PRODUCTION DIARY
Steven Benson, he’s got a promotional flier in the paw,
glossy number all reekin’ of professional sheen,
certainly shiniest piece of paper a fella ever saw his
own name on, with the possible exception of yonder
police report back in the day. Exceptional paper, those
PSNI cats got goin’ on.
“4th of April” Steven’s saying. “8 P.M, Riverside
Theatre Coleraine.”
The Premier, you’ll be aware, there it is.
What I yell is holy shit, this is fantastic. What a
splendid evening'll result, and damn it to hell, I'll
finally get to see this motion picture by the name of
0.0270270. I got all this rollin’ off the tongue before
I get to thinking, before the mind starts reelin’ and
rollickin’ round a particular concern.
To wit;
Just how big is this screen, and just how close did that
camera get to a fella’s yap?
No time to worry about anything of the like, not when
Wayne Benson, who’s been characteristically quiet
throughout most of this meeting, sat here round a table
in a café reeks o’ Fair Trade Jazz and BoHo chic, aye,
Wayne gets to talking bout Propeller, being a satellite
telly channel tend to show a host of short films and the
like.
“They’re interested in Chocolate Kiss” he says,
Chocolate Kiss being a Benson production from a couple
years back dealing with the paedophilia and the paranoia
and the mania in the mentals, not a personal favourite
from the brothers’ oeuvre, but an incredibly confident
piece nonetheless.
“They wanna cut the first ten minutes, though. Something
to do with the flickering of the monitor or some such.”
First ten minutes, see, involved an increasingly filth-
minded internet conversation takes place between a child
and someone who can only be described as an adult. It’s
a fine scene, if understandably uncomfortable.
Nonetheless, turns out ten minutes of screen flicker
ain't gonna be making any epileptics in the viewing
audience any sorta comfortable round about the fit-
glands, and so no, it’s been cut.
Rodney Tosh, star of 0.0270270, he’s busy stirring some
sorta frapalapamacciopacino of some kind, sat to my left
lookin’ healthier around the physique and with less fuzz
around the face than done hung there last time we met.
By all rights, mind, he should be in pieces, owing to a
recent, or fairly recent, episode involving a theatre
company, a hotel in Dublin and a buncha bad vibes.
“I’d gone down to do a play”, he’s telling me, “It
wasn't a paying job, just something I wanted to do. I
liked the script, I liked the group, it was all good,
like. Anyway, we fell out one night on account of I got
plastered and told them to fuck off. They tried to lock
me in my hotel room.”
He takes a sip out the mug fulla muck. “Was outta line,
like. Locking a drunk fella in a room. Fuck sakes.”
Fuck sakes is right. I turn to the Bensons. “Did you
lock him in any rooms?”
“No.”
They got the kinda looks in the eyes says maybe we did
and maybe we didn’t, best you forget about that here and
now, and so I’m asking Rodney, what happened?
“What happened was I climbed out a window and fucked off
outta there. Fuck you, I said, and skidaddled. Ended up
crawling through a cabbage field in the middle of the
night, waking up in some wee town outside Dublin with a
police sergeant telling me bout how they don’t trust
strangers very much round these parts.”
Last thing a man wants to be doing is crawling through
cabbage fields at all hours, least of all a man just
three hours previous had been treading boards like
nobody’s business.
Thank God for it, mind, since the 0.027… shoot wrapped
with nary a drunken fight nor coked-up clobberin’ to its
name.
“Look here”, I’m sayin, pointing at my notebook all
awash with tales of harmony and peace and tranquil
oneness. “Fuck this oneness! I need some sorta brawl to
talk about.”
But no. Still, plenty talk about plans for 0.027
involving the aforementioned satellite telly station,
involving the Edinburgh Festival, talk of exciting
developments involving writers I’m not allowed to talk
about, but whom I can exclusively reveal are neither me
nor the fella who wrote that flick about The Joshua Tree
that had nothing to do with U2 but was, in fact, a film
about Dolph Lundgren and some guns.
And I'm not the only one the Bensons been yacking with,
although, granted, I'm probably the funniest when it
comes to stories about "fuck" and "wank".
All sortsa press been spoken to, all sortsa promotional
banter. "We're not too keen on it", Steven says, "The
whole interview, promotion thing."
Still, when it's a short flick by a couple relatively
unknown film-makers, ain't no-one gonna show up to no
screening if ain't no word been unleashed.
