My long-time writing partner Peter Lawrence and I had our first success in the 70’s, with our strip club-set comic novel IT’S YOUR MONEY IN MY POCKET, DEAR, NOT MINE IN YOURS, published by Quartet Books. THE MAO TSE TUNG WORKERS REVOLUTIONARY STRIPTEASE EMPORIUM was its long-delayed sequel, featuring many of its original characters. This extract, not for the easily offended, describes the making of a porn movie.
***
LORRAINE VON BATES SURVEYED THE SET OF SPANKENSTEIN. As star and one of the executive producers, Lorraine was entitled – or at least felt she was entitled – to arrive fashionably late. While waiting for her, Wolf had made some alterations to the set, removing some obvious mis-matches such as the ratchet-action car jack and the National Benzole petrol pump, so that it now looked less like a garage and more like the mad scientist’s workshop of Frankenstein tradition. Wolf bustled up to her, indicated an unoccupied chair in a half-circle of folding chairs, the others of which were already occupied by Victor, Sandra, Sasha, Petunia and Bettina: “As soon as you’re ready darling. We’re going for a read-through.”
Lorraine sniffed, transferred her considerable heft to the proffered chair. Wolf beamed. His repertory ensemble was now complete, even down to his regular camera crew. Bernie and The Gripper busied themselves with technical matters, oblivious to the artistic concerns which were about to be aired.
Wolf took up position in front of his cast, script in hand: “You know the drill with a Wolf Von Bates film darlings… we’re all on a journey of self-discovery. The classic story of Frankenstein is merely a leitmotif by which we can explore our emotional trajectories. Our ensemble cast will be exploring a narrative arc whereby we delve into the very essence of what it means to be human, and...”
“’Ere!” interrupted Bettina, “it’s bleedin’ ’taters in ’ere. Once we get our gear off we’re all goin’ to be covered in goose pimples. Very sexy, I don’t fink.”
“Yeah, zackly,” agreed Lorraine, “we’re going to look like a bunch of Victor Value frozen chickens. Turn the ’eatin’ up Wolfie.”
Wolf was momentarily flummoxed. He didn’t want to admit that this particular rehearsal room was unheated, and thus available for a bargain rate. Despite his new-found liquidity, he still had an eye for economy – after all, it meant a bigger spend on artistic necessities such as whips, manacles and nineteenth-century crotchless bloomers from Angels. But luckily he’d spotted an old paraffin greenhouse heater amongst the paraphernalia purporting to represent the scientist’s workshop.
“For you my darling, anything,” he beamed, grabbing the ancient device and dragging it into the centre of the semi-circle of chairs. Amazingly, it took only a few minutes to get its blackened wick aflame, and in a couple of minutes more it was giving off a weak aura of heat. Lorraine put her hands out towards it, looked as if she was going to complain again, sniffed, but decided to let it go. Since Wolf had become a big-time porn director and she a highly-paid star, Lorraine was allowing him more leeway.
“Right,” said Wolf, again consulting his script. “Spankenstein, an exotic journey into ultimate ecstasy. Victor, you’re Spankenstein’s monster…”
“Not so I’ve heard,” guffawed Bernie. “Nah,” agreed The Gripper, “Spankenstiny, more like.” They looked towards the object of their taunts, but Victor had retreated into a world of his own, his fingers jittering, his eyes flicking this way and that, his right foot pitter-pattering against the floor.
The camera team shrugged and continued doing abstruse things with lenses.
Wolf continued: “Sasha and Petunia, you’re Dr. Frankenstein’s lab assistants. Sandra and Bettina, you’re angry villagers. And Lorraine, you’re the eponymous Dr. Victoria Frankenstein, the brilliant but deranged sex-change scientist who’s going to confound conventional science and achieve the impossible by revivifying the monster.”
“’Ere,” said Lorraine. “Whatchoo mean sex-change? Joo mean ter say I’m playin’ a bloke?”
“A very feminine bloke darling. One of his previous experiments, see. Fitted himself with enormous knockers and a nice new minge and that. And a new boatrace.”
Lorraine looked unconvinced. Wolf hurried on: “That he got off the innkeeper’s daughter, who came to a sticky end in a freak barrel-changing accident. The lovely 22-
year-old innkeeper’s daughter, that all the villagers fancied like anything.” Although dubious, Lorraine again decided not to make anything of it. She settled, inspected her fingernails, and Wolf carried on.
