Met Andrew
Lynford for a drink in Soho about 5pm. Andrew has been
a mate for years, we met in 1990 while working front
of house at the Adelphi Theatre on The Strand. I was
a first year student at The Central School of Speech
and Drama but thankfully spending my evenings watching
Gary Wilmot do The Lambeth Walk six times a week didn't
seem to adversely affect my training. Anyway, years
after while I was a struggling actor doing tv commercials
and the odd episode of Casualty Andrew found fame and
fortune playing Tiffany's gay brother in Eastenders;
well I guess somebody had to. Anyway, we met for a drink
in the west end at about 5pm after I'd had a days writing
at Tiger Aspect. I casually let slip, over our alfresco
orange juice and lemonade, that my days writing had
been with Barry Humphries only to be completely trumped
by Andrew telling me he was about to go to a private
screening of a new film with Burt Kwok! Burt fucking
Kwok! Kato himself! As far as outrageous name dropping
goes I thought I was on a good wicket with Dame Edna
until that bastard Lynford pulled Inspector Clueso's
man servant out of the bag (Burt wasn't in a bag you
understand, he was waiting outside The Odeon Leicester
Square, although after years of hiding inside fridges
and above four poster beds waiting to attack Peter Sellers
I'm sure he wouldn't have minded). Back home after that
on what I thought was going to be a pleasant journey
as I decided to take a tube to Old Street and then do
the rest of the journey by over ground train. NEVER
AGAIN. The tube journey was appalling; the carriage
was crammed to capacity with sweaty office workers then
just as the doors were closing some hairy faced 'Catweasel'
hippy with three suitcases, THREE, and a back pack squeezed
himself into the four inch space between me and the
closing door. If that wasn't enough then a fat woman
with a matching backpack and even more facial hair tried
to force herself in as well. The doors closed and then
the fun began. The hippy tried to turn around to talk
to his companion; not a good idea on a hot, packed,
smelly train when wearing a back pack which could house
a small family. Needless to say the other near by commuters
started to protest and push back until Catweasel came
out with the proverbial hippies retort; "Jesus
man, why can't some people just chill out". CHILL
OUT? FUCKING CHILL OUT? You dirty, soap dodging, lice
ridden, dole scrounging, hemp wearing, flip flop footed
fuck-wit! Of course that's what I wanted to say, what
I actually said was, "sorry, can I get out this
is my stop", as the zip on his ruck sack scraped
across my sweating face. I walked through what seemed
to be about 3 miles of dank, dingy corridors until I
got to the british rail platform to discover I had just
missed my train and the next one was delayed by 40mins.
I finally got home at 8.40pm and kissed my car as it
sat patiently outside my house and vowed never, NEVER
to use public transport again.
