sex trade in mid-life is bound to bring on a crisis, and that’s a particular crisis I’ve so far managed to avoid.