"We did the papers and so on, and the radio stations."
Wayne nods. "And the posters and fliers and so on."
The posters are glorious items, hanging most every
corner a fella turns, some with the words "Featuring TV
Personality Jimmy Nesbitt" now attached.
It makes sense. I've seen the work these folks've
produced, I know it's uniformly excellent. Folks out
there, though, in the brothels and the taverns and the
chapels, they can be a lethargic bunch. Sometimes they
need a bit of the ol' persuasion by way of Known Names.
Plus, market this one well enough, impress enough
people, makes it all the easier next time, makes it all
the more appealing to the TV cats and the Industry Chin-
Strokers.
“So tell me”, I’m muttering, “You got this flick premier
malarkey goin’ on, what’s gonna be on offer for the
evening’s entertainment?”
What they tell me is that 0.027…, whilst being the main
event, won’t be the only flick on display. An earlier
effort (and one of my personal favourites, even though
I'm not in it) by the name of The Elephant Graveyard
will be slapped right up the screen also.
A lass I seen round about the university, lass works
there, far as I know, and has my head in all sortsa
loved-up tizzies, she wanders by, close enough for to
make it worth my while to say “So, did Jimmy Nesbitt dig
my acting, then?” even though he wasn’t there the same
day I was, even though he ain’t seen a frame of my
“bit”, since no-one has, excepting Mr Tosh there, all
smug round about the I Seen Its.
Lass seems unimpressed. I doubt she even notices me,
even though the sound o’ a fella's love-pump is enough
to fell a buffalo.
“So anyway”, Wayne says, “Best we give you the stills.”
The stills, aye. Last thing a man wants to do is to let
the stills get any further from the here and now, what
with the head all tangled up in lusty notions.
“I’ll take them and put them right at the bottom of the
article.”
"That's what to do..."
Thanks folks. The stills are underneath this message
about the stills being underneath the message.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
Wanderin ‘longside the gyratin hordes punchin the air in
honour a Festive Hits out 1997, tryin for all the world
to catch the attention a the really rather beautiful
barmaid wi the red hair an the eyes all whispers, sippin
at a Red Bull an tryin not to burn the jowls off
someones head wi the cigarette in the maw, all this, I
say, in the guts a The Anchorage, bein a bar / club
‘side the sea in Portstewart.
Last thing a man expects to occur is that he might bump
into Steven Benson, last thing he expects to discuss is
Mondo Irlando, specifically the corner of such allocated
to charting the production of 0.0270270
So tell me, I’m sayin, or screechin, counta the decibels
round about. Tell me what the hell’s happenin wi the
picture, anyroad?
“Well, the principal photography’s done, I can tell you
that much.”
He tells me that much, sure enough.
“And Wayne and I are happy as hell with it.” Takes a sip
a the lager he’s got in the grip, an me eyein the lass
in the Santa hat spoke a couple nice words to me
earlier. She passes ‘thout a damn syllable bein mouthed,
though.
Turning back to Steven, I’m asking “So how does it
compare to the stuff you’ve done before, mean, when it
was flicks being made over months an months wi friends
an friends of friends, how does this sorta shindig
square up to that?”
“Well yeah, we’ve never done anything on this sorta
level before, where there’s money involved, where it’s
professional actors for the most part. Tell the truth,
we expected this to be the most draining, the most
exhausting shoot we’d do, but it’s been a joy,
everything passing without incident, people showing up
when they’re supposed to and doing what they said they’d
do.”
Cause the blight of amateur filmmaking; folks who wanna
help, wanna do something, for sure, but they don’t got
that burnin in the gut that you may have, they don’t
wanna hear about why they shoulda been here four hours
ago, they don’t see why they need to listen to a buncha
bullshit about “that was really really pissy, honest to
God.”
Fling some green into the equation and folks tend to
give the whole affair a lot more respect.
Grab some professional actors in the process, all a
sudden you don’t need to be standing in the snow at all
hours waiting for a lead player got drunk an fell off of
a shed roof.
So, I’m saying, if the shootings done, what’s happening
at the minute? Editing, I’m guessing?
“Nah, not yet. We have the editing studio booked, but
not for a bit yet, at the minute we’re focusing on the
score.”
The music being crafted somewheres near-by even now,
even as we're stood there in the grip a students fried
on dodgy speed. All sortsa melodic shindiggery goin on,
any amount a notes bein strung together for to
compliment those images a Jimmy Nesbitt an Rodney Tosh
an, course, myself.
