To my dearest friends and fellow glitterati of London
You are cordially
invited to a New Year’s celebration on the evening of 31stDec 1966
at my humble country retreat, Bell Cottage nestled comfortably in the Kent
countryside.
No need to bring anything other than your own individual genius.
The champagne corks will pop in celebration of your attendance at this modest
event !
RSVP
Antipasti
Mixed Italiano Appretizers
Secondi
Chicken Parmigiana con herb roasted
potatoes e tenderstem broccoli
I
dolci
Tiramisu tradizional
O lemon and white cioccolato tiramisu
SCANDI CHIC
Scandi is the epitome of Swedish sophistication and the fact
that she has made London her home has endeared her to the Brits. Representing
the Scandinavian Kingdom in her role as Swedish Ambassador, if there's a
political debate being had, Scandi will be at the heart of it whether it's part
of a late night TV show or standing on a soap-box at Speaker's Corner in
Hyde Park on a cold Sunday Morning.
She's super clever and has a blisteringly sharp wit. She is loved and respected
by all around her. Fiercely patriotic and frequently dressed in her native
colours of yellow and blue, she may be an Ice Queen from the Nordic wastes
but this Maiden of the Ice has melted the hearts of our nation ....and we love
her weird accent !
From her impressive ambassador's residence at 27 Portland Square in the centre
of Marylebone, it is just a short walk to her favourite weekend haunts of Soho
where she can be found knocking back the Schnapps with the London Glitterati.
And she knows all the trendiest 'in' places having spent - or is that
misspent - some of her early teenage years acting out a tres
bohemian lifestyle during her long 'lost weekend' in Soho. She even did the
original London photo shoot of an upcoming rock band back just arrived from the
North ! What a life she has already crammed into her first 25 years ! But
that ‘lost weekend’ – who can remember it ? Only her…and maybe that
cad-about-Soho a certain Raymond ?
MICHAEL PAYNE
Your host for this evening is Michael Payne - the archetypal local-boy-done-good.
As a kid, he helped his dad sell cabbages in Berwick Street market but even
then he aspired to the finer things in life. He taught himself to talk proper
by listening to old Noel Coward 78s and expanded his vocabulary by reading his
dictionary every night under his covers. In no time at all, he had progressed
from Aardvark to Wyvern but before he could start on the Xs, he had been
discovered. Having joined the local Soho repertory at aged sixteen, his
portrayal of the eponymous Pinky in the ‘beat’ play Pinky on the Road, launched
his career – and the career of the mysterious playwright, Gigi Zsa Zsa who was
only sixteen years old herself ! The show was an incredible success and both
the actor and playwright attempted to collaborate on a follow-up play which was
never completed as there appears to have been some ‘artistic differences’
according to news reports – unsubstantiated -
of Gigi’s romantic tryst with a certain man-about-town, the ubiquitous
Raymond.
Payne’s career, however, went from strength to strength and a
long period filming ‘spaghetti westerns’ assured his worldwide renown as a
tough speaking Brit abroad – and frustrated the old school cowboy film
fraternity, notably Mr Wayne John who memorably remarked, ‘Spaghetti Westerns ? Wop a load of old
bullsh*t’.
Lauded by film critics and young woman fans alike, his star
keeps rising. With properties in all the major capitals, he likes to get away
from it all when he has a break in his busy schedule – relaxing with his
glamourous friends in the quaint Kentish village of Smarden.
‘We never knew what he was up to at night with that touch
under his bedcovers, but it clearly did him some good !’ his proud dad
proclaimed in a recent TV interview.
Michael Payne – international superstar – talented, bright,
knowledgeable and a mind of useless information. In a recent BBC 1 TV quiz he
was asked a question about aardvarks. ‘Aardvark’ he said, ‘Well, an Aardvark is
an eater of ants. It is not closely related to the pig; rather, it is the sole
extant representative of an obscure mammalian order. Not many people know
that’ he continued. The mischievous interviewer then asked him what a Wyvern
was ‘Funny you should ask me that,’ Payne was on a roll, ‘A Wyvern ? Well a Wyvern
is a mythical beast in heraldry and folklore. It is rarely fire-breathing,
unlike other dragons. Not many people know that, either’
The interviewer, knowing something of the background of
Payne’s method of self-education and his cockiness, asked, ‘Do you know what a
xylophone is Mr Payne ?’ At which point, Payne dropped into the vernacular,
punched the unfortunate quiz master on the nose and stormed out of the room
shouting, ‘I only told you to go up to bloody W !’
Elsie Presley
Elsie is one of the world’s great ‘could have beens’. Had it
not been for her more talented cousin, that Sun Record deal back in 1954 could
have been hers – and doesn’t she let us know it ! She’s being doing the
interview circuit since Elvis first shook his hips and curled his lips ! ‘It’s
all mine !’ she claims. ‘Who d’ya think taught him how to wiggle ? Why, his
older cousin of course. Me ! Me ! Me !’
So fed up did Elvis become with his noisy cousin that he
recently took out an injunction to shut her up but still the moans keep coming.
