Porno (61 page)

This producing game is a piece of piss. Why stop at porn, why not make a proper movie? Get some lottery cash and off you go. Everybody’s at it. Every top gangster realises that the best criminals are ex-criminals. Capitalise and go legit as soon as it’s viable. You don’t need the hassle, jail’s for the likes of Begbie, who, for all their posturing, are losers and victims. Getting a bit of time in, in your youth, well, six months, fair enough, a wee bit for learning experience. But if you didn’t learn after being six months banged up that it wasn’t you, then you were truly fucked. Nobody likes jail, but some sorry cunts just dinnae dislike it enough.

Cannes is where I want to be. It represents options. But it isn’t just that it’s not Leith or Hackney, it isn’t the physical place, it’s me. I’m not just a desperate hustler now, with nothing to trade. I’m realising that no matter how cool I’d played it in the past, I could never escape giving off that slight predictability, that edge of desperation. And I couldn’t because when it came down to it, it was all a front and I had nothing to trade in the marketplace. At long last, through getting a sweaty pile of bodies together and filming the results, I have something to sell, something they value. Something I’ve made. Simon Williamson has a product, which isn’t Sick Boy. This is business, it’s nothing personal. I’m touting a Simon David Williamson film.

I go back to the hotel, intending to sunbathe and try to relax for a bit, maybe chat up some chicks. We don’t have loads of time and this comedian in the hotel’s pissed me off, four hundred bar a night and you still need to pay fifteen quid a day to use the private beach at the front, just like the fucking non-resident plebs who should in any case be kept off.

In the room Nikki’s up but since we’re pushed for time we settle for a bit of scran in the hotel. She’s okay after catching me jerking off over her. I’ve just about managed to convince her that it was a tribute. Chicks: what else could it be? Anyway, satisfyingly full, we make our way to the scabbo hotel to pick up Mel and Curt for the screening of
Seven Rides for Seven Brothers
.

The cinema it’s showing in is a small but smart pad on one of the backstreets. It’s rumoured that Lars Lavish, Ben Dover, Linsey Drew and Nina Hartley (Nikki’s heroine) will attend the screening, but I can’t see anybody I recognise. There’s a good turnout, mind you, and there’s a few bodies that sneak in after the lights go down. I’m trying to scan the audience, to gauge the reaction of this half-full cinema.

I’m so hyped up I don’t need any charlie but I take a hit off my card anyway. So do Mel and Curtis. I can’t resist going — Phoar, when Melanie appears naked on screen for the first time. She gives me a playful dig in the ribs. It’s Nikki who makes the impact though. From the moment she peels off that tight lycra top and exposes that shaved pussy and struts arrogantly across the screen, you can feel the electricity in the air. There are one or two big cheers from the crowd and I turn to catch her looking bashful and I squeeze her hand. The real smash hit, though, is Curtis, or I should say, Curtis’s cock. The first sight of that pole produces a few ‘wows’ and I turn to see our boy’s huge teeth glisten in the dark.

Outside, after the show, we’re all getting our flesh pressed and cards are being produced as we’re urged to go to various parties. I know the one I want though, and it’s not a porno gig, it’s the industry do in the big marquee on the Croisette. All the porn players want to be at that one, but I manage to blag four invites and we’re in.

After a few drinks, Nikki’s pished and she starts to get on my tits. — Why are you talking in that ridiculous voice, Simon? she cuts in when I’m chatting to this fucking doll with long, straight, blonde hair, who’s apparently something big at Fox Searchlight. — He accuses me of being mockney, then as soon as he gets off the plane he’s full of that shit.

The Foxy girl raises an eyebrow and I set my face in a wheelclamp smile. — What accent, Nicola? This is the way I talk, I say slowly.

Nikki nudges Mel and says: — Thish ish the way I talk, Nicola. The namesh Williamshon. Shimon Dafid Williamshon.

— Or Shick Boy! Mel guffaws and those fucking twisted, inappropriate jealous vixens cackle like the fucking witches in
Macbeth
, as some creepy cunt comes over and grabs Fox Searchlight’s arm, leading her away.

I’m seething at their stupid pettiness. — There may be something to be gained from trying to undermine me in my efforts to network and sell this fucking film we’ve spent the best part of the last six fucking months of our lives making, I heave the words out in terse rage through clenched teeth, — but I’m absolutely fucked if I can see what it is.

