On the train this morning I had it confirmed by the woman sitting opposite me actually reading a three dimensional newspaper - obviously a time traveller from the middle ages - what I had already gleaned from social media on my phone. There on the front page of Rupert Murdoch's toilet paper, The Sun, is Obergruppenfuhrer Matt Hancock sucking face with some unknown woman, his hand firmly on her arse. No masks loosely but conspicuously dangling from their necks either. This, in what looks like a stairwell, in some offices somewhere. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but it doesn't seem much like the precautionary greetings, such as elbow bumping, which this neanderthal Secretary of State for Health is exhorting others to do. This is a depiction of a full frontal exchange of bodily fluids, apparently taken back in May when Wancock was banging on about people being responsible and keeping their distance blah blah blah. I do love the smell of political integrity in the morning. Never seen such pornography on the 8.47 Chislehurst to Charing Cross. Wonder if the press will christen it Hankypanky Gate.
I assume the train’s fairly empty because it’s Friday. People taking shorter office weeks claiming they were WAH. 'Working at home.' Which many are still doing part of the time, but going in now and again in order to retain their sanity and avoid dismembering their kids or lobotomising the dog. My carriage is not even half full but most of the brain-dead are still wearing their masks. A notable exception (apart from yours truly) is a woman three seats away making wordless contortions with her mouth and gesticulating wildly. Employing a couple of brain cells I deduce it's because she has a travelling companion who is deaf, also unmasked. Hoorah, I thought, for the wordless warriors. They may be oblivious to the small pockets of resistance scattered here and there but they are still face-naked in all their glory.
Maybe I should play the deaf card next time someone asks me intrusively why I'm not wearing a mask, though it might present logistical problems unless I have someone like Harpo Marx in tow. Usually a firm 'I'm exempt' gets me by, but last week, riled by an officious ticket inspector who posed the tiresome question quite aggressively, I said I wasn't wearing a mask 'because I'm neither a slave nor a moron.' He didn't have the intellectual capacity nor critical thinking skills to cope with that and sloped off to talk into the carriage intercom. I thought he might be complaining to someone and half-expected the British Transport Police at Charing Cross to meet me, clap me in irons and throw me into solitary confinement for three months. After all Plod nicked two women for sharing a coffee on a park bench last week. Their crime? Only being five and a half feet apart. Fortunately, on this occasion, there were no Gestapo at the ticket barriers. Even so, I had resolved to restrict my explanation to 'exempt' in the future. Save the barbs for the battles you know you can win.
I turned back to the woman opposite who was still holding the paper up and displaying the philandering Hancock on the front page. According to some reports this is the Bond-like villain responsible for discharging thousands of elderly and ill patients from hospitals into care homes before they were ready and then getting them administered with Midazolam, a drug that's been around a long time and which is designed to keep inmates (think 'One Flew Over a Cuckoo's Nest') docile (for docile read slavishly obedient.) Hence his sobriquet Midazolam Matt. For years it has been suggested that old people in NHS care (aka 'Useless Eaters') have been given overdoses of the drug in the hope that they will 'go gently into that good night'. In other words euthanasia, which is illegal in this country. A less polite term might be genocide. If nothing else HankyPanky Hancock might have thought it was a convenient way to boost the statistics for deaths by Covid.
As I mused upon the unconditionally loving God-like nature of humanity ('the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals') the train stopped at Lewisham and a woman clambered on board, plonking herself next to me. She smiled and I was about to return the gesture but my affability turned into a rictus of disbelief as I read the badge she was wearing. 'I've just been vaccinated.' Gordon Bennet, I'd have been less offended if she'd worn one saying 'I've just been sodomised.' What is it about the age we're living in when everyone seems to want to signal their virtue from the rooftops? What do I care if you've just been vaccinated? Which is a lie, because it isn't a vaccine. You've been jabbed! We're nurturing a culture of infantile do-gooders. When you've thrown out the garbage are you going to wear a badge saying 'I've just put out the bins.' Like a kid at Christmas wearing one that says 'I've just visited Santa in his grotto.' They're deliberately infantilising us. When badges were the rage in the 1980s they weren't about compliance. 'I shagged Roger Rabbit' was quite popular as I recall. No-one in a million years would advertise their support for the establishment on their chest. I remember wearing one in 1972 saying 'Hanoi Jane climbed over my turret,' a disgracefully sexist reference to Jane Fonda clambering over a Vietcong anti-aircraft gun during the Vietnam war. It may not have been as witty as I thought it was but at least it was anarchic and offensive. And was designed to be so. I've been vaccinated! Why not: 'I've been a good girl and done exactly what these psychopaths told me to do. And yes, I will jump off a cliff if they ask.’
