“Waiter just push the table between the beds. That fine. Thank’s a lot. O.K. Al. Please. Listen a second. I didn’t charge anybody. I admit I had a giant hard on. I don’t know all there is to know about physiology. But I think it was petrified fear that gave the erection.”
“A female bee flying by would give you an erection.”
“Hey will you listen Al. I’m telling you I was as surprised as anybody when I saw it myself believe me. It was some kind of involuntary medical aberration.”
“It was your crazed sexual appetite. Which needs compulsory medical treatment. Meanwhile you should be committed to a zoo.”
“Al goodbye. I love you. But I just don’t have time this moment to submit to your usual avalanche of criticism. I’ll talk to you later.”
Schultz shaved, showered and dressed. Waiting in the cloistered peace of the hall landing and looking out this window down on to a little roof garden below planted with blossomed flowers between the white wings of this soul soothing hotel. The elevator door opening. A slender perfumed lady inside with an alligator bag. Beige tweed suit. Blond soft hair. Jesus she could be a grandmother. But I’d go to bed with her at the drop of her big ochre felt hat. If only I had a few more hours’ sleep and didn’t nearly get killed, maimed and driven out of my own fucking house last night. Christ the show. O my god. Just opened. Meanwhile a lifetime of horror has happened since. Got to keep the show going. Fuck all the dumbbell critics. Paper the house every night to capacity. Supply transport and give free tickets to mental institutions all over Balham, Tooting and Streatham if necessary. This lady looks like the sort who’d still say yes to a thrill in her life.
“Excuse me madam. But do you like attending the theatre.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Would you like to see a wonderful show I recommend. Kiss it. Don’t hold it. It’s too hot. Free with my compliments.”
“How dare you.”
“Holy christ madam, don’t get excited, it’s really the name of the show, ask the concierge in the lobby. I’m sorry please. Here’s the ground floor.”
The morning sunny and cool. Schultz jumping into a taxi with a smiling salute from the doorman. Down Park Lane and left along Piccadilly. O my god. Thank god for the discretion they got at that hotel. I go in and out looking like I come from a holocaust. And they keep showering me with courteous attention. I’m going to need it. Standing up in Court. With drunks and thieves. Haven’t even returned the morning suit that got ripped to pieces off my back.
Schultz pacing the floor in the smoky noisy Court corridor. Amid the solicitors, clients and culprits. As what fucking choice do I have. But to listen to the advice of these detectives.
“Sir you can get it all over with now. By pleading guilty. And avoid a big Court case later.”
Schultz in the dock. The distinguished judge, the son of a famous actor staring down over his spectacles. Frowning slightly as the evidence was read. Clearing his throat in some disbelief. Then with a deep breath looking leniently upon Schultz. As Mrs. Prune stood giving her heated evidence.
“But were you there madam.”
“He struck my daughter. I came here to Court by ambulance from under psychiatric care.”
“But were you present madam when your daughter was struck.”
“I was there when that bastard pulled my wig off.”
The judge pushing up his spectacles looking at the charge sheet. Lifting his chin to look out across the courtroom as the behemoth got up as if she were heading to Ascot.
“But that’s not what Mr. Schultz is charged with. Please stand down madam if you weren’t a witness to the charge. Now Mr. Schultz. I’m quite sure a man in your position momentarily lost control. So I’m not going to have you bound over to keep the peace. Fined ten pounds.”
Schultz nearly saluting from the dock. This pleasantly commanding figure calling for the next case. As Schultz ducking away, now ran rushing out into Bow Street and diving into a taxi. My god all this happening right across the road from the Royal Opera House where tonight they’re performing the ballet.
“Taxi. Stop. I’ll only be a second.”
Schultz emerging from the Opera House with tickets. Popped back in the taxi catching his breath. Till he charged in the door and along the shadowy hall of this familiar office of Sperm Productions. The door opened into the smoky chairman’s office. Rebecca cuting out reviews from a stack of newspapers. Binky with a cigar held out in one hand and pressing down with the other a whole page spread of newsprint. A massive picture of Magillacurdy and the Debutant.
“Ah my dear Schultz, you have arrived.”
“Yeah I have arrived. I want to see these reviews. Where’s his Lordship.”
“His Royal Grace Schultz is in his knickerbockers as you Americans risquély call them, and is I believe with the little wife going for a tramp up in his heather.”
“Holy shit. He should be here.”
“Ah. But we have chatted. At length. By telephone. And decided on the proper course. Be seated, Schultz. While we map out the funeral route. Pop right down there then on our trustworthy chaise longue.”
“I’m standing. And what the fuck do you mean funeral.”
“Pray tell, these, Schultz, the orations. Here for all to see. And this. Especially this. Perhaps the most devastating review ever written about any show in the history of London theatre. Headlined across three columns. Take a look yourself.”
MISS IT, DON’T SEE IT, IT’S TOO AWFUL
Last night saw what this reviewer must regard as the greatest load of rubbish ever disported on a London stage. In attending the opening of a show entitled “Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot,” one was of course forewarned. But the en suing pyrotechnics consisting of lyrics grossly insulting to the intelligence, music so vulgar and brash crashing upon the ears, plus garish costuming and sets, the latter which trembled or ripped at a breath, made for an evening of headache inspiring proportions.
The chorus were frequently off key singing, as they were out of step dancing and who, en masse, seem to have been rounded up from some housewifely amateur group from Sidcup or Surbiton. However, they did at least, by their appalling display, help distract from other terrible matters. Only that a member of the audience became stuck in her seat which gave one the release of laughter at the intervals made the evening tolerable. It was little wonder that one noticed a player’s name changed and the director’s name blacked out in the program.
However there was one exception, embodied in the two star players, who handled such horror with grace, dignity and poise. Genius is a word one uses sparingly but it would have to be applied in the case of Mr. Magillacurdy whose powerful yet sweet voice charmed and at times profoundly awed and moved his listeners. The rendering of his final aria was a tour de force. And indeed this hardened reviewer admits to a tear in the eye and a lump in the throat. He and his spectacularly beautiful co star, whose shimmering, exquisite balletic limbs and dulcet voice equally captivated the audience, did by their performances redeem what would have been an otherwise theatrically totally ruinous event.
To those of you who are still reading this, unless you feel you want to witness a little stage history being made by the debut of two young splendidly promising stars, my advice is a repeat of my sentiments heading this column. Miss It. Don’t See It, It’s Too Awful.
“Well Schultz. The other reviews are no better. No clearer case has there ever been for one to throw in the towel. Wipe our hands clean of the embarrassing matter. His Royal Grace on the phone, agrees.”
Schultz with a left hand holding up the newspaper suddenly sending his fist whistling through the air and crashing through the review like a pane of glass.