They look at each other, silent for a split second. Then Melanie goes: — Ohhh . . . and they’re off in hysterics again. Fuck this, I’m retreating into the crowd, and my searchlight’s trained, looking for that Fox I’ve been hunting.

I hit the bog and I’m about to do some charlie when I see some guys going into a cubicle and I bundle in with them, getting a couple of lines off them. I re-emerge supercharged and I look over and see Nikki and Mel flirting outrageously with some creepy-looking arseholes. Curtis seems to have vanished. I head across to the girls. One guy who’s been schmoozing with Nikki sees me approach and asks haughtily: — And you are?

I lean close into him. — I am the cunt who’s gaunnae brek your fuckin nose for chatting up my bird, I say, putting an arm around Nikki. The wanker blusters a bit on the spot, then timidly exits. Unfortunately, so do Nikki and Mel, making the pretence of getting more drinks, but both singularly unimpressed with my performance.

I go back to the bog where one guy who shared his ching with me approaches hopefully. — Sorry, mate, private party, I tell him.

— That’s not exactly fair . . . he complains.

— Post-democracy, mate. Now fuck off, I boom as I slam the door in his face and powder my nose.

Soon I’m back outside, swanning around, in my element, when I’m interrupted by this sing-song accent in my ear. — Si-mon! How are you, my friend?!

It’s that revolting cunt Miz, and I’m about to be offhand or even rude now that he’s expended his usefulness, when he says: — I want you to meet somebody, and he nods to a tall guy with a moustache beside him who looks familiar. — This is Lars Lavish.

Lars Lavish is one of Europe’s premier porn actors turned producers. His ability to find wood was legend and he was known as the godfather of gonzo porn, accosting lassies in the streets of Paris, Copenhagen and Amsterdam and enticing them back to a studio to make an impromptu porno flick with him. The man’s gift of the gab is renowned. All he used was charm, persuasion and cash and cock inducements. He recently signed a big deal with a major distributor and now does all his own stuff and has complete editorial control. In other words, I’m absolutely fucking star-struck. This is my hero, my mentor. I can hardly fucking well think, never mind speak.

Lars Lavish.

— Lars, I shake his hand and I don’t even mind that he’s now got his arm round Nikki.

— Pleased to meet you, Simon, he grins, glancing down at Nikki. — This girl is so hot. She’s the hottest, man, the hottest!
Seven Rides
, man, it is so goood! I am thinking that we are going to have to be having a serious talk about the distribution of this movie. I am thinking even limited theatrical release.

I have died and gone to heaven. — Any time, Lars, any time, mate.

— This is my card. Please call me, he says, then kisses Nikki and heads off into the crowd with Miz, who looks back at me with a satisfied shake of his head.

Nikki and I are soon in a strange discussion which turns a bit narky. — Why is it all those men’s mags like
Loaded
,
FHM
,
Maxim
are just like porn mags like
Mayfair
,
Penthouse
and
Playboy
, scanty cover outside, nudes inside? Because men’s magazines are for men who are wankers, which means all men, but who like to pretend that they’re not. How can you have an imaginative space and a sexuality and not be a wanker? The shit that somebody like Renton would come out with is that he gets aroused thinking about certain things so he goes and has a nice, mature discussion with his nice, mature girlfriend and they negotiate sensibly and play out those fantasies in a loving, supportive, mutually rewarding and fulfilling way . . .

— But . . .

— WHAT A LOAD AY FUCKING PISH! No, we need tits and arse because they have got to be available to us; to be pawed, fucked, wanked over. Because we’re men? No. Because we’re consumers. Because those are things we like, things we intrinsically feel or have been conned into believing will give us value, release, satisfaction. We value them so we need to at least have the illusion of their availability. For tits and arse read coke, crisps, speedboats, cars, houses, computers, designer labels, replica shirts. That’s why advertising and pornography are similar; they sell the illusion of availability and the non-consequence of consumption.

— Your conversation is boring me, Nikki says, and she walks away.

Fuck her. I’m cruising on a massive fucking high and everybody else, everything else, will just have to fit in with
my
fucking plans.

74

‘. . . killer cystitis . . .’

