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On Holiday, Or Something Like It...

10th August 2018
(Blog Posting)

With virtually nothing written, and several unstarted masterpieces piling up, I set off for Paris. Tearing along the A19 with the roof down in my mate’s Audi TT, like Hunter S. Thompson and his attorney, even though it’s heavily overcast. I'm on holiday, or something like it. I was also half-cut from last night’s exertions in the Centurion pub, which last time I checked had been boarded up with the ‘clientele’ still inside, and my nerves were shot to bits.

I reached the airport in good time but I couldn’t relax in case I missed the plane. It was only a short walk from where I was sitting, and I’d already checked in, but I had bags of nervous tension and I intended to use them. I drank a couple of litres of water to stave off the hangover before rifling through the bag I’d packed to make sure I’d definitely brought more stuff than I needed. I had. The in-flight movie was Tarzan In Manhattan, somehow. I sat there for a moment, trying to imagine how big the lump of crack was that the script writer inhaled before he started writing it. Tarzan himself looked like a Calvin Klein model, and had just escaped from prison by simply prizing the bars from his cell window and plunging like Olympic diver Greg Louganis into the freezing Hudson River: At night. He goes on to tame a runaway horse that’s pulling a two-man carriage at anything up to 7mph, all the while wearing Ugg boots and a brown suede tea towel. He’s stunned by the various accoutrements of the 80’s New Yorker: stereo systems and answering machines, yet speaks perfect English, as of course you would if you’d been raised in a jungle, and had previously travelled only by rope swing. Technically he wasn’t fully raised in a jungle because until the age of three his posh ******* parents’ butler had most likely taken care of everything.

Now things were livening up; Tony Curtis had just burst in with a shooter. Once the cinematic embodiment of the likes of Albert De Salvo, he’s now playing Tarzan’s potential father-in-law. There’s also a group of typically inept 80s New York villains, dressed as they always are like a Simple Minds tribute act and poking people’s nostrils with improbably large flick knives. They were evidently from the hugely successful New York branch of the Rent-a-Thug franchise as they were the same ones I’ve seen in Death Wish IV, The Equaliser, A-Team, and every Jackie Chan film. Now Jan Michael Vincent’s turned up, sans chopper, as the caddish looking womaniser who Tarzan’s going to have to beat senseless before the credits roll. Are we there yet?

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