The Golden Goose Shower Commandos

A friend of mine got married in Hawaii recently. She’s awesome and has married an awesome guy, too. He’s one of the main dudes behind the Call of Duty games and has some amazing stories. She was an actress and a bar tender.

There was a time when I was practically living in the W Hotel in Westwood, Los Angeles. I like the neighbourhood. It’s bordered by Beverly Hills and Bel-Air and such like. It was at this hotel where I first met my friend. She was prepping some mojitos and cutting up some limes. One morning, when I headed pool-side for breakfast, she was doing her usual prep, but asked if I would mind the bar for half hour or so. “Just cut a few limes. It’ll be OK.” she instructed. I naturally obliged as she headed out for an audition. Whilst cutting some limes, one of the managers approached. “Morning, Ben. Howya doin’.. uh, behind the bar?” he said, frowning curiously. As he was a good bloke, I told him the truth of the whereabouts of my friend who I was manning the bar for. “Ah, yeah, I forgot. I’m due for an audition on that show, too later.” He said, casually. “I don’t think we’ll get away with you covering me though.” He quipped as he took up behind the bar and assisted me with my lime chopping.

Nearing my two-month stay at this particular hotel, I became a known face and I got to know some of the regulars who frequented there. It was also quite a trendy hotspot at the time, so said regulars were often privy to some top secret information. Some took pity on this pale Brit and kindly offered me some money-can’t-buy things. One money-can’t-buy thing was an invite to a party.

“OK, just be yourself. Well, kinda. Maybe a better version.” He chuckled, though with more than a touch of seriousness to his tone and in his eyes. “Here’s the address and listen up.” he said, resting a hand on my shoulder, firmly and moving his mouth closer to my ear. We were stood at the side of the bar. It was early evening. A healthy number of people were milling around. The well-groomed and beautiful, sipping their desired beverage through a straw and there was me, with my whatever-it-was on-tap beer. Then there was this fifty year old suited guy about to whisper in my ear. “It’s not a password, it’s a pass phrase. You understand? That’s how you get in. You understand?” he told me a pass-phrase, the all-important pass-phrase that would apparently enable me access to a party up in the Hills. The Hollywood Hills. I curled my lip when he told me, frowning as I did so, accompanying it with a sneer. He gripped my shoulder, clasping it as he drank his Scotch and lime. A lime stuck on the side of his glass. A slice of lime, one I had bizarrely cut that day. He even turned his back on me to speak with somebody else, all the while grasping my shoulder. It was quite uncomfortable, however my mind was thinking more about the pass phrase he had just whispered discreetly into my ear.

The following evening, I got ready and asked one of the doormen I had befriended to get me a cab. “Whoa, seriously cool. I’d drive you there myself, buddy, but I gotta stick here tonight. Shame you have to arrive in a damn cab.” he said.

“It was?” I thought to myself.

And so, the Beverly Hills Cab, with its blue and white colors glistening in the light of the hotel, pulled up outside and the door was opened for me to clamber inside. Across Beverly Hills and West Hollywood and up into the Hills I was driven, right up, weaving this way and that, into the night and to a set of gates. “Exactly half an hour.” said the Armenian driver. I paid him and as soon as I had got out and closed the door, he was already backing up. I was stood alone. In the night and not really knowing where exactly I was or who I was supposed to be invited by.

Actually, I wasn’t completely alone, for there, stood by the large gates, blocking any kind of view of beyond, was a well-built guy who could only be described as being SWAT-like. Decked head to toe in black, complete with cap and earpiece, he acknowledged my arrival with a quick jut of his head. “Can I help you?” he asked.

I eyed my surroundings. Pitch black. The sound of the taxi cab’s engine becoming more and more distant. The sound of crickets.

The sound of me swallowing as I stepped up to the guard and I randomly said; “I have a golden goose, would you like to see it?”

The guard in black stared at me for a few seconds. It seemed like minutes. He tightened his mouth into a thin, rock hard smile and nodded his head. “I would very much like to see that golden goose, Sir. Please, step this way.” He depressed a button on a device held within his hand and the gates slowly opened to reveal an extremely long driveway.

I think I was more fearful as to what was beyond the gates than when I had to say my pass-phrase to the modern-day Ninja looking dude stood near me.

As soon as I had passed the gates, a golf cart pulled out of the shadows, squealing to a halt in front of me. The driver was a young woman. She was dressed similar to the guy I had just seen, but had a Sonya Blade from Mortal Kombat feel about her. “Hi. Please get in the cart, Sir.” she said, with a somewhat robotic smile on her face. It was like being in Westworld or something. I gestured to a glimmer of lights fifty feet or so ahead. “I can walk, it’s no problem.” I replied.