“So, Lorraine is Dr. Victoria Frankenstein, and Victor is the monster. Because he’s all big and muscle-bound, you see.” Slowly, Lorraine turned to Victor and gave him a once-over. He was indeed all big and muscle-bound, to the extent that his head seemed as if it had been added to his body as an afterthought.
“If you say so.” Then Lorraine leant across and looked at Victor more closely. “’Ere, Vic, are you all right?”
“Me? All right? Course I’m all right!” said Victor, his eyes now swivelling like twin gyroscopes, his tiny head bobbing around on his massive neck like a nodding bulldog on the parcel shelf of a Morris Cowley. “Never been better,” he jabbered, “all fired up, know what I mean? Hot to trot!”
“’Kin’ell’, get on with it Wolfie,” said Sasha, “what are we supposed to do?”
“Ah yes, the mise en scene,” said Wolf. He struck a dramatic pose. “Imagine if you will, a castle in nineteenth century Ingolstadt. In her laboratory, Dr. Victoria Frankenstein – that’s you Lorraine – is working through the night to perfect her most ambitious creation – that’s you Victor – aided by her loyal assistants Hedwig and Ingeborg – that’s you, Sasha and Petunia. Dr. Frankenstein summons the mighty, destructive power of lightning – that’s me, flicking the lights on and off – to bring life to the monster. But to no avail! It looks as though all Dr. Frankenstein’s work will be in vain. Her magnificent creation stubbornly refuses to come to life. Then Hedwig and Ingeborg, frustrated beyond measure by the cruel blow that has befallen their mistress, get all their gear off and give each other a good whipping.”
Wolf gazed at the company. Despite none of them being intimately acquainted with the classics of English literature, they sensed that this sequence was taking liberties with the original text. In turn Wolf sensed that they sensed this.
“Of course,” he hurried on, “this is where we deviate just a tad from the book. Bring it up to date you might say. Give it a contemporary twist.”
Lorraine gave a mighty harrumph. “If you say so, Ken Russell. Wot ’appens next?”
“Ah, well,” said Wolf, “now we come to the subtle twist. The Hedwig and Ingeborg whipping scenario gives Dr. Frankenstein an idea. She whips the monster’s kecks off, flips him over and gives him a serious arse-whacking with a cane, which she, er, happens to have handy, on account of she, er, twisted her ankle that morning. Suddenly the monster twitches. He blinks. He shows signs of life.”
“Signs of life, yes,” said Victor, suddenly and loudly, drawing the attention of the company. In fact, he was actually showing signs of having a seizure. “’Ere, are you all right darlin’?” said Sasha, who in another life has been an A & E nurse. “You’re lookin’ a bit iffy.”
In fact, Victor’s right leg was pounding up and down as if he were Keith Moon giving a bass drum demonstration. His irises darted this way and that like pinballs. His skin had gone an alarming shade of puce. “Never been better!” he shouted. “Ready to go! All aboard the Skylark! Fuck a duck!”
Wolf looked askance, but Victor suddenly subsided, as instantly as he had come to life, his head lolling onto this chest, his arms drooping down the sides of his chair.
“’E’s all right,” opined Sasha. “Prolly just gettin’ a bit over-excited.”
“That’ll make a change,” muttered Bernie, never one to let an opportunity pass.
Sasha ignored him. “Carry on Wolfie, I’ll keep an eye on ’im.”
“Thank you Sasha,” said Wolf. “As I was saying, the monster shows signs of life.”
THHHHHABBBLLOOOOEEESSHHHHH!
Dead on cue, Victor did indeed show signs of life by letting loose a tremendous fart, which echoed through the cavernous expanses of the rehearsal room.
There was a unison chorus of “’Kinells” from the company, and much waving of hands in front of noses.
“’Ere,” said Lorraine, “tha’ss ’orrible. ’E’d better not do that while ’e’s bangin’ me, or there’ll be trouble, I can tell yer.” She shifted her weight and looked accusingly, first at Victor, then at Wolf.