She recently caused a kerfuffle in the trendy London nightclub, Adlib, when
after consuming copious quantities of Brandy Alexanders, she grabbed a
microphone and started singing ‘That’s all right, mama’. ‘Elvis is a fraud !’
she screamed as she was man-handled out the club. In the audience that evening
was none other than gad-about-town Raymond. Intrigued by her backstory, he
booked her to sing at his Soho club, The Bag of Snails, but after her first
show – which confirmed her singing abilities to be more akin to a Bavarian
yodeller with a sore throat, he arranged for a dozen Alsatian hounds to be
released onto the stage as she writhed her hips to Hound Dog. Pandemonium
ensued, all this whilst the BBC were making a documentary about Elvis
impersonators – fame in dear ol’ Blighty followed. Don’t we love an eccentric !
Whilst time has yet to heal her wounded pride, she has learned to embrace her
notoriety and enjoys her new found fame – and fortune – which she has recently
amassed through gigs at high class West End soirees whose hosts are always on
the look-out for circus acts to entertain them.
But there is more to Elsie than the Soho Set are aware of.
It’s all an act, you see. She’s a smart cookie, photographic memory, black belt
at karate, IQ off the chart - which she plays down. She’s just biding her time,
plotting revenge on all those who have crossed her path. She can kill with a
single blow of her tiny foot !
Apparently, a recent reconciliation with her cousin has led to a tentative plan to put on an Elvis concert at the London Coliseum – with Elsie acting as the promoter. If she pulls it off, it will be the show of the century – Elvis’s first show outside the USA ! It might be even bigger than The Bootles Live at Shea Stadium. But who owns The Coliseum ? Well if it’s in Soho, it could be….you’ve got it – Mister Soho himself, Raymond !
Dingo Dark
It’s a strange, strange world when a young boy who can tap
two sticks against a bit of animal skin is one of the most famous – and richest
– people on the planet. Yet here he is ! Introducing Dingo – always ready with
a humorous quip, everyone’s favourite boy-next-door and – oh yes -
drummer with….wait for it…. The Bootles.
He doesn’t sing very well. He doesn’t act very well and he doesn’t write songs but he has endeared himself to the whole world as one quarter of the greatest show on Earth, the Prefab Four. On the outside, unassuming, self-deprecating and lovable, he is at the very centre of the cultural storm that is happening right here, right now. Caught in this moment, this momentous moment in time – here he is. This lad from Liverpool has the world at his feet.
It seems eons have passed since he and his fellow LIverpudlians were struggling would-be popstars back ‘Up North’ – could it really be only 3 years. But there was a fateful day back then when a certain softy southerner visited that northern seaport and stumbled across the now famous Cave Club. Yes, ol’ Raymond witnessed the raw power of The Bootles first hand; the noise, the sweat, the energy, the fainting girls and he wanted a part of it. He struck a deal with their manager back then which gave him a 51% controlling stake of the band whereupon he tried to replace Dingo with a girl drummer to give the band ‘wider appeal’. But he didn’t reckon with the Dingo’s fans who paint bombed all his Soho properties. He backed off but Dingo has never forgiven him.
And let’s not forget, it’s a rough old place Liverpool.
Gangs, knives, drugs but surely ‘our Dingo’ was not part of that ? Not ‘our
Dingo’ ? Please tell us no ! Well, some of the locals back there still remember
Dingo as being able to handle himself around the clubs – after all, his
nickname back then was Ding-the-Blade….
Wayne John
‘Big Wayne, Big Wayne, Big Bad Wayne’ so the song goes and
nothing could more true They don’t get much bigger than Wayne John ! 100%
American cowboy film star. He has steak for breakfast, steak for lunch and the
rest of the cow for dinner. He likes it rare ! – he never drinks milk, though.
He says that’s for sissies. “Pull off the horns and wipe it’s ass !’ he screams
to the chef.
But he’s not only a celluloid hero – he’s the real deal – a
hero of WWII – smashed the smithereens out of the Japanese then Korea then
Vietnam – there has been no stopping him. More Purple Hearts than you can shake
a stick at, he is the all American hero now turned film star.
He started life as a humble farm hand on his father’s ranch
in Wyoming but at sixteen he lied about his age when singing up to the US Army. He rose quickly through
the ranks to Lieutenant at the age of twenty. Through all the bloody battles he
remained unscathed, not so much as a paper cut. Just as well, as he faints at
the sight of blood
Oh but then that fateful day on his Californian Ranch a few
years back when – wait for it – Raymond visited him to discuss a deal to open
up a string of American Diners in and around Soho. Big Wayne’s Big Burgers was
the plan with the strapline…”You want it big, Wayne will give it to ya !’ The
deal was about to be signed and so in celebration, Wayne took Raymond to his
firing range. Having knocked back several bourbons in the golf buggy on the way
to the range, neither were in a fit state to start shooting. You didn’t need a
health and safety expert to identify the areas of risk – it was bloody obvious
– don’t do it guys ! Raymond pointed his rifle in the general direction of the
target but tripped, fired and took out Wayne John’s left eye. Lots of blood
everywhere but no sign of an eyeball. Wayne has never adjusted to the eye
patch…even with its diamond encrusted golden rim. When he thinks of the
incident he weeps…out of his one good eye.