I decided to drop into Giorgio's for a quick cappuccino before venturing into the offices, which was probably a mistake because Hilary and Tina Parrish were in there sitting at a table with some bloke I didn't recognise and they beckoned me over. I've got nothing against these people but I am centuries older and find it hard to make small talk before about noon when I might just have put to bed the latest Covid idiocies of the day.
The girls, sorry women, introduced the bloke as John Barclay who was in the sports division. I didn't even know what that meant, but apparently he looked after out-to-graze athletes etc now doing the celeb and lecture circuit. His first time back in after working at home. I can't believe I'm engaged at the same agency. I'd represented the Egyptian Yasser Abdul Idris, a recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature for pity's sake! (Okay, but only his plays which weren't nearly as powerful as his prose. Still you don't bring out that caveat at dinner parties.)
'No, really, it's my first time honestly Hils,' said Tina resuming a conversation, as I sat down with my coffee.
'It's my second,' retorted Hilary.
If it wasn't for the fact that Tina Parrish is to virginity what Oliver Reed was to sobriety and Hilary has two kids I might have thought they were talking about losing their cherries.
'First time for what?' I asked innocently - and mistakenly.
'The stabby jabby.' At least Tina hadn't called it a vaccine.
'How many have you had Ant?' asked Hilary. I looked down as I wiped some froth from my mouth. I wasn't going to get into this.
'I suppose you're alright though,' said Tina, thankfully not waiting for an answer. Saved by the tart with a heart. (Sorry, but any opportunity to be anti-woke.) Tina's skirt was so short you could see her crimson knickers underneath. I wondered if she was on a promise with some reality TV hopeful later but I hadn't a clue as to why I was alright.
'How do you mean?'
'Well you work with writers. You don't have to go on set and things and deal with all these stupid restrictions.'
'Still not with you.'
'They resumed shooting most of the Soaps this week, apparently it's a nightmare. Jockey J's in "Binden Bridge" (some teenage crap which has metamorphosed into the most watched trashy drama on TV) and he's really finding it hard.'
Jockey J - stupidity personified - had graduated from some reality show about builders to become a 'celebrity'. Largely thanks to Tina. Seriously, that's the name he goes by, Jockey J. Another tedious example of the media driving the narrative of life, so much so that even high earners in the City know more about Jockey J than they do about the Dalai Lama. Accordingly now, Jockey, once a-thick-as-pigshit plasterer - yeah, and I know not all plasterers are as thick as pigshit but Jockey J is, just saying - now claims to be a legitimate actor. You know, that natural progression in life. Like a stint in the chorus of the village pantomime being a prelude to dancing with the Royal Ballet.
And if you think I'm a snob, you're missing the point. I was an avid cinema-going schoolboy when working class actors were making their mark - Finney, Courtenay, Caine - but they had to bloody work for it. And they had talent. Jockey J falls into neither category. He can't act and he fell into it by being a foul-mouthed imbecile in a meaningless TV genre.
'Every set on every show has a Covid clean-up team on it.' Tina was still droning on. 'And you still have to be six feet apart, whether you're doing a take or having a fag break. On the takes they're blocking the scenes so no-one needs to be near anyone else. Camera crews are complaining they can't get everyone in frame.'
Hilary chipped in: 'Yeah and most casting agents won't see actors now unless they've been vaccinated. And every one of them wants to at least know your client's vaccine status. '
'No jab, no job. Just like in any other profession. Quite right too.'
'No life, no job.' I couldn't help myself.
'What do you mean?'
'You can't work if you're dead.'
'That's anti-vax propaganda. Vaccines don't do any harm. And these ones are safe and effective. They're saving lives!'
Says Tina, the foremost immunologist at Notso United Artists. I knew it wasn't worth getting into this argument.
'You had to be vaccinated or have a negative test to get into the show up in Liverpool,' said Hilary, as if endorsing Tina's line of argument. She stood, signalling the end of the discussion, and headed towards the door.
'You seen the reviews? ' asked Tina, following. 'Not bad, except for The Guardian. Typical.'
They left me sitting at the table as if I'd never been there. John Barclay at least nodded to me before trailing behind them meekly, knowing his place as some sort of lowly sports agent. Like a eunuch in a harem.