Wolf was momentarily nonplussed. Considering the wide variety of livestock that Lorraine had consented to accommodate during her porn career, he felt that she was being unnecessarily fastidious. Still, he plunged on:
“Anyway, as I was saying, the monster shows signs of life. Dr. Frankenstein is overjoyed. Her experiment is working at last. Is there any way she can stimulate the monster further? Of course – she can use her feminine wiles! So at that point Lorraine, you jump on Victor and give him a tremendous seeing-to.”
Lorraine rolled her eyes theatrically, and Sandra piped up: “But Mr. Von Bates. I don’t understand. What about the angry villagers? Where do we come in?”
“Ah, I was just going to get to that, Sandra. You and Bettina are the dramatic crux upon which the whole piece rests!” A gleam came into Wolf’s eye as he briefed the angry villagers on their vital part in his re-telling of the classic.
“You’re villagers. You’re angry. You’ve heard about all the shenanigans going on up at the castle. You’re not going to take it any more. You march up to the castle… over the drawbridge… in through the gate… and what do you see? Your beloved innkeeper’s daughter, previously thought to be dead, having it off with a monster! So what do you do?”
“A bit of lezzing with Hedwig and Ingeborg?” said Bettina helpfully.
“No, you…” Wolf came to a halt. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea, Bettina. Well done. We might slip that scene in later.” He picked up speed again. “No! You’re disgusted. You’re enraged. You think that Baroness Frankenstein has brought shame on the whole village. So you set fire to her laboratory!”
“’Ere, ain’t that goin’ to be a bit dangerous?” said Lorraine. There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the company.
“No no darling,” said Wolf kindly. “The fire’ll just be effects. Post-production. In fact, you carry on banging Victor; Hedwig and Ingeborg whip each other up a treat; the angry villagers dance about setting fire to everything… then they decide to…” Wolf was busking it now, seriously trying to think of a way of seguing Bettina’s lezzing suggestion into the action… “they decide to…” Then inspiration struck: “I’ve got it! They both…”
“EEEEUUUURRRGHHHHHGGHGHG!” Victor emitted a loud, keening wail, rose unsteadily to his feet, looked wildly around, and fell poleaxed to the ground, frothing at the mouth.
oOo
VICTOR AWOKE TO FIND THE DIRECTOR, camera crew and entire cast of Spankenstein peering down at him. Not that any of them were particularly worried about his sudden medical problem (“’e told me ’e’d done five dexies and washed ’em dahn wiv a ’ole bottle of Stone’s Ginger Wine”) but they did have a porn movie to make, and time was money, and for better or worse Victor was there to provide the masculine presence. Wolf briefly considered substituting one of the angry villagers for Victor, but decided that would be a step too far in terms of faithfulness to the original text. Anyway, all Victor had to do was lie there and get his arse whacked, so it didn’t matter much if he was only half-conscious.
“Right then, Victor,” said Wolf briskly, “if you’re back in the land of the living, perhaps you’d like to hop onto the operating table.” As Victor complied, to the others he shouted “Positions everyone!” and, muttering slightly disappointedly now that the excitement was over, they took up their places: Victor on the operating table, looking more than ever like several sacks of potatoes, particularly as he instantly passed out again; Lorraine looming over him, white lab coat stretched over her body like a sausage skin, revealing acres of cleavage and hectares of bulging white thigh; Sasha and Petunia dressed in baby-blue latex nurses’ uniforms and thigh boots with six-inch heels (“nurses, lab assistants, much the same thing,” Wolfie had assured them); Sandra and Bettina in the wings in villagers outfits left over from Mother Goose, into which Lorraine had cut strategic slits and holes, so that at any moment nipple or entire breast might randomly burst forth.
Wolf surveyed the scene. The actors were in place. Bernie and The Gripper were ready to roll. Wolf was in his element. This is what he was born to do. “Action!” he cried happily.
Lorraine approached the prone Victor on the operating table, and yanked at one of the levers on the plywood mockup control panel.
“Lovely, darling,” beamed Wolf, as he flicked the house lights rapidly on and off to represent lightning. “Yes, super! Now, Bernie, cut away to Sasha and Petunia. Get your gear off you two… and… wait for it… now, lez it up!”
Sasha and Petunia lezzed it up, mainly by running their hands up and down each other’s nurses uniforms and grimacing as if receiving a sudden and unwelcome enema.