“No, Sir. Please. Get in the cart.” she said more forcefully, complete with a Terminatrix stare.

I got into the golf cart and she accelerated up the driveway. Within a second of our journey, a black limousine passed us. I caught my reflection in the shiny black metal but it was gone in an instant as another vehicle traveled past. An orange Lamborghini Gallardo. I wanted to say ‘wow’, but before I could even pout my lips to say ‘w’, the cart had stopped by a fountain and the Terminatrix whipped her head round to me. I frowned, looked at a set of grand steps, then eyed the fountain and thought it must be the end of the short ride, so I got out.

I looked up at the steps, exhaled and was about to set foot up them when I heard a voice cry out; “You there! You! Hello?” I turned around and saw an incredibly slim, well-groomed suited young man and very, very camp. I approached him in the shadows of the fountain. In his hand was one of those bulky looking devices you use to electronically sign deliveries in with. “I’d like you to put your name and zip code in here, please.” he commanded. “I don’t really live here.” I replied.

“It’s OK, we have a list of all the hotels in the US”. he quickly responded, holding up his electronic pen. I asked him what this was for and he snapped at me his reply, like it was the most obvious thing on Earth. “It’s for you to state you haven’t seen the actor producer ‘X’ at this party.” he held his look on me, awaiting me to take up his pen and sign on his LCD. “That I haven’t? I haven’t seen my mate Rob either, have you got a form for him?” I quipped, only to receive a more harder, more camper stare back at me, accompanied by a hand on hip motion. “I’m serious. Your name and hotel, please.” I was about to pinch his pen when another voice hollered out; “Would you leave my goddamn guests alone! Everybody knows your client is gay. Who cares! Stop lurking in the shadows, damnit! I want you to leave. Now. NOW!”

The voice belonged to a man I won’t describe. I didn’t recognize him, but he was extremely welcoming and as he escorted me up the steps to the mansion - his mansion - I halted us both and naively said; “’X’ is Gay?”

“Of course! You just worked on their movie, didn’t you?” he replied.

“Yes, I still am.. working on it.. I guess..” I said.

“Not what I heard. You were fired a while back. Still, party on, right.” the guy responded. 

I didn’t know what I was more taken aback with, the A-list talent I was requested to sign to say I hadn’t seen at this particular party as well as being informed was Gay or told I had been let go from a big Screenwriting break. Of course I went with “Hang on, didn't they recently get married?”

“So! Their other half is Gay, too!”

“What? But they’ve just had a baby!” I blurted.

“It was a sponge baby!”

“I got fired... Pardon? What? A what baby?” I was more confused now than ever.

“A sponge baby. A sponge baby! The woman wore a suit. Three different prosthetic suits each trimester. The woman gave birth to a damn sponge baby.”

“So who did have the baby?” I asked, being led up the steps once more.

“Who gives a damn? This is Hollywood. You can buy anything and anyone. If you want a baby, but don’t want to have a baby, then you pay someone else to have it, but some people want their cake and to eat it, too, so go through the most insane.. listen, I need to speak with other people. Let me introduce you to coupla guys.”

“Are they Gay, too?” I chirped, mockingly, as we stood by the door to a grand hall. The man looked me in the eye, seriously and frowned.

“No. Actually they’re ex-Special Forces.” he replied, introducing me to two Australian guys before he left the room.

The Aussie guys advised on weapons and tactics for movies and took me back outside to a massive pool area. To say it was a stereotypical movie pool scene is an understatement. It was that and so much more. Bikini-clad babes equaled the muscle-bound guys in ill-fitting, tight shirts and all with teeth whiter than fridge doors. 

“What beer d’you like?” one of them asked me.

“Er, I don’t know. What have they got?” I asked, as I continued my stare at the walking-photoshopped beauties on parade before me.

“Everything.” he replied, gesturing to a jacuzzi literally filled with every type of beer imaginable. 

“You can drink yourself around the world, buddy, here.” the other commando said, tossing me a bottle of beer and sitting down. “We're on beer letter 'E'."

Swigging my Elephant Beer from Denmark and talking about the past ten minutes of my arrival, the Australians laughed and pointed his beer towards the pool, gesturing for me to turn.