Despite the setback in their subsequent relationship, a
deal’s a deal. The joint venture went ahead but Wayne John has been plotting
ever since how to cause some physical pain to Raymond
Tone
Universally known as Tone, this Italian hot head is evil
personified. For goodness sake, don’t look him in the eye ! He’s a bruiser, so
keep out of his way if you want to keep all four limbs and other appendages ! A
true gangster who made London his home, he thinks you are overdressed if you
have both your ears. His story is that he grew up in the back streets of
Palermo under the watchful eye of his ‘uncles’ who ran an extortion racket
which they ‘exported’ to central London soon after WWII.
He is Tone to friends and foes alike but his full name is
Anton Ioni – at least that is what his mother called him until his father
admitted to accidentally slipping in an additional Ioni as a middle lane – he
confessed to being slightly tipsy at the registry office. In later life, Tone discovered,
to his horror that 3 additional Ionis had been added and could only attribute
this to the fact that his father had a stutter. To conclude, that fateful day
at the registry office resulted in him being named as Anton Ioni Ioni Ioni
Ioni. Concerned that this farcical event could be construed as a sign of family
ineptitude, he has not revealed this fact to anyone – except one
ungallant-man-about Soho – yes that man Raymond - with whom he once got drunk
His smouldering good Latin looks and bad boy reputation make
him popular with both East End girls and Royalty alike – it is rumoured that he
counts Princesses Margaret and Geneviève as ‘business friends’.
These days, his financial interests include multiple West End
casinos, Gentlemen’s Clubs and several near-beer bars around Soho where
clothing is, at least for the ‘entertainers’, frowned upon. He even owns a
hotel in central Soho – one of the few places not owned by Raymond. This
calculating crook is a master of finance ! He has multiple friends in high
places – all keen to stay on the right side of him – not least because of the
secrets he knows.
But is there more to Tone than meets the eye ? (but remember
don’t look him in the eye). Some observers have noticed that this unscrupulous
Sicilian has more recently been demonstrating strange acts of occasional
kindness – by his standards at least. When one of his club managers was
recently caught with his fingers in the till, Tone ordered that three fingers
be removed from his hand – until last year, the instruction would have been to
remove the whole arm. And his accent, as he gets older, seems to occasionally
slip into something closer to English Public school – perhaps he’s spending too
long in the company of toffs these days.
His arch enemy for the last two decades has been that cheeky
chappy, Raymond with whom he has had several turf wars in and around Soho. One
day they may just have a one-on-one fist fight in the middle of Berwick Street.
Book your tickets now – I know who my money is on !
Queen Geneviève
Such elegance, such fine breeding – the good Queen of Genovia
emanates class and exudes sophistication. Loved by the international paparazzi,
her elegant face covers acres of front pages every day of the year. Adored by
the masses and loved by the aristocrats, she is the friendly face of modern
royalty, as comfortable at the solemn events of state as she is at football
matches and pop concerts. She is the very model of a modern royal highness !
But it wasn’t always this way, why no ! Not at all ! Her
beginnings were really quite modest to say the least – yet few are aware of
this. The youngest of several daughters of local factory workers Harold and
Mildred Fisher, she was christened Tina (titter ye not !) and grew up in
stifling suburbia – the God awful Croydon of all places ! But, aged just
seventeen, she escaped the shackles of all consuming South London tedium to
explore Europe on Interrail – and never returned. With so many other daughters
she was hardly missed by Harold and Mildred ! And who exactly was her travel
companion back then ? Who did she share a rucksack and musty sleeping bag with
on her peripatetic adventure ? Well no other than that darling of the
continental soccer pitches – the fabulous Georgie Le Bon who boarded ship with
her at Southampton. But what was a young future philandering French footballer
doing in the UK ? Enough of the alliteration – you ask him !
With her incandescent beauty (atypical of Croydonians it has
to be said !) it was not long before she was invited to the smartest, chicest
parties in Paris, Berlin, Rome. She was on a mission, a single minded mission
to bag a rich sugar daddy – but she had to be quick ! Her Interrail ticket was
for only 3 months. Her boyhood friend, Georgie, drifted away and was
immediately forgotten – at least for a few years
But it was in that tiny principality of Genovia, snuggled
comfortably between the snow peaks of France and Germany where she met her
Prince Charming (a Prince but an old one to be honest – certainly no spring
chicken) - The Honourable (not that honourable !) Prince Pierre – heir to the
throne of that mountain kingdom.
A chameleonic magician of truly epic proportions, she
metamorphosed from a cocky, self assured South London nobody to a demure,
svelte lady of sophistication. Not long before the proposal of marriage. The tragic
death of both her father-in-law, the King, and husband in an accident involving
a snow plough and an unexpected telegraph pole sent her into mourning for the
whole of that fateful weekend. After that, her stylish black shawl was hastily
replaced with an equally stylish little back dress both designed, of course, by
her new friend Coco.