“Zoom in Bernie, zoom in! Right, Sasha, let’s see some tongue…into Petunia’s mush…lovely!”
“But wait!” Wolf struck a dramatic pose. “While trusty lab assistants Sasha and Petunia are carrying out important biological experiments on each other, Dr. Frankenstein is having no luck with the monster! No matter how much she summons up the terrible and mysterious forces of nature” – at which point Wolf flipped the lights on and off again – “her creation remains inert, a mere collection of lifeless cells. What can she do to perk him up a bit? She has an idea!”
At this point Lorraine seemed to have lost interest, and was leaning against the operating table picking her fingernails. Victor was now spark out again, actually snoring. Luckily, Bernie’s sound equipment was not sensitive enough to pick up the rhythmic buzzsawing sound.
Wolf persisted:
“The Doctor has an idea… don’t you, Lorraine!”
“WOT?”
“You have an idea… about how to perk the monster up!”
“Oh yeah, right.” Now it was Lorraine’s turn to strike a pose: “Oh bloody ’ell,” she proclaimed, “I’ve spent all this time workin’ me arse off in me laboramatory ’ere in Ingolstadt, and the bleedin’ monster’s still well akip. Wot am I to do?”
“Lovely darling,” hissed Wolf. “In close Bernie.” Bernie and The Gripper moved in on Lorraine as she peered vacantly around to indicate by way of mime not knowing what to do. But after the mime had gone on for twenty or seconds, Wolfie realised that Lorraine had actually forgotten what she was supposed to do.
“Luckily,” he prompted, “I have about my person...”
“Luckily,” she intoned, “I ’ave about my person… er…” and then remembered what it was she was supposed to have about her person, “this ’andy cane… er… on account of sprainin’ me ankle gettin’ aht of the bahf this mornin’.”
Lorraine drew a schoolmaster’s bamboo cane from one of her PVC boots, and, in a demonstration of why she attracted the smart money whenever feats of strength were being compared, flipped Victor over as if he were no heavier than a bag of liquorice allsorts.
Bernie and The Gripper moved in close as Lorraine started to whack Victor’s arse, at first listlessly and then, as she started to feel her way into the part, with increasing vigour. And so it might have gone on, with an extreme close-up of Victor’s reddening buttocks, had he not chosen that moment to actually come back to life. Not as Dr. Frankenstein’s suddenly revivified monster, but as the totally blotto Victor, the dexies and ginger wine having come together in his metabolism in a hitherto unknown molecular combination that caused simultaneous superhuman energy and vivid hallucinations.
“Yaaooooouuggghhh!” Victor screamed, simultaneously turning over and sitting bolt upright, so that Lorraine delivered a stinging blow to his knackers.
“Eeeeeuuurghhhhhh!” he followed up, and leapt to the floor, hurling Lorraine out of his way with huge force. Lorraine went down, screaming blue murder:
“’Ere, watch wot you’re doing, you clumsy great twat!” But there was no stopping Victor:
“Waaaaaaaaghhhhh!” he bellowed, and started to hurtle maniacally round the set, batting at his head as though he were being attacked by a swarm of wasps. Bernie went to turn off his camera, but Wolf stopped him:
“No, no, Bernie, keep rolling, this is cinema verité!”
Shrugging, Bernie tracked Victor as the musclebound leading man hopped, skipped and jumped all round the set. He crashed into the angry villagers, who immediately recast themselves as the furious villagers. “Wwwoooooghhh” he yelled. “Weeeeaaaghhhh!” he keened, now jumping jerkily up and down as he ran, slapping at his forearms. “Cockroaches! They’re after me! Lizards! Crocodiles! Jimmy Savile! Aaaaaaaggghhh!” Sasha and Petunia, having quite got into lezzing it up, were now lying stark naked on a bearskin rug licking each other’s naked bodies, but had to roll swiftly sideways to avoid the flying form of Victor. He missed them, but not the bear’s head. His foot caught in its open mouth, and he hurtled forward like an Olympic swimmer at the start of a 100 metre race, straight into the wings. A split second… then booiiinnnggggg! His head connected with a large metal lever, shoving it forward.