“Go to bed with me! Bed me! Bed me! Go to bed with me! I’m hot. I need to cool down! Bed me! Cool me down! Cool me down!” shouted the A-list talent, (the same talent I was supposed to sign to say I hadn’t seen.) I couldn’t believe my eyes. The A-lister was chasing, in an extremely aggressive manner, around the pool, another person, who looked quite fearful. What was weirder was the fact that nobody was really taking a blind bit of notice, except for me, of course. 

I turned to my new-found Special Forces friends. “Isn’t that..?”

“Yep.” answered one, swigging his beer.

“Been doing that all night. It's really quite annoying.” added the other, swigging his beer.

“Who’s the other one being chased?” I quizzed them.

“That’s their partner. They’re [insert totally cool profession, unrelated to media or the arts here]. Been with them for years. Had an argument or something. Crazy how we were all forced to sign that weird electronic form to say we haven’t seen squat.” one reeled off.

“I didn’t sign anything.” I said, explaining why I hadn't.

“No way! Awesome.” said one, swigging his beer, before telling me some of his gung-ho tales of old, with the occasional aggressive tone of the A-lister not too far away yelling; “Bed me! Cool me down! I’m hot! Cool me!”

It was then that one of the Aussies sighed, exhaling his breath louder and with more force than a twister. He dumped his bottle of beer to one side and turned to me. “You gotta phone?” he asked. I nodded. “You gotta wallet?” he asked. I nodded. “Hand them over.” he demanded. I did so, without question. “Take ya shoes off. Quick.” he ordered and I once again did so and as soon as I had, he stood up and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m sorry, but I’m getting really hacked off. He wants to cool down. I’ll cool him down.” the ex-special forces beefcake said before literally picking me up off the ground, twisting, pivoting and then hurling me four meters through the air like a sandbag. Before I could complete my thought of whether I looked like Superman learning to fly for the first time, it was touch down time.

SPLASH!  

I had made contact with the water of the pool with such accuracy and precision that the water, which was ejected from the force of my impact, rained down all over the A-lister, soaking them right through, stopping them still in their stride.

Despite being underwater for what was only around two seconds, it was enough for me to realize what situation I was now in. What facial expression should I emerge to the surface with? I decided it was to be a grin. My pleasant, smiling face gently broke out to the night air and my eyes locked onto the A-lister’s own stare, along with my ears experiencing dead silence, until the star’s lips slowly curled into a brilliant smile and released a; “I’m cool! I’m cool! Yeah! Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about! I was hot, now I’m cool! You are crazy and we need to hang out! Yeah! Now THAT was a shower!”

Whoops and cheers erupted and a couple of bronzed good lookers leapt into the pool. A gigantic, welcoming hand then reached down to my wet face. It was the Aussie who hadn’t thrown me. “You can stop smiling now, mate.” he said, yanking me out of the pool and to my feet, with ease, like I was the weight of a toddler. 

I trudged back to the ‘beer jacuzzi’ to where the other Aussie patted me on the pack and handed me a beer. “Had to be done, fella. You’ll dry off in a couple of hours. No worries. Cheers.” The three of us clinked bottles and continued to enjoy our night, without a single interruption of annoyance or muttering from the A-list talent I had drenched. 

“We're now onto 'G'. I think your beer is quite an apt one, buddy." said the Aussie commando who threw me into the pool. He smiled and winked. 

I frowned, rotated my bottle and saw the name of my new beer. 

 NOTE: I have of course naturally changed the pass-phrase used in this blog, but my undisclosed beer still matched it nonetheless.

Val Kilmer's Helicopter

In 2005, the first draft of a spy script I had written was completed. I was quite surprised to learn that at the time there was some buzz surrounding it. A lot of cool brands were keen to get on board the project and I suddenly found myself in a main producing role. It was scary and exciting, especially when I was in Cannes. I had already gained the oddity that was the Die Hard 4 spec association and also Mission Impossible 3 was in production. Whatever the big fish / small fish / size of the pond analogies, I felt that I was, at least, still a fish – whether I could swim or not was a prominent question as it does today.

Names were being banded around and I had interest from Kate Beckinsale, whom I had originally penned the lead role for. I naively chatted to someone in a bar, loose-lipped, in Cannes. The next day, when strolling the Croisette, I received a telephone call from Kate’s agent, laying into me about whether she gave permission for me to mention that I had Kate in my movie. Told off for not disclosing there were water scenes in the script (can’t disclose the answer to when I questioned ‘why is that a concern?') and then told off for unwittingly telling a national newspaper that Kate Beckinsale is reading the script! I had no idea. Yep, that person in that bar in that Cannes was that national newspaper. Oh, what the heck, it was all publicity.