One year later, the cherubic Princes Poppy was born. Heir to
the kingdom of Genovia. her birth certificate confirms her father to be Prince
Pierre – a strangely extended pregnancy but it would be rude to comment - what’s
the odd 3 months between friends ?
A frequent visitor to London, she mixes it up with the London
luminaries - she is certainly In with
the In crowd ! Her favourite stop-over being the Soho Ritzzeria Hotel nestled
in Greek Street. Now who is it that owns that place – and most of that street
in fact ? Could it be a certain rogue called Raymond ? Or is it the one hotel
he doesn’t own around these parts ?
Gigi Zsa Zsa
Ah Gigi ! Gigi ! Gigi ! Dear, dear Gigi – darling of the Jet
Set, loved by the whole world. The name alone conjures up images of lazy,
carefree summer days lolloping around in fields of sunflowers, sipping chilled
champagne. Stop ! Enough of this purple prose ! This literary genius would howl
at such flowery allusions. She is a writer of gritty ‘kitchen sink’ dramas – as
demonstrated by the play wot she wrote at just sixteen years of age – ‘Pinky on
the Road’ which was the toast of the London Literati – world fame soon
followed. Translated into over fifty languages, at his very moment in time, the
play is being performed in every major city of Europe and beyond and it has
made her a millionaires at the tender age of eighteen. The French adore ‘Pinky
sur la Route’, the Germans can’t get enough of ‘Pinky auf der Strasse’ and the
Chinese go bananas for ‘Pinky dinggoule 22 hao’
But writing was not her original claim to fame, believe it or
not ! At the incredible age of twelve, she became the European Women’s Chess
champion – so many strings to her young bow. Such precociousness ! A very smart
cookie who has not let fame and fortune go to her head.
But fame was thrust upon this young, beautiful,
sophisticated woman. Despite her seeming omnipresence with endless TV
interviews and magazine articles she comes across as distant, detached – and a
little mysterious.
Following the debacle of her attempted show with Mr Payne, the
world awaits her next play which, if media reports are to be believed, has a
working title of ‘Goodbye to Soho’. Never has a theatrical performance been
more early awaited.
Last night she appeared on TV’s Late Night Line-Up art
programme and hinted that she had spent the last year researching methods of
murder to help with the authenticity of the plot for her new play. When asked
by Joan Bakewell what she considered to be the foulest method of murder, ol’
Gigi switched her gaze from Ms. Bakewell and looked directly into the camera in
a disturbing ‘breaking the forth wall’ kind of way and remarked
dispassionately, ’Poison’. Several seconds passed before she added
nonchalantly, ‘It destroys you from the inside. Like love….and hate’. A
chilling moment witnessed by the masses who tuned into last night’s show and
which, no doubt, led to a million biscuits dropping unceremoniously into late
night cuppas as viewers’ gazes remained fixed on the their flickering black and
white TV sets. Even the very cool, demure Ms Bakewell was momentarily wrong-footed
but gained her composure to ask, ‘and what of Raymond, does he feature in your
next play Miss Zsa Zsa ?’ But ol’ Gigi was in another world, gazing into the
air, thinking of her difficult childhood, her first love and her most
satisfying checkmates….
Georgie Le Bon
He may just kick a ball about a field, but he does it better
than anyone else ! And with such artistry even those who don’t know their ‘offside’
from their ‘backside’ admit he moves like a graceful stallion across the pitch
and makes those around him appear as clumsy workhorses as they try to stop the
unstoppable. Surprising that he gets time to practice given that his whole life
seems to be spent in nightclubs, casinos or on the beach at Nice. His lifestyle
is similar at the moment to those cheeky northern popstars - he has already
been named the Fifth Bootle !
With favourable comparisons being made to Eusebio and Pele,
this darling of the Nice terraces is destined for greatness. But tragedy
recently struck at this year’s World Cup which was supposed to be the launch
pad for Georgie’s career on the World stage. As the French players ran onto the
pitch for their first game against Mexico, ol’ Georgie’s shoe lace became
loose. Bending down to tie them, World Cup Willy, the UK mascot, rammed into
the back of Georgie in a most undignified way ! That’s gotta hurt ! Let’s just
say, he took one for the team. Injured, he never made it to the pitch for the
rest of the competition – poor ol’ Georgie the ‘not so Bon’ !
But what of that accent ? It’s almost as bad as Peter Sellers
acting as Inspector Clouseau ! The French don’t understand him, the Brits don’t
understand him – but the girls don’t give a fig about his weird accent – they
just love him !
Despite his fame, his origins remain a great mystery ! What
was he doing in dear old Blighty as a youth, companion to the future Queen of
Genovia – boarding the boat at Southampton ? You can’t make this stuff up !
Recently asked by Teen Beat magazine about his origins, he
replied quite abruptly, ‘Do not ask zuch stupeed questions ! Mais qui, I am
from Le France. If youse cut me in ‘alf, you vould zee that I ‘ave moule
friites written inzide of moi !’. What a strange chap !
