This dates back a long way, but I've inadvertently deleted the post…
Way, way back, I met a young Russian waitress on a cruise ship in the South Pacific. She had a daughter, her husband was in jail, she wanted to go and live in Australia. I had contacts there and found her attractive…
Nivea smoothed the way on more than one occasion but it all took a predictable turn at the end. Since then I've been a good boy.
Saturday, 9 August 2014
A bit more from Los Angeles
The time in LA was great. Our theatre was the one used in the film Bodyguard, the Pantages, right next door to Capitol Records on Hollywood Boulevard. A little further down was a shop called Guns 'n' Knives. I don't know whether it's still there but it was a bit of a shock to see a place so brazenly devoted to such a controversial, er, pastime.
Aside from seeing Diane Keaton and Rene Russo I can't honestly say that my time in LA - either this or my subsequent one in 1998 - was star-heavy. There was a rather drunken woman in one of our performances who used the atmospheric, lights-down, pre-show moment to declare her seperation from her husband: 'I've put up with your shit for twenty years and I'm not doing it a moment longer. I want a divorce!'. Apart from that, the LA audience was very respectful, attentive and constantly on the lookout for celebrity arrivals right up until the beginning of the show, in the absence of which a freshly-declared divorce candidate is a good second-best.
My Los Angeles road map consisted of driving to the show from Barham Boulevard, south to the art galleries and west to the sea. We spent Christmas Day on Venice Beach, just a couple of years after I'd met Heidi Fleiss at her shop in Santa Monica and got her autograph (nothing else, though) and took other days out to various spots up and down the coast. My all-singing-and-dancing friend from London, Rita Moreno, was never in town when I was there, though she did phone and warn me about the Chicago winter. Her tone was typical Rita: 'M....., why didn't you phone me before, you little shit? I'm in New York, but watch out for the cold in Chicago; there's nowhere colder in the world. It's terrible'. Her husband, Lennie Gordon, has since died, but Rita carries on, more power to her elbow. We worked together on Sunset Boulevard in London. She lives just off that famous, eponymous road in Pacific Palisades. I've been to her house there, but I don't know how much time she spends in CA these days.
Funnily, we met up with friends from London in LA as well as meeting a Frenchman, Hervé, with whom I'm still in touch. A true Lebenskünstler, an untranslatable German word for someone who organises life according to their wishes, regretting nothing and enjoying everything. We spent time at the House of Blues, listening to George Thorogood amongst others, fraternising with Wendy, an English girl whose house in France, thanks to a gas leak, exploded with a few members of her family in it, providing her with the wherewithal to live a life of leisure in Southern California.
No scandal here, I'm afraid. Unless meeting Heidi Fleiss counts.
Aside from seeing Diane Keaton and Rene Russo I can't honestly say that my time in LA - either this or my subsequent one in 1998 - was star-heavy. There was a rather drunken woman in one of our performances who used the atmospheric, lights-down, pre-show moment to declare her seperation from her husband: 'I've put up with your shit for twenty years and I'm not doing it a moment longer. I want a divorce!'. Apart from that, the LA audience was very respectful, attentive and constantly on the lookout for celebrity arrivals right up until the beginning of the show, in the absence of which a freshly-declared divorce candidate is a good second-best.
My Los Angeles road map consisted of driving to the show from Barham Boulevard, south to the art galleries and west to the sea. We spent Christmas Day on Venice Beach, just a couple of years after I'd met Heidi Fleiss at her shop in Santa Monica and got her autograph (nothing else, though) and took other days out to various spots up and down the coast. My all-singing-and-dancing friend from London, Rita Moreno, was never in town when I was there, though she did phone and warn me about the Chicago winter. Her tone was typical Rita: 'M....., why didn't you phone me before, you little shit? I'm in New York, but watch out for the cold in Chicago; there's nowhere colder in the world. It's terrible'. Her husband, Lennie Gordon, has since died, but Rita carries on, more power to her elbow. We worked together on Sunset Boulevard in London. She lives just off that famous, eponymous road in Pacific Palisades. I've been to her house there, but I don't know how much time she spends in CA these days.
Funnily, we met up with friends from London in LA as well as meeting a Frenchman, Hervé, with whom I'm still in touch. A true Lebenskünstler, an untranslatable German word for someone who organises life according to their wishes, regretting nothing and enjoying everything. We spent time at the House of Blues, listening to George Thorogood amongst others, fraternising with Wendy, an English girl whose house in France, thanks to a gas leak, exploded with a few members of her family in it, providing her with the wherewithal to live a life of leisure in Southern California.
No scandal here, I'm afraid. Unless meeting Heidi Fleiss counts.
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