Again, Bernie went to stop filming. Again, Wolfie urged him to continue:
“No no, Bernie, keep rolling, this is fabulous!” The rest of the cast stood paralysed, unable to process the sudden anarchic turn that the filming had taken. Then, suddenly, the
sound of ancient machinery creaking into action: CREEEAAAKKK! NNNNGGGGIIIINNNNGG! GGGRRRAAAUNNNNNCCCHHH! And the floor beneath their feet began to move!
“’ERE, WOT THE FUCKIN ’ELL’S GOIN’ ON?” said Lorraine, trying to keep her balance.
“KEEP ROLLING, KEEP ROLLING!” yelled Wolf, beside himself with joy.
“MMMMMMRRRRGHHHHH!” groaned the insensible Victor.
The floor kept moving and suddenly it became clear what was happening. The rehearsal room, or at least the part of it being used for Spankenstein, was a revolving stage – clearly a feature of the original Alhambra Theatre. The flying Victor had activated it, probably for the first time in decades. Now the cast members were fascinated, standing stock still as the floor underneath them slowly turned, and the other side of the revolving stage hove slowly into sight.
What Wolf, Lorraine and the rest of the crew saw was another set of half-naked women, a camera crew and a man who looked as if he was in charge. Clearly, they were also making a porn film – and the star was obviously the imposing woman whose identity became clearer and clearer as the revolving stage completed its revolution.
Lorraine Von Bates bared her teeth and snorted, and the rest of the crew held their breath as they realised that the now fully revealed porn star was Melina Pearson Baron, AKA… Disgusting Doris!
Lorraine stepped forward and confronted her arch-rival:
“WOTTHEFUCKIN’ELLAREYOUDOIN’ERE? EY? I MEAN? EY?”
“WOTAMIDOIN’ERE?” screamed Doris in reply. “WOTTHEFUCKIN’ELL AREYOUDOIN’ERE? YOU ‘ORRIBLE OLD SLAG!”
This time Bernie needed no exhortation to keep filming.
“Fuckin’ ’ell, Gripper,” he said to his assistant, “it’s a rematch. King Kong versus Godzilla. Disgusting Doris versus the Paramount Porker Poker. It’s déjà vu all over again!”
There had never been any love lost between Disgusting Doris and Lorraine Von Bates, and for neither of them had time erased the memory of their last titanic clash. On that
occasion Lorraine had emerged the victor, Doris laid low by the double whammy of a Japanese cuckoo clock to the throat, followed by a Woolies goldfish bowl over the head.
Porn, like strip, being a cottage industry involving a small pool of performers and crew, the news of Doris and Lorraine’s previous set-to had quickly become the stuff of legend. Like the Rolling Stones’ first gig, if the number of people who claimed to have been present at the event had actually been in attendance, the Bates’s living room-cum-movie set would have had to have been the size of Wembley Stadium. So now, there was no question of anyone doing anything other than forming an excited circle of spectators around the two colossi – apart from Victor, that is, who was still comatose in the wings.
Wolf was beside himself with joy, thinking that today he was going to get two movies for the price of one. He was running through titles in his head even as he urged Bernie and The Gripper to take up an advantageous position:
“Over here Bern… yes, yes, in close, zoom, zoom… so you can see the whites of their eyes! Ooh, marvellous!”
Doris and Lorraine circled each other warily. Godzilla versus The Sea Monster thought Wolf briefly - then, ashamed at aiming so low, more elevated titles flashed through his mind. This could be his Rashomon or Yojimbo, he mused. These implacable samurai warriors could make him the Kurosawa of porn.
He was brought back to the moment as his wife made the first move, aiming a vicious kick at Doris’s fanny. But Doris saw it coming, twisted to one side, deflected the blow but not completely, and Lorraine’s stilettoed foot got caught up the cleft of Doris’s arse. The two combatants, now awkwardly locked together, staggered around trying to remain upright, viciously clawing at each other while screaming abuse:
“GET YOUR FOOT OUT OF MY ARSE YOU FUCKIN’ OLD SLAG!”
“YER ARSE IS SO BIG I COULD GET MY LEG UP IT YOU ’ORRIBLE OLD TART!”
