|
Written by roguerunner
|
|
Friday, 24 March 2006 |
Glamourpussy has come to daddy and daddy can't believe it.
'Okay girls just make your way on to the bus and we'll call you as soon as we're ready.' The girls slink their way across unit base, hips, tits, arse and attitude. Glamourpussy love pop videos. Adjacent to me the producer leers appreciatively. It is on these occasions that runners and producers are allowed to converse.'Jesus would you look at the chebs on that.' I follow the producer's gaze and my noggin pounds up and down in agreement.'You know runner-boy, when I was your age I was banging girls like that three times a week.' I gaze across at the distended beer belly and receding hair line of my neighbour and wonder about how to respond.'Was that long ago?''Well it must be 1988 when I first started out. Of course it was a different game then.'Heard this one before. Seems like just about everyone spent the eighties being paid ludicrous sums of money for doing little more than snorting coke and shagging one another.'You wouldn't believe what this industry was like then. The amount of money…and the girls….unbelievable.'I'm glad you enjoyed it. 'None of this crap about health and safety, or proper working hours, you worked all the hours god sent you and you got paid a packet. Cash too.' I nod sagely.'I bet that one loves a bit of it.' Again I follow the producer's glance. He really is in pimps paradise on this one. So many young, nubile women seeking to authenticate their womanhood under the spotlight of celluloid fame.. They might not know it yet, but the producer has the keys to many doors and once that's common knowledge, it'll be a blood bath.Vultures never looked so pretty.Alliances and enemies have already begun to emerge, cluster and fragment. In the same way that girls synchronize their monthly cycles, so too do they dissect and disseminate their collective neuroses. The speed and brutality of alliances formed and broken is astonishing.Glamourpus # 1'…did you hear what she said, did you?'Glamourpus # 2'…she's just being a bitch forget her.' Glamourpus # 3'What did you call me?'Glamourpus # 1'Nothing…'Glamourpus # 3'fuck you nothing, how dare you say that behind my back.'And so on and so forth. If these girls were given guns world war III would be launched on the basis of a questionable accessory choice.Still they're a nice bunch really, to me anyway. Real nice in fact because none of them have worked out what it is that I do and they're therefore collectively hedging their bets on my potential usefulness. It's a revolving circuit of 'how you doings' and 'you got lovely eyes' before the 2nd a.d blows my cover at lunchtime and I'm left to spend the afternoon fetching the girls teas, coffee and glamour magazines.This being a pop promo, the day goes long. Afternoon drains into night and as the city lights dim, finally the girls are called upon to produce their glamour.The transformation in front of camera is astounding. Photosynthesis incarnate. The flash of the light, the twirl of the camera and you can just sense a change in the atmosphere as the girls eyes fill with nowness. At the prime of their sexual existence, something is going on and they know it, they just know. There's no feeling like it when you're in a room with the glamourpussies and the psychosis of beauty holds you in it's claw, for that feeling you'd rip your own heart out of your chest.My chest is inflamed, on fire, but I know that what I'm feeling is like no one else here. I know that because I was stupid enough to eat a lamb madras for lunch and a large portion of the fucker has wholeheartedly stuck thick in the centre of my ribcage. I'm pounding my chest in desperation, the sparks chuckling at my perceived attempt at beat keeping, whilst I suffer indescribable waves of pain along my digestive tract. It was never meant to be this way. Seriously. It's not that I don't have my finger on the pulse of modern living, it's that the pulse has stopped pumping.It's way past midnight when the last of the glamourpussies are away and I've finished cleaning set and deposited the rubbish bags in the grounds of some benign retirement home. For once the motor guides me home without fuss or fanfare. For all intents and purpose I'm a living spook, as reactionary as peter mandelson on poppers.I don't know... I guess underlying the fatigue of working an eighteen hour day, something entirely more significant has reached beneath my skin and yanked at my soul, giving me a wake up call to the nature of humankind.At the end of the day money talks, honey walks and runners run.
 |
Show/Hide comment form