What a fella notices most of all is the aura of
excitement Steven Benson’s got clingin to his form.
Where Wayne Benson is, is somewhere else, so I have to
take his brother’s word about how both a them are out
their minds wi anticipation.
Because it is exciting, y’unnerstann, cause here it is,
a short flick wi professionals an screening
opportunities an ears prickin up left an right curious
to catch a glimpse a the finished product.
The equivalent a yours truly craftin demo ‘pon demo for
years an years an then Steve Albini stepping in for to
produce an EP.
(Incidentally, sorry Steve Albini, but I’m holdin out
for to see how Spector’s feelin post-legal-tomfoolery.)
So yeah, exciting it is.
“Mean, it’s a 20, 25 minute film” Steven’s telling me,
“But it’s the biggest thing we’ve been involved in,
biggest thing we’ve made. Doors are opening and all
that.”
They are, two fairly big ones in particular. One a them
I can’t mention here and now, on account of the
ludicrous restraints sawin at the limbs a my
Journalistic Integrity, and also the fact that I can’t
recall entirely what it all involves, but the other
door, I can see right through that fucker, and what’s up
ahead is something long the lines of interest aroused in
the Bensons’ earlier efforts.
Chocolate Kiss, a half-hour film made a couple years
back, fairly disturbing affair about paedophilia, it’s
been lined up for screenin on satellite television
sometime early in the new year.
And the approaching New Year in question gets a fella
thinking, sayin tell me now, when’s this picture gonna
be finished, anyroad?
“We’re hoping the first half of 2006, sometime in the
middle of that first half.”
He pauses for a moment. “Unless it’s shit, in which case
no-one’s ever gonna see it.”
What I can go ahead and announce is that it seems
unlikely, the whole “it might be shit” thing. Pointing
this out, and Steven musing for a moment.
“Well, it has got you in it, I suppose.”
And so, with Fairytale Of New York risin from the
speakers left and right, it’s farewell for a time, I
gotta go sing along all bout “It was Christmas Eve,
babe” and find a lady willin for to call me a “scumbag”
and a “maggot” and a “cheap lousy faggot.”
For once, it proved difficult to find a solitary soul
willin to do anything of the sort.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
Sat in a café mulling over the whys and wherefores of
Junky by William Burroughs, the phone starts screeching
on the table in front of me, Steven Benson, tells me
he's got a couple images relating to the flick, the
teaser poster and also a still. I been promised these
chunks a jpeg for a time now, so yeah, all sortsa
anxious to get them online and so on.
Sure enough, he brings the images by way of an orange
floppy, and so it’s some fine caffeinated beverages, or
some horrible bubbling cack, but whatever it is, it sits
within reach while I probe Steven round about the
brains, in dire need of some information, aye, like how
far into shooting are you now, anyroad?
“I think roughly three quarters of it are done. As far
as the principal photography goes, anyhow.”
He says it’s going well, extremely well, but for sure,
you don’t wanna make any mad proclamations of the sort
too soon, on account of next thing you know the damn
thing fall’s to a mangled heap in the middle of a ten-
week editing frenzy.
“But I think, I mean, myself and Wayne, we’re incredibly
happy with it. Everyone’s been great.”
It’s been a precisely orchestrated affair thus far,
seems like, yes, and I can believe it, I wandered round
the set a couple times since shooting began, I saw the
Bensons in suits and ties manipulating the round about
with that determination in the skull-blobs, that
enthusiasm and aye, professionalism, professionalism
hangs thick enough in the air for to snag the limbs of
anyone passing by, so the actors and the minimal crew
get caught up in it also.
I’ve been on a handful of local film sets in my time,
for sure, all sortsa celluloid pursuits going on in back
gardens and alleyways and sometimes even vicarages, say
no more. I ain’t often felt that kinda commitment,
though, kind a man feels as he watches these Benson cats
go about the framing and the focusing and the hollering
of the “Action.”
“At the end of the day”, Steven’s telling me, “There’s a
lot riding on this, it’s the biggest thing we’ve been
involved in, it’s got names people recognise, people in
Northern Ireland anyhow, it’s got potential to be seen
by the folks who have some sort of authority in the
business.”
So you have to be professional, so there’s nothing can
be done for, say, the camera-man who misses one too many
shoots on account of diabolical goings-on in the bedroom.