I had forgotten. 'The Day the Music Didn't Die,' opened on Wednesday. How you can carry a show on such a ludicrous premise I don't know. There are conspiracy theories and there are conspiracy theories and I've come across quite a few because I have Martin Spangler in my stable. And I'm even prepared to accept that quite a few are valid. After the past year the joke going around that we need to find some more conspiracy theories because all the old ones have come to pass has a whiff of truth about it. And Oliver Stone made a pretty effective and convincing movie rubbishing the theory of a lone gunman killing JFK. As did 'Executive Action,' a little known Burt Lancaster film from the 1970s. And I've seen plenty of convincing documentaries about 911 being an inside job. But I don't recall Stanley Kubrick making a persuasive one about Paul McCartney being decapitated in his car on the M1 after having a row with his bandmates and walking out in a hissy fit only to be replaced by the 'one and only Billy Shears' (Sgt Pepper's). 'He blew his mind out in a car' (A Day in the Life) and - even more ludicrously - 'let it out and let it in' (Hey Jude) being hidden clues to the events. Let it out and let it in referring to one band member out and another in.
Sure enough, Kieran's cock-a-hoop over Wednesday's triumphant opening. I say 'triumphant' because, although the critics were a mixed bag, the peasants were actually ecstatic judging by social media. But then in a proud city boasting two cathedrals and two massive football clubs which has been deprived of most live entertainment for eighteen months the denizens would have gone to see anything. If you'd staged a musical about Queen Victoria being a syphilitic, sadomasochistic madam using Buckingham Palace as a brothel for illegal immigrants it would have gone down a storm. Despite being invited Paul McCartney didn't show, which is hardly surprising since the premise of the piece is that he's been dead since 1966.
The controversy over 'Hey Jude' (see May 21st) was resolved when Kieran went to great efforts to announce that the song (in the show's story you understand) being a homage to a Jewish youth lusting after Eva Braun in the second world war was an internet rumour and, in fact, the ballad was supposed to be a reference to Thomas Hardy's book Jude the Obscure (don't ask.) Kieran was mortified how quickly this rumour had got around and was deeply sorry. Basically he ate humble pie, the protesters dispersed and a city of half a million people forgave because of the flattering patter of a congenital liar. Kieran's nothing if he's not a showman, and managed to convince people (the gullible anyway) that he was conceived in The Cavern during a Beatle Tribute Band gig there in the 1980s after his mum and dad got over excited seeing a brilliant John Lennon impersonator sing 'I am the Walrus'. Which meant, at an embryonic level at least, he was a true Liverpudlian. The fact that Kieran was conceived and born in Algeria when his dad was in the diplomatic service over there didn't seem to matter, he's never let the truth get in the way of a good story. And he endeared himself to the local press and promoters up there because he did have an impressive and encyclopaedic knowledge of the Beatles back catalogue (thanks to his dad) and he was brilliant at promotion in a Jimmy Saville kind of way. (Now there's a back-handed compliment if ever there was one.) Kieran's faith that his flannel could turn crap into caviar made me despair. Not least because it seemed to work.
'You have to get people's attention Ant. It doesn't matter how because they'll forget why you wanted it tomorrow, but they'll remember you,' he'd said when he was dealing with the protestors during rehearsal. 'You need a bit more P.T. Barnum in your life and a bit less J.R. Tolkein.'
Putting aside the fact that I was taken aback Kieran even knew the name Tolkein, let alone his initials, I had said giving into protestors (however much you loathed the artistic premise of the song in the show, which I did) was just surrendering to another form of censorship. Kieran dismissed this saying it was a crap part of the show and needed reworking anyway. And the 'censorship', as I call it, got a load of publicity, people and the media couldn't tell their Eva Brauns from their Jude Fawleys and the upshot is probably a huge commercial hit. Pragmatism 1 Freedom of Expression 0.
'What do I care about principles?' he said, throwing a copy of The Sun on the table in front of me open at the showbiz page which featured a favourable review. 'Bums on seats and a full house gives me a bigger Hard Days Night than Ursula Andress in Dr. No could ever give me.' (I'm sure I don't need to explain the puerile sexual innuendo he's evoked here.) 'You need more joy in your life Ant. Let out the curmudgeon and let in the prankster.' He began to sing: 'Let it out and let it in…' Oh God.
There was something different about Kieran this morning but I couldn't work out what it was at first. Maybe he was just gleaming and gloating as he's convinced he's got a West End transfer.
Fortunately, Sarah, putting her head round the door, stopped his recital mid stanza around about the lyric 'someone to perform with'. I couldn't have taken the tuneless warble for much longer. Seeing the requisite gag on Ms. Soper's face made me realise what was different about Kieran. He wasn't wearing one.