In a scoop which has yet to fully break, journalists at the News of the World Sunday paper have been sitting on a story from a few years back of a young lad named ‘George the Porge’ which they are trying to substantiate. Whilst the details are unclear, a certain Ray of Soho has provided the local constabulary with a picture from the CCTV of one of his clubs. It is of a young, somewhat portly boy, brandishing a revolver in the alleyway at the back of Greek Street. Surely not ?
Princess Poppy of Genovia
Beautiful, charming, full of grace, young Poppy is heir to
the kingdom of Genovia. Her recent first day at playschool was broadcast on
worldwide TV. Many celebrities – and a certain underworld crook – were there at
the school gate to clap her in. Her manners were impeccable and she charmed the
viewers. A member of the paparazzi called out to her,’Give us a smile Poppy !’
She gave him a side-eye which shut him up. ‘My name is Princess Poppy of
Genovia, please address me as such’. Enough said.
Mama
Stay out of the kitchen when Mama’s around ! This beautiful,
fiery, red-haired Sicilian chef has a head hotter than her diavolo nduja pizza
! If she asks you what you think of her famous chicken parmigiana, just say
‘It’s the best I’ve ever had !’ That way you get to keep all your fingers ! If
she says she thinks she has put too much butter in her Tiramisu – don’t be
fooled by this – she is testing you ! Please, please contradict her immediately
and say something like, ‘I beg to differ. This is the best dessert I have had
in this life and all previous lives !’
It is rumoured, but never mention this in her presence, that
she once nearly killed a food critic who had written in the Evening Standard
that her Risotto alla Milanese was lacking flavour – why would he say that and
more perplexingly, why would he then return to her restaurant ? Well, ol’ Mama
served him up a treat. She knows her chilies – and she inserted a Carolina
Reaper (off the Scoville scale !) in the middle of his Cannelloni. Apparently,
the screams were heard on Oxford Street !
Despite that dangerous Latin temperament, London loves Mama.
We Brits have embraced this Princess of Pasta since she opened her first
restaurant, Mama’s Trattoria, in Soho’s Romilly Street back in 1959 which
proved to be the catalyst for London’s recent culinary explosion.
But she has never forgotten her roots. Growing up in the poor
districts of Palermo, she was the bread winner for her family from the age of
ten when her father and mother were sadly incapacitated by extreme obesity –
having partaken of meatballs from a very early age.
The huge success of that early restaurant, which continues to
attract international highflyers, allowed her to start what has become a highly
successful hospitality business called ‘That’s Alright, Mama’. Despite fame and
fortune, she always ensures that her menus cater for those who are less well
off. Don’t we love her – so thoughtful and considerate !
But unknown to many, the numbers don’t quite add up. Her
business is threatened by the recent huge hike in rates for her Soho
restaurants. Perhaps she should have words with her landlord – a certain Ray
character. Or maybe discuss options with her fellow Palermitani, Tone ?
Oh yes, forgot to mention, our dear host tonight, Mr Michael
Payne, has called upon his great chum, Mama, to provide sustenance for this
evening’s star-studied extravaganza at his country residence – Bell Cottage.
Remember, stay out of the kitchen if you value your life !
Raymond
So famous, he doesn’t need a surname. Charming, he may be.
Intelligent, skilful, cunning – yes, he is all of these. But has there ever
been a man so universally hated ?
He knows everyone – but more importantly – he knows everyone’s
secret.
Opening Speech – Mr Michael Payne
It was ten years ago when that old sweetheart Harold MacMillan
told us that ‘most of us have never had it so good’. Well most of us have most
definitely ‘had it good’ so to speak and long may that continue !
As we look back on ’66 we shall remember fondly all the good
things that have happened over the past year. The Bootles continue to provide
the soundtrack to our swinging lives (special thanks to Dingo on that one) for
indeed, it seems all of London is Swinging. It feels like we – we Brits with
the help of our some of our dear continental and New World cousins (look around
this table of Americans, Italians, French and Genovians?) - are at this very moment, the centre of the
universe leading the way once again in – dare I say it a ‘renaissance’ in art, music, fashion. Oh the joy of walking
down Carnaby Street, the King’s Road, around Portobello on a Saturday – the colours,
the noises, the vibrancy of our great capital this summer. And of course, the football
– champions of the world (sorry to rub it in Georgie but you were crap).
Now we all know that those around the table have not always
got on. There have been feuds, tears, violence even – but where there has been
discord, let us bring union, Where there is error, let us bring truth, where there
is hatred, let us bring love…coz all we need is love – sounds like that could
be a good song – you can use that Dingo if you want.
So over the few years, we have all got to know each other
either through business deals, romantic liaisons (steady Gigi !) or artistic
adventures – perhaps the glue that holds us together has been Raymond whether
we like him of not – where is he by the
way ? – Raymond ! Love him or loath him – he is always there. Except now of
course – where the bloody hell is that philanderer.
