set is obviously intended to represent the inside of a bedroom and the lady now complaining about Jim’s cold hands is wearing a black lace negligee and one of the biggest sets of knockers I have ever seen. Cleaning his nails on the other side of the rumpled bed is a queer looking cove in the inevitable painters’ overalls. He managed to make them look like the latest male fashion dreamed up by one of those kinky French designers.
‘Right. Thank you, Jim,’ says Lofty. ‘Now, Mac, if you’ve got some film in the camera, let’s do it again. And for God’s sake, Crispin, put a bit of life into it! Try and imagine Sandra is a man or something.’
‘Charming!’ says Sandra.
‘You’re supposed to be a lusty housepainter about to enjoy the sexual experience of a lifetime,’ continues Lofty. ‘At the moment it sounds as if you’ve popped in to ask for a glass of water because you’ve come over a little queer.’
‘He should be so lucky,’ mutters Mac.
‘If you don’t like my reading, Justin, I don’t know why you don’t get someone else,’ flounces Crispin. ‘Victor Mature, for instance.’
‘He wanted luncheon vouchers,’ says my prospective employer acidly. ‘Now, concentrate on the performance you’re being paid to give.’
‘I don’t know how you expect anyone to say these lines,’ moans Crispin. ‘ “Man, but it’s a really switched-on pad you’ve here, honey.” Good grief, if my old Rada teacher could see me now –’
‘Yes, I know, Crispin,’ says Justin. ‘But the money’s good, isn’t it? It’s better than reading children’s stories on the telly. Now, for God’s sake, let’s have some action!’
‘Bunchleys munchy butter-beans just melt in your mouth,’ says Crispin for no apparent reason.
‘My nipples are going numb,’ says Sandra from the bed. ‘Jim put that sellotape on too tight.’
‘You’ll just have to grin and bear it, dear,’ says Justin as a groan goes up from the camera crew. ‘OK. Let’s get this bleeding scene in the can.’
‘Quiet, please!’
‘Scene one hundred and forty two – Take three.’
‘Mind Sandra when you use that clapper board.’
‘Shut up!’
‘See nipples and die.’
‘Shut up!’
Sandra stands by the bed and Crispin adjusts his hairpiece and squares his shoulders – well, oblongs them really. They are not wide enough to square.
‘Man, but it’s a really switched-on pad you’ve got here, honey.’
‘You like it, do you?’
‘Like it. I love it.’
‘That chest for instance.’ Mac’s camera is honing in on Sandra’s boobs. – ‘You like my chest?’
‘I love your chest. There’s one thing, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think it needs a coat of paint.’
‘You want to paint my chest?’
‘Yes. I’ll go and get my brush.’
‘All right, I’ll get it ready for you.’ As Crispin turns his back Sandra shrugs off her negligee and Mac’s camera lens nearly caps the tips of her titties. Sandra lies down on the bed and Crispin comes into camera holding a brush and a can of paint.
‘OK, Crispin,’ coaches Justin. ‘Register surprise. Good. Now Sandra, take his paintbrush. Bite it. Good. That’s lovely. Beautiful. Hold it there for a couple of secs. Lovely. Now down. Super. Crispin, get on top of her. Not too fast! Don’t leave Mac behind. Right, now reach for the paintbrush, Crispin. Both your hands on it. On the paintbrush, Crispin! Lovely. That’s beautiful. Kiss. Down, down, down. And paintbrush into the tin. Lovely! Right, cut. That was beautiful. We’ll do one more to be on the safe side but we’ll certainly print that one. What do you want?’ Justin has suddenly become aware that I am standing by his side.
‘Miss Mealie sent me. She said you needed a window cleaner. I spoke to your office this morning.’
‘Your what?’ says Mac
‘Shut up,’ says Justin and turns back to me. ‘How is the winsome slut? Still fucking everything that moves?’
‘Nearly everything,’ I say resentfully.
‘You’re the fellow who was in the paper today, aren’t you?’ says Mac who has been peering at me closely. ‘Did you see it, Justin?’
‘I only read the Financial Times,’ says Justin coolly. ‘What were you doing in the papers?’
‘Miss Mealie cooked up some publicity gimmick which had me prancing about in the altogether.’
‘You’ve got the right pedigree for this caper, then. Have you got a card?’
I dive into my breast pocket and retrieve the card Miss Mealie has given me.
‘No, no, dear boy. That’s my card, isn’t it? I mean a union card?’
‘No.’
‘My God. Did you hear that, Mac? You’re not allowed to buy a copy of the ABC Film Review without a union card.’ He looks round the set. ‘If these people knew you weren’t a card holder, they’d be out of that door like lemmings.’
‘I’m sorry. Where do I get one?’
‘You can’t get one unless you’re an actor.’
‘But I can’t be an actor unless I’ve got one.’
‘Exactly. Clever, isn’t it? Don’t worry. We’ll get you one.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing at the moment. I want to use you for some scene-setting stuff, probably tomorrow. You know, shinning up ladders. Standing on window ledges. That kind of thing. All exterior shots.’
‘Don’t I have to say anything?’
‘No, but don’t worry. It’s degrading to have to speak on this kind of film, isn’t it, Crispin?’
Crispin shudders and continues to pat his hair.
‘Completely unnecessary, too. We like to keep the actor’s lips moving to give the impression that they’re alive but apart from that it’s busts, bottoms and bums all the way. Sandra’s mammaries are the language our audience understands.’
‘Couple of flashes from Sandra and the centre of Singapore is ablaze with burning taxis,’ agrees Mac.
‘A
