Originally Posted by amikolaichek:
“The famous movie star paced, white faced, round the room of her luxurious suite in the Kings Cross Travelodge. Her manager regarded her in alarm. ‘What’s happened?’ he enquired anxiously. ‘I’ve never seen you so agitated.’
The famous movie star stopped pacing and shuddered. ‘I’ve just come from The Hospital Club and …’
Her agent interjected. ‘Oh no, don’t tell me you’ve done – you know – again? I thought your latest rehab had knocked that on the head.’
‘Nothing like that,’ replied the FMS quickly. ‘It’s an HOTEL, if you must know. Because somehow I’d been persuaded to see some woman there about a film script. Tell you the truth, when I agreed, I was a bit confused – it was at an awards ceremony for something or other and she was sitting near me and I’d been a bit too free with the tequila … you know how it is, and next thing I knew, she was texting me to remind me that we were having a meet …’ She trailed off miserably.
Her agent nodded sympathetically. ‘Still, could be useful. Not much film work around at the moment. Apart from the voice-over I got you for the new Toilet Duck commercial. And possibly a nice little earner for another commercial, where all you have to do is look pretty and pour blue liquid on an, ahem, panty liner thingie.’
The FMS glared at him. ‘Thanks!’ she snapped. ‘Anyway, it was hellish. At the restaurant, she was there with all these weird people. Two of them were draped in scarves and beads and looked like Camila Batmanghelidjh’s sisters – apparently they were psychics. And some other women … she said they were going to produce the film, also cast it and do all the publicity …well, I mean, what PLANET is the woman on? Yes, I was beginning to wonder if The Hospital Club was some sort of – you know – asylum or something?’
Her agent gawped. ‘I’m almost lost for words. Who IS she? Perhaps she’s a brilliantly talented but eccentric writer, and maybe we should humour her …? After all, work’s work …’.
He trailed off as the FMS threw a thick sheaf of papers at him. ‘HER SCRIPT!’ she screamed. ‘First, she started rambling on about punching some boxer … or was it a horse … on the nose. Then she lectured me because I ordered a steak with all the trimmings, and THEN she went off on one because the veg. with my steak came in a stack .. and she bawled out the poor waiter. I tell you, by then I thought I was in a nightmare and would wake up. But it got worse. She insisted I read some of her bloody film script there and then … OK, YOU have a look at it. Tell me I’m not going mad.’
Her agent shuddered and studied the first page.
‘SCENE 1. A poor home in Essex. A little girl of about seven is discontentedly playing with a broom, on which she sits astride. She is dressed in obviously homemade knitted jersey, skirt, socks. Her mother is sitting nearby, busily knitting.
Little girl: ‘Mummy, what are you doing?’
Mother: ‘I am knitting you a nice new pair of knickers’
Little girl: ‘Mummy, this broom does not feel like a horse. It is no use pretending it does. There is nothing like the warm, sweaty feeling of real throbbing horseflesh between one’s pumping thighs as one jogs up and down, up and down, up and down ... The broomstick isn’t doing it for me. Why can’t you and Daddy buy me a horse?’
The FMS screamed. ‘Stop, STOP … no, go on a bit, leave out all the childhood crap. Try the middle part.
Obligingly, her agent flicked through the manuscript. ‘Ah, here we are:
SCENE 3,298: The sitting room of a big house in deepest Yorkshire. The heroine is angrily striding around in a tastefully appointed sitting room. She is screaming at a cowering elderly man of somewhat hippy aspect who is hastily trying to stub out a roll-up in an Abigail Ahern plant pot.
Heroine: ‘You have LET ME DOWN AGAIN. Yesterday you let the dogs eat one of my lovely neon pink sofas. Today you forgot to pick up my dry cleaning. Thanks for that! So I have NO KNICKERS to wear. And I want to go and ride one of my surviving horses and I don’t have jodhpurs any more as I had to sell them to raise money to pay off the Inland Revenue … they are PERSECUTING me and it's all my accountant's fault and my friends' fault and my family's fault because I buy them lovely presents and what do I get in return and IT'S NOT FAIR AND ...’
Elderly Man interrupting: Well … who needs knickers? Ride “commando”. I’ll take photos.
‘NO MORE’, bellowed the FMS. ‘Pour me a gin … in fact, give me the damn bottle. And tomorrow, get onto the blue liquid on panty pads ad agency and tell them to send the contract …’”
Ha! Perfect!