The still image Steven gives me, seems to be part of
some sort of hectic chase sequence of some kind.
later, I’m about to ask him for some info on the shot in
question, but next thing I know I’m in the midst of a
conversation about where the fuck a man might find a
decent place for to practice yoga?
Rodney with the mat rolled under the arm. “I can’t do it
in the house, the damn roof’s too low.”
And he’s a big fella, so I can understand the situation.
Soon enough I’m telling him how I’m gonna be needing a
sit-down one a these days, me and him, I want info, see,
me in the middle of an intense production journal affair
and haven’t even found out about any and all skeletons
the lead actor may have hidden neath the floorboards a
the psyche.
“Soon”, he says, “We’ll arrange something.”
Arrange then, I’m saying, and in the meantime we’ll
scout this area for a place wherein a man might stand
half-naked in pursuit of The Light.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
Trauma”
Tuesday morning, all sortsa traumatised, racing round
the house like a gerbil with its nuts afire, sweat-trail
upstairs and down, left an right.
“The hell is it?” I’m yellin to no-one in particular.
The script, my page of dialogue, my Big Moment, it was
here, right by the TV, four nights ago, before I made
off for Dublin, before that whole tragic saga unfolded,
now I can’t find a whisper of the thing, not in the bags
flung below the bed, not on the DVD shelves, not stuffed
inside a biro pens.
A day before filming, and I realise I’ve lost the
script. The hell can I say to these people?
“Yeah, I loved the script, been reading it all month,
ain’t had the fucker out my hand. Incidentally, any
chance of a second copy, on account of God knows where
mine ended up.”
Horrible notions – What if I took it with me to Dublin,
what if it fell out my pocket in the middle of a pulsing
dance-floor, what if one a those crack-bent queens
picked it up, next thing I know it’s leaked on every Bit
Torrent site fit to hold the bastard thout splittin up
the spine.
The Duke’s professionalism, there it is, captured on
CCTV, seepin the last of its heart-sauce into the pissy
puddles either side.
“We trusted you, The Duke. We lapped up that shit about
Professionalism like starving Alsatians.”
I bet Jimmy Nesbitt didn’t lose his script.
My Big Scene, it was the second day of filming. Jimmy
had already done his stuff, and by all accounts it went
great.
“He loved the script”, Wayne Benson is telling me. “He
loved his character. He just had this enthusiasm for the
project. And that determination, that professionalism.”
Did he know I’d misplaced my script?
Steven Benson arrives in Mondo Towers a couple days
before shooting My Scene. Playing a DJ, I am, one of
your self-obsessed types, wears shades indoors, Hawaiian
shirts stapled to the chest at all times, a far cry from
the typsea folks I’m used to profiling, yes, the
vigilantes, the Dangerous Elements.
So I’m trying on the costume, checking that it don’t
detract from a fella’s Star Quality, that X Factor Simon
Cowell’s so fond of, or the Xtra Factor if you bother
turning it over to ITV2 at the end.
“How does it look? Do I look transcendent?”
“You look ridiculous. It’s perfect.”
He’s got a copy of Jurassic Park, says he wants me to
have a look at Jeff Goldblum’s performance. “That sorta
quirky, talking to yourself all the time kinda vibe.
Sorta neurotic feel, a lot of muttering he does in that
picture.”
In real life, me and Jeff Goldblum, indistinguishable.
Second the camera rolls, though, suddenly a fella
realises he’s “acting”, suddenly every quirk and hiccup
looks all the mannered in the world.
And I’ll have all the more trouble if I don’t know my
lines, because why, because I lost my script page.
Eventually I have to say, I got a knife ready for to do
some Ichi style tongue-cleaving by way of expressing my
remorse, I’m all hangdog and such, I say “Um, by the
way, would it be possible to get another copy of my
script page? I kinda misplaced it.”
“Sure. So, Wednesday morning, then?”
And that was that.
The scene was to be shot in a radio studio nestled away
on the top floor of a local college, 10 AM Wednesday
morning, except I gotta meet up with Steven and Wayne an
hour earlier for to grab my page of dialogue.
“It shouldn’t take too long”, I’m assured. “It’s a short
scene. Mind you, we got a lot of camera set-ups to get
through.”
“Yeah”, Wayne says, “One of them is just gonna be a shot
of your mouth.”
I don’t like this.
What it is, is I got a thing about my mouth. I’d happily
let them close-up any inch a Duke they feel like, long
as it don’t exist between a fella’s lips.