SCREAMS FROM A MAID IN THE GARDEN – A NOTE IS PASSED TO MR
PAYNE
Oh my Lord. He’s only been and bloody died !
Call the constabulary ! Everybody, stay here, I shall
investigate.
(Payne gets up and walks briskly towards the garden pushing back
those who try to join him)
Get back, all of you ! That's an order !
(a howl from the garden) Oh ! Dear God ! No ! (Payne returns
to his guests in the Dining Hall)
My dear friends. Yaymond is dead ! He is covered in blood Who
is responsible for the heinous crime ? Who would want to murder Raymond
(The doorbell chimes and Payne leaves the room once again
instructing his guests to remain in the Dining Hall. He returns a few minutes
later)
The police are here and we have all been ordered to remain
in this room. The officer has informed me that we are all suspects (gasps from
around the room) and that I am to take temporary charge over all of you whilst
the police conduct their initial assessment of the...the....murder scene.
(silence fall upon the room as the harsh reality of the
event starts to sink in)
Why on Earth would the officer state we are 'all suspects' ?
Why would any of us wish this upon dear Raymond ? How could any of us be
responsible for this crime ?
Mama’s Trattoria Terrazza – Romilly
Street Soho
Scene :
Kitchen of Mama’s Restaurant
Present :
Mama, Tone in kitchen. Raymond, Gigi in restaurant
Background : Raymond and Gigi are meeting for first time in years. Mama
and Tone are plotting revenge on Raymond.
Mama : Tone, Antonioni ! It brings
me such joy to see you again !
Tone : (hugging mama) It’s been a
long time. How I’ve missed you sis ! But those days back in Sicily- sometime
they seem like only yesterday ! What did Papa use to say
Mama : Don’t preach ?
Tone : No !
Mama : Something about meatballs ?
Tone : No not that...he use to say
we were like two peas in a pod, you and me. Inseparable.
Mama : But that falling out, and
problems with the inheritance…
Tone : Let’s not talk about that.
Mama : So many wasted years of not
talking. And we both live in Soho ! What a waste ! It came between us bet let’s
move on. We have a common enemy, you know that ?
Tone : I think the whole of Soho
has a common enemy – that bastardo ! I can hardly bring myself to say his name
!
Mama : Raymond the Rat ! I hate
that man ! You know he wants to double the rent on this place (spits) Hate,
hate, hate that bastado
Tone : You’re right Bastardo !
Barstardo !
Mama : Bastardo ! Bas….enough, my
heart is racing (whispers) I have a plan.
Tone : (admiringly) You were always
the clever one Mama ! What is the plan.
Mama : We need to teach him a
lesson – he cannot mess with us – we are the Ioni’s – how dare he. He cannot
get in the way of Mama and Anton Ioni Ioni….how many was it.
Tone: Never mind….what’s the plan
(Wayne and Elsie had agreed to meet
up at a pub in Romilly Street to constrict a joined up plan to tackle the
Raymomd. Soon after ordering their first drink, they notice reporters gathering
outside Mama’s restaurant opposite the Pub. The reporters had heard that Gigi
was in the vicinity. Intrigued, they spotted Gigi and Raymond at a table by the
window. They bluffed their way in and bribed the waiter to get a nearby table)
Wayne : Right Elsie – We’re
American – we can beat these stupid Brits at their own game !
Elsie : Too right, Wayne. I’ve
gotta get that gig for Elvis at the Coliseum.
Raymond needs to be taught a lesson – what a schmutz thinking he can get
a million dollars out of the king – that’s just robbery.
Wayne : Yep – he’s a fool if he
thinks he can get away with that. And I know he’s angling to take over my UK
Burger joints ! What a schmutz !
Elsie : Yeah – what a Schmutz !
Wayne : He is king of the Schmutzes
!
Elsie : You know, I could have the
King – Elvis stole it all from me.
Wayne : Enough already – stop going
on about it. He shot me in the eye ! I need to get my revenge
Elsie : Will you stop going on
about your eye !
Wayne : We need to get to his table
and give him some good ol’ American muscle – you twist his arm and I’ll threaten
to gouge his eye out !
Elsie : But you don’t like blood !
Wayne : Oh yeah. That’s right ! Urm…
I’ll threaten to break his fingers…
(Back in the kitchen, Mama and Tone
look through the serving hatch and see Raymond and Gigi sitting at the window
table)
Mama : That bastardo booked a table
earlier today. (points through hatch). See him there – he’s with Gigi. Poor
girl – what does she see in that man ?
Tone : Bastardo !
Mama : He’s ordered my famous diavolo
nduja pizza. He is teasing me. He’s telling me he can take any heat I throw at
him – well let’s make it hot ! But let’s also surprise him with some ‘dreamy’
mushrooms.
Tone : You don’t mean….
Mama : Dried to perfection on the
slopes of our beloved Palermo, crushed between pester and mortar. To be sprinkled
liberally on the Bastardo’s pizza ! He is expected warmth – but he won’t be
expecting an out-of-body experience !
Tone : (mad laughter) Hahahahahah….Bastardo
!
Mama : (mad laugher) Hahahahaha…Bastardo
!
