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 Multi talented as she is Dotty considers the West of the first gold rush and the East of the new... while taking in Tax changes and other such high faluting business. Busy, busy, busy, like the Queen Bee of Soho that she is... we can only assume that Miss Parker has attained boddhisattva-hood and now spreads her tender mercies via arms plural.
Dotty concurs, how else would she be able to drink her daily five portions of fruit, recommended by Dr Antonovian of course, if she could not rest Apple-tinis and Pineapple Heads in a multitude of palms? Our late night, amber hued visions of a mulit-armed devi aside, Dotty has been on a work-high of late, enjoying the bloom of Spring as Soho starts to come alive with glorious dandies, bright pink daisies and elegant limbs escaping from the confines of Winter's hosiery. But a word of caution escapes her scarlett lips, enjoy the rush, let blood run through veins as the word "sale" reaches the high street and the low industry, but let buyer beware....
My vintage, although fragrant, a full bouquet of russet and plum blossom tones, heady and with a sweet after taste belying a dry, crisp frontal attack on the senses, is, although classic and incorruptible, not as old as some would have you think. True, that I have been around the block, or more elegantly, circumvented the communite del’arte, a few times. Been there, done that and bought the t-bar mahnolos… but it is a rudeness beyond all thoughts of debase actions and suggestions of sensuality in polite company (a hand on the thigh, a whisper that becomes the tip of a tongue, the long lingering glance with afterplay)… to ask a woman her age. But I will admit to one definition. I was not born yesterday.
Born when I was, in that year of which I do not speak, I can guarantee a few details. I do not remember first hand the crossing of the Rubicon, the fall of the House of Usher or where I was when Kennedy was shot (the latter may be more due to my state at the time, but as I said, your honour, I do not remember). More so, I can assure you that I was not one of the original ‘49ers (slow boys at the back, I am speaking of the gold rush, not the American Soccer Team – excuse me, my Viking ancestors invited Football, let them use the name that makes absolutely no sense or connection to the game and we will not revert to our old rules of using a human head). But I have seen a few rushes in my time: the stampede amongst my troupe when I gently request a pair of warm hands to ease the knot that develops in my back at the thought of a sequel to Bedazzled. The rush of my assistants to claim my cast offs…. Clothes, shoes, men… And most recently the rush of producers to claim the last of the government’s tax bread crumbs before we were launched into limbo, allegedly to be saved only by the Brown man with the Red suitcase.
Tax is not a subject I can speak on with any certainty. Personally I have a man for that. And most other things too of course. But this particular man is a sub-city acolyte, tailored of suit and large of ear who deals with the Queen’s men in return for robbing me blind each year. Oh, I should probably be bothered about his incessant thievery but lucky for me he has a weakness for the gee gees and Quillion the bookmaker has a weakness for me (the result of me defending his name and his knees when first he moved to my square mile)… so in effect financial karma acts upon my poor tax guide quite quickly.
But in the burning nights of Soho producers have been a little more worried about the March deadline. All the better for me to make money with my dear…. Rushing a film into production? Why then you will need a good writer… Have a script with problems? Call the script doctor, write one cheque in the evening and call me in the morning. Busy, busy, busy like the bees I have recently adopted for my roof garden.
And on that blessed day when Gordie placed his hand in the red case, as though it was the bocca della verita, (and was eternally grateful that it wasn’t as he is a politician and would never get away with both hands…) we found out that it would be…. Well, what exactly? No more sale and leaseback… great, like the off-side rule I think I got it, but maybe I didn’t… cultural tests? Well, Dotty is too many parts to list… I am sure that there is Italian, some Chinese maybe, and possible a dash of something stoic and Eastern European…. Or was that my take away options for last night? Would I pass these cultural tests? And if I take American money will I lose my percent kick back from the government? Will I take the long road to the Oscars to be kicked back because my second assistant director once stopped off at a Wendy’s and bought breakfast?
Everyone I ask seems equally bemused… which is great for the middlemen. For years they, unlike me, have made people admire them with their diagrams on the flow of funds for sale and leaseback. Will they now be ready to leap into the fray with big T’s sown onto their chests, their pants over their tights and explain the new laws for us citizens of Metropolis? I feel another rush about to begin… and really Dotty is too tired for all this madcap rushing to and fro.
International travel is up there with profiteroles and a certain Gyllenhal’s chest (I leave it up to you whether it is J or M) as a few of my favourite things… I would sing a la the Sound of Music, but try it, it simply does not scan… But I prefer to be, as my nature has it, the trend setter, the scout at the head of the team of wagons, tracing that safe passage through savage country to the promised land (San Fran? Maybe for me it would be a wagon train of hot pant loving cowboys…well that definitely counts J in).
Arriving at the renao of the Hong Kong FilMart (meaning “festive”, but composed of the words for hot and noisy) I had the sinking feeling that the rush was on and that the days of Mei Hua and I slowly observing the rituals of Chinese business were long gone. A smart woman has a translator on hand for any situation, be it negotiating the tangles of Mandarin over Cantonese, or the etiquette of tipping the women who pass you napkins you never asked for in the ladies restroom. Mei Hua has the added benefit of a few thousand years of delicate breeding and eyes that are not only petal shaped, but also as a sharp as an eagle’s… if that eagle was wearing a exclusive suit and keen on negotiating the best deal for her producer. I really only planned to buy a few nick nacks, a few souvenirs to take back to blighty… but there were so many films in so many pretty colours I ended up back to back with dearest Bey of TWC (Weinsteins now going by acronym… perhaps I should be DSP from now on?). After some vicious haggling, where numbers flew like diamond sutras aimed at tree demons, we agreed on dinner for two, at seven, dressed to the nines.
And then alas my own rush was on, back to the airport, back to my blessed mother London and back to the grind. But sadness pervades. Like the ‘49ers, the tax hunters, the new middlemen seeking our heavily discounted credits, and all those buyers of Asia’s finest, will find their resources are finite. How long before our government decides that they have been too lenient and make GB delve into the bocca again? How long before TB is wiped out like his initials and we have others to negotiate with? How long before the number of middlemen outweighs the numbers of producers? How long before rushing for Asian product forces our favourite genres on the filmmakers and their diversity and originality goes the way of the Native Americans met on the path to the land of golden rivers?
So, roll up, roll up, and see the glorious attraction… for a limited time only… sale ends soon. Feel the rush.
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