I get to thinkin about Jimmy Nesbitt’s teeth.
Still, suffer for your art and all that.
I head off for some coffee, fling a quid into a drinks
machine, hit the Diet Coke button and get a bottle of
still water, think about how it’s gonna be tough to work
in these kinda conditions.
Arriving a little while later, I’m putting on my shirt,
getting the shades just right.
It’s just the three of us, save for a fella from the
college who wanders in and out now and again, pokes
around the equipment, gets to talking about microphones
and cameras and stuff I don’t entirely follow, so I just
get to thinking about what Steven had been saying
earlier.
“We went up to a company in Belfast last year, had a
meeting set up, a production company. They knew of us,
knew what we were doing, they knew about the films we’d
made, so we were pretty hopeful about it all.”
“Anyway, we get into this office, there’s the head guy
sitting behind the desk. He says ‘I’m gonna give you
some advice. This film stuff, making these films, trying
to do these kindsa things, forget about it. It’s a waste
of fuckin time. Go do something else. Anything else. No
one gets anywhere. Forget about it.’ These people are
supposed to be driving the industry.”
Pressing buttons on the studio console, I ask him what
he makes of that advice now?
Cleaning a camera lens, Steven looks about, at the set,
at the equipment, at the script I lost but no, here it
is, no big deal. “I think this”, and he flicks the V.
Sat in my DJ booth, I’m getting into character, trying
to imagine that all I hear all day every day is Keane
and James Blunt. Thinking about how I never heard a
“fuck” or a “shit” or a “cunt” all year, since I’m not
allowed to, since the records are all censored.
The first few takes, I’m nervous as all hell. Worked
myself into such a state about the Mouth issue that I’m
purposefully tryin not to part my lips the whole time
the camera’s on me, or at least tilt my head at such an
angle that it won’t matter.
“You sound robotic”, Steven’s telling me, Wayne stood to
my left with the camera.
What happened was the cameraman got into a tangle the
night before, ended up not making the shoot. There may
have been females involved.
I got a lotta sympathy for our absent chum, mind. Few
years back I was supposed to be making my Big
Directorial Debut on a short picture all about hotel
staff going out their mind when they realise that the
cave across the way, famous the world over for its
remarkable echo, suddenly loses that distinguished
quality. Tourism is threatened, schemes are concocted.
First day of shooting was the Saturday morning. Friday
night I ended up getting arrested and slapped with a
Drunk And Disorderly-shaped caution.
The picture fell to a rabbled arse whilst I was getting
fingerprints taken.
No such troubles now, though, sat here with the lights
and the boom-mics and the calm of sobriety all around.
“It still sounds… it doesn’t sound like you’re a DJ.
Remember Goldblum.”
I’m remembering Goldblum.
For a second I reach too far back into the filmography,
thinking all bout Brundlefly, thinking about maybe they
want me to puke over a loaf and suck the fucker back
through a straw.
As it happens, the best performance of the day falls out
my face during a shot when the sound isn’t being
recorded, a Cut Away, if you will.
“Do that, the way you did it, do that again.”
So the set-up is reset, and the “action”, and the weight
of expectation, and the…
“Sounds robotic again.”
So yeah, it took two hours to get the performance right,
but it got there, eventually. I dunno when they were
shooting my mouth, I dunno if it was head-on or to the
side or what, since they picked up how uncomfortable I
was with it all, and sensibly decided not to alert me
when it was happening.
Taking the shirt and the shades off, fixing the hair on
account of the headphones I had to have on kinda
flattened the bits that are supposed to be sticky up,
I'm asking about when it’s all gonna be done, anyhow?
“We’re looking to have it done for early to mid 2006,
totally finished, that is.”
“I can’t wait.”
And I can’t, but I ain’t got time to worry about it,
since there’s more set-ups to be set, there’s more
lights to be lit, more cameras to be focused.
And I’m still thinking bout Jimmy Nesbitt’s teeth.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
Matters… A Brief Overview Of The Affair… The
Whys And Wherefores
Couple years ago The Duke was stood on the roof of a
technical college bout fifteen miles from Mondo Towers,
all black-hood and baggy trousers in the days before
that kinda dress got a fella slapped with an ASBO and an
8pm curfew. Stood there with a bruised and swollen eye
on account of a drunken episode relating to a recent
Shane MacGowan concert, eight or nine stories above the
piss-lashed pavement, yonder town lain out ahead of the
skull-blobs, and holy shit, what’s this right here? A
camera, and also various other folks, most of whom stay
the fuck against the wall lest the wind catch the wrong
end of the coattails and fling a fella head-first into
the hereafter.