(Mama sprinkles liberally the
finely crushed mushroom on top of the pizza but a dust cloud of the ‘herb’
fills the kitchen.
Tone and Mama together : bastardo !
cough cough…..cough….basta…..cough
(At the table Raymond and Gigi are
looking into each other’s eyes)
Raymond : Gigi, as adorable as ever
! I’m so glad you accepted my invitation
Gigi : (impassive) I was intrigued
! What do you want Ray ?
Raymond : Oh come, come dear girl.
I want nothing from you.
Gigi : You always want something –
you had my heart, briefly. But you were careless. You’re a fool ! A clever and
conniving one, I’ll grant you that but you don’t really know what you want !
Raymond : (menacingly) Oh but I do, you see.
Gigi : Well what is it ? Come on
quick. Let’s get this meal over with as soon as possible !
Raymond : Well, you see, it’s more
about what you want – in a manner of speaking.
Gigi : I want nothing from you !
You’re a cad of the first order. A rat !
Raymond : It seems the world awaits
your next play – what is it now – Goodbye to Soho – intriguing interview the
other evening – made me think about what you might be writing.
Gigi : You’ll have to wait, just
like the rest of the world.
Raymond : Well, that’s where you’re
wrong my sweetheart. I’ve read it – and to be frank – I really think it could
do with a bit of a rework.
Gigi : Impossible – there is only
one manuscript and it is in my hotel.
Raymond : You’re hotel ? The Covent
Garden Suite ? I think you’ll find it’s actually my hotel.
Gigi : (aghast) You wouldn’t, you
couldn’t !
Raymond : very accommodating chamber
maid – well I pay her waged of course and I don’t tell the police about her
out-of-date visa
Gigi : You absolute stinker !
Raymand : Calm down my sweetheart.
You’re manuscript is safe with me. That is, if you are willing to make a few
adjustments. You see, I’m not sure I like the portrayal of me. A character you
seem to have called Raymondo might be misconstrued. Some may draw comparisons
between your Raymondo and yours truly. So, just need a bit of editing, which I
am pleased to do, and you can have it back.
(Just then there are wild whoops from
an adjacent table as Raymond’s pizza has been delivered to Wayne and Elsie)
Wayne : Elsie – you really are
Elvis you right all along….but why have you got pink hair ?
Elsie : And you have two heads –
when did you grow the other one ?
Wayne : I feel queezy !
Elsie : So do I !
(back in the kitchen, the mushroom
dust has also got the better on the two Italians)
Mama : Oh no ! That useless Aberto
! What has he done ! Alberto – wrong table !!!
Tone : (holding his hand in the
air) Why did you paint your kitchen purple and orange.
Mama : Why are my pizzas running
out of the door. Come back, get in the oven ! You naughty pizzas.
Tone : you need to put them on
leashes and take them for a walk – they’re bored.
Mama : My Lasagne Florintine – why
are you crying – no don’t run away !
Tone : Too late, you can’t stop
food with eight legs – it is far to swift
(Police arrive along with the paparazzi.
Within a week the famous restaurant has been closed on the bases of health and
safety issues)
Foyer of Soho Ritzzeria – Greek Street
Scene :
Foyer of hotel – celebrities everywhere
Present :
Georgie, Raymond then Queen Genevieve, Tone, Elsie and Wayne
Background : Georgie has arranged to meet Raymond at this ‘neutral venue’
Raymond : Of all the gin joints in
this part of London, you chose this one – why Georgie ?
Georgie : (speaking with strong
cockney accent) I ‘appen to know you don’t own this one – and we need neutral
ground., mate
Raymond : That is your prerogative
young fellow. It matters not a jot to me ! The message is the same whichever crumby
total foyer you wish to bring me to.
Georgie : That message being what ?
Raymond : That you are to take
throw your next game – Nice vs Saint-Etienne. Simply commit an outrageous foul
in your penalty box – not so much to ask ?
Georgie : Else ? What are ya gonna
do ?
Raymond : Let’s see, perhaps the
young women of this world should know that you were a fat kid ! Geroge the
Porge if I recall correctly ? And perhaps we should inform the French Football
association that you are actually English ? And perhaps, most importantly, we
should confirm to the police and the News of the World that it is indeed a youthful
– if portly – Georgie Le Bon – who was captured on CCTV trying to hold up club
in Greek Street ? No – what do you think.
Georgie : I could have been a World
Cup hero – I could have been up there with Bobby More this summer holding up
the trophy. You let West Ham management know that I was a petty thief . Oh the
glory ! The glory I missed because of you ! – you enrolled me into your murky
world of crime ! You were like a modern day Fagin !
Raymond : Oh dear boy, spare me the
histrionics ! I seem to recall you begging me to give a job back then
Georgie : I was a fifteen year old
orphan – you bastard.
Raymond : (concerned that Georgie
has lost it) Keep you voice down or I’ll have you removed from my hotel – do you
hear.