Fuckin’ell, thought Bernie, it’s like being at the Oxford Union. Dorothy Parker versus Aphra Behn. When he had been a stagehand at Borehamwood Studios, spending much of the day skiving in the props store, Bernie had been a keen reader. But before he could muse any further on the quality of the debate he had to step nimbly to one side as, finally, with a titanic effort, Lorraine managed to extract her foot.
Now the combatants sprang apart, Doris careening into the circle of spectators, Lorraine crashing back into the operating table, knocking it over and splintering the mockup control panel. Wolf winced:
“The props darling! Mind the props!” he whined, although his natural concern for budgetary matters was quickly overcome by a concern that Bernie should record all of this riveting action: “Bernie, Bernie! Zoom, zoom!”
Slowly, Lorraine picked herself up. She armed herself with a piece of splintered two-by-four from the shattered control panel. Clearly, she had now got her dander up. “RIGHT! THASSIT! I’M GOIN’ TO RIP YOUR ’EAD OFF AND SHOVE IT DAHN YOUR FROAT!”
Some of the more literal-minded spectators looked askance at the logistics of this manoeuvre, but Lorraine took no notice. She advanced on Disgusting Doris like the 15th. Panzer Division bearing down on the Eighth Army, prepared to take no prisoners. Doris, however, wasn’t about to go down without putting up some serious resistance. She remembered only too well having to be helped away from the battlefield by Sandra last time round. She picked up her handbag, which contained not only a wide selection of women’s requisites, but also five pounds of potatoes that she’d just bought at Berwick Street market. She adjusted the straps round her wrist and made an exploratory swing. It wasn’t a ‘morning star’, but it could do some serious damage.
The crowd held its collective breath as Doris and Lorraine circled each other, Lorraine making short, quick jabs with her two-by-four, Doris parrying with her weighted handbag. Then Doris went on the attack, swinging her bag at Lorraine’s head in a murderous roundhouse blow.
It’s Spartacus Dorisus versus Quintus Lorrainus, thought Bernie.
The mighty gladiators fight to the death as the crowd in the coliseum roar their approval. Dorisus goes for Lorrainus’s head… but wait… Lorrainus ducks, and comes back with a jab of her lance to Dorisus’s knocker. A nasty scrape… and the wound has got Dorisus’s blood up… she advances, swinging the handbag… but wait again! A spud has flown out of the bag and caught Lorrainus right in the mince pie! She staggers back… she’s enraged… she recovers and lets out a mighty war cry:
“YOU FUCKIN’ CAH, I’LL ’AVE YOU FOR THAT!”
Lorrainus charges… Dorisus swings her handbag… knocks Lorrainus’s two-by-four from her hand… and now they’re grappling, face to face, hand to hand, and the result is too close to call! Will the crowd have to decide with a raised or lowered thumb?
“Tit, Bernie,” shrieked Wolf, “Get more tit!” Bernie and The Gripper got in as close as they could, mindful of the dangers. As when viewing rhinos charging each other in a fight for supremacy, there was always a risk that the combatants might join forces and turn on you. But now the tide seemed to be turning. Doris got her right leg behind Lorraine’s right knee and hurled her considerable weight forward, causing Lorraine to crash backwards. Doris hurled herself on top of Lorraine, got her hands round Lorraine’s throat, and Lorraine responded by yanking Doris’s hair. The two gladiators rolled back and forth… the crowd oohed and aahed… Wolf cried “fabulous, fabulous!”… Bernie and The Gripper risked life and limb to get extreme close-ups of veiny knocker and crepey buttock… then, suddenly: “WAAAAAWWWAAAAGHHWOOOOOGGHHH!” The gladiators paused. The crowd gasped. From nowhere appeared the distraught figure of Victor. He leapt. He capered. He giggled. He shrieked and began to throw off his Frankenstein’s monster clothing – the work of a moment as it was designed to be easily discarded.
The now-naked Victor, cricket set flying, did a couple of swift circuits of the rehearsal room, bearing out Bernie and The Gripper’s hypothesis that he’d more aptly be nick-named Frankenstiny. Finally he paused – and seemed to see the prone forms of Doris and Lorraine for the first time. His eyes lit up. His nostrils flared. He sprinted towards them, leapt into the air with a scream – WOOOOGGGHHH! – and crashed down on Doris’s back. Doris went OOOUUUFFFFFF! and underneath her, compressed by the combined weights of Doris and Victor, Lorraine went AAAARRGGHHHHH!