What it all involved was that The Duke was none other
than The Motherfucking Star of a picture by the name of
Tomorrow Yesterday, a short feature crafted by Steven
and Wayne Benson, a flick all about how The Duke is this
loner cat who takes it into his head to be a vigilante
superhero type. Plenty weeping beside grave-stones,
plenty catching bullets in a fucker’s fist, plenty
fisticuffs with an array of rapscallion bastards, plenty
pathos and poignancy.
So there I am, stood up on high with folks gasping and
thinking “God, man, the site isn’t that bad, no need for
to end it all with a thundering crack of head-bone on
pavement.”
No, it’s ok, it’s cause I’m The Vigilante, I’m Eugene
Frakes, stood here looking cross the territories, seeing
what crimes may be in dire need of a fistful a justice.
That right there turned out to be a fucking wonderful
motion-flick, is the truth of the case. A fella looks
back fondly on the whole affair, up to and including the
premier screening, The Duke wandering into the midst of
it all seventeen whiskeys the worse for wear, stumbling
and muttering and swearing about “Fucking brilliant, I
am”, and “Let’s get plastered”, these sortsa sentiments.
And creeping round the blessedly sober headspace now, a
couple years later, on account of a meeting in a café,
the kinda café a fella might choose for to kill an hour
in the company of some De Sade novel bout a father and
his daughter conspiring for to slaughter the mother.
Something intellectually stimulating and obscure enough
for to impress the really rather lovely lass stood
behind the counter.
Sat in this café on the day in question, and Wayne
Benson, he’s got this new flick he’s working on with
Steven (who, you’ll be aware, is his twin brother), he
wants to talk to me about this small part he’s got in
there, figures it needs something only The Duke could
ever hope to provide.
What it is, is Steven’s written this screenplay
concerning The Gambling. It’s all very hush-hush, I know
fuck all about it other than what occurs in the one page
of script I’ll be learning from, and it’s only after
threatening all sortsa fabulous diva outbursts that I
even learn the name of the project.
To wit;
0.0270270, although I am assured that the proper title
is, in fact, an infinite continuation of said number, a
never-ending string of 0270’s, all the way from here to
there and back and forth.
This motion picture, produced, edited and directed by
both Steven Benson and Wayne Benson, this looks like
being something fairly special, is what The Duke makes
of it all.
“There’s a lot riding on this”, is what Wayne would’ve
said, had he been willing to divulge such information. A
man can see it in the eyes, though.
The Northern Ireland Film scene exists in the margins,
exists in the short features snarling from off of DVD
compilations, screening at festivals, clinging to the
web-net, and it’s all a flick can do for to be heard
amidst the drone of another picture about “The
Troubles”, another number all about how Young Tommy was
a good lad, really, but look at this, he’s only up to
the left eye in the motherfuckin Ra.
These fellas, these Benson cats, they’ve made a number
of short pictures, some of which popped up at The
Edinburgh Film Festival, some of which been quietly
passed along on battered VHS, but this here, this
0.0270270, this is the most ambitious number thus far,
yes, the one that, far as The Duke can tell, has the
best chance of slapping the right suits up cross the
yap, getting spied by the right peep-glands.
“I wanna write about this tomfoolery”, I say. “I feel
nothing less than an incisive ongoing production diary,
detailing the gut-shredding in’s and out’s of the whole
affair, I feel that’s all I can dream of considering.”
A phone call from Steven confirms that yeah, that’s what
you need to do.
So I’m told there’s a poster being sorted, there’s gonna
be all sortsa on-set photos and the like, and where can
a fella see them, if not right here, right the fuck in
the midst of this definitive account.
In the meantime, sat with a coffee far to hot to be
touched gainst lip, I’m taking notes, being all
journalist like. I feel like I should be wearing some
kind of hat, maybe one like what Pete Doherty has in
that fantastic Fuck Forever video, but then no, since I
spent far too long on the hair-care this morning.
“I know I’m in this”, I’m saying. “I know I play the
role of a DJ, although I dunno if it’s a traditional
type cat or maybe a fella who runs a filthy podcast from
out the bowels of his homestead. I don’t know if I get
buggered at any point in the production. But who the
hell else is involved?”