'My God, you're naked!' I indicated his face in case he thought I could somehow see his meat and two veg through his chinos.
'I'm getting sores in my beard,' (I think he means his 12 o'clock shadow, he doesn't have a beard though growing one would save him a lot of grief.)
'I told you masks were detrimental.'
'Sarah loved the show didn't you?' he prompted, studiously ignoring the fact that I might be vindicated about another one of Convid's stupid regs,
'I did,' she said.' (If Sarah loves something you can bet it's crap.) 'But I thought it could do with some better songs.'
I now took umbrage - which is a ridiculous stance to take over a show I know I would loathe. 'But they're Beatles songs!'
'Gotcha! Again.' I'm guessing Sarah's smirking because I walked right into that but you couldn't tell as she was masked
'You take life too seriously Ant,' said Kieran turning The Sun on his desk to the front page which sported the delectable Hancock snogging his bint. Sex, skulduggery and hypocrisy - all in one photo. 'Notso's going to get a scoop like that and be on the front page.'
I shuddered at the thought. 'Why?'
'Because we're going to ghost Jerome Tickler's memoirs and they're going to be sensational. After you get round to meeting with him that is.'
I looked at both of them aghast. 'How do you know about Tickler?'
'Sharon Kozinskly told Sarah. She wants us to work on you.' Staring at the front page of The Sun I was mindful that Sharon dropped the suggestion about Tickler the same time as she told me that Hancock was on his way out. Two weeks ago. I wondered if Tickler was her source. There had been a connection via her dad after all, the two men being 'friends' back in the day. Sharon said they hadn't kept in touch but I wonder if the old whore had dropped the Hancock thing by way of bait.
'You've been hobnobbing with Sharon?' I turned to Sarah.
'Not particularly. I ran into her at the "Women for Freedom in the Arts” exhibition last week.'
'That's bloody ironic.'
'Why?'
'Wearing that face nappy? How is that freedom? Wearing the badge of slavery round your laughing gear?'
'I want people to feel safe around me!'
I really can't tolerate that absurd argument anymore. 'Cognitive dissonance Sarah, ever heard of it? A freedom exhibition? Wearing that? I hope Sharon wasn't wearing one.'
'No, but half the people there were.'
'What did she say to you?'
'Just that she had floated the idea the last time you met. Since you knew Tickler well, and Notso is more of a fit than SKA.'
'You mean Notso's more vulgar than SKA.'
'Sharon thinks it's too good an opportunity to let by.'
'Hear, hear,' said Kieran, who had been quiet for a world record fifty seconds.
'Sharon knows Tickler of old. Her dad and Tickler were mates.' Methinks my protesting is futile. I was more likely to get somewhere peddling a unicycle up a hill with a 1 in 2 gradient carrying a grand piano on my back.
'Tessa Rogers and SKA don't look after non-fiction.'
This is a fait accompli and I don't like it. I'm by far the most obvious candidate and they know it
'You're ganging up on me.'
'Oh Ant, Sharon told me about your history with Tickler. It'll be fun. Catching up on old times.' Absolutely convinced Sarah is smirking behind that rag. No doubt that whatever bit of my history she got from Sharon she relayed to Kieran on their cosy first class train trip back from Liverpool.
'You need some fun in your life Ant!' said Kieran as if that were the clinching argument. 'Let out the curmudgeon and let in the prankster.' And then he walked out the door singing 'Let it out and let it in…' no doubt as a homage to Thomas Hardy. God give me strength.
'Fun,' repeated Sarah as she tapped me on the back of my hand before following Kieran out.
'That's not social distancing Sarah!' was all I could think of saying as I rubbed where she touched me and she sauntered out. Like I was trying to hold the moral high ground on an issue I actually held in absolute contempt. Pathetic or what?
Back in my office I see I have an email from Tanya Parker. Her of The Grauniad. She wants to talk to me about Pattie. Some nerve since we parted last time on hostile terms. Left me so open-mouthed with her assertions that the great white whale could have made a home there. I'm ignoring it. Let her stew.
Hoo-boy, if I was Ant and surrounded by these imbeciles, I might have to quit everything and move somewhere coastal with a seaside view and a pub within walking distance. :)
I remember this day well. There was a wonderful Hancock meme that was going around at the time. Wish I could post it here. 'I love the smell of political hypocrisy in the morning.' I take that is a reference/nod to Apocalypse Now.