of each was a turd.
Directly above the circle was a chalked square and the words – there was nothing hurried in the writing; the opposite, in fact – ‘Next pile of filth?’
*
I checked the cupboard under the stairs (one pair of naval binoculars, six jigsaw puzzles, several suitcases, one horsehair shoe-brush, the coin-box for the phone), the pantry and the cave-like dressing-room off the bedroom where I sleep, when I came in, feeling what I would describe as both thrill and dread.
Many nights now I lie awake far into the night, straining to catch some wrong note in the creaking of the rafters, an off-chord in the cooling of the pipes or something unresolved in the noises the fire makes as it prepares to fall in on itself.
Chapter Five
There are, I would guess, several hundred pictures of me in existence somewhere, frozen into my glamourpuss-with-pooch pose.
Along with bathing-belle-with-beach-ball and pulchritudinous-package-with-provocatively-jacked-up-Continental-shelf, it was a formula snap of the day. (And, on the day, it was a formula for which I was genuinely grateful: it was something to hide behind; a reflex that was useful if you were taken unawares. When in doubt, pout.)
The dog would invariably be decked out in the slinky, boudoir-coloured leads and junk gem-encrusted collars that were gifts from the fans and therefore compulsory in public. (Freshly boiled bricks of lights, sheep lungs and cow udder were also deposited at the stage door daily in certain towns in the north. They came wrapped in newspapers, occasionally with damp, smudgy pictures of me uppermost, and always with hearty messages – ‘Have a grand week!’ ‘Shall be in every night!’ – inscribed along the margins.)
For fifties lensmen, the alignment of a small dog and a female bosom seemed to add up to the kind of dumb-bunny cheesecake with overtones of the forbidden that was their stock in trade. A champagne bottle (full or empty), a champagne glass (ditto), a large motorcar (a turquoise-blue Armstrong Siddeley in my case, then in later days an MGA roadster, neither of which I learned to drive) and scarlet sting-look lips (‘Hot it up, darling!’) were also regarded as indispensable for the same reason.
I suspect it’s these pictures that ——— —— and his cronies have in mind when they rhubarb on about iconicity and retro imagery and the ‘solid, uncomplicated, talismanic Englishness’ (that is, counterfeit Americanness) of the immediate post-war years that I’m supposed to represent.
(I would lay dollars to donuts on him having one or two choice examples pinned to the bulletin board in his office this minute, along with xeroxes of ‘outrageous’ front pages from the Sun , storyboards, jacket laminates, wads of computer print-out and festive-looking flow charts showing projects in development/in production /on hold.)
What they’re really saying – which is okay – is that I was a cliché.
Now, as I’ve explained, I have become that other cliché with a dog in it: the old dog with the old dog trotting off on her daily constitutional.
Almost from the day I started travelling, I travelled with a dog as a companion. I can measure my life out now in miniature Pinschers.
There is nothing intrinsically Come Dancing or frou-frou about the breed. The miniature is a perfectly scaled-down version of the full-size Dobermann. Head wedge-shaped. Coat smooth, short, hard, thick and close lying. Tail docked at the first or second joint and appearing to be a continuation of the spine without material drop. Colour black, brown or blue. Markings red rust in colour, sharply defined, appearing above each eye, on the muzzle, throat and forechest, on all legs and feet and below tail. Eyes showing intelligence and firmness of character. Temperament bold and alert. Form compact and tough. Gait light and elastic.
I was given my first Pinscher by the founding members at an early fan-club gathering, and have stayed loyal to the
Directly above the circle was a chalked square and the words – there was nothing hurried in the writing; the opposite, in fact – ‘Next pile of filth?’
*
I checked the cupboard under the stairs (one pair of naval binoculars, six jigsaw puzzles, several suitcases, one horsehair shoe-brush, the coin-box for the phone), the pantry and the cave-like dressing-room off the bedroom where I sleep, when I came in, feeling what I would describe as both thrill and dread.
Many nights now I lie awake far into the night, straining to catch some wrong note in the creaking of the rafters, an off-chord in the cooling of the pipes or something unresolved in the noises the fire makes as it prepares to fall in on itself.
Chapter Five
There are, I would guess, several hundred pictures of me in existence somewhere, frozen into my glamourpuss-with-pooch pose.
Along with bathing-belle-with-beach-ball and pulchritudinous-package-with-provocatively-jacked-up-Continental-shelf, it was a formula snap of the day. (And, on the day, it was a formula for which I was genuinely grateful: it was something to hide behind; a reflex that was useful if you were taken unawares. When in doubt, pout.)
The dog would invariably be decked out in the slinky, boudoir-coloured leads and junk gem-encrusted collars that were gifts from the fans and therefore compulsory in public. (Freshly boiled bricks of lights, sheep lungs and cow udder were also deposited at the stage door daily in certain towns in the north. They came wrapped in newspapers, occasionally with damp, smudgy pictures of me uppermost, and always with hearty messages – ‘Have a grand week!’ ‘Shall be in every night!’ – inscribed along the margins.)
For fifties lensmen, the alignment of a small dog and a female bosom seemed to add up to the kind of dumb-bunny cheesecake with overtones of the forbidden that was their stock in trade. A champagne bottle (full or empty), a champagne glass (ditto), a large motorcar (a turquoise-blue Armstrong Siddeley in my case, then in later days an MGA roadster, neither of which I learned to drive) and scarlet sting-look lips (‘Hot it up, darling!’) were also regarded as indispensable for the same reason.
I suspect it’s these pictures that ——— —— and his cronies have in mind when they rhubarb on about iconicity and retro imagery and the ‘solid, uncomplicated, talismanic Englishness’ (that is, counterfeit Americanness) of the immediate post-war years that I’m supposed to represent.
(I would lay dollars to donuts on him having one or two choice examples pinned to the bulletin board in his office this minute, along with xeroxes of ‘outrageous’ front pages from the Sun , storyboards, jacket laminates, wads of computer print-out and festive-looking flow charts showing projects in development/in production /on hold.)
What they’re really saying – which is okay – is that I was a cliché.
Now, as I’ve explained, I have become that other cliché with a dog in it: the old dog with the old dog trotting off on her daily constitutional.
Almost from the day I started travelling, I travelled with a dog as a companion. I can measure my life out now in miniature Pinschers.
There is nothing intrinsically Come Dancing or frou-frou about the breed. The miniature is a perfectly scaled-down version of the full-size Dobermann. Head wedge-shaped. Coat smooth, short, hard, thick and close lying. Tail docked at the first or second joint and appearing to be a continuation of the spine without material drop. Colour black, brown or blue. Markings red rust in colour, sharply defined, appearing above each eye, on the muzzle, throat and forechest, on all legs and feet and below tail. Eyes showing intelligence and firmness of character. Temperament bold and alert. Form compact and tough. Gait light and elastic.
I was given my first Pinscher by the founding members at an early fan-club gathering, and have stayed loyal to the
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