Names, most of which I recognise, they get flung left
and right. Folks from out adverts I’ve seen, folks from
flicks like Omagh and Bloody Sunday and Mad About Mambo.
Folks from off the stage, although most likely the
refined sorta stage that houses all sortsa Beckett
productions, as opposed to the ones you maybe would’ve
seen GG Allin shittin’ cross sometime in the once upon's.
I’m scribbling down.
Rodney Tosh, he’s the lead. If you live round the
Northern Ireland parts, you may have seen him in those
adverts for UTV Broadband, standing on the street
informing passers-by of this latest technological marvel.
Many conversations have gone on between The Duke and Mr
Tosh, most of which are unprintable even on a site as
filthily fucking wretched as this.
Jimmy Nesbitt, he’s in it. For a second I get a touch
worried about it all, on account of I can’t remember if
I ever gave him a bad review. Calm, though, when I
remember that not only did I adore Bloody Sunday, but
also, who the fuck knows what my opinion on anything is?
Who ever gets past the first paragraph concerning Stuff
What I Did Involving Ladies, Fellas, This Here Flick
What I May Or May Not Get To At Some Point.
I never saw that BBC series about Jimmy is a hard-ass
detective type, but probably I’ll pretend I have.
Names, people, they keep on falling;
Folks along the lines of Ricky Moore, a close associate
of The Duke who exhibits a baffling level of knowledge
concerning the day to day activities of Sylvester
Stallone. By fuck’s knuckles, I doubt I’ve ever met a
man who knows more about Over The Top.
Folks along the lines of Paul Maclean Stewart, who
appeared in Mad About Mambo and that BBC drama Holy
Cross. Folks like Claire Connor, who has appeared in
plenty adverts, and also the fantastic Omagh, which,
you'll recall, almost made it onto The Duke’s Favourite
Flicks Of 2004. Mark Adamson, a fella who’s set for to
hit the stage of The Royal Opera House in Belfast very
shortly. Michael Foyle, who’s spent plenty time in the
old advertising game and the like.
The Duke De Mondo. Writer, self-obsessive, single.
I get startled out my head with a phone-call, Steven
Benson, announcing that yeah, my scene is gonna be shot
in mid-August, if that’s alright?
That’s alright, man. I can get behind that.
So I’m checking all my biro’s are functioning, checking
I got notebooks left that haven’t been scarred from end
to end with stories and sonnets and songs all about
lasses I dig something savage, and I’m thinking all
sortsa thespian thoughts.
I’m thinking bout a period of time in the past when The
Duke didn’t speak a word to these Benson fellas, and all
because of a disagreement that may or may not have
stemmed from an ill-judged phone-call one Saturday
night, a phone-call that may or may not have involved
plenty drunken ranting from both protagonists, some of
which may or may not have involved threats of eye-
gouging and leg-breaking.
You know how it is. A man gets all shades of emotional
when fucked to the teeth on liver-rotting cider picked
up for the price of a quick one off the wrist behind a
skip.
I’m thinking bout past “performance” gigs, like back in
High School when I was “Guitar Player” in a production
of Little Shop of Horrors. I’m thinking about how I was
so fantastic, most likely, that one of the cast-members,
a lovely lass whose name I’ll change to Bethany on
account of The Legalities, she let me not only talk to
her sometimes but even let me touch her knee in jest
during an especially hilarious anecdote.
A fella feels fired to the eyes on the possibilities.
What sights will he see, what horrors and triumphs
relating to the day-to-day of the Independent Filmmaking
here in The Northern Ireland.
The Guerrilla “Journalism”, and the grass-roots film-
making. The Big Names and the friends and
acquaintances.
And so here, at 5am on the morning of August 4th, a
fella finds himself pondering on where the hell the
whole affair might lead him. What truths are to be
uncovered? What manias will erupt in the midst of it
all? How many times will The Duke spy attractive passers-
by and how many songs will the miserable bastard
conceive of writing, instead of saying all about “Hey, I
saw you reading Harry Potter on the train the other day
and, well, I thought the sorta thoughts Fr McKellop once
told me he’d poke my eyes out for thinking”.
How will 0.0270270 get from here to there?
Fuck knows, is the answer. This challenging journal will
be the place to find the hell out, from here on in.
Thanks folks.
Fling The Duke An Email or Leave A Message