L
ars Lavish’s trying to get into my knickers. These porn guys are pretty thick, if brutally single-minded. It’s dull, but more interesting than Simon’s company. He’s being a tedious, coked-up pain in the arse. I don’t want to be too hard on him, because it
is
his moment and he should enjoy it, with pride coming before a fall and all that stuff. But he’s just impossible. He wants to fuck everything in sight, like Curtis, who actually is fucking everything in sight. The posh girls are queuing up, morbid and squeamish and girly-girl for a shot of
that
prick, news of which is flying round the marquee grapevine. And his swagger tells you that the young lad is growing into that penis at last. From burger bar to porn star.

He vanished for a bit with a companion, and now they’ve reappeared. — How are you doing, Curt?

— Great, he says, pulling this girl along by the hand. Her eyes are bulging out and she can hardly walk straight. — This is the best time I’ve had in my life!

And I’m finding it hard to argue.

I pull him to me and whisper in his ear. — Remember what you were saying about those guys? You were at school with? How they teased you about being a freak? Well, who was wrong, and who was right?

— They were wrong, ah wis right, he says. — But . . . it’s a shame that the likes ay Danny and Philip n that couldnae be here tae see aw this. They’d love it.

Simon has heard this and cuts in. — It’s like the Underground in London, mate. They rely oan enough people tae be sheep. They dinnae supply bins, ye see, they expect you tae carry yir rubbish aroond wi ye. Ah don’t do that, ah jist drop it anywhere. But enough people do it tae make it pay for them
no
tae provide bins.

— Ah dinnae get ye . . .

— What ah’m sayin, pal, is that ye drop rubbish, ye never carry it aroond wi ye, and here, it’s just excellent without the rubbish, he says snootily.

Sick Boy, God, he is that, is making a fuss of this girl called Roni, who he says is from Fox Searchlight. — Roni’s invited us all to the Fox Searchlight do tomorrow, he beams.

I pull him aside. — Just take her back and fuck her now, Simon, she looks well up for it. Or is it a purely nasal romance?

— Don’t be petty, Nikki, he sneers. — It’s just a vehicle to get the tickets for this bash.

He’s full of bullshit. The party ends and we head to a club for a bit, but it’s so busy that we can barely move so we decide to go back to our suite at the hotel. — This is barry, Curtis says, impressed by the opulence of the place.

Our little party is confronted by a commissionaire who asks rather imperiously: — Are you guests at this hotel?

— No, by no stretch of the imagination could you say that, Simon replies starchily. As the uniformed official is about to turf us out, he then produces his room key. — Being a guest involves receiving some kind of hospitality, some kind of rudimentary courtesy. We do stay at the hotel, however, but no, you couldn’t call us guests.

The commissionaire goes to say something, but, dismissing him with the waving motion of somebody brushing aside a noxious odour, Simon strides on ahead. I follow, with a somewhat apologetic grin, as do the others. We get up to the room and drink the bar dry, Simon irritating me with his overbearing smarm directed at Ms Fox Searchlight. The way they shovel up the cocaine together is quite frightening.

— A pornographic film . . . and Curtis here’s the star? she asks, looking all bug-eyed at him. Curtis is lying on the couch as Mel shakes her head.

— Aye, well, Curtis, and Mel and Nikki too, of course, Sick Boy deigns to elucidate. — The girls always rule at porn. But Curtis has a certain asset which elevates him way beyond the standard ten-inch a penny actors! Of course, I have a part myself . . .

— Reeely . . . Ms Searchlight says, rubbing his arm as they devour each other with their eyes.

Their molten flirtation makes me feel as if I’ve eaten too much candyfloss. I listen to him slavering away for a bit and then I drift off to sleep on the bed. When I wake up in the night, my bladder heavy, I stagger to the toilet for a long, jagged, broken-glass pee which heralds the start of killer cystitis. The minibar is empty, Simon and Fox Searchlight have gone and Curtis and Mel are crashed out on the chaise longue in a fully-clothed embrace.

I’m sitting on the toilet seat, trying to press this toxic piss out of my bladder. I phone room service and ask them to send up some Nurofen. Fortunately I have some Cylanol in my bag and I take a powder. It’s agonising though; I can’t sleep, and I’m in a fevered sweat. Simon comes in and sees my discomfort. — What’s up, baby?