(just then the actual owner of the
hotel – a certain Sicilian by the name of Tone walks across the foyer to where
Raymond and Georgie are arguing)
Tone : If you don’t mind, can I
just remind you that this is actually my hotel ! And what the hell are you
doing in it !
Raymond : My Italian friend and
business rival, Tone, or should I say Antonioionionion….haha – as our mutal
friend, Michael Payne would say, ‘Not many people know that !’
Tone : Enough of that or I’ll bash
you up the hooter – I said what the hell are you doing on my tuft ?
Raymond : (looking across the foyer
he spots Queen and Princess Poppy) Well, I see that you also appear to be
hosting Genovian royalty today ?
Queen : (looking to Raymond) Oh,
you horrid man. What are you doing here ?
Raymond : I’m just conducting some business
affairs with my famous ‘French’ footballer friend, if you’ll allow me to
alliterate. None other than Georgie le Bon.
(Georgie sees Queen for first time
since they left Southampton together)
Georgie : Jenny ! Jenny – is it
really you.
(Queen is somewhat disoriented by
the development – also drops her accent and falls easily back into her Croydon
accent)
Queen : George – George Boot – is that
you ?
(Raymond – seeing an opportunity for
further devilment)
Raymond : Well isn’t this pleasant,
we seem to have multiple reunions all happening at the same time. We have what
I can only deduce as a ‘family’ reunion of Queen – shall we say Queen Jenny of
sarff London with her, shall we say childhood sweetheart Antonionioni…and of
course the dear little Poppy of whom we shall not make conjections
Tone : Shut it ! Else I swear I’ll
take you down right here and right now.
The 2i’s Coffee Bar – 59 Old Compton
Street Soho
Scene :
Basement of the famous 2i’s Coffee Bar
Present :
Dingo, Scandi, Ray
Background : The Bootles have just completed a photoshoot, co-ordinated
by Scandi in the coffee bar above
Dingo : Inhale, hold
it….then breath out
Scandi : Inhale…..coughs like crazy
Dingo : Not cool Scandi ! Not cool !
Scandi : I’m choking to death here ! Where’s the fun in this
?
{Ray walks down steps into basement}
Ray : Oh hello ! You youngsters enjoying yourselves I see ?
Dingo : Yes, we’re just dandy ! (laughs) Thank you mister
for enquiring as to our wellbeing. (mimicking Raymond’s posh accent…) I would
have to say that everything is top-notch, super, absolutely bloody marvellous
Ray : (more seruiously) Glad to hear it. It’s just that I
was alerted by my manager of this club that an acrid smoke was emanating from
my basement
Scandi : You own this joint ?
Ray : Well I own this joint and it appear young lady that
you own that joint – so to speak (laughs at own joke). {Scandia and Dingo swap
glances). I am Raymond, proprietor of the 2i’s Coffee bar, and a few other by
the way. Happy to make your acquaintance.
Dingo : (more conciliatory tone adopted now he knows) Well,
thank you mister for letting me and my mates use your establishment for the
photoshoot earlier today.
Ray : No problem, young man, no problem at all. Good
publicity for my coffee bar as well of course. Happy to help the famous
Bootles. If I might just say so, your tunes are frightfully catch. That one,
how’s it go…’yeah, yeah, yeah !’ Very good indeed. Little bit sloppy I suppose…Pity
you couldn’t say ‘Yes, Yes. Yes’. But never mind.
Scandi : Well Mr Raymond, do you partake of the ‘aromatic
tobacco ?’ You’re welcome to have a puff.
Ray : No, I do not young lady. Never ventured beyond the
occasional cheroot. I like to keep my head clear, you see. And of course, it is
quite illegal…
Scandi : Wait a minute, is that one of those new-fangled cassette
recorders hanging out of your pockets ?
Ray : (dispassionately) Indeed it is. I find it useful to
carry it around with me in my interactions with the criminal classes. I have
found it invaluable, time and time again when relying on it in court.
Dingo : (the haze clearing from his head) ‘Ere, wait a
minute mister. Who are you calling the criminal classes.
Ray : Well I think that pretty obvious from where I’m standing.
You are, unless both my visual and olfactory functions have completely given up
the ghost, you’re both inhaling the root of the ganga…and that is indeed,
breaking the law.
Scandi : (concerned) So what are you going to do with the
tape ?
Ray : (pondering) Well, as I own 51% of The Bootles, I’m unlikely
to jeopardise my investment whilst My Richard Dark remains the drummer.
Dingo : the name is Dingo by the way and I’ve just realised you’re
the southern bastard who tried to get me kicked out of the band.
Ray : It still sounds like a good idea to me, not least as I’m
sure your adoring fans might be somewhat less adoring if they knew you were a
drug addict ! By the way, what exactly is your name..I have heard that you use
to hand around with nefarious gangsters at the docks – apparently they call you
Ding-the-Blade. Anyway, I like to keep my options open…which brings me to the
issue regarding you, young lady. I would hate to see you spiral into a web of
crime and debauchery which is the inevitable consequence of drug taking. I
would be saving your honour, in a way, if I were to report you now. However, I
will hold back to see how things….turn out !