Taking a break from the film festival madness, I took a trip with some US friends into Grasse – (if you haven’t been and do attend the Cannes film festival, then take advantage of where you’re at and venture out). One of my indie producer pals, who was more like a big sister to me, said; “Know who you should get in ya spy movie? Val Kilmer. He’s a Bond nut. He’d love to be in a spy picture.” And with that, I made that my quest.

2005 was a particularly mad year. Being told that I should go to Paris to meet Bruce Willis by Bruce Willis, living in a hotel in Beverly Hills for a while, Will.I.Am, The A-Team, an American girlfriend and in between... tracking down Val Kilmer.

Now, Val was starring in ‘The Postman Always Rings Twice’ in London in May 2005. I thought, once again, with my young naivety kicking in, I could get to Val and have him read my spy themed screenplay. I wrote him a letter, got it to the top people at the theatre to have it on his dressing room table along with a copy of the script.

So whilst he was or was not reading it, I received a bizarre email regarding Val and an incredibly lavish James Bond anniversary party. The email went something like this ‘We have been passed information regarding your spy-themed feature film, described by the British tabloid press as being a ‘female James Bond’ and that the Hollywood actor Mr. Val Kilmer is interested in taking a pivotal role in it. We would really appreciate your assistance with helping us gain Mr. Kilmer’s attendance for our James Bond party.’

I thought ‘Hey, I’d like to go to a James Bond party! If they want my assistance, then I want in, too.’ I wrote them back and said I would try and reach Val and inform him of this 007 bash, but on one condition; I’m invited as well.’ They agreed.

I did my bit and contacted Val again at the theatre, where his play was being well received. I also informed his PR and agent, but didn’t gain any form of response, despite me not particularly expecting a reply, let alone a positive one – but that’s what a Yahoo! address occasionally does for you in this business.

Whilst sitting at my desk, awaiting the reply that would never arrive, I began to wonder how Val Kilmer would actually get to this all singing all dancing James Bond event. The distance was around 40 miles, but that was leaving from Central London and would take forever. I decided to tell those who initially contacted me about the event that travel was a serious deal-breaker for my and Val’s appearances.

They came back with something I really wasn’t expecting at all.

‘We can arrange for a helicopter for yourself and Mr. Kilmer to fly out from London and land in the grounds of the hotel where the event is taking place. Rooms will be provided as will a return flight back to London the following day at noon.’

Gulp. Val had to come. I tried the theatre and his reps one last time…

The day arrived. The East London heliport was readying itself for a forty-mile flight out of the city into another county. The rotor blades whirled round. Whumph. Whumph. Whumph. The door opened. The pilot leaned out and shouted: ‘Please get in, Sir! I thought there were two passengers! Where’s Mr. Kilmer?’

‘It’s just me!’ I yelled.

The pilot shrugged his shoulders and nodded. ‘So you must be Ben? Well, OK, Sir. I was told to fly no matter what!’

The helicopter journey out of London and across the skies was a smooth one. My permanently fixed grin as I gazed out over the city wasn’t dissimilar to The Joker’s. The landing in the grounds of the hotel couldn’t have been a more awesome experience either.

A suited member of staff opened the door and I clambered out of the chopper and onto the grass.

‘Welcome, Sir.’ said the suited, well-spoken man. ‘Nice tuxedo, Sir.’ he continued.

‘Nice audience.’ I said, acknowledging the 50 Bond Girl-esque women, stood in awe watching me approach the back of the hotel terrace.

The suited man gestured for me to look at his beautiful female colleague, an equally stunning red dress, carrying a silver tray housing one single class of Champagne, treading her high-heeled shoes, elegantly and carefully, toward me.

‘Champagne, Sir?’ said the suited man, as his glamorous assistant smiled a blinder and edged nearer.

I exchanged a smile and took the glass, just as a sudden rush of wind picked up, due to the rotor blades still rotating several feet behind. Her red dress rode up to reveal – well, let’s say it was pretty much like Kelly Lebroc in ‘The Woman in Red’.

The woman gasped, albeit with a beaming smile.

I raised one eyebrow, lifted my glass to her and said, ala Roger Moore; ‘Bottoms up.’

I sipped my Champagne, placed the glass back on the silver tray and together with my tuxedo, I walked towards my very own Casino Royale where for the rest of the night, I was ‘Trebilcook, Ben Trebilcook.’