Wolf was in paroxysms of delight, urging Bernie and The Gripper to go in closer, closer, and it was indeed a spectacular sight, Doris, Lorraine and Victor sprawling, limbs enmeshed, with Victor now seemingly in the grip of insatiable lust. He thrust here, he thrust there, he thrust everywhere, his diminutive member as erect as it had ever been in the collective memories of the assembled company.
But what Bernie had feared now came to pass. The combatants, their titanic struggle interrupted, turned their rage on the interrupter, Victor. Lorraine was the first to voice their anger, as Victor, squealing and squirming, tried to anally fist her:
“WOT THE FUCKIN’ ’ELL JOO FINK YOU’RE PLAYIN’ AT? EY? WOT? EY?” Victor then attempted to apply his fisting skills to Doris, who was equally against the idea: “GET OFF ME YOU DIRTY LITTLE BASTARD OR I’LL RIP YOUR COBBLERS OFF!”
Their antagonism at least temporarily forgotten, Lorraine and Doris clambered to their feet. Lorraine grabbed Victor’s ankles, Doris his wrists and, their combined strength equal to that of a colony of silverbacks, hurled him into the air. Again, the crowd gasped. Again, Wolf hugged himself with glee. Victor turned lazily over and over… reached the zenith of his flight… and crashed downwards… downwards… finally landing arse-first on the paraffin heater:
“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGHHHH!”
With a sizzling sound and a burst of oily blue flame, Victor’s arse caught fire. Later, witnesses of this astonishing sight deduced that his new-found musculature was owed not only to sessions at Butch of a Butchness, but also to the injection into his buttocks of industrial-grade silicon.
Now more animated than ever, Victor hurtled round the rehearsal room, screaming and batting at his hind parts. Finally he leapt into the vestal virgins’ pool which luckily formed part of the set of the second porn film, but not before he had managed to set fire to the virgins’ artfully draped curtains. In moments the rehearsal room filled with smoke, which was quickly followed by spreading flames.
Fire brigade and ambulances were in attendance within minutes, and outside in Great Windmill Street, a crowd quickly gathered. Even for the hardened denizens of Soho, it wasn’t an everyday sight to see semi-naked women pouring out of a burning building onto the pavement, nor to see a whimpering muscle-bound man having his still-smouldering arse thrust into a bucket of water.
Blitz-style, the disaster seemed to have brought about a détente – at least for the moment – between the two original combatants, and both Lorraine and Doris moved
among the goose-pimpled performers and crew, offering words of comfort and solace. Wolf too put aside his directorial role, and moved among his people making sure that no one (except Victor, whose silicone arse would never be the same again) had suffered serious injury or burns. All seemed to be well and he couldn’t help but be happy in the realisation that Bernie had got some sensational footage in the can. Wolf thought he might get several movies out of the footage that had been shot that morning, and his mind was already working overtime cranking out suitable titles. Fahrenheit Porn Five One? Would that work? But Wolf’s musings were interrupted by Bernie, who suddenly appeared at his side:
“’Ere, Wolfie, ’ave you seen The Gripper?” Wolf was mildly surprised. The Gripper’s working relationship with Bernie was almost that of Siamese twins, one rarely being more than a few feet from the other.
“No? Isn’t he with you?”
“I lost him in the smoke. I thought he’d got out. Where is he?” Bernie looked around wildly. He pushed his way through the crowd of survivors, shouting, increasingly panicked: “Gripper! Where are you? Gripper!” But there was no sign of Bernie’s workmate, sidekick and confidant. Bernie raised his face to the sky and wailed: “Gripper… nooooooooooooo!” Then he shoved his camera into Wolf’s arms, elbowed his way through the crowd and across the pavement and, before anyone could stop him, rushed back into the burning building, screaming: “Griiiipppeeeeerrr!”
Wolf started after him, rather half-heartedly, and was anyway held back by two firemen. Had Wolf’s all-star crew reunion come to a sticky end before it had even got started? Wolf felt his heart sink but he was quickly comforted by the fact that in his arms he held the camera, and all the morning’s footage.
oOo
